Long Live British Car Boots

I wipe the sleep from my eyes as the green man flickers. Car horns sound as I cross the road towards the entrance. An old fella bends the ear of the car park attendant about how it wasn’t this busy back in his day. The type of fella that smells like tinned meat. Why do all old folk say that, back in my day. Will I say it one day too!?

The employed attendant who is also known as ‘Parking Mon’ multitasks and waves punters towards the right direction. It’s 6am on a Sunday morning and it feels like utter chaos.

I walk across the uneven rubble carpark as dust whips up off the floor. The gridlock traffic outside is sellers that are late. Snooze you lose i mutter. It’s much more calmer once you reach the start line. I concentrate firmly on hunting bargains like a trooper ready to strike. Armed with 30 quid in cash and loose change that jingles in my tracksuit pants.

The first row of stalls are all your heavenly homeware needs. Well, that’s if you’re in the market for a new toilet seat, large batteries or light bulbs. Then the proper stalls start. The real characters also emerge. Seasoned sellers all chatting to each other. They’ve become friends as they chat about their families and recent events. Exchanging cash and change so they can facilitate sales. Having a brew togther.

One fella has his top off, rain or shine. Ironically the stall selling every fake footballer shirt on the continent haggles with his customers. Whilst the old Nanna types sell half their house for 50p an item. People flock around them like seagulls attacking a dropped bag of chips.

I love the community feeling of being here. It’s like a new world before most people get out of bed. The smell of onions and burgers wafts through the air. You kinda have to get used to that. Seeing people eating hotdogs before 6am has made me realise that there’s a fine line between being a hero and an animal.

Whilst a lovely little polish stall sells huge pastries for two quid a pop. The big custard ones are utterly delicious. I sometimes get one as a treat to myself for peeling myself out of bed. Whilst the array of mismatch chairs outside the food vans feel like art in my eyes.

At this point we’re three rows down. Now we’re approaching what I refer to as ‘BLOKES ALLEY’. As it’s filled with power tools, gardening equipment and anything with a motor. This is where Dad’s return home with another lawnmower that doesn’t work, stolen power tools switch hands and lads with cigs in their gobs pace around deciding whether to part with their cash.

As I duck past the petrol fumes and loose engine parts. I’m back into the carboot stalls hunting for treasure. I’m very much into vintage sportswear, snoopy or charlie brown figures, car models and mid-century furniture. My biggest regret recently was leaving a coca cola fridge for 20 quid. It would’ve looked mint in the garage that, under our darts board. Could’ve sneaked it in before the mrs woke up too.

I return home after doing laps of the same stalls hoping to see something different. I plonk my new found treasure in the garage. I stick on the kettle in the kitchen and gaze out the back window. I also make some toast. My partner is up and the day starts for us. Yet I’ve been up for three hours on an old car park in Warrington. The most beautiful part of British carboots is that they facilitate a place for all ages and races coming together.

I slurp my cup of tea and think to myself:

I love my Sunday morning’s down the Car Boot.