Car Boot Hell
I went to a car boot sale last week.
Hell, more like.
I have never seen so many fat women with tattooed breasts in my entire life. Fat women, tattooed breasts, pierced eyebrows, pushing double pushchairs, onto which the collected fruit of her loins - numbering at least half a dozen - are perched. And they're all ginger.
"How much d'you want for this?" she says, testing a piece of glassware to destruction
"A pound?" you venture.
"I'll give you 5p," she says, leaning forward to find her purse, giving you the full horror of her tattooed cleavage. It seals the deal, but hardly in the manner she anticipated. I swallow a small amount of sick.
"Gneep!" you reply, "I mean... 20p and it's yours."
*Thinks*: "Put 'em away you dreadful slattern, there are at least five people in this town who have yet to see your breasts, and I count myself privileged enough to be one of them"
She and her horde leave, pleased enough with her purchase. And I look up, and there's another tattooed fat girl on crutches bearing down on me, this time with her male companion, who also has tattooed breasts. And the squash racquet will go unsold, again.
I'm not a car boot kind of person, so I'm not 100 per cent certain about this kind of thing. Do all car boot sales feature such dreadful harpies, or is this just Normal For Yeovil?
Good Lord, the place was HEAVING with uglies and in-bred barleymows. You could spot the poor, hopelessly-marooned middle-classers a mile off.
And there: A pig-tailed twelve-year-old calling out "Oh look, Papa!" at the sight of the dodgy DVD stall almost resulted in a lynching before one of the clearer heads declared "They'll do for fresh breeding stock".
We made our excuses and left, some seventy quid the richer. They'll buy anything there. Apart from my squash racquet, clearly.