2003-01-03 - 3:25 p.m.

Going back to the town where I grew up over the holidays, I noticed that even nondescript little northern outposts are slowly succumbing to that Generic British High Street look. Thanks capitalism! Way to homogenize those consumption patterns!

There are a few noteworthy remnants, though, that were as much part of my early years as religious oppression and being ignored by the girls in my year at school for not having a motorbike and being three years older (which I always felt was slightly harsh, considering there wasn�t much I could pragmatically do about it).

Not having a car over the festive what-have-you�s, I was forced to walk, retracing the journeys into the town centre that I did as a spotty adolescent who for a disconcerting amount of time thought that the phrase �getting laid� meant �getting drunk�, a source of great amusement to my friends who heard me announce my intentions in this area the first time we bought cider and drank it in the park.

How these places have survived against the encroaching commercial giants is a mystery � I�m sure the owners don�t winter on their yachts in St Tropez or anything but the fact that they continue to trade is a testament to, well, something or other.

As you hit the main drag, there�s The Cr*spy Cob, purveyor of the crusty pies we would wolf down during lunch break when we�d escaped from school, but only had about 3 minutes before we had to get back. Rebels in a rush, that was us. Though I�m sure it should be part of my genetic makeup, I�m not sure I know what a �cob� actually is, nor whether crispiness is a desirable attribute in the whole cob arena.

Just next door is B*ng Bang, ostensibly a school uniform supplier, but it was here that the school�s coolest playaz (believe me, this is a relative term in a roman catholic northern high school) shopped as BB offered subtle but all-important deviations to the strict dress code. A slightly more louche shirt collar, vaguely tapered trouser legs � the teachers would never notice, but Sue Sherrington certainly would, and physically approve your sartorial savoir-faire. Sue herself was no doubt a regular customer, BB�s tight skirts being her ass-presentation method of choice, for which we were all thankful. It was, to borrow a phrase, more capacious than an elephant�s scrotum, and just as difficult to get your hands on.

M*lcolm�s Music Land was, at the time, the coolest place in town to buy your 12 inch vinyl of Spandau Ballet�s latest, or cassette single of Duran Duran. It was all very well apart from one mystifying fact. As well as selling chart pop escapism, Malcolm also sold, and the reasons for this were never really made clear, prams. The only logical, but cynical explanation for it was that old Malc had one eye on the teenage pregnancy statistics and wanted to get in on the baby supply side at source. Young girl, picking up the latest Human League LP, bound to get knocked up before long � why not show her the latest range in buggies whilst she�s here?

Last, but not least is second hand electrical goods emporium The Treas*re Chest. It was a very apt title, if by �treasure� you mean �Car stereos still running on the residual battery power from the Ford Escort it had just been mercilessly yanked out of�, and by �chest�, you meant �tobacco-stained grease pit watched over by a flatulent old wreck sporting a beard you could lose a badger in�. Trends came and went quickly in those days, and you�d only just bought yourself a CB radio when it was time to move on to proto-home computers like your ZX Spectrum (48k).

Hence, the TC had a steady stream of teenagers looking to make a quick quid by hawking off their obsolete hardware. You�d take your place in the queue, to be beckoned up to the counter to show the owner your wares. If there�s one thing we weren�t known for, it was our financial negotiation skills, which were further undermined by the fact that as soon as you got your equipment onto the counter, there seemed to be some kind of electro-magnetic force field that would first of all stop your pristine gizmo from working AT ALL, and would sometimes cause bits of it to fall off completely, just for good measure. Beardy would just shake his head, and offer you about 40p for a �35 gadget, and you would be so mortified that you could only forlornly accept, pocketing the change and dashing out, red-faced and humiliated, before going home to beg your parent for a Commodore (64k). He knew you�d be back. You�d always be back.

Now, of course, the town is bursting with the same shops you�d get everywhere else, TWO McDonalds (presumably the first one got just too full of junkies getting a fast food fix) and, well, you can imagine. That�s progress, but I just wonder if anyone in 15 years time will be writing about the weird times they had going into Our Price and KFC?