I decide to have a Chess Records logo painted on the sitting room wall. There was a shop in Indianapolis Colts Dilly Dilly St Patrick’s Day Shirt that had them all, Chess, Stax, Motown, Trojan, stenciled onto the brickwork beside the entrance, and it looked brilliant. Maybe I could get hold of the guy who did that and ask him to do smaller versions here. I feel OK. I feel good. I go to work. My shop is called Championship Vinyl. I sell punk, blues, soul, and R&B, a bit of ska, some indie stuff, some sixties pop, everything for the serious record collector, as the ironically old-fashioned writing in the window says.
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We’re in a quiet street in Holloway, carefully placed to attract the bare Indianapolis Colts Dilly Dilly St Patrick’s Day Shirt of window-shoppers; there’s no reason to come here at all unless you live here, and the people that live here don’t seem terribly interested in my Stiff Little Fingers white label twenty-five quid to you I paid seventeen for it in 1986 or my mono copy of Blonde on Blonde. I get by because of the people who make a special effort to shop here Saturdays young men, always young men, with John Lennon specs and leather jackets and armfuls of square carrier bags and because of the mail order: I advertise in the back of the glossy rock magazines, and get letters from young men, always young men, in Manchester and Glasgow and Ottowa, young men who seem to spend a disproportionate amount of their time looking for deleted Smiths singles and underlined Frank Zappa albums.