Once upon a time, in an arcade under an old building, on Pall Mall, just five minutes walk from St James’ Palace in London stood Farlow’s, the best fishing shop in the world, much as it had done for over 160 years.
And around this time, a younger version of Zorro would mostly gaze through the window, frequently spend hours walking around the shop, avoiding the piles of nets, stacks of rods, the bunches of hanging random leather and canvas things, and every so often, chatting with the old men who worked there and who would talk to you for an hour about arcane fishing-related matters before they ever considered starting to try and sell anything.
And every so often, Little Zorro would have saved up some money, and would actually make a purchase, and thus slowly accumulate a collection of beautiful, indestructible fishing tackle.
As the years went by, Little Zorro grew up and his disposable income grew, but still he returned to Farlow’s, generally just to look at the wide variety of kit to suit any pocket.
Now it just so happens that last year, some despicable swine stole one of the reels that Little Zorro had bought with his savings in Farlow’s. This was a shame, as the idea was that all this equipement would grow old as Zorro did, and that they would share adventures. But such things happened, so the now grown-up Zorro returned to Farlow’s to buy a new reel.
Now I was actually a little excited, because well, it’s a shame that my reel had been stolen, but it did provide an excuse to buy more kit. In addition, Farlow’s had sent me a card to announce that they had moved their shop to larger premises over the road, and that these now incorporated House of Hardy’s, who had decided to close their independent shop right opposite St James’ Palace.
But what horror met my eyes when I stepped into the new shop at No9 Pall Mall! There were no piles of nets, no leather gunslips hanging from the walls, no stacks of rods. On the three floors of the new shop, only half of one was actually devoted to fishing tackle. And even then, there was only a very limited selection of very expensive stuff in glass cases and wooden racks, with no prices written on anything. If you have to ask, you’re the wrong sort of customer. The rest of the shop was full of clothing and accessories.
And gifts. You can tell a place has gone to hell when they start having a whole section devoted to place mats with pictures of fishes on them, and hip-flasks shaped like salmon.
It was a showroom. There were no old men telling fishing stories or discussing incomprehensible things about knots. There was no joy. This was no longer a fishing shop of anglers, by anglers and for anglers. It was just another premium retail outlet.
Free market economics killed Little Zorro’s Cavern of Ali Baba.
Fucking bastards.