The Fopp Challenge - Mission Accomplished

For as long as I can remember I’ve been passionate about music.  While I was growing up the house was full of music, my Dad regularly playing his Elvis and Mike Oldfield albums, as well as many classic songs by the likes of Ray Charles, ABBA, and the occasional slightly more left-field selections by Soft Cell and other chart acts of the time.  The first time I bought a record on my own was a 7” single – “Antmusic” by Adam & The Ants (a song I still adore) – and since then I’ve been a regular buyer of records.  I find it hard to walk past a record shop without going in, even if I leave empty handed.

It was in Edinburgh that I first discovered a shop called Fopp.  I was working in the city for a time, staying in a hotel on the Royal Mile while I worked on a project, and each night I would go for a walk usually down to Princes Street, then looping around the castle and back through the old town.  A steep, winding road called Cockburn Street took me from the Royal Mile towards Waverley, the tall buildings on either side occupied by independent retailers at the ground level, their windows full of bongs, gothic clothing, and other curious items.

A poster probably caught my eye, luring me into the shop.  It was a small place but packed with incredibly cheap CDs, many of them in piles on the floor or stacked on any available surface.  The sound of jewel cases crashing to the floor frequently turned heads, often followed by a sheepish “sorry.”  I loved the place, and called in several times whenever I visited.

Time passed, and Fopp moved into a bigger store on Rose Street, closer to the main shopping thoroughfare of Princes Street, and although there was more stock I missed the ramshackle charm of the Cockburn Street shop.  I still called in many, many times, usually spending a small fortune, amazed that I could buy ten Bowie CDs for about £50, and on my return home after each trip to the city my suitcase would have several Fopp bags inside, my CD and DVD shelves back at home groaning in anticipation of their additional load.

The Fopp empire grew.  Alongside the Edinburgh store and their sisters in Glasgow others appeared around the country, including one in my home town of Manchester, and naturally I became a regular visitor.  My girlfriend often jokingly asked what I’d do if Fopp ever closed, and in response I’d shake my head, lower my eyes to the floor, and mumble “don’t joke about that.”  Sadly her question was rather prophetic, and after Fopp bought the failing Music Zone empire Fopp itself went into administration.  We were on holiday at the time, and one of Louise’s colleagues – also a fan of Fopp – sent a text to her: “Fopp has closed!” was all it said.  When we returned home I had to see for myself, and during my lunch hour in Manchester I walked past the store, my heart sinking when I saw the door closed, shutters down, lights off.

HMV came to the rescue, itself going into administration soon after, but eventually the chain was saved, and Fopp returned with nine stores remaining – Edinburgh, two in Glasgow, Manchester, Nottingham, Bristol, two in London and one in Cambridge.  “You’ll have to see if you can go to them all,” Louise joked one day.  “Call it The Fopp Challenge,” she said.  I nodded, and said that I was up to the task, but that it would take me some time even though my job regularly sends me around the country.  I couldn’t guarantee that I’d buy something in every single one, but I’d certainly visit them and describe what I found.

Edinburgh was already familiar:  A very modern shop, spread over two floors.  The ground floor concentrated on music but had some DVDs and books, and the first floor was the home of the video side of things.  Over the years I’ve bought countless CDs, DVDs and books there, including most of the Bowie back catalogue, and several Iain Banks books.

Manchester was also familiar.  Tucked away on a back street just off the main Market Street shopping area, it again covered two floors, but this time they were a ground floor and a basement.  The staff were always great and remain so, although some friendly faces such as the big grungy looking guy with tattoos and long hair who we secretly nicknamed “Mr Grunge” have vanished,  and I’ve spent a small fortune in there but also handed over chunks of my collection for their “Swap Shop” (and I’ll be giving many more in the new year.)  The ground floor used to have a popular coffee shop  but this closed after the HMV buyout.

Glasgow has two Fopps.  The city centre branch was an easy visit as our office in the city is just up the hill.  Spread over three floors it’s quite a dark shop but crammed with stuff, and my most recent purchases from there included new albums by The National and Depeche Mode, and a headphone splitter cable (price £1 – total bargain.)  The second Fopp had me in stitches, as to get there I had to catch Glasgow’s underground railway, which is like a tiny version of London’s Tube, the two lines simply named “clockwise” and “anticlockwise”.  As I boarded the train I banged my head on the ceiling, then sat in my seat laughing because I was catching a train to a record shop.  I alighted at Hillhead station and walked down Byers Road to the store.  It was tiny, and reminded me of a proper indie record shop, the DVDs arranged on shelves with their spines facing outwards, customers – myself included – walking around the shop with their necks tilted to one side.  I loved the place, and left after my first visit with EPs by The National and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

Nottingham’s store surprised me.  On my first visit to the city I’d forgotten there was a Fopp, and when I sat in the office looking at the maps on my phone, trying to work out where I could go for lunch, I spotted Fopp on the map, then quickly zoomed out and realised that it was maybe five minutes walk from where I was.  I ignored the pull of the sandwich shop and dashed down the hill, finding the shop in a nice old building, the stock spread over a single floor, and I left with CDs by Nick Cave and Talking Heads.  On a later visit I bought the League of Gentlemen DVD boxed set.  “The darkest Christmas special ever,” said the assistant.  I nodded, and we had a chat about how great the show was.

I worried that Bristol would elude me, until my employer sent me to the city for a two day job.  As soon as I finished on the first night I got in my car and drove to the city, parking in the first place I found and dashing through the streets in search of Fopp.  I thought I wouldn’t find it as it felt like I’d left the lights of the city behind me, but then I turned a corner and found the store.  Lana Del Rey’s album was my purchase that night.

The two London stores were easy visits.  I’d been to the Covent Garden branch several times already, a crowded little triangular place on Shaftesbury Avenue, spread over three floors.  I’ve bought dozens of CDs, DVDs and books there in the past – too many to recall.  Closer to Euston station is a small Fopp concession located within a Waterstones bookshop on Gower Street.  Sometimes I’ll plan a visit there, but on occasion I’ll arrive at Euston a little too early for my train and will head down the road, suitcase towed behind me, and call at Fopp.  Ross Noble DVDs remind me of there as I’ve bought a few.  It’s usually a fairly quiet store, away from the hustle and bustle of Covent Garden.

The difficult one for me was always going to be Cambridge – probably the furthest from Manchester, plus we have no offices in the area.  I thought I was going to tick this one off the list a few years ago when I had a job to do in Bury St Edmunds, but when I checked the opening hours of the shop I realised that getting there was logistically impossible, and so it eluded me.  This was destined to be the Fopp that got away, the one that I’d be unable to reach, but on 11^th December 2013 I found myself boarding a train to the city, with the specific intention of visiting Fopp – the final Fopp – and completing my challenge.

It was quite a distance from the station and like Bristol I thought I’d be unable to find it, but as I passed Waterstones and Boots and rounded a gentle corner I saw the familiar sign and walked through the door.  The National’s “Trouble Will Find Me” album was playing – a sign, going off previous purchases? – and the interior of the shop reminded me of that first Fopp on Cockburn Street, piles of CDs on available surfaces, stacks of books on tables, and crowds of customers everywhere.  I looked at vinyl copies of Prince albums, flicked through the shelves of CDs, perused the DVDs, but bought nothing.  It felt strange, walking around the shop, realising that I’d completed my silly little challenge, regretting that there was nothing I wanted to buy.  I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent Louise a text.  “Mission accomplished,” it said.   As The National played on my phone beeped in my pocket.  Her reply was short – two words, one letter:  “Well done x”.