Apologies if I’ve brought you to this post under false pretenses, but the ‘P’ word is appropriate. I’m talking about buying albums, proper ones made out of vinyl, in the seventies & eighties.

There was a build-up to the event, with an unconscious mulling of what the purchase might be when the necessary funds had been collected. The trip to Selectadisc or Virgin on the selected day was not to be undertaken lightly, there was a certain preparation to go through. Even if the venue was to be the record stall on Arnold market you had to look the part. Then came the flicking through the possibilities, it was no good going straight to the probable choice. There might be a surprise lurking somewhere, a new release or a deletion appearing to cloud the possibilities. The ‘S’-es were especially rewarding for some reason. Then came choosing the one-from-many and tentatively handing over the money, preparing for the shock when it might not be enough. This is how I discovered that Quadrophenia was a double album and therefore £5.25 rather than £3.99 which I could fund from the £4 in my pocket. Bugger. Do I wait for a week & collect the extra £1.26, or substitute some random Elton John album rather than look indecisive? These are difficult decisions for a 15 year old.

So to the journey home. Either a leisurely one mile walk from Arnold – rushing would be decidedly uncool – or a three mile journey on the top deck of a bus home from Nottingham city centre, with the delightful possibility of poring over the new acquisition on the way. Just staring at the sleeve obviously, there was no need to preempt the final unveiling. That would be premature.

Then out of the carrier bag, some of which I collected for a while & still miss. On a good day the album would be shrink-wrapped, & the static would dissipate while the ‘new book’ smell appeared. On a bad one I’d be presented with a display sleeve with the price label still attached – this always left a mark on removal, either by removing the gloss or (oh, horror!) taking the top layer of sleeve with it.

What I hoped for next would be a matte sleeve rather than a gloss one, requiring a very tentative touch to avoid greasy finger marks (I was a fifteen year old boy, remember?) to remind me of my slovenliness in years to come. Oh joy, a gatefold sleeve, with artwork to caress and investigate to confirm that I was dealing with something more than a mere record. There was hidden meaning here, if only I wasn’t too crass to see it. An expectant check to see if there was a lyric insert (more adolescent musings and stroking of chin) and possibly the final glory of a picture inner sleeve. Apply pressure to allow ingress and finally the middle finger could be inserted, the thumb applied to the outer edge to reveal the holy of holies. (I’m so, so sorry). A waft of chemical smell that would all too soon disappear. Picture the scene in Pulp Fiction where Marsellus opens the brief case and all we’re allowed to see is the resultant golden glow. That was the highlight of my teenage weekends.

Then came the laying of the album on the deck. Always side one first, no jumping to the singles for me, then dusting with the anti-static cloth. Followed by the shooting of the anti-static gun and at long last the application of the stylus and the expectant crackle. Which implies that the prior anti-static activity was of little benefit, and that there may be a business opportunity for anyone that can come up with software to insert white noise at the beginning of mp3s. Go figure.

The music itself was more often that not an anti-climax. I could name several LPs that never made it to the end of side one following the above performance, but they still hold a place in the pantheon that is Dave’s Record Collection. I suspect that no more that a dozen albums visited the deck regularly, and I can still sing along with Tubular Bells. The one album that encapsulates all of the above is Pink Floyd’s ‘Animals’, which hides another tale, one that still holds shame for me.

But that, as they say, is another story.