Ah the London January sales! This year they have an added importance in that according to figures they may be the last big spend before austerity 2012 is completely with us all and we have to start rooting through bins courtesy of George Osborne and his millionaire pals. However getting Londoners to give up conspicuous shopping is akin to getting fish to give up water so don’t hold your breath on the collapse of the high streets just yet. So after re-adjusting to the fact that the great vague days were finally over and I could leave the twilight zone days of Christmas behind me I headed into Town. My local Council have opted for the most pathetic decorations this year – basically about ten bare bulbs and some decaying green glitter from last year blu tacked to it – giving the entire high street the appearance of a walk in STD clinic with slightly less cheer. As usual for the holiday period I had lost track of which day it actually was – constantly checking my blackberry for re-assurance. Not that which day it was mattered technically. Everything shuts or opens incomprehensibly in London at this festive time especially our superb Transport network (this year I think they were trying a ‘use your legs replacement service’ approach). The surprise strikes from the unions seem eminently reasonable as they always are at this time EVERY SINGLE year without fail. Struggling by on a £40,000 plus salary with free travel must be a drag. And I do see that working on a day you don’t fancy is a bit of a pain. But didn’t they sign up for it when they started or are their working days a pick and mix job for them? Sweet huh? Usually I support unions but this lot are now officially beyond a greedy joke. Not I might add that I have any warm feelings to the bozos that allegedly run TFL (including I might add a lot of them on hundreds of thousands of pounds to run a lousy and uncoordinated service) That all said after just twenty three handy and in no way inconvenient changes by way of Cardiff I found myself at Bond Street tube.

A friend had invited me to meet for tea and somehow just to kill some time I found myself wandering through some shops on my way there. In a sale! Oh my god. House of Fraser looked like a scene from a Bosch painting. Grim faced loons squashed together like battery chickens rummaging through masses of ugly jumpers and shirts that are only in fashion during a total eclipse. Lines of ever grimly smiling staff carefully re-folding everything a matter of minutes later. The only thing missing were bare buttocked devils gouting fire from their eyes although I think I saw a few queuing up at the Calvin Klein concession. Still in shock I made the terrible decision to pop into HMV in Oxford Street where the staff had dropped all pretence at being anything but hacked off. Two wardrobes in shirts saying security kept bellowing “Don’t block the aisles it’s a safety hazard MOVE PLEASE MOVE it’s all about SAFETY” and glaringly waving their walkie talkies around like surrogate light sabres. The counters were manned by gimlet eyed dudes who at least seemed quite chilled when they took your money although they did all have a glassy rohipnol look about them. I suspect they’d been given something. But my favourites were the harassed looking shelf re-stockers. No sooner had they ripped open a box of whatever the manic punters gathered behind them were after they would hiss loudly “Please wait until we have put them onto the shelves” presumably muttering the words “you ravenous mindless scum” under their breath judging by their pained expressions. I saw a crowd six deep virtually slobbering as for some odd reason they waited patiently behind a makeshift nylon tape barrier as some Harry Potter boxed sets of DVD’s appeared. There was a surge for goodness sake. A surge. Some grinning HMV manager kept shouting only a few left. Which quite frankly just fanned the flames. But it clearly gave him a thrill. One punter was actually holding a wand and he looked to be about thirty four.

Making my escape I finally ended up in Selfridges which I think now holds the outright London award for amazingly surreal prices and stock next to Harrods. I looked at a tie which had been slashed from £300 to just £200. And then I ran my fingers over some shirts which would’ve made Stevie Wonder gag. Honestly, bright just doesn’t come close to describing their lime electric silk and leather splendour. But just who is wearing this mad stuff and where? Especially the latest in sartorial elegance the Swarofski crystal encrusted training shoes a snip at £700.00 a pair. They finally broke my wafer thin desire to stay and fight through hordes of slow moving crowds all in thrall to the great shop. Trying to make my way down the street was like taking part in some alternate universe flash mob comedy penguin shuffle. So I left. By taxi. Heading for Patisserie Valerie and some sanity. And as per usual I noted that everything I eventually bought wasn’t in the sale. Ho hum. But do Londoner’s feel the sales are a rip off. Probably. Would Londoners like all the visitors to the sales to naff off? Definitely. But do they worry themselves about such issues? No. It’s a London thing.