Visiting the most bonkers record shop, knocked cold by a naked woman and breaking a sleeping man's nose

One sales rep who called into HMV and who did not ask us to fix the

chart was a man named Alan Whittaker. He worked for a company

called SP&S who specialised in selling deleted records.

Alan would travel the North West in a large Mercedes van full of CDs,

LPs and cassettes, visiting the record retailers and offering product that was

ideal for promotions and sales. Record companies deleted product when it

was no longer worthwhile keeping it in their warehouses, so that on Alan’s

van would generally consist of titles from between three and twenty years

ago. When companies deleted product they would sell them off cheap to

companies like SP&S, then in turn SP&S would sell it on at a bargain price

to the shops, who, in turn, would sell it cheap to the general public.

All in all it was a very green system, which meant that most records

would be recycled. Unfortunately there were a couple of major record

companies who preferred to crush their unsold records rather than offer

them out to a deletions company. This was a real pity or, in the words of

the late, great Ian Dury, ‘What a Waste’.

Alan would call on HMV once a month and I always enjoyed rummaging

through the van and discovering all these long lost classics at bargain

prices. It was a real Aladdin’s cave. One day Alan mentioned that he was

moving on to a different job at SP&S so there was a vacancy in van sales.

Wow, this is perfect for me, I thought. Alan gave me the number of his

boss, a man called Malcolm Mills, who would later play a major part in

my music career. I phoned Malcolm and told him to look no further as I

was the man for him. I was invited to an interview in Manchester, which

seemed to go very well. Malcolm was a real music fan and seemed incredibly

positive and enthusiastic and I knew straight away that I could enjoy

working with him. The next day Malcolm called me up and offered me

the job. I must have been a cocky so and so in those days as, when he told

me, I replied, “Wise move”.

I was very sad to leave HMV. My period working there was one of the

most enjoyable times of my life.But it was time for a new challenge and the

opportunity to earn some money. One of the great appeals of working for

SP&S was that you were paid a commission of 10 per cent of your sales.

Therefore, if I sold £500 worth of stock I earned £50. I found it a great

motivation to be able to see each day how much I would earn.

On the day I started work I was invited down to London to pick up my

van and for some training. SP&S were based in Stratford, in London, in an

area full of fruit markets. You could smell the sickly odour of rotting fruit

everywhere, but it was a vast improvement on cheese and onion. I was to

stay in London for three days and on the first two I was to go out with

another van salesman called Neil Kellas. The only flaw in this idea was that

Neil was the classical rep and the only product he had on the van was classical.

This wasn’t much use to me, as I wasn’t really interested in classical

music, and when I had my van, I wouldn’t be stocking much of it. I learned

three things from Neil – that classical customers are snobby and didn’t

appear keen to engage in conversation with cheeky Scousers, that London’s

a bugger for parking and that, most of all, I was flabbergasted at how much

of this classical music Neil was able to sell. I changed my mind about my

van. I was going to stock lots of classical!

The next day I was given my new Mercedes van and told to pick stock

out of the warehouse and fill it up. This was quite a daunting task as there

were over thirteen thousand different titles. One thing was for sure and it

was that I was going to devote a fair bit of space to those top-selling classical

boys, Mozart and Beethoven. Other than classical I felt I had a good

knowledge of music so, as my area was the north of England, I concentrated

on filling my shelves with lots of bands from Liverpool, Leeds,

Sheffield, Manchester and Newcastle.

Over the next few weeks I worked extremely hard and was always at a

store for opening time. I never had a lunch break and I would just live off

bananas. One of the perks of the job was that I could stay out at a hotel if

need be, the company would pay for it and I could also claim an evening

meal on your expenses. One of my first experiences of eating out alone was

in quite a posh restaurant in York. For starter I ordered crudités and for the

main course I went for a cheese soufflé. The waiter brought me out some

strips of vegetables and, not long after, he brought the cheese soufflé. He

placed a small burner on the table and the idea was that the burner would

heat the soufflé mixture until it rose. After I finished the starter, the soufflé

still hadn’t risen. I messed about with the burner, but unfortunately turned

the flame off, so I called the waiter over and asked him to re-light it. I read

my magazine for half an hour and the soufflé was still not showing any signs

of rising. I presumed it was due to me accidentally turning the heat off.

Once more, I attempted to turn the heat up, but only succeeded in extinguishing

the flame. I called the now-exasperated waiter over to re-light it

again. Twenty minutes later, nothing had happened and I was beginning to

lose interest in this dish. I noticed the waiter clearing all of the other tables

and I was the only person left in the restaurant. The waiter approached me

and informed me that they were hoping to close in ten minutes and asked

whether I have any intention of eating my food. I informed him that I was

still waiting for my soufflé to rise. “Sir,” he replied, “that is not a soufflé, it

is a warm cheese dip and the idea is for you to dip your crudités into it. The

chef has been waiting one-and-a-half hours for you to finish so he can cook

your soufflé.” I was too embarrassed to stay and departed into the cold

night, still starving.

Over the next few years I was fortunate to eat out in restaurants and stay

at hotels three or four nights a week. The advantage was that I could be at

the shops at 9am and often I was able to see customers after they had

closed, thereby maximising the sales opportunities – as I was being paid

commission, this was in my interest.

One evening I arrived at a hotel in Hull and by the time I checked in it

had gone 11pm. I went to my room, opened the door and before I switched

the light on I hurled my heavy briefcase on to the bed. “What the f***?” a

man screamed, and as the light came on he bolted upright in the bed with

blood pouring from his nose. Unfortunately for him the hotel had double

booked the room and he was asleep when my briefcase caught him squarely

on the nose. I apologised and quickly departed the scene. I think he was in

such a state of shock that he didn’t respond or maybe he did say something,

but I was unable to hear him, as he had the white sheet around his nose. By

the look of things the sheet wasn’t going to remain white for long.

Even more memorable was the night I checked into a B&B in

Greenwich. I used to stay in south London once each month, because I had

to visit our head office in Stratford. The landlady showed me to my room

and explained that the toilet wasn’t in there, but on the landing outside. I

left my bags in the room, walked into the centre of Greenwich and went

for an Italian meal and a few drinks. Upon my return, I watched a bit of TV

before retiring to bed. At about 2am the drinks began to take effect and I

woke up anxious to go the toilet. Remembering that the toilet was on the

landing and, just wearing a T-shirt, I made my way there. Not wishing to

wake the other guests, I didn’t bother to turn on the light on and I turned

the handle of the bathroom door, desperate to empty my bladder. As I

entered there was a piercing scream and a naked woman leapt off the toilet

seat, screaming. In shock, I fell backwards and bashed my head on the back

of the door. It took a few seconds for me to realise what was happening: I

was on the floor with my tackle hanging out, and towering above me

screaming to get out was a naked woman who I recognised as the landlady

of the establishment. I didn’t need to be asked twice and fled to my room

and locked the door. My heart was beating so fast I thought my chest might

explode. The two things I failed to understand were why she failed to lock

the door when she visited the toilet and how on earth I hadn’t wet myself.

The next morning both of us were waiting to see if the other was going to

comment on the evening’s proceedings. I was very tempted to say, “I don’t

recognise you with your clothes on,” but bottled out. I gulped my food,

because I wanted to get away as soon as possible, and spent the rest of the

day suffering with indigestion.

Things were going well for me regarding van sales, but I was still finding

my feet with some of the more eccentric customers, of whom none were

more so than a place called Church Street Records in Manchester. I knew

this customer spent a lot of money, but nothing could prepare me for what

happened on my first visit. I turned up to discover that it was a collection

of wooden racks out on the pavement with a timber roof, which was there

to stop customers getting wet in the rain. At the end of this collection of

racking was a garden shed. Inside were two men, and I asked if Tony, the

owner, was about. “No, Tony is not in today,” the taller man told me. I

asked the gentlemen when he would be in, and asked their names. The

taller gentleman told me he was Paul and that he was Tony’s identical twin

brother. He then introduced me to the other man, a hunchback of Notre

Dame look-alike, called Bernard. He also had quite a large belly, therefore

I christened him ‘Hunchback Tofront’. As I had come all that way, he

enquired whether I would like some hot chocolate. He sympathised with

me for missing Tony, but assured me that if I called back at the same time

next week, he would be there. Bernard passed me the drink, which was the

weakest hot chocolate I had ever tasted, but I felt it would be rude to say

anything. We chatted for a few minutes and then I announced that I should

go and would call back next week. “You haven’t finished your drink,” Paul

shouted, so I went to gulp it down. As I drank, I choked when a huge lump

of congealed powder went down my throat. It was clear that the drink had

never been stirred.

Paul and Bernard had burst out laughing as I choked and, over the

coming months, I realised that offering people a drink was just a big joke to

them. They never had one themselves and, although there was a tea and

coffee machine, if you asked for one of those beverages, they never had

any. The only drinks they ever had were hot chocolate or soup. They

would never do business until you had finished your drink. It was like some

strange initiation ceremony in which you had to drink this warm water,

followed by a congealed lump, whilst this pair of nutters stared at you until

the cup was empty.

The next week I turned up to be greeted by Paul. “Hi,” I said, “is Tony

in today?”

“I am Tony,” he replied. Crikey, I thought they are identical. Bernard

offered me a hot chocolate, which I politely declined, but Tony insisted and

told me that it would be rude to turn down his kind hospitality. After I had

suffered the drink Tony came out to my van and, like a whirlwind, just

pulled out piles of records and CDs and threw them on the floor. Many of the

LPs were falling out of their sleeves and numerous CD cases were smashed.

After only a few minutes he announced that he had spent enough and,

with that, leapt off the van leaving me to sort out the wigwam-shaped pile

in the middle of the floor. When I raised the invoice he had spent over

£500, so it was well worth putting up with his eccentricities for an order

that large. I dropped his stock off into the hut and Tony told me to watch

something before I left. With that he picked up a large megaphone, crept

up behind a customer and, at the top of his voice, shouted through the

megaphone, “BARGAINS BARGAINS!” The poor customer jumped out of

his skin.

Tony came back laughing his head off. “Don’t you lose lots of customers

doing that?” I asked, whilst stifling my laughter.

“Of course I do,” he replied, “but it’s worth it for the laugh.” Over the

next couple of years every visit would end with him getting his megaphone

out and scaring another poor customer witless. It’s a bit sad, but it used to

be my highlight of the day and, amazingly, I never witnessed one customer

resort to violence. 

The books of Graham Jones are available in record shops or online. The latest book The Vinyl Revival and the Shops that Made it Happen has been turned in to a film. It has just been released on DVD and is available in record shops or online. Distributed by Proper Music.

Each week I record The Vinyl Revival Record Shop Podcast. It contains lots of funny tales from the crazy world of record retailing. It is also available on Spotify.

Twitter: @Revival_Vinyl

My blog has over 100 features on record shops and vinyl.

grahamjonesvinylrevival.blogspot.com

For film screenings and talks contact Graham. 

As the person who has visited more record shops than any other human, I often get asked my advice on buying turntables. I always say do not purchase a budget model. What is the point of buying one that costs the price of a few albums? The sound will not do the recordings justice. For a long time, I have recommended Rega Turntables as they are superb quality at great prices. They got more brownie points for sponsoring 'Record Store Day' and manufacturing limited editions just for record shops.