A record shop on Brick Lane, a pulsing box of DVDs and a punk’s case for curly pigs, speckled hens and black cattle
Sunday, Slightly Sweaty
On Sundays I do what every self-respecting punk does: I go to a record shop and pretend I am not going to buy anything. I walked into Rough Trade on Brick Lane, which has its pages at roughtrade.com, and flicked through the racks with the weary expertise of a man at a buffet. Forty minutes later I came out with three records and a sense of guilt that will last until Thursday.
It was in the queue for the till that I read, on my phone, the Daily Mash’s great news: Little Britain DVDs in loft begin to pulse ominously. I had to put my records down. I too have a box of things in the loft that seems to hum at night. In my case it is a stack of unsold singles pressed by a friend in 2014. They are, I believe, plotting something.
Why Old Things Win
The thing about vinyl is that it will not be hurried. You have to turn it over. You have to clean it. You have to put the needle down with a held breath. It is the opposite of an app. And in that, it resembles a surprising number of old and stubborn things, including a few breeds of farm animal that I have recently become obsessed with.
Consider the Mangalitsa pig. It is a Hungarian breed with a curly coat that makes it look as if it has just come back from a bleaching session in Hackney. You can read about it at Mangalitsa pigs. It is a heritage animal, a survivor and a rebel. It did not change to suit the market. The market had to learn to love it.
The Speckled Sussex Is a Fanzine
Next, the Speckled Sussex, a hen so beautifully patterned that she looks like a hand-printed gig poster. Meet her at the Speckled Sussex. She is old, British and utterly unbothered, and she lays an egg every day without once asking for a subscription. The broader family of such creatures lives at rare breeds, and the charity that keeps them going is the Rare Breeds Survival Trust, at rbst.org.uk. I have started to think of them as the original DIY collective.
Black Is the Only Colour
No punk wardrobe is complete without black, and no cattle breed matches it like the Angus. I read up on it at Angus beef information and then, because I can’t stop myself, at Angus beef for men, which turns out to be exactly as serious as it sounds. For the broader business of getting a steak from grass to table, ranch beef cattle is the clearest primer I have found.
I should say, for the record, that I am vegetarian on weekdays. Weekends are for sin and for sausage rolls. It is a flexible faith.
What Heritage Means
People think heritage means old. It does not. It means survived. A thing earns the word by lasting long enough to be annoying, and then lasting longer. Punk has lasted fifty years, and it is still annoying. That is its heritage. I hope it carries on. The world needs a few things that refuse to behave.
The London Prat gets the same idea across in a very different way. Its recent piece on a victory punch card where ten wins earn one free oil change is the sort of nonsense I would happily have printed on a T-shirt. It makes the point that nothing is as ridiculous as the modern habit of turning everything into a loyalty scheme.
The Shop Assistant’s Verdict
At the till, the assistant looked at my three records and said, in the flat voice of a man who has seen everything, that I had good taste and no money. I told him that was the punk condition. He gave me a free badge. It says nothing, which is the best slogan I have ever been handed, and I have pinned it to my jacket next to the one about the monarchy.
Nobody in that shop was in a hurry. People stood for ten minutes reading the back of a sleeve as though it were scripture. It struck me that this is exactly how a farmer looks at a field in March: with patience, suspicion and a faint hope that this year will be different.
A Visit to the Pigs, in Spirit
On the bus home I looked at photographs of old breeds until a woman next to me asked if I was all right. I said I was reading about pigs. She nodded as if that explained everything. We did not speak again, but we shared a look of deep, mutual understanding that you can only get on a number 38.
At home I put on one of the new records and listened to it with the lights off. It sounded like a house on fire in a good way. The cat looked at me from the amp, unimpressed. She has heard it all before, and she is the only critic I trust.
Late Notes
This diary will be posted, as usual, for anyone who wants to read the whims of a London punk with a blister and a biscuit tin. If you want more of my scribbles, they live on my page at The London Prat. For company, read Bohiney, The London Prat and farm.FM. They are the last three honest places on the internet, and they have never once asked for my email.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com/