Need I say more?

Probably not, but I shall anyway.

I don’t know about you, but that blond (and now seriously hampered) woman looks remarkably gay about the whole business. Is your 15 minutes of fame really worth having your limbs drain and drop off? She must look like  a papier-måché figure in the rain. Or a shit scarecrow. Or some kind of German fetish. Is it really all worth it when your only claim-to-fame is a few square inches on the front page of a budget goss-mag? Even when said shit-rag feels the need to point out that said witheree has rotten stumps where her hands should be? In case we hadn’t noticed…

Bah! What do I know? I am sure it feels great for her.

It would have been nice if the editor could have afforded her another exclamation mark, though. I would have given her three at least. Mind you, I would have felt compelled to run with the headline: “Look! Mum – no hands!”

I picked up the common yet furtive obsession with charity shops when I was at university, largely due to my hunger for vinyl. In Bristol they are particularly over-fished and it is hard to find good stuff. Nevertheless I became addicted to the heady scents of dry-cleaning and opportunity, and like to duck into the odd Oxfam for a sniff and browse at the most uncommercial shops on the high street.

Now I have found some gems in charity shops. Various records, books, or pictures or the like. Fancy dress costumes? These outlets are a boon. I once found two suits which I [read my friend Lucy] cut up, died and stitched together all for under a tenner. And you can always find new things thanks to the randomness of the wares.

Of course, the majority of the stuff is a load of shit.

Racks of crap early 90’s clothes, unlistenable records, depressingly tired books, and of course the inestimably unvaluable trinkets and crocks. But these are real.

But occasionally, just occasionally, you stumble across an item of utter genius. 

WITNESS:

[Please, you owe it to yourself to zoom in for a closer look. Just click on the image]

“What the fuck is that?” I heard a co-browser mutter to his baby son.

Well I shall tell you what it is. It is a tribute, nay, a holy relic from the shrine of Aerosmith. Only Steve Tyler’s leathery, preserved foreskin could top this in magnificence and splendour. It must have been difficult to keep the writing so neat, especially under the influence of all those anti-psychotics.

Charity shops really do provide an invaluable insight into the reality of British life. We don’t float in glacial rooms, we don’t drink pints of cider in comedy set-pieces the way adverts suggest, we don’t have polished zinc surfaces and universally enjoy life. We clutter up our lives and homes with junk from in charity shops, and at least one of us produces bonkers tribute art to comedy rock bands.

And what a piece of finery! The image of Tyler chugging on a fat cigar at the end of a rainbow is one I shall take with me to the end of my days. Just in case you are wondering, there is no decimal point on the price tag. I checked.

Aerosmith? Amazing!