Top Comedy - British comedy


FLOGITEERS
Along with Atkins Down The Road I now help out at one of the local charity shops every Thursday morning and have been doing so for the last three weeks. It was Atkins who saw the note in their window asking for volunteer counter staff and recognised it as the golden opportunity it represented, for we now get first pick of all the clothes that are donated rather than have to take our chances with the rest of the shop’s clientele. Not only is this useful for kitting ourselves out in fine style but it will be an absolute boon when it comes to dressing our inflatable rubber women, once we get our artificial car passenger scheme up and running. So, it must be admitted, our reasons for helping out at the charity shop are not entirely charitable.
     When we volunteered our services to the manageress, Mrs Peasegood, she wanted us to work on separate days. However we explained to her that we come as a team. “Like Ant and Dec then,” she said. If Atkins hadn’t been anxious for us to get the jobs I swear he would have hit her as his opinion of Ant and Dec is lower than mine, if that’s possible, but he just managed to restrain himself. Anyway the upshot was that Mrs Peasegood moved one of the Thursday ladies to Tuesday to accommodate our wishes.
     It was Atkins who first identified what Mrs Peasegood subsequently told us were known to the charity shop staff as ‘Flogiteers’. These are apparently people who nowadays frequent charity shops in ever increasing numbers and who are devotees of the TV antiques programme ‘Flog It!’ And what they are seeking is a bargain. “They very rarely buy anything,” explained Mrs Peasegood, “They just go through all the bric-a-brac like a dose of salts and leave it in the most frightful mess, they’re a dashed nuisance.”
     A dashed nuisance was not the expression used by Atkins about the Flogiteer who had him get all the items of pottery out of both front windows so he could give them a closer inspection. The windows are about six feet deep and to remove any pottery at the front involves getting in the window on your hands and knees and negotiating your way through an assault course of silver teapots and cut glass decanters and suchlike to get at the said pottery, then making your way back with it item by item until the window is cleared of pottery. You can take it that by the end of his exertions Atkins was not best pleased.
     The Flogiteer’s idea of a closer inspection was simply to turn the piece upside down and look for a manufacturer’s name. I know a bit about pottery, being an occasional viewer of Flog It myself, and the names he would have been looking for are Clarice Cliffe, Moorcroft, Troika, Coalport, and others currently in vogue.
     The very same Flogiteer called in the following Thursday. This time it fell upon me to get all the pottery out of both windows for his perusal. I was about as pleased as Atkins had been. Again the Flogiteer went through his routine and bought nothing, leaving me to put all the pieces of pottery back in the windows. Mrs Peasegood said he comes in most Thursday mornings, has been doing so for over a year, and has yet to buy a single thing.

A WEEK LATER

The Flogiteer turned up again and his conversation with Atkins went like this, or as near to it as makes no difference.
     Flogiteer: “I’d like to take a closer look at all the pieces of pottery in both your front windows.”
     Atkins: (Very annoyed) “Again? I got them all out for you last week.”
     Flogiteer: “Well I’d like you to get them all out again.”
     Atkins: “They’re the same bloody things.”
     Flogiteer: “No they’re not. That blue teapot wasn’t there last week. And don’t swear at me.”
     Atkins: “I’ll just get you the blue teapot out then.”
     Flogiteer: “No, there may be other things as well. I want to look at everything.”
     Atkins: “Fuck me!”
     The Flogiteer, having turned down Atkins’ request to fuck him, then waited patiently whilst my friend, much less patiently, once again went on hands and knees and proceeded to ferry all the items of pottery out of the windows. Due to the hot weather Atkins was wearing shorts (£2.50 less ten per cent employee’s discount, Age Concern bargain bin), which was to have a bearing on events. The process upset Atkins even more than it had last week as this time he contrived to catch his knee on a cut glass inkpot, barking the skin quite badly. As he cursed profusely and repaired himself with a band aid the Flogiteer proceeded to give each piece of pottery the once over.
     At this point I had a mischievous idea, and sauntered over to the Flogiteer with it. “Looking for bargains?” I asked of him, pleasantly.
     He eyed me suspiciously. “Just looking generally.”
     “Only if it’s bargains you’re after you’ve just missed one, and by only ten minutes.”
     “What was that then?”
     “Well the man who bought it said it was a bargain. I wouldn’t know myself. Cliff Clarice or something, he said it was. A vase.”
     The Flogiteer’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. “Clarice Cliff you mean? Was it Clarice Cliff?”
     “Yes, that was it, Clarice Cliff.” I took him into my confidence. “Actually I’m quite pleased with myself,” I smirked. “Now I know that it was a bargain. Because he wanted to knock the price down but I stuck to my guns and demanded the full four pounds fifty on the price tag, every last penny.”
     At this his jaw fell open. When he managed to re-engage it he said: “You sold a Clarice Cliff vase for four pounds fifty?”
     “Well I didn’t know it was a bargain until after I’d sold it to him, he didn’t tell me until after he’d got his hands on it.”
     “Fuck me!”
     I no more wished to fuck the Flogiteer than the Flogiteer had wished to fuck Atkins, so ignored his invitation and went on: “Actually, the lady who donated it said she’d be bringing in some more pieces of Cliff Clarice or whatever it’s called once she’s had the chance to sort things out. Her late sister’s effects I believe.”
     The Flogiteer all but licked his lips in anticipation. “More Cliff C… Clarice Cliff?”
     “Well apparently. When she’s had the chance to sort things out. Soon.”
     He didn’t bother carrying on with his inspection of the rest of the pottery, just went on his way in a sort of daze.
     “What are you up to?” said Atkins.
     “With any luck I’m going to get rid of the pest for good,” I said.”

THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY

The Flogiteer turned up at the charity shop again this morning. Atkins and I were ready for him.
     Since the Flogiteer’s last visit we had purchased two fairly plain ceramic vases from another charity shop. Atkins’ wife, a dab hand at painting, and induced by Atkins with a tenner, had painted it to my instructions in the bright, almost garish colours and design of a piece of Clarice Cliff pottery. She had then added ‘Bizarre by Clarice Cliff’ in that pottery’s distinctive script on the bottom of the vase. The bait was ready.
     “I’d like to give all the items of pottery in your windows a closer examination,” said the Flogiteer, immediately on arriving.
     “Of course, sir, my pleasure,” I said, obsequious to a fault.
     I duly removed all the pieces of pottery from the window, about twenty in all, and placed them on an MFI pine table which, if all went well, I intended telling the Flogiteer was an example of early Chippendale, with a view to a possible sale. I then proceeded to go about my business while the Flogiteer went about his; however my eyes never left him for a second.
     He proceeded to go through his routine of turning every item upside down and inspecting the bottom. He literally froze when he turned the first of the ‘Clarice Cliff’ vases upside down. He must have stood stock still for at least ten seconds before, with a shifty look around him that would have done credit to Richard Nixon at his trickiest, he placed the vase carefully to one side and continued his search. The same thing happened, only more so if anything, when he came across the second vase. He went through the rest quickly and was very soon back with me, his treasure trove clutched tightly in his greedy hands.
     I smiled a greeting. “Found something you like, sir?”
     “Not really. Not really my cup of tea this stuff, but I’ll take it off your hands if you like,” he said, trying to sound disarming and couldn’t-care-less.
     I looked at the price stickers. “That will be ten pounds then, sir.”
     “More than they’re worth,” the ungrateful twat replied.
     At that moment Atkins stepped in. “Did I hear you say ten pounds, Mr Ravenscroft?”
     “That’s right.” I indicated Atkins. “This is the manager, Mr Atkins.”
     “There must be some mistake,” said Atkins. “Someone must have priced them up incorrectly. They shouldn’t be five pounds each they should be a hundred and five pounds each.”
     The Flogiteer nearly choked, his faced a wonderful mixture of shock and rage. “A hundred and five?”
     “Oh yes. These are Clarice Cliff. Genuine antiques. Didn’t you know? Oh yes, they’re easily worth a hundred and five pounds of anybody’s money.”
     The Flogiteer wasn’t giving in that easily, even though the vases, if the genuine articles, would be easily worth three or four hundred pounds each at the very least, as he well knew. “But the price tag on the vases was five pounds," he bleated. "Therefore you’re obliged to sell them to me for five pounds.”
     Atkins stood his ground. “Not a bit of it. A price on an item is only an invitation to purchase,” he said, then went on with great authority, although it was probably absolute bullshit, “Sale of Goods Act, Section 2, Sub Section 3, Paragraph 2 applies.”
     “I’m sure you won’t be wanting them at a hundred and five pounds each since you said they aren’t even worth five pounds so I’ll put them back in the window shall I?” I said, making to do just that.
     “No!” the flogiteer squealed, grabbing hold of me in an attempt to stop me putting them back.
     “No?”
     “No. No I’ll take them.”
     “Even at a hundred and five pounds each?”
     “Well ……well after all you are a charity. And I’m feeling in a generous mood today.”
     “Well that’s most magnanimous of you sir,” said Atkins. “Most magnanimous indeed. Cash please.”
     “Cash?”
     “Sorry, we only deal in cash. All the rogues you get about today, you know. Present company excepted of course.”
     The Flogiteer duly tipped up after visiting a cash machine.
     So all in all it was a satisfactory morning’s work. The charity shop ended up two hundred and ten pounds better off; and with any luck the Flogiteer won’t be bothering us again. The only disappointment is that Atkins and I won’t have the pleasure of seeing his face when he realises he’s been conned. But then you can’t have everything, can you?

POSTSCRIPT

Some time later, another charity shop customer, a shifty-looking individual if ever there was one, placed an earthenware casserole dish on the counter. I looked at the price tag.
     “That’ll be £4, sir.”
     “I’ll give you two for it.” he said, bold as brass.
     This wasn’t the first time a customer had attempted to knock down the price. The first time it happened to me I was dumbfounded that anyone would even contemplate trying to negotiate a lower price for something that was already a bargain, and in aid of charity, even if it wasn’t a bargain. I’d had another of the tight bastards since and had by now developed a response that made the charity’s shop’s position on the matter crystal clear.
     I looked at him coldly. “This isn’t a Turkish bazaar.”
     He looked at me quizzically. “What?”
     Evidently not crystal clear enough then. I explained: “We don’t do business by the barter method.”
     He smirked. “I’m not bartering. I’m offering you £2. Bartering is if you make me a counter offer then I make you another offer and so on and so on until we agree a price. I‘m not prepared to do that. All I’m prepared to do is offer you a price, £2, take it or leave it.”
     “Then we’ll leave it,” I said, and turned my attention to a clockwork train I was trying to repair that someone had donated.
     The man persisted. “Look at it this way before you say no. You got the casserole dish for free, right? If you let me have it for £2 that’s £2 towards starving Africans or whatever your charity is supporting. If you don’t let me have it for £2 that’s nothing going towards starving Africans. So by not selling it to me you could be responsible for the deaths of two starving Africans."
     The effrontery of the man! The sheer bloody cheek! Accusing me of having African deaths on my hands, a man who is the first to put his hand in his pocket when Bob Geldof’s mob start rattling their collection tins. I took a breath and fixed him with a beady eye before replying. “In the first place this is Age Concern. We support the aged, not starving Africans, unless they’ve come over here to starve and have grown old while they’re doing it, it being a lot harder to starve over here than in Africa. And in the second place I wouldn’t sell the casserole dish now, even for the bargain price of £4, or even for £40 or £400, to a mean-spirited little prick like you.”
     The man didn’t say anything for a moment or two, probably wondering what to do for the best. He eventually decided to get on his high horse. “I’d like to see the manager.”
     “Certainly.”
     Mrs Peasegood is the manageress but fortunately she’d slipped out to pick up her dry-cleaning. I wouldn’t have called her anyway. Atkins was nearby going through the paperbacks to see if anything spicy had been added to the shelves since we were last on duty. I called him over.
     “This gentleman has asked to see the manager,” I said, indicating the man.
     “How can I be of help to you, sir,” said Atkins, laying on the smarm.
     “Your assistant has just called me a mean-spirited little prick.”
     Atkins head jerked back in shock. He turned to me. “Is this the truth, Mr Ravenscroft.”
     “I’m afraid it is, Mr Atkins.”
     “Then you should be thoroughly and utterly ashamed of yourself. How dare you call this customer a mean-spirited prick? When anyone can see he’s a tight-fisted twat.” Then he said to the man: “Now piss off out of it before we throw you out.”
     The man, clearly shocked, started to say something but then thought better of it and turned and started to make his way out of the shop. Atkins called after him, rather unnecessarily I thought, “And think yourself lucky we didn’t sell you a piece of Clarice Cliff.”