Canny ‘artisan’ butcher had me by the giblets
I’M penning this week’s article in the twilight zone between Christmas and New Year, although it has to be admitted that this perennial week of weirdness doesn’t actually seem as weird this year.
Maybe this unforgettable 12 months of lockdowns and tiers has reset the bar as to what the hell normal ever looked like.
Even Boris Johnson’s muchtrumpeted summertime concept of the ‘new normal’ has faded from view like a hazy glimpse of Barnard Castle in an illegal eye-test drive.
In years gone by, this week would have me feeling like I’d been kidnapped and held in a hostage situation by those I held dearest. Not anymore.
Reassuringly, however, some things don’t change. No matter how much reduced my social bubble is, they still force-fed me a diet that documentaries about the firstworld obesity crisis warn us about.
In my head, I’m only another bowl of turkey curry or selection box away from needing the council or fire brigade to knock down a partitioning wall for me just to go to the nettie.
It gets worse! All through lockdown I’ve been spending like mad, yet it’s even worse at Christmas. I’ve been visiting the Amazon more than Sir David Attenborough. No expense was spared, as I ran around splashing cash like the born-again Scrooge after his Christmas Day epiphany. “My wonderful boy, what day is it?” Why sir, forgive as I’m not sure because it’s that twilight zone betwixt Yuletide and Hogmanay.”
Now, post Christmas, it’s like after a night out clubbing back in the pre-lockdown days.
In dawn’s harsh light, I’m awaking and slowly wondering why I’ve only got a handful of coins when I had a wad of notes the night before.
Where has it all gone? This festive madness reached its peak on Christmas Eve when I nipped out to buy the turkey. I went to a proper, old-school local butcher in an affluent market town up the Tyne Valley.
This gadgie had a collar and tie, rosy cheeks and fists like hams. His banter was pure cheeky Geordie and the posh clientele loved it. This lad however, wasn’t daft; he knew how to play his upper middle class, happy valley punters.
By cleverly inserting the word ‘artisan’ in front of ‘butcher’ on his shop front, he could increase the prices like the inflation in 1930s Weimar Germany where a wheelbarrow of banknotes bought a loaf of (presumably non-artisan) bread.
When I came to pay for my turkey, black pudding, bacon and chipolata sausages, I realised I was a boy in a man’s game. How much? Had I bought shares in the shop and a year’s supply of Sunday roast?
Gritting my teeth, I paid the man with a trembling hand, trying to appear as nonchalant as the affluent professionals who were happily stumping up the premium prices.
As I stumbled back to my ancient VW, I thought of an old university colleague, a working-class lad who had studied ceramics.
He once tried to sell his pots at a very upmarket arts and crafts market. Nobody bought owt, and he couldn’t understand why until another artist had tipped him off that his pots were too cheap.
The Jesmondistas who made up his target customers simply wouldn’t buy ‘cheap tat.’ He then cannily tripled his prices and began to slip in words like ‘bespoke’, ‘artisan’ or ‘street’ to his stuff, and sales rocketed.
I vowed to return to my own kind next year, where the words ‘bargain’, ‘reduced’, ‘sale’ or ‘closing down’ were what brought the punters in. Though I am still tempted to try out flogging some ‘artisan’ comedy when the clubs are open again.
Stay safe pets – and let’s hope for better times for all of us.
All through lockdown I’ve been spending like mad, yet it’s even worse at Christmas. I’ve been visiting the Amazon more than Sir David Attenborough