Plus Michael Hogan on the tragic end of the Argos catalogue

As the retailer announces the end of its 47-year print run, Michael Hogan bids goodbye to a national treasure

There was an outpouring of nostalgia yesterday at news that part of our national heritage has gone. It wasn’t a famous Briton’s death or the collapse of a historic building. No, this was the announcement that after 47 years and one billion copies, the Argos catalogue was going online-only.

At its height, the retailer’s beloved brochure was Europe’s most widely printed publication. A copy could be found in three-quarters of British homes – a figure that Harry Potter and Fifty Shades of Grey could only dream of. The Argos catalogue was eclipsed solely by the Bible in terms of sheer ubiquity. For many, it was equally holy.

It’s Covid-19 wot dun it, plus some pesky website called Amazon. This week, Argos staff were informed that lockdown had proved the final nail in the coffin for the publication, printed each January and July.

It’s a strangely sad cultural moment and the end of an era – not just the lurid consumer age, when we lusted after the latest products and spent, spent, spent to acquire them, but also a time of youthful dreams and social aspiration.

For millions more children, myself included, the encyclopedia like catalogue was a portal to a fantasy world. One in which we had all the mod-cons and a teeming toy box. Imagine having a Sinclair ZX Spectrum computer, full-colour Bush TV and Toshiba ghetto blaster in our bedroom! Or a Space Hopper and Swingball in the garden!

We’d gleefully pick up a free copy from our local branch (in its pomp, 96 per cent of us lived within 10 miles of an Argos) and take it home for in-depth study. If only we’d paid so much attention to schoolwork. We’d lay on the swirly carpet and hungrily pore over it, picking out our dream purchases.

It was a tactile treat to browse those glossy pages, tingling with anticipation about what might appear overleaf. We folded down the corners where treasures appeared – the latest stereos, flashiest bikes or board games we’d seen advertised on TV. We circled things to save up for, or add optimistically to our Christmas lists.

In some households, the catalogue was known as “the Nag Mag” for its role in enabling children to pester their parents. My friend, Ian, used to make a collage, lovingly snipping out things he desired and sticking them to cardboard. He rarely got any of them.

Those pages weren’t just dreamland for children. Adolescents would drool over the latest Amstrad stereos and

Atari gaming consoles. Swots eyed up Parker pens and Olivetti typewriters. Housewives would fantasise about “salon professional” Braun hairdryers, Breville sandwich toasters and teasmades. DIY dads would ogle Black & Decker Workmates or Bosch power drills. Grandparents were hypnotically drawn to carriage clocks or fauxantique horse brasses to hang on the wall. Truly, it was a family affair.

The Argos story dates back to 1958, when entrepreneur Richard Tompkins launched the Green

Shield Stamps loyalty scheme, which allowed shoppers to collect stamps and use them to buy gifts from catalogues and affiliated retailers. In 1972, he rebranded as Argos, named after the ancient Greek city so it would feature highly in the telephone directory’s alphabetical listings.

The first catalogue as we know it appeared in 1973, promising “utmost convenience”. It sold essentials “for yourself, your family or your home”.

Ubiquitous: in the early Nineties, the catalogue had a print run of 10m copies

Shoppers could feast their eyes on the latest labour-saving devices, entertainment hardware and plush furnishings. Early editions contained 4,500 items over 250 pages. The most recent was seven times thicker at 1,748 pages, with 60,000 items.

Its heyday was the Eighties, when capitalism ran riot and a fantasy lifestyle appeared within our grasp. The tech was futuristic: hi-fis which could play both sides of a record, a Sony Walkman you could fit in the pocket of your stretch Wranglers and solar-powered Casio calculators.

The Argos catalogue was ideal for comparing different models. Each spread would have a handy little grid in the corner, grading each item. Did it come “complete with” plug, cable, remote control and carry case? Could it run off DC mains power as well as batteries? There was something fetishistically, nerdily detailed about shopping like this. It was an analogue internet. “Buy it at Argos and pocket the difference,” went one slogan.

For added glamour, Argos had its own jewellery brand: the aristocratic sounding Elizabeth Duke (named after Tompkins’s wife) which became a byword for naff bling. A gaudy necklace? A cameo brooch? A watch with jewels instead of numbers? Lizzie Duke was your lady.

In the shop, the fat, ring-bound, plastic-coated catalogues dotted around the counters were known as “the laminated book of dreams” – an affectionate term coined by comedian Bill Bailey. “You know why it’s laminated, don’t you?” he said. “To catch the tears of joy.”

Fellow funnyman Alan Carr nominated the catalogue as his book on Desert Island Discs. “At least there’s pictures,” added Carr. “I feel it would help me through.”

You’d use a tiny pen to fill out a slip, then take it up to the counter. If it was in stock, you’d pay and get a second slip to take to the collection point. Finally your box would arrive, wobbling down a conveyor belt or appearing in a dumb waiter. There were even seats from which to watch it all – a process Michael Mcintyre called “bizarre theatre for the poor”.

At its early Nineties peak, the catalogue had a print run of 10million copies. This January’s merited a modest 3.9million. And that was before lockdown changed retail, with e-commerce cleaning up and Amazon’s Jeff Bezos laughing all the way to the offshore bank.

But for four decades, the Argos catalogue was part of the furniture. Quite literally. People admit to having used them as door stops or under the legs of wobbly furniture. They doubled as dinner trays, helping students eat pasta off their laps in front of Big Brother.

At least one lazy undergraduate went even further. Henry Jones, a BBC Radio 5 Live producer, tweeted yesterday: “A lad at uni used to actually eat off an Argos catalogue, because he couldn’t be bothered washing plates. He’d go down and help himself to five catalogues at a time. He’d open it in the middle, dish out his Uncle Ben’s korma and eat it. Then he’d rip out five pages on each side and put it away.” Who says university doesn’t teach life skills?

For one final nostalgia fix, copies of January’s edition can still be found. Surviving Argos stores will distribute a Christmas gift guide, too. Pass the marker pen, I can feel a browse coming on.

At its height, the beloved brochure was Europe’s most printed publication

For millions of children, the pages were a portal to a fantasy world