I am passing down through the meadow. I must say what a fine day it is. All I have to do now is pass under this next bunch of trees and I should be on the edge of the market. Yes I was right, just like two weeks ago. Most of the Stalls are already prepared for business and everybody is hoping to do a bumping trade, hopefully as good, or better than the last time. It must be hard work moving all of your goods all over the country to ply this very unpredictable and sometimes difficult trade. Now I’m in the market, moving through peddlers of pot and pans, women’s lingerie, shoes and trainers and, of course, the inevitable fake designer clothes. Oh no, what do we have here? BFB, alias Big Fat Bob, with two black eyes and a fat lip. I shouldn’t laugh, but I could have told you Bob that those cheap crap T-shirts you sell, shrink to a size that wouldn’t even fit an Action Man doll when they are washed. Big mistake telling that gigantic thug to bugger off, when he complained that the six that you had flogged him had shrunk to the size of a babies sock when he put them in his washing machine. No wonder he punched your head in. I suppose it’s the price of selling cheap rubbish and thinking you can get away with it forever.
Now Dave never has such problems, because he is a purveyor, a seller of high quality goods with everything he buys and sells. You could even call him somewhat of an artist in his own field, instead of seething with jealousy and resentment of Mister BFB. As I pass around the next Stall I should see him, if I’m not mistaken. And there he is! Wow! I sure like the brand new Ford Transit van and you’ve even got a brand new purple curtain to cover the door. Now let’s have a good look. Yes, thank God Janet cut those dreadful blond streaks out of your hair that made you look like a startled porcupine. And I’m sure glad Ruth finally persuaded you to use shampoo, instead of washing up liquid to wash your hair. Well! Well! Well your displays are looking better than ever and you look like the perfect salesman for your chosen produce. The black leather jacket, purple waistcoat and green T-shirt are making you earn the reputation of Dave the rave Parker with your growing, satisfied customers. Oh no, FOR FUCK SACK DAVE what’s this? Don’t do this to me Dave. Those horrible pinstriped trousers don’t fit your image. The bottoms don’t even reach to the top of your cowboy boots and the crutch could even accommodate an elephant’s bollocks. Where the hell, or who the hell sold you them? Al Capone or Bugs Moran perhaps? No, I shouldn’t joke about such serious matters your image is at stake, man.
Janet was so horrified about these awful trousers that she bought you a brand new pair of Levi’s and Ruth was so appalled by them that she bought you a pair of Wranglers, out of her own money. I’ve got to give you credit though, your displays are perfectly organised and carefully laid out. One CD on display, the rest stacked behind still in their plastic wrappers. Good policy that, so customers know your stuff is all brand new. The older bands are all filed together, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, AC/DC and Pink Floyd. The later bands like Thunder, Extreme, Metallica and Great White are all together. And your big sellers in the Grunge genre, Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Sound Garden and the more diverse bands like Eels, Bare Naked Ladies, Blue Rodeo and Tragically Hip, are all carefully separated to make things easier for the customer. Nothing you sell Dave is rubbish. Even your T-shirts are all Fruit Of The Loom. After all, you take great pride in quality. Now the company that print the designs on your T-shirts phone you, instead of you having to phone them. Simply because they know you buy and sell extremely well. You had better order a lot more of those Smashing Pumpkins T-shirts, particularly in green. The ones with the hand holding a skull, with crossed feathers underneath. They are selling better than the black ones with a luminous Jolly Roger that you sold so much of last year. Now Dave, I must as a friend advise you about your personal life.
You know as well as I do that neither Janet, or Ruth loves you. Well, you are well aware of that because they are both aware of each other and they don’t object to each other, as long as they never meet of course. But Dave, oh Dave you could have a war on your hands, if you don’t take measures right now. Fortunately for you Janet lives in Banbury and Ruth lives in Reading and they both own their own properties. I know that it may be insignificant to you, but Ladies knickers could be a matter of life and death for you, bearing in mind Ruth’s furious temper. Ruth wears red knickers and Janet white ones, as you know. When Ruth is staying at your flat she hangs her washed red knickers on your line and tends to forget them when she leaves. Janet takes Ruth’s red knickers when she hangs up her own white ones and wears Ruth’s red ones. The problem is that Janet’s bum is bigger than Ruth’s as you must be aware, unless you are so stupefied with Special Brew that you fail to notice. When she puts them back on your line, they have been stretched to twice there normal size. Remember the colour code Dave, red for Ruth and white for Janet.
Now listen and listen good Dave, Derek is NOT, repeat NOT a friend. I know that he appeared to be okay at first and would bring around four cans of Special Brew for both of your consumption. But haven’t you noticed he now only brings around one can for his own consumption and copiously drinks all of your Special Brew and all of your Heineken. And now he has started drinking Janet’s wine, which she leaves in your fridge for when she visits you. Oh Dave! Are you really surprised that Ruth would lovingly smash Derek’s teeth in with the croquet mallet that you keep by your door in case of burglars. That’s because she knows that he’s using you. Oh Davie boy! It’s not Ruth, or Janet rummaging through your drawers when you’re not home, looking for letters or things from former girlfriends, it’s Derek looking for money. So don’t feel too flattered, because Ruth and Janet don’t love you remember, but at least they are friends. So take Janet’s advice and change your lock, because Derek is becoming a menace regarding trust between you, her and Ruth. And don’t forget Ruth and Janet know that you’re a secret folkie and prefer to listen to folk rather than the rock that you peddle so brilliantly. I’m sure your fans that think you’re a bit of a cult figure, would be shocked at that secret.
I’m getting a bit bored lately with your stupidity Dave, although we’ve had some good times together. Remember that time in the summer of ’73 when we saw Mungo Jerry at The Palace in Clacton? The place was full of Ray Dorset look alikes. And we didn’t recognise the real Ray Dorset until he and his band finished their beer, trooped on to the stage and did their thing. Oh, for the good old days before the big bands went in for whopping wattage, leading to gargantuan venues and ten minute guitar solos, which were supposed to propel and mesmerise the thousands into orbit, but in your case only dropped you into bowel dropping boredom. That’s why you stopped going to them. Big venues, massive shows in football stadiums rudely decapitated the fans from the bands. After I got killed all of those years ago at Balaclava, I said to myself that I would never come back down here to visit. But for some reason you fascinate me Dave. That’s why I have haunted you for so many years. Now my friend Henry haunts a banker, would you believe? How he was cut in half at the battle of Waterloo by a cannon ball. And my other friend Liz haunts a rich Countess. I suppose that’s because when Liz was alive she was dirt poor, living in Victorian London.
She often mentions how lucky she was that Jack The Ripper didn’t catch her. Because she was just around the corner when he disembowelled Katherine Eddowes. Well I must go now Dave, I’ll probably be back next week. And FOR FUCK SAKE DAVE, get rid of those bloody awful trousers… Happy haunting… Chow!