The other night I met the guy who used to run Ace Music Centre. A record shop beloved of my teen years and now, sadly, no more. This guy, lets call him Keith, for that's his name, was kind and patient and would always let me return records even though, patently, it was my dodgy stylus which made them jump.
I bought him a pint and we talked about the good old days. About Milk and Alcohol in white vinyl and Sound of the Suburbs in clear. We got onto ELO, a band we both still have a fondness for.
"That reminds me", I reminded him.
"What's that?", goes Keith, sipping his pint.
"You fucking sold me the Diary of fucking Horace fucking Wimp"
"Aye?"
"Had you no concern for a gullible fourteen year old?".
"Hmmm", he said thoughtfully, adding, "Same again?".
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