THE LAST SWAPMEET PETE

It struck me during a recent anniversary that I've been chronicling a miss-spent middle-age through this column for thirteen years, which has made me come over all retrospective.

When it started I used to hand write it, then type it out, print it and post it to the editor, who passed it on to someone else whose job was to type it back in again for the printer. Well that was one way of doubling the readership.

Once I was allowed to visit the office where they feverishly put the paper together. It was great fun; they really did cut and paste, and run around with strips of paper. That printing works was one of the last outposts of the steam age, now gone the same way, along with local banks, cine cameras and country garages.

There was an interim period when we were encouraged to embrace technology by sending our articles in on a floppy disk, although that didn't help us much as we still had to put stuff in the post, not to mention losing a disk every month. Then came the luxury of email, which costs nothing and lets you sail even closer to the deadline than you did when you had to allow for the vagaries of Royal Mail. As for floppy disks, you can’t even give them away these days.

I was fortunate to see the swapmeet business through two incredible peaks. The first was based on petrol and cash, along with a booming economy which Tony Blair inherited from the Tories in the early 90s. Together and independently, the fair promoters had laid out an incredible patchwork of events where collectors and dealers could meet. With a relatively small geographic area, a concentration of population and a vast pool of locally manufactured products ripening into collectables, the UK was perfect for a network of this kind. The ensuing explosion of knowledge and communication among collectors was unprecedented.

The second boom was based on internet trading and electronic payments; note the use of the past tense, as I suspect this boom has peaked already. I suppose the internet has damaged swapmeets, in the same way as the car damaged the railways. But they have to co-exist, so I’m looking forward to a period of relative stability, where swapmeets and the internet provide a mutually supportive partnership.

The second wave has also changed the role of the dealer forever. Everyone's a dealer now, or at least they can be if they want. From being an elitist hoarding of knowledge, toy collecting has become democratised and tidied up in a new labour sort of way. Pick a subject you know nothing about, give it ten minutes on Google and you're a world-class expert.

I'd have to admit that my tastes have changed over the period as well, to the extent that I've actually disassociated from whole swathes of collectables which would have fascinated me earlier. I'm now so specialised that I only collect transport-related products which were made on the south coast of England between April and June, 1964. (I was lucky to be invited to visit the factory during its final years, where I actually met April and June.)

One of the most satisfying moments in the life of the column was when a colleague accosted me with the words “Oy, do you know you’ve been a thorn in my side for years?” It turned out that he was well known as an opinionated commentator on the swapmeet scene (ie troublemaker) and was constantly being accused of writing this column, which of course he denied. He also says he’s had less criticism about it lately, which must mean I've got better at writing it.

Actually I have had a lot of material from him over the years, so thanks to the other Swapmeet Pete. In fact all the dealers have been very sporting about sharing their humour and tribulations, so it’s due in part to them that Pete has benefited from such longevity. At the risk of sounding like an Oscar acceptance speech, I suppose I should thank my faithful assistant Ray; without his box carrying abilities I could have had a heart attack by now.

But nothing lasts forever, and it’s time for a change of location for the family and me. I considered the New World, but the US has been pioneering the philosophies that are making the UK a less benign place to live. I considered the Antipodes, but they tend to imitate the UK and are ambitious to make the same mistakes. Now I think I’ve found the perfect place to retire. It’s an island off Fiji called Malolo, which rolls off the tongue like a tanned body off a floating lilo.

But there won’t be many collectable toys there, I hear you say. Well that’ll be a relief for Mrs Pete, and I suppose I’ll enjoy a break from buying, selling and repairing collectable toys. Until my 60ft container arrives.

As for The Diary of Swapmeet Pete, my hope is that it will follow the trajectory of all good collectables, going from current to discontinued, lying dormant for a few years with no perceived value, then reappearing as a highly prized collectable. In the intervening years I suppose the odd special edition might be possible, maybe around Christmas. Whatever happens, it’s been a discipline and a pleasure, although not always at the same time.

Roll on the third wave.

www.swapmeetpete.com

A BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED EARDRUMS

I like to think of myself as a person with a fairly strong constitution. I’ve weathered storms at sea, driven across this land in the most dangerous contraptions, and been to Kidbrooke swapmeet without a bodyguard. But there is one thing that can reduce me to a quivering, moaning jelly. You could lock me up in solitary confinement and I wouldn’t crack, but if you arranged for pan pipes to play outside the cell window, I would immediately confess to the most heinous crimes.

Those Peruvian Indians have been following me around for years. They turn up all over the country, always the same guys, wearing their brightly coloured blankets and puffing out awful cover versions of popular tunes. It’s not so much middle of the road as middle of the dirt track. No anthem has been left unmolested. If they can’t play it properly they just ‘fuff’ through the awkward bit. It’s the musical equivalent of multi level marketing.

Why are otherwise intelligent people taken in by this pseudo-ethnic blend of culture and muzak? They can be left unmoved by real blues being played in the tube, or virtuoso classical artistes on the street, yet they go into a sort of trance when these con artists start hamming the theme to ‘Titanic’ in the shopping centre. They are vermin. There should be signs saying ‘Please don’t feed the Peruvian Indians’.

Have you ever wondered where they go when they aren’t murdering innocent instrumentals? You never see them off duty because, laughing at us, they throw off their gaudy blankets and black wigs, wash off the fake tans and drive off to nightclubs in their sports cars and designer clothes, paid for by a gullible public who mistake them for a genuine art form.

I hope you’re not so disastrously equipped in the taste department as to have a pan pipes CD anywhere in your house. Someone may have given you one, which you have been meaning to throw away after a respectable period of time. If so, please go and bin it now, and then return to this column. This is a pan pipe free zone.

***

There comes a time when even the most avid swapmeeter has to throw in the towel, admit defeat, bid his closest companions adieu - and go on holiday with the family. I’ve always had a rather ambivalent attitude to holidays. It’s like this; I love going to swapmeets. I make no pretence that my work is anything other than a pleasure. I have no desire to visit less swapmeets than I do already. Going on holiday stops me from doing this. Therefore it is a bad thing. If I wanted to hang around on a beach I’d get a job as a deckchair attendant.

There is a certain amount you can do to limit the damage, like timing holidays so you don’t miss any key fairs. If you keep them as short as possible, that also saves money. And there’s always the hope you can pick something up to sell when you get home. While on holiday, visit as many foreign toy shops and fleamarkets as you can find. This has got a bit harder since the Euro; it seems like everyone took the opportunity to mark their prices up, so no matter what you look at, it’s fifteen Euros.

I have to admit that wading through general junk at car boot sales and fleamarkets is a lot harder than sourcing collectables at a swapmeet. It’s even worse with foreign junk, which is somehow junkier than good old British rubbish. It’s about time we took some of our wares over to Europe to let them know what quality junk looks like. It occurs to me that if all us toy dealers arranged to visit the same country at the same time we could throw a pretty good swapmeet. If only our promoters thought a bit further afield, they could organise one for us. How about starting with France next year?

Hence I found myself at a Spanish festival, with one eye out for collectables to finance the holiday. It is impossible to park your hire car in the average Spanish town. This is because the locals have already parked on every pavement and yellow line, and up the tiniest alleyways. Having found a space some miles away from the centre, we set off for a walk through scented streets. It was slim pickings at the market, but not entirely unpleasant. Even if there are no collectables, you can always buy a bottle of Gordons for three quid and drown your sorrows.

As we left the square my ears were gently assailed by the indigenous music of Spain. Yes, it was those damn pan pipes again.

Leaving the town proved even harder than getting into it. There was some sort of bicycle race and every time we approached an exit, the Guardia would pull a barrier across the road. We followed some locals who looked like they knew where they were going, but even they were thwarted at every turn, until we were all boxed in with our own mini gridlock. In the end we followed someone up a treacherous dirt track to effect our escape. I can only hope those Peruvian Indians are still stuck there.

FOR THE COLLECTOR WHO HATES COLLECTING

The other day my neighbour was at the back door.

“You’re not going to believe this mate, but I was wondering if I could borrow a hammer? Of course I’ve got loads of my own but they’re all, um, somewhere else. Any old thing will do.”

He was looking slightly sheepish, which is understandable because he’s a builder, so he ought to have things like hammers.

“No worries” I said, and popped over to the awkward cupboard. That’s the place where you keep things that are too good to be in the shed, but don’t really suit being in the house either.

“Ta.” Bill turned away with the tool, stopped and hefted it in his hand. “Nice hammer!” Then he gave it a second puzzled look. “If you don’t mind me asking, what the heck are you doing with an Estwing hammer?”

Unfortunately the emphasis was on ‘you’, rather than ‘Estwing’.

“You mean, why don’t I have a nasty old hammer with a shapeless wooden handle? Why do I, a self confessed DIY incompetent, have a pristine example of the most expensive, finely balanced, professional, lifetime-guaranteed tool on the market?”

“Well, yeah.”

Bill knows I stay away from anything larger than O gauge. I consider a vacuum cleaner to be a power tool, wear gloves to fill the windscreen washer bottle and avoid anything approaching unsupervised DIY. So I continued to explain; “Actually I hate hammers. Horrible, dangerous things. I loathe them so much that, even if I only have to use one once a year, I need to know I’m having the best hammer experience I could possibly get.”

It’s the same with any tool. Take the internet for example. If you hate computers and want nothing to do with them, you need the fastest, most bullet-proof broadband connection and PC on the market. You also want to be really good at using the net, so you can get it all done in the shortest possible time, then get back to playing with your toys.

If you love driving, you’ll drive anything from a Mercedes to a ride-on mower and enjoy it. If you hate driving you need the most reliable, economical and safe car known to man. Ironically, the more you hate a task, the better should be the tool you use to achieve it.

If we apply this logic to collecting, it follows that the more assiduously you labour over your collection, the more you must hate it. Most of us have a relaxed, healthy approach to buying and selling collectables as the opportunity arises. It’s easy come, easy go; what’s for you will not go by you. Sure we can obsess a bit occasionally, but that’s just letting off steam. If you enjoy grubbing around car boot sales, or going to loads of swapmeets and rooting through boxes on your hands and knees, you’re the salt of the collecting earth. You’re happy to clean and renovate, swap with friends and fill the rest of your time on ebay, if you have any time left, that is.

On the other hand, some collectors don’t really like collecting. They want a collection to fill some sort of inner need to possess, but they can’t be bothered with legwork; they need to get it over and done with as fast as possible. They’ll tend to buy at auction, preferably through a third party so even the decision is made remotely by someone who’s already vetted it for them.

There’s no need to actually handle the items at all; the collector with the perfect complete collection doesn’t even need to look at it any more. If you can afford all the mintiest, tastiest collectables, they end up with the glass cabinet; the whole shooting match in one bristling presentation which says; “I’ve been there and done it. I not only have the T shirt, I have the point of sale material which promoted the T shirt. I want for nothing.”

Not everyone can afford to do this, so the next tier of collectors buys new toys instead. This is as easy as it gets. Go to the shop, pick up bag, walk out. It also performs a useful service by providing lots of stock for us dealers to buy back one day. Maybe. If we want it. Again, no need to open the packaging, just stack ‘em up on the shelf like a toy shop.

So where do us dealers fit in to this scenario? Of course the ultimate conclusion is that we must hate toys even more than wealthy completists. We’re buying everything, whether we like it or not. We keep it by us at all times. We lay it out on tables and try to persuade other collectors to take it off our hands.

If your collection is a chaotic mixture of styles, spread through the house, you’re probably well adjusted in relation to your collection. But if you have everything lit behind plate glass like in a museum, or in the back of your car on the way to a toy fair, maybe it’s time to stop and ask yourself; do you really hate collecting that much?

www.swapmeetpete.com

FIDDLERS, QUIBBLERS AND PROFIT NIBBLERS

THE DIARY OF SWAPMEET PETE MAY 2005

As we all know, I’m a swapmeet dealer and proud of it, although my profession could be considered as just a couple of steps up from a barrow boy. As a market trader my social status is so low I could walk under a snake without taking my hat off. This business demands that you be bright and thick-skinned at the same time, which means having the hide of a rhinoceros, and being able to spell it too.

But beneath my tough exterior lurks a soft and vulnerable centre, and on a bad day it doesn’t take much to throw me off balance. Take the mail order arm of my operation. No please, take it! When I’m doing admin, one thing that’s guaranteed to cut me to the quick and ruin my morning is an enquiry saying “Why is the postage so expensive? Surely it’s just a stamp and a jiffy bag?” The implication is that I’m so under-worked that I have the time to enter into a protracted dialogue with someone who may only be spending 99p. Haven’t they ever bought a spare part for a washing machine and been charged £3.50 for shipping and handling? It’s a pity it has to be that way, but it’s part of the cost of the item. I’m upfront about my postage charges, so why do I get so many postage quibblers? Is it because I’m seen as a matey dealer rather than a faceless business?

It’s extra annoying when a buyer commits in the full knowledge of the P&P and complains afterwards. For anyone tempted to do this, don’t risk it! Instead read the following FAQs (Frequent Answers to Quibblers) and avoid being blacklisted forever.

First is the ‘I presume it will be first class post at that price’ comment. Well it’s not quite as simple as that, mate; you can have second class postage the day your cheque arrives, or first class two weeks later when your cheque has cleared. Which would you prefer?

Second up is complaining about the packing materials. One chap didn’t like having a second hand envelope. I pointed out that even a new envelope is second-hand by the time he gets it, so what’s the problem? Anyway, has he never heard of recycling? Re-using envelopes is one of my few contributions to the green movement, and many of my colleagues include me in their green audit. While we’re talking environment, another contribution to preserving fossil fuels and your kids’ lungs is me not tearing around attending swapmeets while I’m at home packing your parcel.

Next on the list is the customer who won’t let go. Having explained that there are fees to pay, costs of packing materials, time spent in admin, and that their 99p item may actually have cost more than that, and how the only profit is in the postage, and the price was quite clear when he agreed to the deal, and how he can still pull out if he wants, he says ‘I want to complete the transaction but I’m still not happy with the postage”. AAARGH!

Then there is the naïve buyer who doesn’t realise that leaving a ‘neutral’ feedback on the net is tantamount to a negative. They decide to put their ignorance on permanent record at the expense of my reputation, so you get something like; ‘Nice item, super deal, well packed, fast and efficient…but postage too expensive.’ Well thank you sir, how do you expect me to provide a service like that without an income?

Here is a postage quibbler challenge. Next time you receive an item try sending it back without using the packaging it came in. See how long it takes to source the right materials and get all the addresses and stamps in the right place. Then stand on it and drop kick it into a skip so it knows what to expect on its journey. Now go and wait in the queue at the post office (remember to fill in a certificate of posting) and email me confirmation when you get home. Then tell me your time isn’t worth 50p an hour.

One chap recently informed me that he wouldn’t be doing any more business with me as he doesn’t approve of people making a profit on postage. Quick as a flash I replied, ‘How do you know I’m making a profit when you don’t know how much I paid for the item?’ He didn’t answer that one.

Another geezer emailed from the States asking for a tracking number. I debated whether to explain that airmail doesn’t have tracking numbers unless you pay an extra twenty quid. Then I thought, “If he wants a number, give him a number”, and emailed back ‘SMP9771/28’, which is an algorithm based on my last year’s turnover.

Fortunately my days of dealing with packing are numbered. I need to refocus on my core function, which is unearthing fresh, exciting collectables. I considered outsourcing my orders to a call centre in India with an 0870 number, but then I had a better idea. I’m giving the job to Ray, my socially challenged assistant. Any future complaints should be addressed to the shipping department, ray@swapmeetpete.com, and if that’s not good enough, just be glad I didn’t put him in charge of customer service as well.

www.swapmeetpete.com

DON’T SUE ME, I’M ONLY THE PROMOTER

It was a beautiful morning. I’d just poured myself a steaming cup of coffee and the radio was burbling something about people who do boot sales not being covered by their car insurance. I’d finished shaving and was just spreading some marmalade on my toast when some idiot pulled out in front of me.

Thanks to my advanced driving abilities I was able to take evasive action and I managed to get out of the situation with nothing more serious than a bit of marmalade on my trousers. Of course the other driver was chatting on a mobile and completely oblivious to my presence. The sooner the law that forbids you talking while you’re driving comes in, the better.

There’s a theory that we’d all drive better if seatbelts were banned and replaced by a metal spike pointing at the driver’s heart. My version of this is a bit less radical; if everyone had to drive with a cup of coffee balanced on the dash, we’d soon see the results reflected in the accident statistics.

One of the biggest challenges when you’re on the road chasing collectables is finding good nutritious food. It’s a problem that rears its head, let’s see, um, every day. Yes, whenever I’m out, I seem to need to eat something, and there’s nowhere to get it. Motorway services are too expensive, you can’t park anywhere near those interesting little restaurants, and besides there isn’t time to eat when you’re going to a toy fair. That’s one of the reasons you read so much about the catering at swapmeets; it’s the nearest some of us ever get to anything approaching home cooking.

The obvious answer is to take food with you. However, it’s one thing to live out of a suitcase, but quite another to eat out of one. You start off with nice little picnics, but the first time you’re running late you think; "Why not take everything to make a meal on the move?" The trouble is you never have time to actually make the sandwiches at the other end either, so the result is you eat bread, butter and cheese, but never at the same time.

I regard eating McDonalds and the like as bordering on masochism, but sometimes you just have to do it. My preference is for two Happy Meals. As well as getting double portions, you can sell the toys and get some of your investment back. The coffee element often raises eyebrows but I just say, "If my five year old wants coffee, she gets coffee".

This situation may change as I see that we can now sue McDonald’s because their fatty burgers are addictive. That’s great for me because I haven’t got a pension and I’m going to need a windfall in a few years. Not that I will be in a position to take on Burger King, as it’s obvious from my lithe athletic figure that I haven’t over indulged in fast food. I must confess I do have a rather sweet tooth though; this should come in handy around the end of the decade when we discover with surprise that sugar is highly addictive. I’m lining up my sights on Tate & Lyle, with McVitie’s in reserve.

While I’m in a litigious mood, I’ve often said that swapmeets are addictive. It’s not just me that suffers when I hump three tables worth of stuff into a hall and takings fail to materialise; my dependents also suffer from living with a toy fair addict. Some day I’m going to have to sue the promoters for the disintegration of my family. The proceeds of this should enable me to retire from the swapmeet scene permanently. Mrs Pete says if I win she’ll counter-sue for loss of Sundays to herself.

Once when I was organising a swapmeet I went to see an insurance broker about public liability. He was very patient while he explained that, basically, it would be too expensive to cover just one event, and that as long as I took reasonable precautions with regard to safety I’d be alright. On further prompting, he confirmed that if someone ran amok at the swapmeet with a machete, I couldn’t reasonably have expected it to happen so I wouldn’t be held responsible.

I have seen a few accidents at swapmeets though, and I’d like to share this warning in the hope that it may save someone serious injury in the future; there’s a type of plastic chair which is usually sold as garden furniture. As they are stackable, they often get pressed into use at public events. However, as they get old, the plastic gets brittle and the legs on these chairs are liable to snap suddenly without warning. It’s particularly unfortunate if the occupant of the chair happens to be old. Everyone looks round and thinks; "Silly old fool, can’t even sit in a chair properly". So, whatever your age, you might think twice before sitting on old plastic chairs.

However, I’m reminded that there are people who make a living from throwing themselves at cars and claiming off the driver’s insurance. Using this principle, if you were attending an auction and your chair collapsed, you might make more money from the insurance claim than from the goods you bought during the auction.

To conclude, I’d like to say that I am not responsible for any activity you may or may not indulge in as a result of reading this column. The views expressed are mine, but I could be wrong. Any loss of earnings as a direct or indirect result of following my advice is tough luck. However I will be pleased to share any windfalls from anyone lucky enough to profit from my wisdom.

THE LANGUAGE OF COLLECTING

I had a brilliant idea the other day. It involved selling the house and investing everything into one huge collecting emporium with all the stock in one place and a flat over the shop. Naturally I had to run the idea past Mrs Pete before taking it further, so I asked her what she thought and she said "It’s up to you".

There was a naïve earlier time when I would have taken that literally and blithely carried on with my plan, only to find out when it went pear-shaped that "It’s up to you" is a code. It doesn’t mean "I trust your judgement implicitly and you should follow your heart regardless of my thoughts and feelings, or the best interests of the family." What it really means is "It’s up to you to realise the stupidity of your proposal and take the decision to abandon it of your own accord".

These are the kinds of misunderstandings that can wreck a happy partnership in no time. Another typical ambiguity is when you ask if she wants to do something and she says, "I don’t know". Of course she knows. Have you ever met a woman who doesn’t know her own mind? It’s not an invitation for you to persuade her of the merits of your idea. What she actually said is; "I don’t. No." The full stop is silent, which is exactly what you’ll get at the end of this misunderstanding; silence and a full stop.

It doesn’t just happen on the domestic front. The government has turned ambiguity into an art form and beams it back to us regularly. Descriptions of houses and cars similarly attract a lot of hyperbole. (I’ve never liked the shortened version of ‘hype’. If we have to put up with hype it should at least be sweetened with a sprinkling of bole.) The other main offenders are hotels and restaurants, and that ‘family-style’ B&B we stayed in recently turned out to be a disorganised mess which we had to tidy up.

Effective communication is equally important in the pursuit of collectables. You have to remember that toy dealers are operating in a rarefied bubble. Ordinary collectors at least have constraints from the real world. Imagine if you were completely unfettered by work and were able to follow your every collecting whim. You’d be incapable of seeing anything in terms other than toy collecting, like me. It can be quite destabilising, believe me. We toy dealers are like monks, except without a monastery. It’s no coincidence we refer to each other as ‘Brother’.

As in any closed community there’s a lot of jargon. We talk in code amongst ourselves and we talk in code to our clients. Whether they choose to understand is up to them. Breakdowns in communication can undermine our collecting endeavours, so here are some common collecting phrases with their correct translations:

"It needs a little bit of work" means it’s been in pieces in the workshop for so long we’ve forgotten how it went together. "It’s had a bit of work" means that we started a complete restoration, ran out of steam and put it back out as it was.

"It’s a good little fair" means there are only fifteen tables, six of which are taken by one dealer. "It’s a busy show" means that the activity is concentrated into a frantic half hour after the doors open. The dealers start packing up at 1.00pm and the place is empty by 2.00.

"I can do you a good price if you’re taking several" means I’ve got hundreds of them and I want to get my investment back as fast as possible.

When you’re looking at the remnants of a collection on a table and the seller says "There’s been a lot of interest in those", what he means is everyone and their dog has had a good sniff around and the best bits are long gone. Another one is "You don’t see so many around these days", which means I’ve been carrying it for so long I don’t believe I’ll ever sell the damn thing. From the other side of the table, "How much is that?" doesn’t mean "I want to buy it", but "I’ve already got one at home and I’d like to know how much mine’s worth".

Ray’s favourite is: "Are you looking for anything in particular?" What he means is he arrived late with so many boxes of junk, what you’re seeing is just the tip of the iceberg. Given half a chance you’ll be sucked behind the table while he rifles through more boxes of stock trying to find something to sell you. Like Auntie Wainwright in ‘The Last of the Summer Wine’, he’d hate to see you escaping empty handed.

Auctions have been responsible their fair share of tradespeak. For example, ‘mint’ doesn’t actually exist. If it’s been opened it can’t be mint, and if it’s unopened, how do you know it hasn’t crumbled into its constituent powders? Qualifications of the term like ‘near mint’ are therefore rendered meaningless, and minty means it’s perfect except for one glaring flaw. "Good condition for its age" means tatty, and "believed complete" means there’s something missing but we can’t pinpoint what it is.

So, collecting is as fraught with potential for misunderstanding as the rest of our lives. Regarding that idea about selling your house and investing the money in collectables, all I can say is, it’s up to you.

THE BEAST IN THE GREY BOX

"Here, do you want a Playstation?"

"What’s that?"

"A Sony Playstation. For playing games. We don’t need it any more. There’s a few games with it as well."

"Err, no thanks."

"Why not?"

"I’ve seen those things, little grey boxes with handsets and wires that clutter up the space round the television. Anyway I hate computer games, they’re the antithesis of everything I stand for as a classic toy dealer."

"But what about Little Pete?"

"He won’t want it either."

"Don’t you think you should ask him?"

"OK. Hey Little Pete, do you want a Playstation? For playing games?"

"Um…nah"

"Why not?"

"Got a Gameboy, and I play games on the computer. Don’t need a Playstation."

"Well that sorts that out then. We don’t want it, but thanks for offering."

A few days later…

"What’s in that bag?"

"Oh, it’s the Playstation, you might as well have it anyway. We don’t want anything for it, it’s just cluttering up our place."

"Thanks, it’s cluttering up my place now."

"Try it out, it’s easy to get it working, just plug it in to the telly."

"Hmmm…"

The following week…

"I set the Playstation up for Little Pete."

"What did he think of it?"

"Well, you wouldn’t believe how competitive he is. He got into a right strop because I lapped him a few times. He even accused me of practising while he’s at school. Actually that driving game’s not bad but I’m having a bit of trouble progressing through the championship stage. I nearly got enough points last time but I over-egged it on the straight at Donington and spun off again. Also I managed to lose my bonnet in a smash. That was fun but it’s only happened once. I can’t decide whether it’s better to brake and slide through the corners or is it quicker to slow down and drift out the back-end coming out on the straight?"

"Sliding’s not good, you only do that with the off road rally cars because you have to. Would you mind turning the sound down a bit?"

"Oh, sorry. I’d have to admit this can get a bit addictive."

"Are you feeling okay? You look a bit tired and dishevelled, like you’ve been up all night?"

"Oh no, I need my beauty sleep. I’ve been in bed by four every morning without fail. You know, these old consoles still work fine. Apparently the graphics are better on the PS2 but it doesn’t make as much difference as you’d think. Did you ever have one of those steering wheel things? I think that might be why I’m having problems on the corners. I could do with a second handset as well."

"A secondhand set?"

"No, a second handset. So Little Pete can race at the same time and learn from the maestro. And I need a memory card to store my profile. I’m surprised there isn’t one built in. You know these things could be quite collectable one day. You don’t mind if I just finish this tournament do you?"

The following week…

"Have you progressed to Brands Hatch yet?

"NO I HAVEN’T. To be honest I’ve had more important things on my mind. Mrs Pete has been a bit short with me lately, and that was before I rolled the car three times."

"Ah well, it’s only a game."

"No, not the Playstation car. I forgot where I was and rolled her Golf on the way out of the village. Those computer games can really affect your driving technique. I’m not surprised kids are stealing cars and driving like maniacs these days. Here you are."

"What’s that?"

"Your Playstation, I’m sticking to real toys from now on."

www.swapmeetpete.com