THAT 10,000-page book I’ve written; don’t ask me why – it’s a long story.
I’ve always loved the feel of a brand spanking new paperback between my fingers, joyfully flicking back the pages like a would-be magician, experimenting with a pack of dodgy playing cards.
Everyone’s different, I know - but my personal preference has always been to instantly flex the spine, making the book more pliable, preventing pages from springing back, losing my place.
The smell of a new book is something else: a heady, addictive concoction of printing ink, emblazoned upon sheets of pristine, freshly produced papyrus.
An explosion of words immediately leaps off the page, invading the subconscious, stimulating dormant imaginations, transporting excited readers into far-out worlds, immensely different from their own often humdrum existence, painting wonderfully eloquent pictures en route to a rip-roaring, rumbustious ending.
When the book is finished, it looks as bedraggled as the literary equivalent of someone who’s just been dragged through a hedge backwards – awash with food and coffee cup stains, resembling a Pablo Picasso interpretation of the Olympic motif, or an aerial shot of Birdwell interchange.
Just occasionally, I might keep the book for a repeat blast - if it’s a good enough read, that is. Otherwise, it will likely finish up in the charity shop.
Or, much worse, a date with the blue recycling bin, sharing its final days with egg and cornflake boxes and Made in China cardboard packaging.
I’m afraid there’s very little pomp and ceremony where newspapers are concerned. No sooner have they been picked up than the abuse starts. Broadsheets. Tabloids. Dailies and weeklies. All are treated identically, creased and folded, chucked in the bottom of shopping trollies and wire baskets – sometimes even transported home under arm, aggressively rolled up in fly swatting mode.
Scrutinised front-to-back or back-to-front, it doesn’t matter – the end result is exactly the same. Previously unspoiled copies are rendered shabby, tattered and torn, adorned with biro-scribbled puzzles and tea spillages. Left alone long enough, it will eventually assume a distinctly parchment effect – brown as a boozy Brit at a Benidorm beach bar.
While papers never make it as far as the charity shop, it doesn’t necessarily mean that’s the end of their life. The humble, well-thumbed copy engages in a butterfly-like metamorphosis, readying itself for a multitude of uses – many of which have now sadly entered the annals of history.
Most famously, leftover papers were used as fish and chip wrappers. Takeaway sheets were piled high behind the counter – full broadsheets for ‘wrapped please, missus’ orders with smaller, hand-torn pieces as accompaniment to greaseproof paper for ‘open, missus, please’ requests.
Vinegar-impacted newsprint often transferred upon hands and lower arms, resembling temporary, lick-on tattoos that came free with Bazooka Joe bubble-gum. Diners would while away the time, reading random storylines while they ate; the Reds signing unknown Celtic midfielder Ronnie Glavin, perhaps, or growing talk of a looming pit strike.
Chronicle broadsheets came in particularly useful, positioned over fireplaces to draw flames up the chimney back – a fire started by scrunched up newspapers beneath layers of chopped wood and firelighters. Elsewhere, papers were shredded into bog-paper-sized sheets, dangling by string on the back of flimsy, whitewashed outside toilet doors.
Decorators would tape papers over windows, cleaning the glass afterwards with white vinegar spoiled sheets. Even pet lovers made use of old rags, lining budgie and hamster cages, while new puppy owners would employ copies as tiddle paper, protecting valuable floorcoverings.
There’s still plenty of other uses we haven’t mentioned. Draught proofing for doors and windows, for one, or handy fans for when the weather hots up a bit. And I ask you: who hasn’t stuck a paper under a wobbly table leg? Or piled potato peelings in newspaper ready for the bin?
Shoe and boot mat is another common usage, as is stuffing newspapers inside homemade Guy Fawkes and accumulating predominantly sports related scrapbook clippings. Which reminds me: I picked up an old newspaper in the surgery recently and the headline read: Titanic Sinks. 1912. Same year the Reds won the FA Cup: 1-0 versus WBA at a Bramall Lane replay – Harry Tufnell netting in the last minute of extra time.
