Oxfam Bookshop, St Albans.
I wander the aisles, still empty-handed after half an hour. But there's a lot of rich and middle-class folk around here and they're normally a good source of material for us cultural scavengers. They've got better taste than my pleb comrades. It pains me to say that, but it's true. The definition of a working-class person? Their TVs are bigger than their bookshelves. Depressing, isn't it?
'There's fuck-all here' I think to myself, whilst a brat runs around, squawking like they do, and his mummy keeps yakking to him. It's turning into a hellish experience, of sorts, not on a par with being tortured, raped or forced to watch Dave TV channel all night but, you know...
Finally, I wander to the small film section and spot the name that's always on my radar when I'm hunting: 'William Burroughs', in art deco font on the spine. What?! Pull the slim volume from the shelves - The Last Words Of Dutch Schultz - yes! The volunteers obviously read the back and thought it was just another film book. The delerious last words of Dutch Schultz were taking down by a police stenographer and have since passed into legend. Burroughs used them as inspiration for his mock film script. This is the book (£2.99 - thankyah lawd)...
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