The Diary of Swapmeet Pete

A BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED EARDRUMS

2009-08-01T13:08:00.001Z

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

2009-05-24T13:11:00.000Z

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

2009-03-31T17:24:00.000Z

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

2008-11-12T00:53:00.000Z

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

2006-11-25T18:35:00.000Z

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

2006-05-04T19:22:00.000Z

"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

IT'LL BE ALRIGHT ON THE NIGHT

2006-03-11T21:50:00.000Z

It appears that quite a lot of dealers have dabbled in some aspect of the entertainment business during their careers. When pressed, many will admit to being ex-musicians, although I’ve yet to hear them produce anything melodic at a swapmeet. Some dealers appear to have had a stab at being comedians, although with their sense of humour I’m surprised they haven’t ended up being stabbed instead.

Anyone who’s been exposed to public performance will understand the paralysing fear of being under-prepared. I've been involved with the media in various guises thanks to countless years on the toy fair circuit. It’s enabled me to pontificate at length about my chosen subject from one end of the country to the other.

Sometimes it can get a bit stressful. You know that awful nightmare where you’re about to make a speech at a prestigious dinner? You’re late, you’ve left your notes on the train, and you’re about to stand up and bluff your way through an entire after dinner speech? And to cap it all, then you realise, you’re not wearing any trousers? There can’t be a dealer in the country who hasn’t had that anxiety dream sometime.

Maybe it dates back to exams; that sinking feeling when you know it's too late to learn anything, and you're going to have to wing it or leave early. Or maybe it's a throwback to the silly sixties, when we never prepared anything, to allow for that all-important spontaneity to come through. Of course, the speech is never made. I wake up in a sweat, so relieved it's not happening that I happily get up and make Mrs Pete a cup of tea.
The last time got me thinking again about the promoters, and what a stressful job they do. Sometimes an enthusiastic amateur decides to try their hand at organising a show, and they completely under-estimate the work involved.

You know what's going to happen. You’ll get to the show to find a few tables set up, some smugly complete, some still nude. A bunch of people are milling around with vacant expressions. Incredibly, the organiser is not here yet. Congratulations. You are about to encounter the phenomenon of the underorganiser.

Despite having sent you a load of dos and don'ts, plus forms in triplicate which you’ve filled in and returned, you've had no acknowledgement from him. Half the people at the show claim they've never met him, and there's no floor plan.

The underorganiser is well known for getting things done and making things happen, but they leave a trail of destruction in their wake. They are very personable and agreeable to all suggestions. They appear to delegate, but they never actually give their volunteers any responsibility, so everything has to be referred back to them.If you confront the underorganiser with a basic problem, like the complete absence of advertising, or tables, or light, it will inevitably be someone else's fault. By having bought it to his attention, you are now implicated too. It might even become your fault. When someone else has the bright idea of borrowing a pile of trestles and boards from the building site next door, the organiser’s response is "There you go. I don’t know what you were worrying about."

Committees were invented to avoid this sort of chaos. Now I'm not going to wheel out a load of cheap digs at committees; I’ve been on several myself, and everyone involved worked hard and selflessly on behalf of the organisation, and achieved zero. But toy shows have a dynamic of their own. When they start, common sense prevails and everyone mucks in together. As it matures, it gets more predictable and taken for granted. The only way to keep it fresh is to ruthlessly kill the show after three years and keep starting new ones.

Another hazard the habitual trader has to look out for is the overhelper. He is a new, enthusiastic collector, ambitious and keen to integrate with the scene. He can see how disorganised you are so he decides to give you a helping hand at a fair. While you’re trying to gather your wits, your helper will demand to know what they can do to help, which sends you off at a tangent, trying to organise them as well. If you allow yourself to get steamrollered into accepting help, it causes more stress than it solves.

While tooling around some fairs in the north west recently I had to ask about the signs on lots of motorway bridges in the area. They simply say ‘Gouranga’. Some people claim it’s the company which maintains the structures, but I’ve never heard of Gouranga engineering. Another source tells me it’s a command from a religious sect, meaning "Be Happy", a sort of transcendental road safety campaign. Apparently if you chant it out loud it pulls your mouth into a smile. So next time you encounter the underorganiser or the overhelper, join with me and say "Gouranga".

http://www.swapmeetpete.com

ATTACK OF THE ONE ARMED RIFFLER

2006-02-19T09:12:00.000Z

I had a commission to process a collection at the other end of the country recently. As I didn’t need to move a huge amount of stock I decided to take the train and leave the Volvo in the garage. Unfortunately this garage was not the shed which leans against my house, which in any case is full of my slower-moving merchandise; this was the sort of garage that has mechanics and a ramp, so I returned to a huge bill, but that’s another story.

As well as getting time to stare out of the window and observe the country going about its business, the benefit of a long train journey is you get access to a huge stack of abandoned newspapers and magazines. You find yourself reading stuff you would never have bought, let alone had time to peruse. In the back of my mind when wading through the print, there’s always the possibility that a fragment of knowledge, an idea or a nugget of information will fall into place and change my entire life. However I can honestly say that this scenario is unlikely to occur with the Collectors Gazette. This is not a reflection on the standard of the writing, but more because in all these years I have never seen a copy of the paper abandoned on a train. I can only put this down to the fact that the contents are far too precious to discard. It is more likely to be lovingly transported home and stored in binders, or passed on to your brother in law.

I was at one of those hardcore shows recently; you know the kind where there is a noticeable lack of women and children, and a preponderance of beards, glasses and heavy rucksacks. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking them, some of my best customers wear all these, and some even take them off in bed. The problem is their fixation on the business in hand renders them unaware of the risk they pose to anyone standing near them.

Bags are a necessary evil. It’s obvious that customers will need to carry their purchases from one table to the next. Nothing gladdens my heart more than seeing evidence of colleagues making sales, apart from making my own sales of course. The trouble with backpacks is that they overhang and take on a life of their own. It’s particularly dangerous when they turn round, as anyone in its path will end up with bruising. What these guys need is an HGB (Heavy Goods Bag) licence.

Photographers with traditional SLR cameras and telephoto lenses are even more dangerous. The frontal protuberance inevitably balances the projecting backpack with lethal consequences, as the bag tends to be weighted with heavy metallic objects. As well as decapitation for anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in the vicinity, the bag swinger is a menace to himself, as the centrifugal force can build up and turn him into a whirling dervish spinning out of control. These ‘swapmeet pirouettes’ have been known to last up to ten minutes.

You might think that shoulder bags would be less dangerous, but I’ve seen them take out whole shelves of collectables too. This trick is favoured by another swapmeet menace, the One Armed Riffler. This character either has a shoulder bag or a pile of carrier bags. He doesn’t want to put them down in case they are stolen, trodden on or accidentally left behind, but something on your table catches his eye. The result is someone rifling through your carefully prepared and presented stock, creasing paperwork and even attempting to open boxes, with one hand. You get the feeling that even the stock on a supermarket shelf would be treated with more respect.

But there’s a much more frightening visitor than the fiddler of singular appendage; he behaves like a woodpecker and is known as the tintapper. He is oblivious of his destructive capability and his modus operandi goes something like this:

"My goodness" (picks up item with left hand, drops it on top of more valuable item, puts heavy bag down on display, picks up item again) "I think that’s" (tap tap with finger), "yes I’m sure it is" (tap tap tap even harder with fingernail bouncing off item at ninety degrees). "Yes, I do believe that’s tinplate!"

"Why, what an observant fellow you are," I say, relieving him of said item. "See how if I press here with my thumbs" (bend, grunt) "it creases into a dent. And now" (twist, sproing) see how the tabs have popped out. Yup, it’s tinplate alright. If that was plastic it would have cracked by now!"

"Amazing! How much is it?"

"Well it was twenty pounds before you drilled a hole in it with your finger."

Of course all this leaves me unconcerned as I have a free insurance policy. It’s called the box under the table, which is where all stock goes after the tintappers and one armed rifflers have finished with it. From the customer’s point of view, the best thing about the box under the table is that when you’re kneeling down to look through it, you’re safe from having your head knocked off by the bag swingers.

http://www.swapmeetpete.com

WELCOME TO YE MEDIEVAL SWAPMEET

2005-06-09T22:52:00.000Z

On my way to a swapmeet the other day I perchanced to fall in to a medieval daydream. We all do that sometimes don't we? You know, when you try to imagine what it would be like living in the Middle Ages; the road becomes a track and the car becomes a horse and cart? All right, suit yourself then.

Maybe it was the olde worlde country lanes around Devizes (the only town in Britain that rhymes with 'surprises') which set off this train of thought. I was on the road to Berming Ham, some hundred leagues hence, to peddle my wares at the huge market which takes place in a natural amphitheatre known as the En-Oy-Say.

It's a strong bet that a medieval swapmeet would be a crude affair, with most of the 'toys' adapted from naturally occurring products like wood and stone. A decent table would have lots of nicely rounded pebbles and thick knurled sticks with smooth bits. Six pebbles in a bag would be a game. Six straight sticks could be the genesis of a sport.

The origins of swapmeets may be lost in the mists of time, but I like to imagine a spin-off from the market culture, where certain traders would seek out wooden toys to captivate the children. The main problem with the Middle Ages is that not a lot has survived to tell us anything about them. There are few known relics of any medieval swapmeets, apart from an early fair report by Jack Tempest.

Knowing that small boys instinctively turn any object into a weapon, some would throw the pebbles at the others while the rest would attack them with sticks. From this we can conclude that the first toy was a pointed stick and didn't last long enough to become collectable.

The received wisdom about life in the Middle Ages was that it was hard, brutish and short, or maybe that just referred to the dentist. It was even claimed that parents didn't form emotional attachments with their children, seeing them more as economic providers or producers for the household. In other words, the opposite of what we have today.

Now all this has been turned on its head, and who was responsible for that? Collectors! At least, I think they're collectors, the guys with the metal detectors. They prefer to be known as treasure hunters, although I call them 'detector collectors'. Whatever, they must have a lot of patience. Can you imagine having to take a beeping walking stick and a shovel with you every time you go out? Then thinking you might have found a hoard of gold coins, only for it to turn out to be a pile of scrap Dinky Toys?

But it's not all pain. Last year a bunch of them unearthed a quantity of 13th century toys from the mud at the edge of the River Thames. These included tiny cannons and guns, metal figurines and miniature household objects like stools and jugs. Which just goes to prove that the Britains toy company has been around much longer than was previously thought.

What's interesting about these early toys is how they reflect the real world. Miniature weapons and cooking utensils suggest that these were the artifacts which fascinated medieval children. The toys were mainly made from pewter, and the reason they survived rather than corroding is apparently due to the thick, foul-smelling Thames mud, which is low in oxygen and prevents organic decay. That reminds me, maybe I should get some for Mrs Pete.

The discovery of these medieval toys has transformed the perceptions of childhood during the Middle Ages. We thought that kids were put out to work in the fields as soon as they were old enough to carry a sack, but it may have been more civilized than that. Of course, there are still cultures that just don't do toys, even today. But if we believe that toys are a sign of an advanced society, collecting old toys at swapmeets must be an even higher form of civilisation.

Fast forward to the present and where have we got with toys? The miniatures are perfect, plastic is ubiquitous, and there are so many produced that they may never become collectable. As modern toys are so sophisticated, particularly anything with batteries or digital components, what will they tell historians about our society? Possibly that our children had so many toys that they didn't have time to play with all of them. What it won't tell them is that our favourite toy was a pointed stick.

http://www.swapmeetpete.com/

A HAZARD IDENTIFIED IS A RISK REDUCED

2005-01-04T01:38:00.000Z

The first time I clapped eyes on him I thought; “What a plonker”. From his steel toe capped boots to his red jacket and hardhat with ‘Safety Officer’ scrawled in felt pen, here was officialdom personified. A pair of thick black-rimmed spectacles failed to suppress the deranged look in his eyes, and the white flecks of saliva at the side of his mouth reinforced the impression that we were dealing with a madman.

We went about our business setting up, studiously avoiding catching his eye, like you do with a drunk who’s about to ask you for a favour. Whilst ferrying collectables in from the car we noticed the safety officer in various locations; wandering around the hall, or up on the stage with his ear cupped, as if receiving messages over a short wave transmitter. We heard the snap of his retracting tape measure as he checked the width of the doorways and the aisles between the tables.

There were muffled expletives to my left. A dealer with one of those hinged folding trolleys had just tipped a grand’s worth of collectables over the floor while negotiating the step at the fire escape. Nothing unusual in that, except it usually happens on the way out rather than on the way in.

Another trader with a reputation for building quite high displays using G-clamps and folding shelves was trying to work out how to fit his stock on a backdrop which was noticeably lower than usual. Withering glances towards the safety officer confirmed that he had already had an effect on our normal practises.

It was a fairly quiet swapmeet so after the doors opened I had more time than usual to watch the safety officer in action. Even the public seemed a bit alarmed as he accosted them; “Are you familiar with the concept of stairs Madam? I believe there are five of them.” Toddlers looked on wide-eyed as he squatted down next to them to test the wheel bearings on their buggies.

To my horror he was approaching my stall. It was then that it occurred to me that a large proportion of my stock was designed to fire projectiles of various shapes and sizes, and virtually none of it would pass modern safety regulations. In the end he just gave the paste table a little shove at its weakest point in the middle and watched it wobble. “That doesn’t look very safe” he said, then turned on his heel and went to remonstrate with a late arriving dealer who had boxes strewn from the entrance to his table, thereby blocking several gangways.

Maybe it was the blue nylon rope coiled round his shoulder, or the rubber hoses with brass fittings round his waist. Possibly it was the aerial and the blue light on his hat which rang alarm bells. But the old Setright bus conductor’s ticket issuing machine on his back was the final straw. The penny dropped at last. This was no safety officer, this was a performance artist.

I burst out laughing. Ten years ago it wouldn’t have been so funny, but in the current climate of risk assessment and the nanny state, the safety officer is the natural outcome. With the compensation culture coming over from the United States, we have things like conkers being banned from schools because they might be dangerous. (If I recall correctly, the most dangerous part of playing with conkers is getting a spike through your hand while making the hole for the string.)

I called the safety officer over. “I just wanted to say I appreciate the fine job you’re doing,” I said. “That’s alright sir” he saluted, adding with a hint of petulance, “but I haven’t got time to stand and talk. I’ve got to make sure everything’s safe here.” With that he was off again, peering dubiously at the ham rolls in the cafeteria and tutting about the sharp joiners on the model railway track on sale at the fair.

Later it occurred to me that inside many of us there’s a safety officer trying to get out. All it takes is for an organiser to designate someone for the role and a jobsworth emerges. Incidentally, I hope you’re not slouching while you read this, I understand it can lead to back pain over time.

After the event I happened to pass the sports centre manager. “That safety officer was a hoot,” I said; “Where did you find him?” “Nothing to do with us” he replied, “I thought he was one of your people.” To this day we still don’t know who he was or where he came from, but it has to be said, he did a great job. Not a single accident befell the public during the whole event.

www.swapmeetpete.com