COVENTRY RECORD FAIR

The dungeon of England, that's the midlands. Dank hunched streets doused in sooty grime. Pallid youths sweat in terror as the sun tickles their stubble. It's an unconfirmed statistic that a flannel hasn't sold in Wolverhampton since Neds called it a day. The Germans tried to cancel Coventry out back in the forties, ten years later the town planners tried to finish the job. Despite the cruel fate meted out to it the city has a surreptitious charm that seeps into the consciousness like a benign infection. Why am I pondering the twisted beauty of the big C? To avoid reliving the dull hour spent browsing through twenty boxes of mediocre vinyl and CD's. That hour was only enlivened by the overhearing of a rascist rant from one stall owner that was more hideous than any 1950's architecture. It was so vile it drove me out of the room and into the welcoming arms of the British Heart Foundation. There for a meagre 25p each I picked up four 12" singles: two Raw Herbs; Da Vincis; and Let's Make Some Plans by the Close Lobsters.