And now for someone completely different

I need to get something off my chest: America, bless it, is really pissing me off.

The cultural imperialism, the tendency to wear shorts, the appalling lack of decent cheese: all of these I can cope with. But I cannot, and will not, abide their describing second-hand books as 'used'.

What the hell is a 'used' book? "Here, have my copy. Sorry, I've read most of it, but if you give it a shake, there's still a bit left."

A 'used' book is surely a dubiously stained and dog-eared paperback, shedding yellowed pages like some sort of paginary alopecia, just an unexpected puddle away from papier-mâché. 'Used' has connotations of the car lot, and its rapidly depreciating jalopies sold by sweaty-palmed men with too much hair gel.

A second-hand book is a fragile treasure made precious by its venerability and scarcity. Once it has been read, it is not drained of value. It is passed on, with a story of its own already attached. It is an heirloom, a time capsule, a lost world to be rediscovered.

So, let's have no more talk of 'used' books. And 'pre-experienced' is right out.

Star customer of the day was the tall, austere gentleman enquiring about a couple of theology titles. I graciously bestow this accolade on the grounds that he was the Comic Messiah, Our Lord John Cleese. I cannot possibly reveal exactly what he asked for, for so to do would be a heinous breach of bookseller-Python confidentiality, but unfortunately both books were out of print, which rather curtailed our conversation. I was tempted to ask whether the religious curiosity was in aid of a sequel but resisted, which is probably just as well. He is very austere and very, very tall.

It later occurred to me - l'esprit d'escalier indeed - that if he had asked for some fiction recommendations along the same lines, I might quite reasonably have led him to Quarantine by Jim Crace and told him it was about this bloke called Jesus and his forty days in the desert, only he's not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy. This too though I imagine would have led to the kind of disapproval of which only the very tall and austere are capable.

This means that so far in the shop I have been of little service to John Cleese, embarrassed Michael Palin, collided with Eric Idle and failed to engage in any way with Terry Jones other than to glimpse him between the stacks. So, when can we expect you, Mr Gilliam?

Never meet your heroes: you'll only disappoint them.