Is no-one buying anything anymore?
I ask, because – my savings gone and no employment in sight, you tight bastards won’t pay me to read this stuff either – it is today a month since that I have been advertising my lovely, shiny-red, pale-beige-leather-clad Italian designer interior, 130mph, 47mpg Alfa Romeo for sale, with 7 sexy photos, and have had not a single enquiry, not even from the usual prannock asking what colour is it and how little am I prepared to sell it for.
Not which, but I have been advertising for sale for the last FOUR MONTHS a 1962 vintage Gibson guitar, in rare perfect condition, for less than I paid for it, which is not at all how the vintage guitar collectors’ market is supposed to work; and another instrument that I have played only a few times, that is therefore probably in a better state than you would find it displayed in a shop, but £400 cheaper; and created not the faintest flicker of interest, other than from a teenager in Bucharest who admitted he was just being annoying for the sake of it. And who can blame him?
And now I am advertising my little house for sale, that I have had for only a year. This is not how it was meant to be. The sale of the instruments and the car was supposed to make a certain chain of events possible and to enable me to keep control of the sale of my house while I found another one somewhere more agreeable. But it seems that by ‘the squeezed middle’, Mr Miliband was describing not just a class of disadvantaged persons but also any price-ticket roughly in the middle of the market.
For, I am certain that, were my items either one tenth of, or ten times, the price being asked, they would sell easily. Who will pay £6000 for a car when they can buy one for £600, or £60,000? Why buy a Gibson, when you can buy a fucking plastic Chinese banjolele with a Midi interface that can make it ‘sound just like a Gibson’? I am not so much the ‘squeezed middle’, as rapidly heading for the ‘squeezed bottom’.
And meanwhile, after three weeks of receiving twice-daily helpful reminders from British Gas by text and email and semaphored smoke signals and carrier pigeons and junk mail and sinister old ladies sidling up to me beside the jumpers rail in Oxfam and phoney newspaper vendors on streetcorners and shoeshine boys spittling at me out of the crooked corners of their mouths and magical Pixar cats miaowing up at me and news headlines synchronistically popping up everywhere reporting that they have booked an engineer to call today ‘between 12 and 2 pm’ to service the boiler, I am still sitting here, at ten-past fucking two, waiting for some twat to phone to say he is outside – where it is dark and raining already. Yes, I have fallen for it – again.
Personally, I cannot wait for the Mayan Prophecy to blow all this shit into a charmingly eccentric orbiting ring of dust around Mars.