[a] Fastplant, Vauxhall.
Buy One Get None Free “BUY ONE GET NONE FREE,” shouts a pirate CD seller in a Caribbean accent fighting to be heard over his bass heavy reggae music as his hands massage loose change in a denim money apron around his waist. A cockney perfume seller on the stall beside him, wears a suit with a skin coloured microphone headpiece that looks like a beaming wart on his cheek. Through the microphone he addresses a small crowd around his stall attracted either by the star shaped sign that claims ‘As Seen On TV’ or more likely the offer of ‘buy one get five free’. George looks on, taking in the scene with a look of bemused wonder. In recent years London’s car parks, school yards and streets have become taken over by gentrified markets selling overpriced rustic shite – homemade bakery goods, luxury cheeses, salted meats, vintage furniture and of course, wood mounted deer antlers. Thankfully George and I are not at that kind of market – far from it. We are at the Vauxhall Sunday market. A market where anything that is new is poor quality and fake, anything that is second hand is mostly likely stolen. It’s the kind of market you keep your wallet in your front pocket by your balls, a prime location to buy back a stolen bike and where none-believers in karma can get a bargain. Police turn a blind eye. Security is managed by the nightclub bouncers of South London – meathead thugs with high-vis armbands. “Do you understand why I brought you here? It’s got character right?” I ask George. “Absolutely. It’s enjoyably sketchy. This place feels like a guerilla flea market with no supervision. It definitely has character. It seems like everything fell off a truck. How else would those guys have
94
Pleasantville
a van full of high-end cameras? I just watched a guy selling stolen power tools start up a generator and test a power saw in a crowded ass place. I didn’t expect to see this. Right now I don’t know if I’m in Europe or Somali’s badlands.” I shoot some subtle portraits of George and quickly one of the security meatheads put his hand over the lens and informs me photography is banned, protecting the stallholder and his hoard of stolen cameras in the background. I don’t argue my rights and accept the law doesn’t apply here. George looks uneasy. I’m unsure if he’s enjoying the market experience or not. He’s the kind of guy that if you cooked him a disgusting meal, he’d eat every mouthful with a smile, lick the plate clean and tell you it was delicious – happier to suffer than offend. Before I even met George, I had him down as a polite type. In the days running up to his arrival I thought about the Texan who’d be staying on my sofa for two weeks. I did some research and found myself looking at an Odyssey team photo. The line up is nothing short of a BMX hall of fame – Chase Hawk, Mike Aitken, Aaron Ross, Matt Beringer, Gary Young and Tom Dugan, to name but a few. Sat down comfortably rubbing shoulders beside generations of BMX royalty is the lesser-known George Boyd. I looked at the picture trying to gauge his personality. You can tell a lot about a person from a group photo. The comedian with his index finger sticking out through his jean fly will be loud but funny. A guy in the leather jacket throwing the slayer will piss your sheets, will need to borrow money and maybe try it on with your Mrs. From the photo I can see George is neither. He sits not seeking attention, but from the chiselled jaw, clean shaven face, short low maintenance haircut, he looks clean cut and well brought up. I did wonder if