BY JAMES FITZGERALD
You won’t find a pork-and-fennel ciabatta sarnie here. Southall Market has everything you need; nothing you don’t. String vest yes, snooker table yes — but seven-quid scotch egg of duck, you can jog on for.
You will be told as much, and maybe pelted with the greengrocer’s leftover tomatoes, and memorialised in a disparaging rhyme by local schoolchildren. For you’re in a bygone time here.
Until 2007 you could even buy horses at Southall Market. To this day, this functional place feels decades away from the gentrification which has overtaken many other London markets.
Goods are unloaded from Ford Fiestas, and traders compete to locate under the shelter of a giant corrugated iron shed. Taking photos — if you even wanted to — is frowned upon. The ground is uneven, and so too are the moods of the stallholders.
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