I've been dreading this, I did the monarchy (figuratively, not literally) and now the Olympics are upon us, like a sexually transmitted disease and almost impossible to avoid. The build up has lasted months with the torch doing the rounds, thousands of gurning clueless school kids bussed in to clap and cheer in a slightly vacant way as a stranger runs past with an upturned spliff. Tonight before the athletes can get down to the comparatively dull business of running, jumping, skipping, swimming and throwing/balancing stuff on or around themselves, the build up climaxes in an opening ceremony that will show Seb Coe and Jeremy Hunt etc ejaculate quietly but enthusiastically in their pants as the Olympic flame is lit.
Today on the news, broadcasters and members of the public who can charitably be described as total fucking weirdos have been excited to the point of spontaneous televisual combustion, where do they find these people? Is there a database of prime time TV audiences that can be tapped into when an enthusiastic-but-dim crowd are needed? This morning they rang bells for three minutes at 08:12hrs, there was a man so keen to participate, in the absence of a bell, he jangled his house keys. Meanwhile a familiar looking boat was being rowed down the Thames (again) bearing the Olympic flame... I... It... Oh, I can't be bothered...
The Jubilee thing was easy to be cynical about, the entire premise was ropey, the Olympics on the other hand should be a celebration of sporting prowess and excellence, we shouldn't be cynical about it and I was hoping it would require a conscious effort to be so. But, in swept Locog to sell every single thing they could in order to raise money to spend on what has turned out to be, essentially, and there is no easy way to say this so I'll just say it: the British Establishment giving it's ego a vigorous wank in front of the international community... In front of the entire world, with its cock in one hand and a big mac in the other, Great Britain is finally great again, sort of.
But great at what exactly? we've had the stories about G4S and its short comings, ZIL lanes, (Zil for our younger viewers were a type of limousine favoured by very high ranking communists in the old USSR, they had lanes running down the centre of Moscow's various boulevards in which only they could travel.) Bus loads of athletes being lost for hours in London (having been lost myself in London for what seemed like days, I can relate) and the construction staff not being allowed chips if they weren't having fish in the Olympic village canteens. Do you want me to repeat that? Since Locog sold the food and catering rights to McDonald's, you can only eat their fries unless you're having fish, in which case you can have non-McDonald's chips.
I could into details about the London Olympic Games and Paralympic Games Act 2006 but I won't bore you, except to say, the law above gives something called the Olympic Delivery Authority (ODA) the kind of powers Darth Vader would be proud of, road closures, right of entry to private property and business to remove signage which either contravenes the ODA's rules or the law mentioned at the top of this paragraph, if a kebab shop sticks a hand written sign in their window saying 'Summer 2012', they'd most probably be prosecuted.
They even have a dress code for spectators, presumably no trainers allowed... Hold on, how will that work, brogues or wellies only? If you're wearing a t-shirt advertising any fizzy drink other than Coca Cola you may be shot on the spot, same if you're not using an official Olympic Digital Camera (Panasonic if you're at all bothered) you will be chastised by Seb Coe, possibly spanked, (he's a tory, they're all in to it.)
There will be over 12000 soldiers on duty with a further, well, we don't really know how many security staff G4S will be able to rustle up because they're only paying them by the day so for many its not worth coming off benefits. But listen, its fine because they have missile batteries on the roofs of surrounding tower blocks, not for attacking threats from the sky you understand, its for any one seen with a KFC Boneless Banquet in the Olympic village.
In summary, I feel Locog have lost their focus somewhat, its less of a sporting event than a heavily sponsored military-civil security exercise, its almost as if an arms conventions has crashed into a franchise fair
In between people being searched for illegal contraband (a Double Whopper?) occasionally we'll see some sport. I suppose I still hope it goes well, they already fucked it up enough for there to be months of entertaining blog posts and news stories to be getting on with.
I think the sport will be fine, as for the rest, I think we're all waiting for the next thing to go wrong and it shouldn't really be like that.
Now, where can you go in order to avoid the whole thing? That's easy; your local Burger King Franchise.
Friday, 27 July 2012
Monday, 9 July 2012
The Monarchy.
I did try to think up a more pithy title, unfortunately the words 'The Monarchy' now engender in me such a deep cloying sense of ennui, its all I am able to do to stop myself placing one eyeball against the corner of my desk here at work and have a colleague kick me as hard as he can in the back of the head.
Not that you give a shit about what I mind or don't mind about, the monarchy (its not getting capitalised any more) was always a source of indifference to me, I thought of them all as a kind of living theme park where some odd people swished or sashayed around different parts of the world being a bit distant but largely inoffensive (except for Prince Phillip) with the locals and raising some money for charity, which is good.
Over these past few months though, I've gone right off them. We had all assumed that the Jubilee would be a reassertion of Great Britain, a huge boost for British morale and a shot in the arm for the Great British Way of life. I am a disgustingly average person and where before I was indifferent I'm now firmly against.
The boat race, was it a race? A regatta then, was boring but even then, I felt sorry for Liz and Phil as they stood for hours in the rain in what was, lets all be honest now, a really boring afternoon. The concert came along and I thought, ok, it looks alright, that was until the various celebs stumbled on between songs to offer crushingly sycophantic gushes of bootlickery, I mean to say, who except for the most brazen psychopath would be able to sit through some of the accolades being made and not cringe so much they shrivelled up and turned inside out with shame and embarrassment?
I watched as much of it as I could, which was to say until Rolf Harris came on and started in on the grovelling, I had to turn over before I boaked all over the axminster. I don't think I've seen quite so many people quite so keen to trip over themselves to kiss the arse of any one, at least not since Bill and Katey tied the knot, Pippa must have been livid with the old boot's arse for stealing her backside's limelight for the night...
Most recently though we've had the Queen up in Edinburgh giving Bill a gong for, well I'm not sure what for. Its the Order of the Thistle, which is the highest award you can get from the Queen in Scotland, I think... Some say its been given to William in order to cement relations between Team GB and Scotland. I say Team GB because that is all this really is, it turns out Scottish Nationalism is bad but British Nationalism is good. Indeed, we had Michael Forsyth clarifying the point by explaining, when unionists promote their argument its patriotism (which is good) but when Nationalists promote theirs its Nationalism (which is bad.)
He didn't explain the substantive differences between nationalism of patriotism for two reasons, a) there isn't one what with patriotism actually being a by-product of nationalism and b) because on things to do with Scotland, when Michael Forsyth speaks, what actually happens is, an orifice opens at the front of his head and arse-gravy pours out. It should also be noted, he is one of many with a vested interest in the status quo in-so-far-as he'd be out of a job if Scotland says yes in 2014 (which we absolutely should.)
Anyway, digressing slightly, if the idea behind all the royal shenanigans was to promote Team GB, I think it may have backfired a wee bit. We have the Queen having her arse kissed so enthusiastically it has its own facebook page (I have no idea if that is true but if it is, it means we could all go a poke it too) various people running around the place with a big golden spliff they prefer to call 'the olympic flame' and Prince Bill having the Order of the Thistle pinned to his fancy dress costume. I used to think it was all a bit of a show for the tourists, that it was good because it brought in tourist money, but now its just a political football and where before I liked to think the Queen assiduously kept her role to the ceremonial, they're now making it symbolic of Britain (which it always sort of was) but with the express motive of stifling Scottish Patriotism, sorry, I meant Nationalism.
In short, by allowing the Royal Theme Park to be used as an active Trojan horse for Unionism and in such an in-your-face relentlessly unending (suicide-inducing) way, they've actually turned a great many people off the monarchy and by extension Team GB who before might have been merely indifferent.
I would offer a more in depth explanation of what The Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle is but on flipping over to the wiki entry and reading the first two or three lines, its actually boring as fuck. I don't see the point in repeating what's said when you can go yourself one evening if you've ran out of Nytol and can't get to sleep. What I would say is it has a delightful green ribbon and the medal itself would make a handy Ninja throwing star should the wearer ever have the need to defend himself.
I'm somewhat surprised I managed not to use the word nepotism, I'm deploying it now because in terms of the Order of the Thistle and it being given by the Queen to her Grandson, it would be oddly remiss of me to not point out that it really is very nepotistic indeed.
I also cast an eye down the wiki article and couldn't help but notice I actually know someone who has a KT (yup, that's what it is when shortened, the burds get an LT.) He's Garth Morrison, ex-chief scout and native of East Lothian. I say I know him but I don't really, I once put a marquee up in his garden after which I was given a piece of carrot cake by his wife, which in and of itself isn't particularly interesting and probably still isn't if I said this was the occasion I found out carrot cake actually had carrots in it. A real epiphany I'm sure you'll agree.
If I was ever awarded a KT, I know it goes against the grain but I'd have to accept it. I'd invite the great and the good to the ceremony, including Michael Forsyth, on being awarded, I'd perform a Ninja roll off the stage and embed the medal in his coupon for talking shite on the telly.
Perhaps I could persuade Rolf Harris to come along and kiss my arse as well.
Not that you give a shit about what I mind or don't mind about, the monarchy (its not getting capitalised any more) was always a source of indifference to me, I thought of them all as a kind of living theme park where some odd people swished or sashayed around different parts of the world being a bit distant but largely inoffensive (except for Prince Phillip) with the locals and raising some money for charity, which is good.
Over these past few months though, I've gone right off them. We had all assumed that the Jubilee would be a reassertion of Great Britain, a huge boost for British morale and a shot in the arm for the Great British Way of life. I am a disgustingly average person and where before I was indifferent I'm now firmly against.
The boat race, was it a race? A regatta then, was boring but even then, I felt sorry for Liz and Phil as they stood for hours in the rain in what was, lets all be honest now, a really boring afternoon. The concert came along and I thought, ok, it looks alright, that was until the various celebs stumbled on between songs to offer crushingly sycophantic gushes of bootlickery, I mean to say, who except for the most brazen psychopath would be able to sit through some of the accolades being made and not cringe so much they shrivelled up and turned inside out with shame and embarrassment?
I watched as much of it as I could, which was to say until Rolf Harris came on and started in on the grovelling, I had to turn over before I boaked all over the axminster. I don't think I've seen quite so many people quite so keen to trip over themselves to kiss the arse of any one, at least not since Bill and Katey tied the knot, Pippa must have been livid with the old boot's arse for stealing her backside's limelight for the night...
Most recently though we've had the Queen up in Edinburgh giving Bill a gong for, well I'm not sure what for. Its the Order of the Thistle, which is the highest award you can get from the Queen in Scotland, I think... Some say its been given to William in order to cement relations between Team GB and Scotland. I say Team GB because that is all this really is, it turns out Scottish Nationalism is bad but British Nationalism is good. Indeed, we had Michael Forsyth clarifying the point by explaining, when unionists promote their argument its patriotism (which is good) but when Nationalists promote theirs its Nationalism (which is bad.)
He didn't explain the substantive differences between nationalism of patriotism for two reasons, a) there isn't one what with patriotism actually being a by-product of nationalism and b) because on things to do with Scotland, when Michael Forsyth speaks, what actually happens is, an orifice opens at the front of his head and arse-gravy pours out. It should also be noted, he is one of many with a vested interest in the status quo in-so-far-as he'd be out of a job if Scotland says yes in 2014 (which we absolutely should.)
Anyway, digressing slightly, if the idea behind all the royal shenanigans was to promote Team GB, I think it may have backfired a wee bit. We have the Queen having her arse kissed so enthusiastically it has its own facebook page (I have no idea if that is true but if it is, it means we could all go a poke it too) various people running around the place with a big golden spliff they prefer to call 'the olympic flame' and Prince Bill having the Order of the Thistle pinned to his fancy dress costume. I used to think it was all a bit of a show for the tourists, that it was good because it brought in tourist money, but now its just a political football and where before I liked to think the Queen assiduously kept her role to the ceremonial, they're now making it symbolic of Britain (which it always sort of was) but with the express motive of stifling Scottish Patriotism, sorry, I meant Nationalism.
In short, by allowing the Royal Theme Park to be used as an active Trojan horse for Unionism and in such an in-your-face relentlessly unending (suicide-inducing) way, they've actually turned a great many people off the monarchy and by extension Team GB who before might have been merely indifferent.
I would offer a more in depth explanation of what The Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle is but on flipping over to the wiki entry and reading the first two or three lines, its actually boring as fuck. I don't see the point in repeating what's said when you can go yourself one evening if you've ran out of Nytol and can't get to sleep. What I would say is it has a delightful green ribbon and the medal itself would make a handy Ninja throwing star should the wearer ever have the need to defend himself.
I'm somewhat surprised I managed not to use the word nepotism, I'm deploying it now because in terms of the Order of the Thistle and it being given by the Queen to her Grandson, it would be oddly remiss of me to not point out that it really is very nepotistic indeed.
I also cast an eye down the wiki article and couldn't help but notice I actually know someone who has a KT (yup, that's what it is when shortened, the burds get an LT.) He's Garth Morrison, ex-chief scout and native of East Lothian. I say I know him but I don't really, I once put a marquee up in his garden after which I was given a piece of carrot cake by his wife, which in and of itself isn't particularly interesting and probably still isn't if I said this was the occasion I found out carrot cake actually had carrots in it. A real epiphany I'm sure you'll agree.
If I was ever awarded a KT, I know it goes against the grain but I'd have to accept it. I'd invite the great and the good to the ceremony, including Michael Forsyth, on being awarded, I'd perform a Ninja roll off the stage and embed the medal in his coupon for talking shite on the telly.
Perhaps I could persuade Rolf Harris to come along and kiss my arse as well.
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
Something irreverent and pithy.
More like disgusting and stinking.
The time of year has come round again, people in the village are digging out their shite to give to our fundraising jumble sale. I'm not going to say where it is because I don't want to be identified due some of the things I'm going to say, which on the other hand makes no difference because no ones reads this.
If our jumble sale had a motto it would be 'Quantity over Quality', we do get some decent stuff, but we get the most enormous mountain of crap too. We can chart the history of technology by items donated, we haven't had a flat screen telly in but we have had a DVD recorder, it was brand new, the people bought it but couldn't figure out how it worked. If the sale had a set of metaphorical books ends, two items that if not seen would raise eyebrows and cause questions to be asked are; The Teasmade and the Foot Spa.
There are two issues with these items, firstly the second-hand Foot Spa: Fucking yuck! You would be forgiven for thinking, who in their right mind would by a second hand foot spa? It would be like buying a second hand bath tub; why would you. These foot spas always come adorned with what can only be described as 'marks' of an indeterminate origin, presumably from the feet of the previous owners but one's imagination does begin to rove.
The Teasmade; apart from being a completely shit idea to begin with, if we got a complete Teasmade donated it would be something of note, we never do though, there's always something missing, an essential jug or indispensable formica stiring tool. When we are handed these things on doorsteps, (for which we are eternally gratefull of course) and told with regret about the missing parts, the temptation to ask 'why fuck are you giving it to us if it doesn't work' is strong but we just say thanks and carry off the wounded tea maker.
We never sell a broken Teasmade but we do sell Foot Spas. If you want to know how, read on. You have to understand the clientele we attract, its a broad church, we get a fair amount of posh people, well I say posh but I think it might be pure affectation, its a possibility the designer clothes they're wearing came from another jumble sale. The point is they look quite swish, usually female and found rummaging through the clothes and shoes stalls.
Then there are the OAP's, invariably at the front of the queue (we know when people have died by their absence.) When we open the doors, it's like the start of the grand national, only a lot slower and more smelly, although since I haven't smelled a horse recently I have no frame of reference, it may be very similar because a definite tang can be felt in the nasal caveties as they shamble in, like a trampy Tsunami. Now I'm being whimsical. OAP's like the bricabrac, they positively hoover it up, anything from lampshades to cutlery, crockery to old car stereos is picked up, turned round and perused intently. They also like the bakery stall and a cup of tea. OAP's never buy foot spas.
Next up are the kids, waifs and strays, like something out of Oliver except with more man-made fabric. They either try to get in before we open so they can pose as young volunteers on a stall in order to steal money (yeah? sue me then!) If not then, then its after the rush is over and we stop charging for entry. They head for the toy stall which is usually total chaos manned as it usually is by children. Children occasionally buy foot spas as gifts for parents, the parent on realising where it was procured immediately puts it in a box with out trying to touch it too much so it can be handed in at the next jumble sale, its the circle of life you know.
We then have people in the middle, these are decent folks out for a bargain, I mean, who wants to spend £400 on a flat screen telly when you can get an old TV and a digibox for £20. These people are making ends meet, if they need a new wardrobe or a microwave, they're far more likely to say 'fuck Bright House and wonga.com for a laugh, lets go to a jumble sale'. They're good for banter and their money and patronage is appreciated. I like them, they head for electrical and furnishing (said like its some sort of department store...) Electrical & Furnishing also includes everything else, so old prams, bikes, golf clubs, golf bags, golf balls, lawnmovers, rotovators, pianos, curtain rails, beds, matresses (charmingly prestained for that lived-on feel,) games consoles (playstation one's mostly,) old computer printers, tinned food (usually prunes,) suitcases & general baggage, hat stands and unwanted babies. Ok, I made the last one up but I wouldn't be surprised with this Tory led coalition.
Across all of the above, with the exception of many but not all of the people in the previous paragraph, there is an over-arching underclass (if such a thing can exist.) They can be identified by one thing and one thing alone: the smell. In short, they don't wash often enough, not themselves or their clothes. It's a curious odour, mulchy and damp yet tangy and acidic. If you're in the hall when the jumble sale opens, it precedes the crowd and washes over you like an invisible yet slightly tangible cloud, its initially warm and dare I say, not unpleasant but then the olfactory apparatus catches up and begins to dissect & assay the various components of the bilious fug in which you are now shrouded. At that point it's to late to do anything other than try and keep the bile down.
If you come in to the hall after opening time and there hasn't been time for the miasma to dissipate, as you walk towards the door, creeping tendrils offer a whiff of things to come but its not until you step over the threshold you are properly assailed by it. Imagine a very old seat cushion, square in shape, paisely patterned but loosing its threading (in that weird way velour does.) It's been sat on by the same person for forty years, for the last few years of their life they farted gently in to the cushion and were incontinent enough for it to have absorbed the merest sensation of eau de piss. Sadly though as all life does, they past on in their favourite chair, on their favourite cushion. As occasionally happens, the body isn't found immediately, it isn't until the next Jumble Sale and their absence in the queue is noticed that somebody decides to go and check, they find the gently decomposing corpse resting peacefully, the various fluids and associated substances involved with the decomposition process having soaked into a now slightly damp seat cushion.
Walking in to a newly opened Jumble Sale from the fresh air is a bit like being hit in the face with that cushion.
Ok, I waxed lyrical and it isn't just the people, its the jumble itself, I mean, you can't possibly not have some sort of malodorous presence if people are handing you (and I'm not joking) underwear, some of which is soiled. We chuck it out but we should probably use surgical gloves when sorting it all out. I'm going to be charitable and assume when we get that sort of thing (like a bag of childrens old underwear) its been put in by accident, not even our punters are going to buy that shit, quite literally.
Other problems pop up that you just wouldn't imagine happening, rich people stealing for example. We had ladies stealing clothing, they'd rummage in amongst the clothes moving along the length of the stall front, every now and again they'd drop an item on the ground which they'd kick along as they moved, when they got to the end of the table, they bent down, stuffed all the clothes in a bag and walked off. These were women we knew in the village, it must have been some sort of Anthony Worral Thomson/shoplifting/thrill-seeking thing. We got the smaller kids to scurry round under the tables pulling back dropped items to stick back on top of the tables after that.
OAP's are supposed to be fluffy and loveable, not in the cut throat business of jumble sale haggling they're not. You might have a 12 year old being enthusiastically bullied by an 80 year old over the price of a decent foot spa, there are still old folk who think 5p is a lot of money. Indeed, up until five years ago, my gran gave her paper boy a 15p tip at christmas. The opposite is also true though, someone had handed in a digital photo frame which had a price tag of £10 or £15, some shmuck of a child sold it for 50p.
We also get queue jumpers, they cause a lot more problems than you'd imagine, we've almost had riots because someone in the queue has spotted someone amongst the furniture asking for things to be put aside, we of course always say no, but they're sneeky, they say they're volunteering. We ask them who they know and what connection the have to the organisation, they begin to stutter and hesitate, they know they've been rumbled but still they carry on rummaging, at that point we have to throw them out. Generally speaking, the volunteers don't rummage, you can't rummage effectively if you're holding your nose, also, the true volunteer will have bought what they want in the nights leading up to the jumble sale, they wouldn't wait till the day of opening.
Nothing though compares to the sight of one old age pensioner frog-marching another out the door for jumble lifting, its only happened once but it was enough to take ones mind of the pong for a minute or two. An older gentleman who's been volunteering for years at our jumble sales noticed and elderly lady helping herself to bricabrac, I've no idea how or why it escalated but it did so he threw her bodily out the door.
To summarise because as usual I've rambled on somewhat. Jumble sales are depressing, smelly laborious affairs but, they also serve a purpose, in terms of recycling it is the very epitome of the activity. The things that come in the door are almost as surprising as the things that go back out on sale day. I still hate them though, I know I'm a bit of a snob but they're a lot of hard work and I know you think I've exxagerated about the smell but I really haven't.
I have no idea why we don't just send the kids up chimneys, I mean to say, as a youth organisation, we have on tap a ready supply of flexible young labourers, I know, I know; who has coal fires these days... They can sweep up and do dishes though can't they? Why for example did they stop bob-a-job week? It wasn't as if we were sending young people into the homes of perfect stranngers to do work of an unspecified nature was it?
Oh hold on...
The time of year has come round again, people in the village are digging out their shite to give to our fundraising jumble sale. I'm not going to say where it is because I don't want to be identified due some of the things I'm going to say, which on the other hand makes no difference because no ones reads this.
If our jumble sale had a motto it would be 'Quantity over Quality', we do get some decent stuff, but we get the most enormous mountain of crap too. We can chart the history of technology by items donated, we haven't had a flat screen telly in but we have had a DVD recorder, it was brand new, the people bought it but couldn't figure out how it worked. If the sale had a set of metaphorical books ends, two items that if not seen would raise eyebrows and cause questions to be asked are; The Teasmade and the Foot Spa.
There are two issues with these items, firstly the second-hand Foot Spa: Fucking yuck! You would be forgiven for thinking, who in their right mind would by a second hand foot spa? It would be like buying a second hand bath tub; why would you. These foot spas always come adorned with what can only be described as 'marks' of an indeterminate origin, presumably from the feet of the previous owners but one's imagination does begin to rove.
The Teasmade; apart from being a completely shit idea to begin with, if we got a complete Teasmade donated it would be something of note, we never do though, there's always something missing, an essential jug or indispensable formica stiring tool. When we are handed these things on doorsteps, (for which we are eternally gratefull of course) and told with regret about the missing parts, the temptation to ask 'why fuck are you giving it to us if it doesn't work' is strong but we just say thanks and carry off the wounded tea maker.
We never sell a broken Teasmade but we do sell Foot Spas. If you want to know how, read on. You have to understand the clientele we attract, its a broad church, we get a fair amount of posh people, well I say posh but I think it might be pure affectation, its a possibility the designer clothes they're wearing came from another jumble sale. The point is they look quite swish, usually female and found rummaging through the clothes and shoes stalls.
Then there are the OAP's, invariably at the front of the queue (we know when people have died by their absence.) When we open the doors, it's like the start of the grand national, only a lot slower and more smelly, although since I haven't smelled a horse recently I have no frame of reference, it may be very similar because a definite tang can be felt in the nasal caveties as they shamble in, like a trampy Tsunami. Now I'm being whimsical. OAP's like the bricabrac, they positively hoover it up, anything from lampshades to cutlery, crockery to old car stereos is picked up, turned round and perused intently. They also like the bakery stall and a cup of tea. OAP's never buy foot spas.
Next up are the kids, waifs and strays, like something out of Oliver except with more man-made fabric. They either try to get in before we open so they can pose as young volunteers on a stall in order to steal money (yeah? sue me then!) If not then, then its after the rush is over and we stop charging for entry. They head for the toy stall which is usually total chaos manned as it usually is by children. Children occasionally buy foot spas as gifts for parents, the parent on realising where it was procured immediately puts it in a box with out trying to touch it too much so it can be handed in at the next jumble sale, its the circle of life you know.
We then have people in the middle, these are decent folks out for a bargain, I mean, who wants to spend £400 on a flat screen telly when you can get an old TV and a digibox for £20. These people are making ends meet, if they need a new wardrobe or a microwave, they're far more likely to say 'fuck Bright House and wonga.com for a laugh, lets go to a jumble sale'. They're good for banter and their money and patronage is appreciated. I like them, they head for electrical and furnishing (said like its some sort of department store...) Electrical & Furnishing also includes everything else, so old prams, bikes, golf clubs, golf bags, golf balls, lawnmovers, rotovators, pianos, curtain rails, beds, matresses (charmingly prestained for that lived-on feel,) games consoles (playstation one's mostly,) old computer printers, tinned food (usually prunes,) suitcases & general baggage, hat stands and unwanted babies. Ok, I made the last one up but I wouldn't be surprised with this Tory led coalition.
Across all of the above, with the exception of many but not all of the people in the previous paragraph, there is an over-arching underclass (if such a thing can exist.) They can be identified by one thing and one thing alone: the smell. In short, they don't wash often enough, not themselves or their clothes. It's a curious odour, mulchy and damp yet tangy and acidic. If you're in the hall when the jumble sale opens, it precedes the crowd and washes over you like an invisible yet slightly tangible cloud, its initially warm and dare I say, not unpleasant but then the olfactory apparatus catches up and begins to dissect & assay the various components of the bilious fug in which you are now shrouded. At that point it's to late to do anything other than try and keep the bile down.
If you come in to the hall after opening time and there hasn't been time for the miasma to dissipate, as you walk towards the door, creeping tendrils offer a whiff of things to come but its not until you step over the threshold you are properly assailed by it. Imagine a very old seat cushion, square in shape, paisely patterned but loosing its threading (in that weird way velour does.) It's been sat on by the same person for forty years, for the last few years of their life they farted gently in to the cushion and were incontinent enough for it to have absorbed the merest sensation of eau de piss. Sadly though as all life does, they past on in their favourite chair, on their favourite cushion. As occasionally happens, the body isn't found immediately, it isn't until the next Jumble Sale and their absence in the queue is noticed that somebody decides to go and check, they find the gently decomposing corpse resting peacefully, the various fluids and associated substances involved with the decomposition process having soaked into a now slightly damp seat cushion.
Walking in to a newly opened Jumble Sale from the fresh air is a bit like being hit in the face with that cushion.
Ok, I waxed lyrical and it isn't just the people, its the jumble itself, I mean, you can't possibly not have some sort of malodorous presence if people are handing you (and I'm not joking) underwear, some of which is soiled. We chuck it out but we should probably use surgical gloves when sorting it all out. I'm going to be charitable and assume when we get that sort of thing (like a bag of childrens old underwear) its been put in by accident, not even our punters are going to buy that shit, quite literally.
Other problems pop up that you just wouldn't imagine happening, rich people stealing for example. We had ladies stealing clothing, they'd rummage in amongst the clothes moving along the length of the stall front, every now and again they'd drop an item on the ground which they'd kick along as they moved, when they got to the end of the table, they bent down, stuffed all the clothes in a bag and walked off. These were women we knew in the village, it must have been some sort of Anthony Worral Thomson/shoplifting/thrill-seeking thing. We got the smaller kids to scurry round under the tables pulling back dropped items to stick back on top of the tables after that.
OAP's are supposed to be fluffy and loveable, not in the cut throat business of jumble sale haggling they're not. You might have a 12 year old being enthusiastically bullied by an 80 year old over the price of a decent foot spa, there are still old folk who think 5p is a lot of money. Indeed, up until five years ago, my gran gave her paper boy a 15p tip at christmas. The opposite is also true though, someone had handed in a digital photo frame which had a price tag of £10 or £15, some shmuck of a child sold it for 50p.
We also get queue jumpers, they cause a lot more problems than you'd imagine, we've almost had riots because someone in the queue has spotted someone amongst the furniture asking for things to be put aside, we of course always say no, but they're sneeky, they say they're volunteering. We ask them who they know and what connection the have to the organisation, they begin to stutter and hesitate, they know they've been rumbled but still they carry on rummaging, at that point we have to throw them out. Generally speaking, the volunteers don't rummage, you can't rummage effectively if you're holding your nose, also, the true volunteer will have bought what they want in the nights leading up to the jumble sale, they wouldn't wait till the day of opening.
Nothing though compares to the sight of one old age pensioner frog-marching another out the door for jumble lifting, its only happened once but it was enough to take ones mind of the pong for a minute or two. An older gentleman who's been volunteering for years at our jumble sales noticed and elderly lady helping herself to bricabrac, I've no idea how or why it escalated but it did so he threw her bodily out the door.
To summarise because as usual I've rambled on somewhat. Jumble sales are depressing, smelly laborious affairs but, they also serve a purpose, in terms of recycling it is the very epitome of the activity. The things that come in the door are almost as surprising as the things that go back out on sale day. I still hate them though, I know I'm a bit of a snob but they're a lot of hard work and I know you think I've exxagerated about the smell but I really haven't.
I have no idea why we don't just send the kids up chimneys, I mean to say, as a youth organisation, we have on tap a ready supply of flexible young labourers, I know, I know; who has coal fires these days... They can sweep up and do dishes though can't they? Why for example did they stop bob-a-job week? It wasn't as if we were sending young people into the homes of perfect stranngers to do work of an unspecified nature was it?
Oh hold on...
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