The Great British car boot sale is the last bastion of the free market
If ever you need a jolt of adrenaline, can I recommend getting a slot at a car boot sale? I know: it doesn’t immediately scream high-octane, but as I’ve recently discovered there is no greater thrill than flogging the detritus from your house for cold hard cash.
It’s the cash part that really makes it, I think. There’s the satisfaction that comes with Marie Kondo-ing your life and getting rid of all your old clutter. There’s the buzz you get from a bit of old-fashioned bartering, the camaraderie with your fellow sellers, the excuse to make a flask of tea and a sausage sandwich. But more than that, I’ve realised the simple joy of a box filled with coins. There it sits, getting heavier and heavier as you drop in £2 here, 50p there. Then, at the end of the day, you get to count it up by hand and march it proudly to the bank.
In 2024, this is as analogue as buying and selling gets. The car boot is like the last bastion of the free market. It’s the one remaining place where your transactions aren’t monitored by an algorithm, where your data isn’t harvested, and where your little side hustle can’t be hunted down by HMRC.
Sellers on Vinted, eBay and Etsy now find themselves at risk of being taxed on the profit they make from selling clothes, furniture and knick knacks. At the car boot, your earnings are a good deal harder for the taxman to pin down.
Firms are now obliged to share details of transactions with HMRC in a bid to wheedle out people making more than £1,000 from online sales. Unless you are earning thousands selling the job lot of box-fresh trainers you acquired from the back of a lorry, it does seem spectacularly unfair to make people pay to get rid of their old stuff. Vinted says personal items are not taxed, but how can they tell which of their 16 million users in the UK alone are selling their own tat or other people’s?
At the car boot, there’s the added frisson of not knowing what people are prepared to pay – there’s a chance, however small, that your collection of ephemera might tip over the £1k mark. And then you’d be sticking it to the man. So far, however, my biggest ticket items have been my flatmate’s signed Patrice Evra shirt, a hideous old Mulberry handbag of my mum’s, and every one of the terrible (but expensive) bridesmaid dresses that I’ve been forced to wear.
Plus, I doubt I’ve been pinpointed by the inland revenue as a dangerous financial maverick. I am useless when it comes to prices. Present me with a set of six wine glasses and ask me to give you a price for one versus a price for all six and I fall apart. “Er, so that’s £1 each or £8 for all six. No wait, that’s wrong. £50p for one £5 for the whole lot? Oh just have all six for a pound.”
What I lack in financial competency, I make up for in wiles. My homemade tin of flapjacks always has the dual effect of creating buzz around our stall and, more importantly, getting us in the good graces of the car boot attendants, which comes in handy when you’re late packing up and don’t want to incur a ban. Banning is big at the car boot, you see. There are endless rules (chief among them being “no bartering before 10am”) which, again, is all very reassuring. Amid the chaos of modern life, the car boot jurisdiction is clear: toe the line or you’re out.
As long as you do what you’re told, there is a great feeling of comradeship with your fellow stallholders. Make a big sale and you’ll likely receive a nod of approval from the old hand at the next table. They’re there for the same reason as you – in belt-tightening times, we are all trying to find ways to top up the coffers.
A car boot is the ultimate circular economy, too. I can’t tell you the number of things I have laid out on the stall that I would never dream of buying myself. But one person’s tat is another’s treasure, and there’s nothing like seeing someone’s eyes light up as they stumble upon something they like. I’ve watched Gen Z girls rifle through my old fake fur Topshop jackets (now helpfully considered “mob wife chic”). One man was thrilled with the pair of fishing rods I’d found in my parents’ cellar. Last weekend, I even managed to flog a completely rubbish vase I made in a pottery class six years ago. “This is stunning,” said the girl who bought it for £3, “who’s the artist?”
After I recovered from my coughing fit, I reflected that she too was probably just caught up in the heady excitement of a sunny Sunday morning at the car boot. Still, her pound coins are now rattling around in my tin, waiting to be marched to the bank.
