Martin Wainright Says One Last Thing...

Above: Martin Waintwright

W HEN Napoleon derided the English as ‘a nation of shopkeepers’, he exposed the fact that he obviously didn’t have a good spy network in Yorkshire. Ever since the first Romans arrived and were offered a decent price for baps by the locals in Eboracum, our region has been a county of shoppers. They need shops, of course, and over the years we have produced some fine ones including Marks & Spencer. But the real energy, the galvanism which is part of our Yorkshire makeup, lies in the buying rather than the selling.

 I like collecting comments on Yorkshire from outside visitors, and one relevant to this, which has always stuck in my mind, was made by the teenage sons of a BBC executive who came up here for a funeral. They had to cross Leeds from the train to the bus station, and en route they turned to my friend in wonder and said: ‘Mum, have you ever seen so much shopping?’ It was the sheer intensity of people marching in and out of stores in Briggate, Albion Street and the rest empty-handed and coming out laden with carrier bags which astounded them.

The numbers, the zeal, the air of triumph at the bargains secured. It is famous, of course, that the success of one new shop turned the fortunes of Leeds in the 1990s. Indeed it is probably the single, best-known fact about modern Yorkshire. But you don’t have to go to Harvey Nicks to observe this extraordinary acquisitive urge. In fact, there is much more fun and interest to be had in some of our retail nooks and crannies.

That’s an exaggerated description these days of the location of one of my favourites, Duttons for Buttons, but I remember first discovering it down an arcade in Harrogate when I had to entertain my small son for an hour, after we fled the pantomime because the Giant in Jack and the Beanstalk was so petrifying. You can spend a very long time examining 12,000 types of button and we still own a selection bought on that day which have yet to be sewn on to something. But even better was The Loony Bin in Armley, to which the said son graduated when he became a serious devotee of magic. The Bin, in its crumbly old stone terrace house, was (and is) an exceptional shopping experience, with the chance to test tricks with the proprietors while other customers um and err about all sorts of unsuitable types of fancy dress. I went as far as recommending it to the then editor of The Guardian, Peter Preston, who is a member of the Magic Circle.

 I am waiting for it to make an appearance in the works of Alan Bennett and Barbara Taylor Bradford who were a couple of years apart at the primary school just up the road. My personal best discovery, though, when I was teenager myself, was in a basement in Leeds’ Commercial Street which went by the Martin Wainwright. Photograph: Justin Slee One last thing... By Martin Wainwright You can spend a very long time examining 12,000 types of button and we still own a selection bought on that day which have yet to be sewn on to something. name of Vure’s Linen Warehouse.

 I was a perfectly normal 18-year-old boy and not some sort of napkin or pillowcase freak, but I accompanied my mother down the stone-flagged steps on some sort of excursion in search of linenware. Much to my surprise, I saw to one side of the shop a big wooden-slatted box of the sort the Army uses to carry guns and ammunition. On top, it had stencilled ‘Supply Parachutes’ and Mr Vure had added two labels saying ‘Best Egyptian Cotton’ and ‘50p each.’ There were 50 parachutes in the box and I bought them all, in spite of protests from my mother who didn’t know as much as I did then about (a) capitalism and (b) student decorating tastes. Within a month, I was at university among a host of freshers who urgently wanted something original with which to decorate their rooms.

A genuine parachute – dyeable, and as a supply version the right size to nicely fill the ceiling of the average college room – was a snip at £3.50. Given that Mr Vure had offered a good price to get the lot off his hands, I was a wealthy lad. But then I got distracted into journalism and books and my potential career as an entrepreneur and ace shopper never took off; although there may still be an opening when I retire. I’ve just been reading a really excellent biography of the very odd Welsh poet R.S.Thomas, and it has introduced me to an unexpected connection between literature and Morrisons supermarket carrier bags. Before the Safeways takeover, I was always very fond of these because in London and down south they were a secret signal to fellow Northerners that I was one too.

 Now they are everywhere, but I have a new reason to like them. Thomas was particularly fond of a Welsh verse form called englynion, similar to Japan’s brief haikus, and competed with friends to spot them in everyday life. Guess which one he really liked? Yes, ‘More reasons to shop at Morrison’s.’ It may just be a carrier slogan to you and me, but to the late holder of the Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry is was an outstanding englyn. Now, there’s posh.