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Well, after months of gossip, I have finally reached the end of the road with my long-suffering loved one. Regular subscribers who are kind enough to take pity on this column and read it will recall last week’s disaster, when my addiction to vinyl saw me trying radical therapy which, the scientist in charge told me, could “fix you”. For a while, it worked. I didn’t go on eBay for at least 20 hours. My svelte (ahem) outline could not be clocked at the Music & Goods Exchange at Notting Hill Gate, and unneccessarily fierce charity shop under-manageresses were wondering whether I had died because nobody had asked: “Are there any more records you haven’t put out yet, please?” But my cure’s magic failed: I fell off the wagon yesterday, and now I have parted forever from the one I love most.
Mortifying news, I know. But don’t cry: in many ways, we are now closer than ever. Our separation is not a result of any falling out; it’s more a recognition that, with hearts full of sadness, we needed to move on with our lives as individuals rather than as a couple. It’s not so much a break-up as a conscious uncoupling. We will forever remain united in our hearts; it’s just in every other aspect of our lives that we cannot be together. Although the full conditions of our parting have yet to be decided, I am hoping to keep hold of the records, and desperately hoping that I won’t win custody of our adored semi-housetrained Rottweilers, Ozzy and Shazzy.
You are perhaps wondering what the final straw was. It was a single on the Coxsone label; appropriately Delroy Wilson’s Troubled Man in VG+. I could not resist it. Without even thinking about it, I put my hand in my pocket and that moment was the watershed: I knew it marked the last time I’d see my beloved. I had hoped we would never be parted. Of course, I still have the record to console me, but I shall miss my loved one so much after all these years together. I will be bereft without the sheer confidence it gave me, its sense of style, and the reassuring fact it says “50” in big type on it. When I got home, the missus eyed my 7”-square paper bag and said: “Not more records! I hope it’s not that dreadful Coldplay. The dogs just got your dinner. If you think you’re man enough to snatch it back from them, feel free to try.”
The new issue of the mag is now in the shops: a bright red cover with Marc Bolan on the front and heaps of great stuff inside – see below. I hope you like it.
Thank you for reading RC and this newsletter,
Have a great week,
Editor, Record Collector