The security grills have yet to come off the front of
my menswear shop in Shepherds Bush. My staff
are late as usual because they know the first one in has to take off the four heavy
grills covering the front, walk them around the back and make me coffee. I end
up taking the damn things off and make my own coffee. On cue the staff turn up walking
in single file past me, eyes front, smirking and drinking out of small white
polystyrene cups from the Italian café opposite. I note that they have probably
watched me take them off, trip and drop 40lbs of rusty steel onto my foot
from the comfort of the café. I tend to remember these things when they want to
have a day off or pop across the road to shepherds bush market for Jamaican
patty and chips.
It is 1984. The
clothes I sell are far from Orwellian, artificial fibres and throwaway terrace
fashions are creeping into the store. Clone army’s wearing Tacchini track tops
march past to the QPR ground up the road.
My shop is in
two halves separated by a wall. The front half is a cacophony of colour, rows
of cashmere jumpers in the ceiling high shelving. Julien Shirts the Nigerians
buy in dozens. Rows of Farah hopsack trousers that I cannot sell fast enough. T-shirts
in all colours of the rainbow, there are rails of cheap shite in the entrance that
the public seem to like. A decorative arch leads behind into a large square
elegant room beautifully carpeted with two large chandelier’s hanging from a
French stucco ceiling. In the middle of the room are four large blood red
leather chesterfield sofas arranged opposite each other on the large Persian
rug and in the centre is a table with a vase of daily fresh flowers. Around all
the walls are the best Italian and English readymade and semi-finished suits and
jackets you can buy all arranged in colour order and correctly sleeved for that
regimental perfect look. I have been told the flowers are an unnecessary expense;
the flowers by the way are milk on the petty cash sheet now. We drink lots of
milk.
A Yellow revvy
Ferrari pulls up outside. Every Saturday morning, he vaults over the fence to
buy a cream silk shirt. Never says hello or smiles. Today he vaults back over
the fence and falls on his arse. I laughed so loud we’ve not seen him since. I
hear him though, on the radio listened to by millions, a grade ‘A’ twat.
My shop is
around the corner from the BBC Television Centre in Wood Lane. They have an
account with me and they spend a LOT of money. Buyers from various television
shows are in daily buying stuff and chucking in the odd shirt or jacket that
just happens to fit them perfectly. All their purchases were apparently subject
to the official secrets act. My staff unload
an early delivery of shoes, a late replenishment due to the Harlem
Globetrotters clearing me out the day before. A ‘Gift’ from the BBC.
My cashier is Henrietta a young, pretty, buxom, tall Jewish princess and
is wearing a white crocheted very short dress again. I sat her down last week when
she wore the black one and explained how no one is getting any work done
because her knickers are on permanent show and her nipples poke through the
holes of the crocheted dress and all the male customers are hanging around
staring. She likes sixties Fashion which has been retro since 1970, can you
imagine the shit I am selling now becoming retro? (alright, alright, it has.) |
| Greek Bloke |
We, (His Mother) decide on the colour of the wedding
suit. That gives me about thirty suits to show him. We (his mother) decides he
needs a subtle self-stripe in the darkest of navy. Of which I have three
choices. We, after four cups of tea (his Mother) decide on one of them. Thank
you Ermenegildo Zegna, and thank you Greek mother with the large bladder. I didn’t
enjoy the shouting and gesticulations in Greek but did enjoy saying ‘That will
be £4250 please’ for the six suits, shirts, ties, socks and shoes. (I don’t
sell pants.)The Father had his purpose and took over the ‘negotiations.’ The groom, best man and three brothers stood behind him. It was me against them. The stares, mono eyebrow frowning and massaging of my shoulders and the thumb pressing into my neck by Dad got the bill down to £3995 for cash. After I was kissed and cuddled by all the men and flirted at by one of his sisters, I went for a lie down on one of the sofa’s among the suits. I looked up at the chandeliers sparkling away, pleased with myself that I won the battle of wits with today’s hairy nemesis when Henrietta and her bullet like nipples poking through her crochet dress shadowed above me. ‘Cup of tea? She asked. Couldn’t help notice from my lying down position the little knickers she was wearing. I’ll give her another chance.
The three other members of staff were selling well in
the front of the shop; I send one of them in a cab to the Kings Rd branch to
get more frighteningly vulgar French shirts. I have an over bearing Nigerian who
likes snapping his fingers waiting for twenty of them and at £30 a pop it was
worth the cab fare.
This was the last year working for this company, been
here and at branches all over London since the seventies, I learnt how to sell,
how to be a proper shopkeeper and how to resist flirty semi naked women in
crochet dresses. I went on to opening and designing bottom end stores so they
can sell rubbish, I won’t own up to who they were. I did a bit of selling to
chains of stores, not as much fun but the fashion shows I frequented had enough
food and champagne to keep me amused. My pretentiousness knew no bounds and neither
did my waistline. I left the industry altogether, when shop managers became
store minders and staff became too young to care. All the old fellas that knew
the menswear trade, whom you trusted and relied on for service, were being
buried in redundancy and at the cemetery. These days, real service and style
are relegated to fashionable addresses at a premium price. I remember when you
could pop to the shops locally and come back with clothing that would outlive the
back that wore it. Nostalgia eh?
