Don't Believe the Hype: Vintage Goodwood, a Review

Vintage at Goodwood is to lovers of true vintage a bit like what the Millennium Dome in Greenwich was to London - the Emperor's New Clothes. As with the Dome the organisers PR-puffed their way through months of New Labour spin before opening it to the public without really thinking about what should go inside the Dome, with the result that the contents ended up looking like an afterthought, a hotch-potch of jumbled, soulless, assorted features that didn't really work together.

Having worked in PR myself for ten years, I recognise the signs, when excessive spin is being pushed to the point where the signs of strain appear and the seams are stretched. The dangers of too much hype is that an event is almost certainly bound to fail expectations as a result. Yet many of us still flocked along to VAG like willing sheep, half-hoping that our Utopian vision of a vintage world in the woods would be satisfied. Of course, it would remain just that, a Utopian vision.

Yes, there were high points - namely the musical programming and in particular curating of the Leisure Dome by Mike Flowers. Well done Mike!

For me, the best bits were hanging out with my friends from the Mike Flowers Pops in the Leisure Dome, listening to the amazing Swingle Sisters and Tony Hatch's orchestra with guests while standing next to one of my heroes, Captain Sensible. And friends who were traders said they were blown away by pop artist Peter Blake attending their stall, that they made enough money to make the weekend worthwhile and that they had an amazing time slam-dancing and moshing along in the pit to The Damned on Sunday night (they still have the bruises).

I am not disputing the musical content, most of which was thoughtfully curated and great. It was more that the rest of the festival didn't really make sense as a concept.

The one overriding sense I left VAG with was that it was a pastiche and certainly nothing like the 'Festival of Britain' - whose spirit it claimed to be invoking. The Festival of Britain was about showcasing the best of British scientific invention, design and technological creation - none of which did we see at VAG - unless you discounted the gorgeous vintage cars on display and the opulent £12000 watches for sale.

It amazed me that so little thought had gone into the food and catering. People cannot live on cheese toasties alone y’know. And I’m sure that even in ‘vintage-land’ people didn’t just live on sandwiches either. If this festival was apeing the Festival of Britain then why didn’t it have any local British produce on display or for sale? And where were the lashings of organic ginger beer we heard about in Enid Blyton? They surely missed a trick there.

Wayne Hemingway, if you're listening, vintage is not about spending oodles of cash necessarily, it is more about finding a true bargain...and as a punter you'd be hard-pushed to get one at VAG, if you took into account the high entrance price, the exorbitant £12 hardback annual programme and the hidden extras you had to pay for shows on site. One gripe many people had was that they were charged extra to see some of the shows. To get in to see Kitten von Mew's burlesque show people were being charged an extra £35 a head at the Torch Club. Outrageous! When did you ever hear of being charged extra to see a certain band on a stage at Glastonbury? It seems that in his rush to make a profit Mr. Hemingway put the proverbial cart before the horse.

A few years ago I helped BBC London radio presenter Robert Elms put together a Listed Londoner interview for BBC1. Wayne Hemingway was one of the people we chose to interview about his favourite bit of London. He took us up the Wembley Canal and round the Indian market on the broadway there, telling us that this rundown but multi-ethnic place was his favourite bit of London. Well, if that's the case, then he seems to have forgotten his origins...Vintage Goodwood with that hideous fake high street, resembling the New Economic Foundation's Clone Town Britain report (in which NEF warns about every UK high street starting to look the same) was a fake showcase of mundaneity to appease the sponsors. To anyone who has watched the Wizard of Oz, this was a pre-fab cardboard Emerald City. I half expected to see a Tesco's there, or maybe a Barclays cashpoint. It looked a bit like any old town centre and could have been Basingstoke or Milton Keynes. And was this what I came all the way from London for? No, No and thrice no!

I grew up in nearby Hampshire for 20 yrs and during my childhood I visited places like the Watercress Line near Winchester many times which has more true vintage enthusiasts per sq foot than Vintage Goodwood could hope to sport in ten years. The old men running the steam railway are also mainly retired volunteers, who love their work with a passion and don't consider it to be work. They are also suited and booted, kitted out with authentic uniforms and they know their stuff and are happy to talk to you at length. I know that the world of vintage cars and car racing is just like that, having been to Silverstone race track with family friends who are collectors, engineers and who race their own cars there. You've never seen such a bunch of eccentric, English characters as you get at a vintage car rally. But sadly, none of these people appeared to be present at Vintage Goodwood, although the cars were there. It would have been great to have been able to talk to some vintage car enthusiasts about their vehicles. But maybe they too saw what the festival was about, delivered their vehicles to the site, and promptly ran for cover?

There was something a bit odd about the crowd of punters at Vintage Goodwood. Apart from the traders, who were evidently keen and experienced vintage experts, many of the people who attended VAG seemed to be in fancy dress rather than real vintage clothing. It's true I've also seen much better dressing at Bestival and Secret Garden Party. Wayne Hemingway wanted this event to ‘inject glamour’ into festival going in Britain…however, it seemed as though the majority of people had turned up in jeans or shorts and t-shirts, clearly not bothered about making an effort – leaving the rest of us who had, feeling vaguely embarrassed.

Arguably you would also see more of a social spread and a more fascinating bunch of people at a horse-racing meet at Goodwood's fine racetrack, or at Cowdray Park to watch the Polo near Petworth.

Can I suggest to people that - unless you are going just for the music - that instead of going to VAG next year and getting ripped off, they visit the nearby vintage and charity shops in Petworth and the Rogate car boot sale which is renowned for being a great place to find vintage treasure? It was on last Saturday, but I'm sure that no one at Vintage Goodwood knew about it.

My friend who is a costume designer found an amazing Welsh wool cape and matching skirt in a charity shop in Petworth on the way to the festival for a mere £30 – probably less than you’d pay for it on Ebay.

This is where the true meaning of vintage lies and will always lie for me, in scrabbling around in old shops and houses in places like Southsea, where you would go through the contents of some one’s front room to find a treasure or two or at the Salvation Army jumble sale in Petersfield where back in the eighties I found some antique leather belts with amazing buckles that I still wear today.

Vintage is not about spending hundreds of pounds to spend a themed pseudo-weekend in the country, based on an ‘idea’ of vintage rather than a reality.

Corporate Whores

Last month's Corporate Whores party, organised by the Space Hi-jackers at Limehouse Town Hall was monumentally good. I arrived late, dressed in my short, cabaret lace and satin number with a flouncy skirt and green flash baseball boots on my feet.. wobbling along Commercial Road towards Limehouse.

Not having frequented Limehouse much before, I had to ask friends several times for directions...and felt a bit lame for doing so, as I've been living in the East End for the best part of a decade now. Unforgivable really. My Aussie neighbour Jo, and five of her friends had gone on ahead and were already there. When I asked one of them for directions, he told me to look for St.Anne's Limehouse..."The Church with the highest clockface in London" he said.

After my futile queries of passers-by bore no fruit (probably because they were all German tourists, ironically staying in the East End which they so badly bombed in the war....enough of that)... I suddenly looked up and spied an illuminated steeplejack, which turned out to be the top of the Spire of St. Anne's.

Now, living as I do, close by Hawksmoor's other masterpiece, Christchurch in Spitalfields, I have never expected Hawksmoor to have produced an equally astounding building elsewhere...but suddenly as I rounded a corner on my wheels, and teetered along a cobbled alley which can't have changed much since the 18th Century...there it was. I rounded a corner and breathless, looked up to be confronted by the magnificent entrance gates, steps and entrance to St. Anne's church. The gates were graced with a plinth telling the viewer a condensed history of Hawksmoor's life. But more amusing and immediate was the plastic coated sign stuck to the gate below the church opening times, which stated, "All sinners are welcome at our Sunday service (between 10am-6pm), but no drugs or alcohol are allowed inside the churchyard, and all dogs must be kept on a lead." A confusing message for sinners.

I quickly took two photographs of the church entrance with its batmanesque illuminated clockface - art decoish.

It was then, as I made a circuit of the churchyard, that I noticed a wrought iron fire escape full of people smoking on a side of a large building, must be the smoking gallery for the party...either that or a very long toilet queue...

I found the front entrance of the town hall, fronting on to Limehouse Road, presenting a parochial Victorian facade of heavy pillars and oak doors which were half open, revealing a table just inside the front entrance...behind which sat three intriguingly dressed gentlemen...one Asian guy in a slanting Trilby hat, pinstrip suit, cravate, braces and spats...looked immaculate Bugsy Malone, while the other two resembled, first a member of ZZ Top clad in a brocade waistcoated suit with a flowing blonde mane of hair which easily rivalled any girl's...topped off with a long beard.

The third was uncommonly tall and lean, with a stoop and Beatnik fringe...

They welcomed me in and for the princely sum of only £3 I was admitted to an Aladdin's Cave of delights....

I cinched my bicycle to the curved oak bannister rail and proceeded up to the next landing where I immediately ran into two friends, Phil and Richard, from Reclaim the Streets days. Live music was blasting from an open doorway...I had to investigate.

Inside the main dance hall on the first floor, there was a stage with to the right of it a bar and a 'Kissing Booth' with girls inside ready waiting to oblige customers..in the right hand corner behind me was a series of sofas for chilling out on. Above and behind my head was a balcony from which to look down on the party below.

The funk band onstage were bringing the crowd gradually to a frenzy...the lead singer, bellowed out her Aretha style vocals accompanied by a saxaphone, keyboards, guitar and drums.

Looking around me I saw that people had really made an effort to look like a corporate Whore. Phil was dressed in what looked like a black gym tunic with fishnets and Dr Marten shoes...topped off with a black jacket, white shirt and tie...Richard meanwhile was definitely middle-management, in his salmon pink office shirt, and Star Wars tie, and NHS management style specs...he could easily have been on the set of 'The Office'....or the IT Crowd...

My neighbour Jo had excelled herself in a pale pink satin corset over a ruched black lace blouse and a black pencil skirt...she looked stunning...and truly a corporate whore...as did her friend Katie, who had on a matching pale pink satin blouse., pearls and black satin skirt with black platform stillettoes...They were turning heads.

The tallest man with them did not fit in. He hadn't made an effort at all..which just made me think that he really was a corporate whore...the type who always wear a pair of expensive jeans and a clean t-shirt to everything. Showed a clear lack of imagination. At least his 2 friends had made an effort and donned good suits.

I marched up to him, leaned in provocatively and said:

"Amazing to see so many of my old friends here from the anti-car protest movement."

"Errrr, you won't like me then. I've got an evil car, a fast black BMW, very thirsty...(said with expression of smugness).

"That's nothing, I've been foxhunting. And what's worse, I work in the press office for the department that banned it (looks suitably chastened).

And with that I stalked off - my tail held aloft, in the air.

Richard and I hadn't seen each other for a while - not since partying after the Climate change March last year. We headed upstairs to find a cupboard in which to hide our rucksacks and jackets. R produced a bottle of vodka from his jacket pocket..to which we added two tumblers of orange juice - cheap at 50p a shot - from the bar...and carried on like that all night.

We explored the upper echelons of this large building but were frustrated to find that the more enticing doors had been disappointingly locked - presumably to keep the likes of us out...and this reminded both of us of numerous trips to National Trust properties, where the most exciting part of the house is usually gated off with a skein of red brocade rope.

Intriguingly, the central stairwell and atrium of the town hall appeared to be joined to another old house next door. The house was semi-detached and through a large glass window you could see straight through internally from the main stair well to what looked like some one's office or living room.... The lights were on, and maybe they were home. We hovered and took pictures...hoping to see some one wandering around naked...but no joy.

Back inside, on the dancefloor...I spied a man in extremely high platform heels, fishnets and a very short skirt..with a pointy beard. He had really good legs and great balance...and seemed to move naturally on those heels as if he'd been born to it.

I started to photograph people with my portable, automatic flash pocket camera...which has yielded surprisingly good results in the past. A man in a suit dancing next to me had a bright red devil's mask with pointy black horns on the back of his head...I asked him if I could photograph it...he obliged me.

Two girls in short PVC skirts, their hair up in kirbigrips and bunches St. Trinian style, were parading around in impossibly high platform heels, reminiscent of Torture Garden. One of them carried a long whip...which she smacked people with. She told me she used to use if when riding dressage horses.

My neighbour Jo, had been busy meanwhile...at the last count she had been seen snogging three men in various locations, on the sofa, in the stairwell...and was not short of admirers. I wanted to talk to her but daren't interrupt the incessant courtship...

Later on, after midnight and numerous trips to the upstairs filing cabinet for refills from the vodka bottle...Richard and I found a large balcony and gallery which opened out above the dancefloor...you could see the green lazer beams dancing above people's heads. I snapped away some more.

Richard and I went outside with a couple of girls - sisters - one of whom had been friends of his at Cambridge...they wanted to skin up, smoke and look at the stars. I wanted to show them the amazing church and the quiet back street.

We lay on our backs on the pavement, smoking and gazing upwards at the black velvet night sky...One of the girls told us that she was a researcher working for a famous film director...and that tonight she was having to move out of his house and into a hotel, because his fiancee was coming to stay...and she didn't want to be in the way.

I gently plied her with questions about who this mystery director might be...but she resisted at first. Then she said she'd just found out that she would have to go to LA soon to start work on a new film....

She said she'd been staying in Wilkes St, Spitalfields. "But that's where I live" I exclaimed..."But not in the posh Georgian quarter..I'm in the worker's cottages round the back of Brick lane."
"So, is that where this director fellow lives then?" I pried..

"Yes, he originally came from Islington..his parents used to run the Angel puppet theatre."

"Really? that's where I used to go as a child every day after school. Great puppet shows."

"Well, his name is Joseph Wright, Jo Wright..."

"Not the director of Atonement?"

"Yes."

"Soon to be married to Rosamund Pike? I saw them on TV at the BAFTAS. He seemed camp. Isn't he gay?"

"No, he's a bit of a ladies' man really. We're not convinced that he ever will marry Rosamund. He's such a commitment phobe and a flirt."

"Oh dear. But how could some one not want to marry her? she's so gorgeous..a real bond girl. A real Hitchcock, Hollywood blonde."

"Yes, well. we'll see..."

"You sound quite cynical about him. "

"No, no. Please don't misunderstand me. Jo's been so very good to me. He' s a real sweetie really. You know he lets me stay in his house for free...and I even share his bed and he's very good and stays on his side of the bed and everything. He has a sleeping bag of his own."

"Really? And you've never been tempted to, y'know?"

"Well, we did that a long time ago. We had a fling ages ago when we first met. But that's all in the past. He's a good friend now. And he says he's going to make me his first production assistant on his next film. And I'm going out to LA to work with him on the next one."

"Really, that sounds exciting. But isn't LA full of rich, 4x4 driving maniacs, celebrity wannabes and pollution? "

"Well, yes. But the weather is gorgeous. The sun shines every day. I could get used to that."

I came away from this encounter wondering whether the poor, hapless girl with the watery blue eyes smarting from hay fever - hadn't been heartlessly exploited by Jo Wright...

And aware that he was now virtually my neighbour, wondered what I'd say to him if I came across him in my local.

They left, and we mosied back to the party for the last hour.

Around 1am...just as everyone was starting to flag a bit....amazing samba band, 'Be Loco' came on to stir the crowd into wakefulness....an African and and South American combo..they tormented and teased the crowd with a few tantalising intro's. I saw Simon from the Hackney Samba band, his blond mohican bobbing up and down in the middle of the assembled throng...nodding with respect and awe..as they gradually built their rhythms up and up.. to a crescendo.

As I was dancing I noticed that the man with the devil mask was dancing next to me again...we smiled at each other, then started chatting. Eventually we went out to the balcony for a cigarette..I've never seen so many men in wigs before.

He laughed at my jokes. Yes, he even got them. Got me.

And later we left the party together...wandering slowly towards Mile End old town and Tredegar Square, via the newsagents to stock up on chewing gum and cashew nuts.

I'd never seen Tredegar Square before..it was so elegant. Reminded me of Merrick Square in Borough..just off Borough High Street...with its spooky Victorian church in the middle.

As we got to the front door, the dawn chorus was starting. And I reflected on the fact that it was the third time in a wk for me.

Routemasters on Parade

Last week I was sitting in the internet cafe on Bethnal Green Road when George Galloway's Respect tour bus pulled up at the traffic lights, all red and white and blaring tacky music crashing out of the speakers...bam, bam, bam! Like a vision in an acid dream...the bus was suddenly there - in the cafe doorway - in a blurr of colour and cacophonous noise...George and his cronies perching on top, bouncing up and down with enforced glee...in freezing blasts of arctic wind...their faces frozen into rictus grins, tightly belted into their raincoats. How stupid politicians look when puffed up with forced self-preferment and pride....how ridiculous....like wooden puppets on parade.

I was reminded of the last time I'd seen a similar vision in London...many years ago during the seventies, when Arsenal won the FA cup and they went on the customary victory tour of the borough on the celebratory routemaster bus. I was a seven year old child then, playing in our quiet residential street, just off Essex road, when suddenly the Arsenal bus appeared, decked out in red and white flags and crammed with their supporters - the team on top waving to the crowded streets below. For me it was a similar vision...but unlike the forced charade put on by Galloway's crew, this was a genuine procession of London pride....waving rattles, scarves, bunting and flags....it also appeared in a sudden flash..an epiphany in red and white...a .loud whirring of rattles, horns and human cries...and then just as suddenly it was gone, vanished ...and the summer street turned calm and quiet once more.

The Candyman is Back

While washing up this evening, I had the back door open during a torrential downpour...because I like to smell the rain falling on the garden. Derek, my retired Mancunian neighbour appeared suddenly at the door, his head peeping from under the briars of my huge monster of a rose bush. He startled me, the way he just appeared like that...there was something garden-gnomeish about it...as though he'd just come to life.

My conversations with Derek are usually not about the crack addict, the weather, or who's moved in or out of Deal Street...instead they are usually a cover up for an undercurrent of something else and a mutual need on both sides...loneliness perhaps, on his part...and sheer hungover boredom on my part...at least today anyway. It's a role-play routine we perform roughly two or three times a month...whenever he catches me - usually if I'm reading a book in the garden with my feet up on the plastic table...putting out the washing or watering my plants by the backdoor...He will appear suddenly from a hidden recess in the garden and say my name assertively...before sounding off about something or other that's annoying him. Like today...

"E'es back y'know...
"Who is?" I said.
"Our friend the Crack addict."
"When? I've not seen him?"
"Last night...he came and did that thing with the bins again...pushed them out, one on either side, to block the garden gate...so no one would come in and see 'im 'aving a fix..shooting up, pissing on our recycling bin and using it as a toilet... whatever."
"Same one? baseball cap and white puffa jacket?"
"Yep...same bloke. But you know we've just got to call the Police this time. That's what they said the last time they came down to investigate. If you see'im, don't attempt to say anything to 'im. Just call the cop shop and they'll come down and sort 'im out...
..."Half an hour later, most likely.."
"yeah, typical innit. If I catch 'im in there again...what I want to do is run round t'other side and ram the garden gate closed, so 'e can't get out."
"Then he'll most likely do a runner anyway Derek...and jump over the fence into next door's car park...and use that old wooden palette which used to be up against the fence..."
"No, I've taken that away now. He can't use it any more."
And with that Derek is gone again. Vanished into the shrubbery until the next instalment.

Happy Snaps

This time last year on a Bank Holiday Monday, I went swimming in the local swimming baths at York Halls in Bethnal Green - as I do three times a week.

After tearing up the pool with a few lengths of crawl, I emerged and went to the changing rooms. Standing in the cubicle I looked down at my wrinkly feet and cycling rucksack on the floor....but was just a little surprised, when I saw what appeared to be a naked, upturned 'eye' come sliding towards me, floating under the partition - like a lone globed eyeball, eyeing me up suspiciously...it took a few seconds before I realised that I was looking at an upturned digital camera...

I smirked downwards, puzzled and faintly amused. Aha, I thought, bound to be some kid pulling a prank and up to no good....so I stood, naked on the seat and took a look over the partition. Imagine my surprise when I saw the top of a young man's head. Even from that angle I could tell that he must have been about 21 or so and surprisingly, quite fit and in good shape - not your stereotypical idea of a sad sex criminal. From above I could see that he was flicking through the images on his digital camera. I panicked slightly...and went into a cold sweat...mind racing, wondering what to do, how long had he been in there, had he been there all day? was he photographing children or just adults? Should I shout out a loud warning to everyone else in the changing room or should I simply run to reception and get them to call the fuzz? After all, Bethnal Green Police station was only 100 yds away, across the road.

Suddenly, I had a plan. Fumbling around for my mobile phone in my jacket pocket, I jumped up on the seat and called down to the unsuspecting rascal...startled, he glanced up at me, red-faced. Click! "Snap, gotcha" I shouted at him..."You've been 'ad mate."

And with that I ran out of the changing rooms to call the Police....

The Moral of the Story is....always take a camera with you when you go out...you never know when it might come in handy.

Wild Goose Chase

As most people know, the prostitutes residing in Borough, outside the walls of the city of London, during the 16th-19th century, were regarded as 'wild geese', living 'beyond the pale'.

Here in the East End we have our own fair share of vagabonds, rascals, scallywags, miscreants, vagrants, foe, pimps, prostitutes and waifs...life would be less colourful without them and let's face it, they add to the value of the property market in E1...

Last summer was a casing point. One evening, as I was walking home along Deal Street, where I live, I stumbled across a woman who was blatantly leaning on a concrete ballard at the end of our row of cottages. Fully made-up, smartly dressed with a belted khaki raincoat and a handbag over the top, hair neatly tied back, she presented the illusion of respectability.

But something didn't feel quite right about the manner of her anxious gaze which contrasted with the affected, casually relaxed pose. And why was that car sitting with its engine on across the road, with the door to the passenger seat open? and a man in a leather jacket slouched in the driving seat?

As I passed her, I couldn't resist politely asking her what she was doing there, plying her trade on a road where children went to school and people came home from work...She looked me brazenly in the eye and said,

"I'm waiting for some one."

"Aren't we all", I said. But couldn't resist a dig. "Look, I'm not happy about you inviting your customers down my road when I have to come home in the dark. So why don't you just clear off and go and work somewhere else instead?"

She looked affronted, offended but the voice was still calm.

"I'm waiting for some one."

"Well, you can't do it here. If you don't clear off in five, I'm calling the cops."

With that I went inside and shut my front door. Next thing I heard was,

"Ere, Derek, She won't let me, she won't let me do it, the bloomin' coaarrgh, the bloomin' cow..she won't let me, it's no use...we're gonna have to go."

As the car pulled up alongside her she got in. I cam out of my front door and yelled, "Go on. Clear off. You're not wanted round here."

She mouthed the words "You're dead" back at me through the glass and made a slitting motion with her hand...

I laughed in her gaze and said, "Ooh, I'm scared. Is that all you've got? There were people more scary than you at my secondary school." And immediately felt infantile for saying it.

She screamed a seamless babble of obscenities back at me through the receding car window.

Later that month, my neighbours over the road had a Bengali wedding, which meant suspending strip lights from the roof of their house, all around it's four walls. The white lights were on night and day, flashing and giving a gently reassuring aura to the street...

Interestingly, after two months of hassle, we had no more bother from prostitutes or pimps that Summer. They just mysteriously disappeared.

I'm going to propose that we all pool some money to pay the neighbour's electricity bill so that he can keep those lights on again all summer. Light as a deterrent...It's a government ASBO proposal in the making. Should be rolled out across the country.

Easter Crack Bunnies

Last night at around 11.15pm, my neighbour noticed that the long-running crack addict who frequents our garden...was digging in the flowerpots, looking for somewhere to bury his rocks of crack and syringes....presumably to dig them up later on, like the Easter bunny. Weirdly, we also have a couple of squirrels that live in the tallest tree in our garden, who were no doubt looking on with interest and anxiety (like extras from a Douglas Adams novel), concerned that he might also dig up some of their nuts by mistake....

The last time this creature came to visit was during the Summer....when he turned over our recycling bin and used it as a latrine...before proceeding to run around our communal back garden, holding a garden broom aloft, shaking it at the sky, like a mad thing.  He tried to prise a few windows open with the broom, until my neighbours who were in upstairs, saw him and went to investigate. A chase ensued, like the keystone cops, with Jamie and Claire, my neighbours running after this pathetic bedraggled specimen...round and round the garden. He ran ahead, beltless, trousers round his ankles....until finally, Claire came over all Glaswegian, and lost her temper.  Something snapped. She rammed him up against the garden fence with the rake and held him there..while Jamie called the police on his phone.

The Police eventually turn up an hour later....by which time Gollum had run off in a panic, having left his bag behind. The Police opened the miscreant's bag, to reveal nothing less than two boxes of crunchy nut cornflakes, a large bag of smack and some unused syringes....

An hour later, the wastrel's head appeared over our garden wall again, cheeks drawn, eyes like two limpid pools (there's no one home)...plaintively he asks, "Where is my bag. Have you got it? I need my bag.  The food it in it's for me mum...."

"The Police took it with them back to the Station"

"Which station did they take it to?"

"What, you want to go round there?" 

And with that the crunchy nutter stumbled off ......