T got me a portable record player for my birthday, it's currently plugged into my computer and digitising the Kinks. I've got the feeling it's not going to be particularly mobile.

I've got the feeling that it'll stay next to the amp in my bedroom and not be taking any day trips down to the Cornish coast to spin old soul 45's and lounge around on a rug whilst us and all our groovy mates have an impromptu party around a camp fire.
"Hey, McDirts!" they won't shout, "Stick another 45 on!"
"Sure thing," I'll not reply, "How about 'Hand it Over' by Chuck Jackson?"
"Yeah!"
and then they'd clap their hands to the beat, somewhere far from a beach, maybe whilst eating their dinner at home with their long term partners and maybe small tiny children around them. Their partners will look up at them and say
"Why did you just clap your hands like that? You dropped a bit of quinoa on the table."
"Umm, sorry," they'd reply, scooping up the spilled quinoa with their fork, "I don't know what came over me."
"It sounded like 'Hand it Over' by Chuck Jackson," their partner's would say, whilst simultaneously trying to cajole their youngest to eat a bit of chorizo that's been pushed to the side of the plate.
They'd frown, and tap the table with their fingertips whilst it came to them.
"Yes, blimey, you're right, it is isn't it! I wonder where that came from? I haven't heard it for years."
Then they'd sit quietly for a bit, feeling nostalgic for a life they never had. A life that involved midnight parties on a beach, dancing to old soul records being played on a Dansette, whilst somewhere near them, a lithe and beautiful stranger, who isn't their long term partner, smiles and locks eyes with them before taking a swig from a bottle of beer and then offering them a go on their...

T got me a portable record player for my birthday, it's currently plugged into my computer and digitising the Kinks. I've got the feeling it's not going to be particularly mobile.

I've got the feeling that it'll stay next to the amp in my bedroom and not be taking any day trips down to the Cornish coast to spin old soul 45's and lounge around on a rug whilst us and all our groovy mates have an impromptu party around a camp fire.
"Hey, McDirts!" they won't shout, "Stick another 45 on!"
"Sure thing," I'll not reply, "How about 'Hand it Over' by Chuck Jackson?"
"Yeah!"
and then they'd clap their hands to the beat, somewhere far from a beach, maybe whilst eating their dinner at home with their long term partners and maybe small tiny children around them. Their partners will look up at them and say
"Why did you just clap your hands like that? You dropped a bit of quinoa on the table."
"Umm, sorry," they'd reply, scooping up the spilled quinoa with their fork, "I don't know what came over me."
"It sounded like 'Hand it Over' by Chuck Jackson," their partner's would say, whilst simultaneously trying to cajole their youngest to eat a bit of chorizo that's been pushed to the side of the plate.
They'd frown, and tap the table with their fingertips whilst it came to them.
"Yes, blimey, you're right, it is isn't it! I wonder where that came from? I haven't heard it for years."
Then they'd sit quietly for a bit, feeling nostalgic for a life they never had. A life that involved midnight parties on a beach, dancing to old soul records being played on a Dansette, whilst somewhere near them, a lithe and beautiful stranger, who isn't their long term partner, smiles and locks eyes with them before taking a swig from a bottle of beer and then offering them a go on their spliff. They'd tap out the beat to Hand it Over and imagine having sex with this stranger, now a lover, somewhere on the beach, as dawn now begins to arrive and off to their left, they can still hear the sounds and laughter of the party and they haven't got a mortgage, nor have they got any kids, and they could still have dreams.
Meanwhile, I'd sit next to my Vestax Handy Trax portable record player, in my bedroom, and take the Chuck Jackson off, unaware of the fact that through the casual overuse of emotive, early sixties soul I'd subliminally planted the seeds of doubt in the mind of someone who up until now had previously thought themselves happy with their lot.
There's a moral to this - don't do soul on a portable record player, not even on your own in a sealed room. There's too many connotations, too much faked nostalgia. It'll seep out, just the essence of it, it'll seep out and find someone and tear apart the family they'd spent so long nurturing, all for the sake of good times that never existed, not once for anyone.
That's why T got me this portable record player, she wanted us to drive somewhere beautiful, with all our groovy mates, and play 7" singles whilst we have an impromptu party. It won't happen, as I've already mentioned, it'll stay put, next to the amp; just another record player.
She said the sunday I got it,
"Let's take it down to the park with a bag of your singles, we'll have a few drinks, we'll get Jen and Dunc down, they can bring baby Ruby, Tink and Jocelyn and Adam can come down, it'll be great."
We live in Hackney. The local yout would descend from the top of their council tower and strip me of it, and all my precious records as soon as late afternoon struck. But, not before we'd germinated the first shoots of dissatisfaction within the minds of fifty percent of our coupled friends.
She couldn't see this of course. Had we gone ahead with it, the first she'd have known of its power was when she found herself walking out of the door with her bags packed, looking for a Greyhound bus to take her to the West Coast and a new love she never knew she wanted until now.
She'd be lucky mind, the Greyhounds don't leave from Dalston.