10 From 100

Welcome to a sunny and warm South Manchester on day 49 following our resident clown’s declaration of freedom from Covid-19. Infection rates are steady but rising ever so slowly, hospitalisation due to Covid-19 is steady and the number of deaths a day is still rising slightly. But the powers that be, as incompetent as they are, seem happy to allow it to continue as is, as we head in Autumn here in the UK. This time last year, the rates all climbed as the temperatures fell and the nights became longer. Unlike last year though, 88% of the adult population have had at least one vaccine with about 78% being fully immunised.

The coming week is a strange one for me. I am going into the office tomorrow for the first time since Macrh 2020, just for a couple of days, and today I have to test myself with the government supplied test. I don’t know how accurate it is but if I have Covid-19 it should yield a positive result. 

It is the first test I have done and, as far as I know, I haven’t actually had Covid-19. I certainly don’t think I have it, as I feel absolutely fine, with no symptoms whatsoever. But my company has mandated that we have to test ourselves twice a week if we are to return to the office, ergo I have to, even though I will be working part time in the office and part time at home from now on.

That is life, living with Covid-19 folks. 

Shall we answer some silly questions from Sunday Stealing? 

1.What's your favourite TV channel to watch in the middle of the night?

I rarely watch TV in the middle of the night. If I do, I will channel surf until I find something interesting or, most likely, just watch the news or a late night comedy show.

2.Which decade do you feel the most special connection to and why?

The 1980’s. I love that decade and have many fond memories of it. I entered the decade aged 17, still living at home in Walsall and studying for A-levels, having never travelled abroad and barely even travelled outside Walsall (if I am honest). I left the decade aged 27, married, with a university degree, a job in an IT company, having moved to Manchester and travelled abroad often enough to get completely bitten by the travel bug.

My life changed so much in that decade. 

I loved the music, the fashion, the movies, the TV and the entire lunacy of the decade – perhaps summed up in the following songs:

3.What is your favourite oldie/classic rock song?

As you can imagine, I have hundreds of them. Here is one of my favourites:

4.What Disney villain are you the most like and why?

I love Shere Kahn from the Jungle Book. He is just so cool and has an amazing voice (provided by George Sanders). 

5.Have you ever been a girl scout/boy scout?

No – thank goodness!

6.If you were travelling to another continent would you rather fly or take a boat?

I would fly, of course. A boat to the USA or Africa would take ages and even longer if I had to go further afield, like Asia or Australia. I’ve been on a cruise before and to be honest I got a little stir-crazy. It is much better to fly.

7. What are three of your favourite dog names of all time?

I have to dig into my past for dog names. I would feel like a traitor if I chose any names other than dogs I have owned or that have been owned by my family. Here are my three:

Paddy, Rinty and Beric.

8. How do you feel when you see a rainbow?

I feel it is time to quickly get my camera out and capture it. Like this one, I captured in Liverpool:

9. If you were in the Land of Oz would you want to live there or go home?

I would want to go home. It looks like a mad place to me, with witches, wizards, talking lions, talking scarecrows (we have one as Prime Minister and he has no brains either), talking and moving tin men and flying monkeys. 

10. What is the first word that comes to mind when you see the word:

Air: Music

Meat: Pork

Different: Eccentric

Pink: Elephant

Deserve: Merit

White: Snake

Elvis: Burger

Magic: Moment

Heart: Beat

Clash: Colour

Pulp: Fiction

I hope nobody is going to psychoanalyse me based on those choices and send the men in white coats around.

The Meaning of Life - Time After Time

You will be pleased to know that this is the last post in the current series mirroring Karl Pilkington’s “The Moaning of Life”.

I think that this post needs a soundtrack – so here’s a good song to listen to while reading it.

Three weeks ago, I had a university reunion in Liverpool, the first one for twelve years and this included a man I hadn’t seen since leaving university in 1984, over thirty years ago.

Initially it was a surreal experience, seeing a bunch of blokes that I had been so close to. When I first met these guys I was 19 years old and, being young men, we were all desperate to make our mark on the world with a cocktail of alcohol, stupidity and a general sense of indestructibility that meant we were willing to do anything.

Of course, by the end of university we had matured slightly and were more prepared for life.

The problem is that when we all got together between 1981 and 1984, we did all of the stupid things that young men do.

Fast forward to a cold and rainy lunchtime November in 2015 at Lime Street Railway station in Liverpool.

I arrived first on a local train from Manchester and clutching a steaming coffee, I awaited the intercity train from London. Two of the guys got off the train and I recognised them immediately, a little greyer and a little chubbier but still the same guys I knew so well. I’ll call them Sam and Colin (to protect the guilty!).

We were expecting two more later, one from Birmingham and one from Liverpool  - this was the guy I hadn’t seen for over thirty years. I’ll call them Oscar and Andy (again to protect the guilty!).

Sam, Colin and I decided to be tourists and explore the city. I have been back to Liverpool often; after all it is only about 35 miles from Manchester. Sam married a Scouser (person from Liverpool) and he came back fairly regularly to visit family.

Colin had not been back to Liverpool since he left in 1984.

Oscar turned up an hour later. He had lost his hair completely apart from some grey bits at the sides. We didn't mention it.

The four of us spent the afternoon visiting the Tate museum, to avoid the heavy rain before having an afternoon snack in a coffee shop where we chatting about what we had all been up to, including, jobs, family, kids etc. over cups of coffee and tea. It was all very sophisticated.

We checked into our hotel and, as I was unpacking and freshening up for a mice meal, I was struck by one thing. Thirty years ago we were like rampant animals making fools of ourselves and acting as if we were indestructible.

Now, the four of us were talking about careers and kids, visiting museums and being totally sensible.

I felt a little sad; it was almost like being out with their dads.

Shortly afterwards, Andy rang and we arranged to meet him in a city centre pub that we had frequented as students.

It was still there and hadn't disappeared like a lot of the pubs from that time.

Andy turned up and he too hadn’t changed. It was really strange chatting to a guy I hadn’t seen for so long.

I looked at my watch as I supped that first beer. The time was six o’clock.

And this was the point that the sensibility disappeared.

“One more?” 

“Yeah – one more!”

Before I knew it, the alcohol had woken something up inside of all of us. We were sensible enough to find a restaurant but that’s about it. The rest of the evening descended into party time as five middle aged men wandered around the city centre, refuelling on beer, and becoming more and more boisterous. As more alcohol was imbibed, the years were stripped away and we became five young men again.  The dads were gone and my mates from the early 1980's were back.

I loved every second of it.

Tales of old were told and we guffawed like teenagers as we recalled the scrapes we got into all those years ago. Oscar's lack of hair was the main topic of raucous conversation for about twenty minutes. Don't worry - he gave as good as he got.

Thankfully, our ageing bodies protested enough to keep us in check – or at least I thought they had. We had wobbled out of the famous Cavern Club, where the Beatles used to entertain the Liverpool crowds, and into an Irish bar and somehow found a table where we could sit down. Before long, a barman came over and told us that the pub was closing. I checked my watch.

“It’s three in morning!” I yelled, although I think the words came out as “Ish three clocksh!”

We staggered back to the hotel and again I was saved by my body urging me to quaff as much water as my stomach could take before going to bed.

The next morning, we met for a late breakfast and, all a little fragile, made a pact to do exactly the same next year.

The whole episode made me think about time.

Although our bodies age around us, the deep inner core of our being remains. As we get older, our outlook on life changes but deep down inside all of us, the young person who wanted to unleash himself on the world, with a seemingly unlimited amount of energy, who existed all those years ago is still there.

The fire of my youth is definitely still  present under the sensible old git that I have become – and I’m delighted about that.

I can find him and I intend to take him out every so often for a breath of fresh air (though perhaps next time I will avoid using alcohol as the transport mechanism).

We can’t win the war against time – but we can win the odd battle - and have massive fun with our small victories.

How about you, dear reader?

Is there a young version of you hiding inside you?

Can you find him or her?

If so, how do you do it?

31 Days of Blogging - Day 17

Day 17 – Black - Wonderful Life



Wonderful Life is a beautiful song and back in 1987 life really seemed wonderful. The video is even better – I think its mesmerising.

At that time, W and I had bought our first house in Altrincham, a three bedroomed semi-detached house – though the third bedroom was so tiny that you could barely swing around a cat in it – not that I would ever have done that.

I’ve always been tempted to ask people how they can dare to describe a house as having three bedrooms when you cannot actually fit a bed in the small room that masquerades as that third bedroom.

“This isn’t a three bedroomed house – unless the third bedroom’s for a bloody cat.” was a consistent rant for me at the time.

In a moment of madness, I bought a rowing machine that year and tried to set it up in that third bedroom – no chance. It barely fit – I had to use it with the door open and I kept smashing my elbows on the walls.

It was even more disastrous than that because the thing was so cheap that when I dismantled it to move it to the “second bedroom” I almost castrated myself with the springs before bending the metal and effectively rendering the thing unusable.

How I put it together in the first place is beyond me – and how it managed to survive as long as it did without running my chances of procreation is another miracle.

Anyway, I digress; the wedding was planned for 1988 and we were (sharp intake of breath) “living in sin”.

W’s mum is a lovely woman but she has always had principles, and she frowned on people who didn’t adhere to them. I was surprised to find that when we went to visit them and stayed over, I was not allowed to share a room with W – even though she knew that we shared a room back in Manchester.

I respected her so I slept in a separate room. It was no bother, though I did joke about it on occasion.

It’s quite amazing how the whole process of dealing with and living in a relationship has changed over the years. Tradition dictates that a relationship is almost like a recipe – you have to follow certain steps.

Remember my first major girlfriend, C, from my post a few days ago? Well her mother made it quite clear from the very start what she thought of young men.

We had been going out for about three months when I went to her house. As soon as I sat down, her mum offered me a cup of tea and then, in the next breath, said openly in front of C, her brother and her father:

“If you make my daughter pregnant, I will cut off your balls. Would you like some sugar with your tea?”

It was a surreal moment and I actually laughed out loud before realising that she was deadly serious.

W’s mum wasn’t that bad but she expected me to follow tradition. I had already failed because W had proposed to me. I would have to repair the damage by asking W’s dad for her hand in marriage.

W’s mum nagged W to nag me to do this but I steadfastly refused. W's mum would never have nagged me; I found it weird that there was a middle-(wo)man and when I talked to W's mum, the subject was never broached - but we both knew what was going on.

I told W that people don’t do that sort of thing anymore and no matter how hard she tried to persuade me, there was no way I was going to do it.

And I didn’t.

In fact, W’s dad didn’t seem to mind at all – as far as he was concerned, the deed had already been done. What’s more, I later found out that W’s mum was upset because W had got engaged without discussing it with her first.

I was quite surprised and in retrospect I might have done things differently. It would have been a gesture, nothing more, that would have made W’s mum happy and content. Perhaps I was just too stubborn.

In the end, it didn’t matter – we all got on very well and I was already a part of the family.

Tradition is important to some people and in the interests of harmony, I could and perhaps should have been more flexible.

It’s the little things that can sometimes make life more pleasurable.

W’s mum got her own way at the wedding though – and I was a willing pawn, being shoved around, photographed, videoed all in the name of pomp and ceremony.

It was a very traditional wedding and W and I were, as expected, the centre of attention, something I was definitely not used to. There was certainly no invitation for shyness or introversion, which made the day even more of a struggle for me.

I had to make a speech (my first real public speaking exercise) and everybody wanted to speak to me, especially relatives that I had never met before. At one stage, both W and I found separate hiding places and just spent about an hour in total solitude trying to get our breath back.

People were wondering where the bride and groom were and when I turned up some time before W, I was interrogated.

“Where’s W?”

“I haven’t seen her – I reckon she’s hiding – that’s where I have been.”

It was a great day and everybody enjoyed it.

At that point in my life, I can honestly say that Wonderful Life seemed to sum everything up perfectly - for a while at least.

31 Days of Blogging - Day 15

Day 15 –– Tears For Fears - Head Over Heels



Songs From The Big Chair is my favourite pop album of the 1980s and Head Over Heels is one of the great songs from that album.

I was living in a bedsit at the time in South Manchester and had a kind of crazy social life. During the week I hung out with mates from work – usually in the pub – and at weekends I commuted to Harlow, via London, to see W.

I wasn’t settled yet; I still had the mind-set of a student and found myself enjoying crazy nights and then going to work with a hangover.

I soon realised that I couldn’t keep this up, particularly when one of my work colleagues remarked that I “stank like a brewery”. I wasn’t the only one – but it did make me realise that the excesses of my student days simply didn’t fit snugly with the demands of my company.

I cut down considerably and learned to drive.

Nobody in my working class family had ever been behind the wheel of a car so that was another first. I had lessons every Friday lunchtime with an old guy who used to bellow “mirror mirror mirror” every time I made a manoeuvre. It drove me round the bend and I had to bite my tongue to stop myself telling him to shut up (thankfully I was becoming a nicer person).

I passed my test first time and was absolutely delighted. My driving instructor was equally elated and chalked me up as yet another success. He wouldn’t let me drive back home so he did the honours – and when a set of traffic lights turned red, he shouted “MIRROR MIRROR MIRROR”. I burst out laughing when he said “I do that in my sleep!”

My bedsit was a strange place; it was a room in a big house in Fallowfield, owned by a rather strange professor who worked at Manchester University. He was a really eccentric guy and often woke me up at 3 am playing his piano.

He always wanted me to hand over the rent in person, too – so he could “have a chat” with me. And those chats were very peculiar. For example, he was convinced that there was a pervert dumping elastic bands on the door step.

“I don’t know what this madman is doing,” he would say. “Every day, more elastic bands. What is going on?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was the postman; I chose to let him have an unexplained mystery in his life.

Worse, he did not like the idea of people who weren’t married, living or sleeping together. He actually said to me:

“If I catch you with a woman in your room at night, I shall throw you out.”

I was 23 years old for God’s sake.

When W came up to Manchester, I had to sneak her in and then sneak her out again in the morning. One time, he saw us coming in on a Sunday morning and asked W where she was staying: “With my sister in Fallowfield” she lied. She doesn’t even have a sister.

I often wonder why I stayed in that bedsit for so long – I would have been much happier in a shared house. I think the main reason was because I was broke – the rent was really cheap.

The money from work was good but I had to pay off an overdraft from my days as a student; I spent a lot of the bank’s money funding my trip around Europe and had to pay the price. The bank were furious until they discovered my job offer; and then they changed back from evil Mr Hyde into kindly Dr Jekyll – mainly because they saw an opportunity to do what banks do best – squeeze more money out of me.

I didn’t mind.

It took a while to pay off the bank’s “kind loan” but when I had paid off that last monthly instalment I decided that I needed to sort myself out.

Living in a cheap bedsit with a mad landlord seemed like a good idea – and it would have been had I not had to commute to London every fortnight to see W.

I wondered just how long that could last.

Looking back it was typical; I’d spent years trying to get a girlfriend and then, when I finally managed it, she lived over 200 miles away.

Bloody typical.

31 Days of Blogging - Day 14

Day 14 – Frankie Goes To Hollywood - Two Tribes



Two Tribes still sends shivers up my spine after all these years – it is one of my all-time favourite pop songs.

1984 was the year of Frankie Goes To Hollywood and also my final year at university. Again it is a bittersweet memory – bitter only in that I had to leave Liverpool.

The good news is that I was good enough to earn an honours degree in Computational and Statistical Science. I loved Liverpool so much that I wanted to get a job there and stay in the city. Sadly there were limited opportunities there so I had to move.

I was eventually offered a job in Manchester a city that is only 30 miles away. I had already decided that I was not going to return to Walsall or Birmingham – there was nothing there for me, apart from family – and Walsall was close enough to Manchester for me to be able to commute (it’s about 75 miles away).

In that final year in Liverpool, I met W. She was going out with one of my best mates and the first time we met, we kissed – and then fought.

Again I was the victim of my own blindness; the difference was that W made it perfectly clear over the course of 1984 how she felt about me. I should have guessed.

She typed up my final year project for me and all she wanted in repayment was for me to take her out for a mail. As it turned out, this was a romantic meal and she was still going out with my mate.

I tried not to respond and I think I succeeded. We all left and moved on. My mate moved to Basingstoke in the south of England, I moved to Manchester and W stayed in Liverpool (as she was in the year below us).

Over the summer, she went to America and wrote me letters. I started to sense that she was planning something. Inevitably she spilt up from her boyfriend, citing the stresses of a “long distance relationship” as the cause.

And then she pursued me.

I resisted until early 1985 and then succumbed to temptation.

I found myself returning to Liverpool University to see her and visit mates I still had there. We started a relationship.

It was a lot more serious than any relationship I had ever had before. I was 22 years old and staring at my career path and it terrified me. I worked in Manchester and pined for the student life. I made new friends but there was something missing – freedom.

I realised that I needed to work to live but it took me a long time to get used to the daily grind. The only thing that made it worthwhile was the money. In my last summer holiday before starting work I went with two mates on a four week tour of Europe and I loved it.

I wouldn’t say I was bitten by the travel bug; I was positively savaged by it. I loved the freedom of travelling around France, Spain and Portugal and naively thought that I could do this all the time.

It was a major blow when I realised instead that I only had four weeks annual leave a year and that I had to go and ask somebody for permission to take time off – it was like being back at school but with a few perks.

Another seed was sewn, dear reader; a seed of discontent that has gradually blossomed over the years.

The work was interesting but in those days there was little scope for travelling at all. It involved writing software, testing software and then travelling to another UK town to install it – if I was lucky.

Bizarrely, my first business trip was back to Liverpool to work at an edible oil producing company on the docks.

Not exactly exotic was it?

All of this time, W was working hard to finish her degree and she passed. She got a job in Harlow, in Essex – over 150 miles away.

And I remembered her dumping my mate because of a long distance relationship.

While the future looked bright, there were dark clouds looming on the horizon.

I was taking my place in the rat race.

And even now, I miss those days at university. I miss the freedom, the social life, the new and bizarre people I met (even the nerds) and, yes, I even miss the academic study.

It was a period of my life that I shall hold dear and I am still fiercely nostalgic for that period, particularly when I hear music from the time.

31 Days of Blogging - Day 13

Day 13 –– Spandau Ballet - Instinction



I had a love/hate relationship with Spandau Ballet. I loved Instinction – but hated most of everything else they ever did.

There was one song in particular that I can’t even bring myself to mention – it brings back such painful memories.

Suffice it to say it was about a woman – a woman I was seriously in love with. Sadly those feelings were totally one-sided. I’ve posted about her before so I shall refrain from writing this tortuous episode again.

I did have some fun with women at university. Nevertheless, my inability to read female body language was a major hindrance; if I fancied a woman I was utterly convinced that she fancied me. There were women who actually did like me but like a complete lemon I did not see the signs.

On a few occasions, I found myself at a night club with friends, some female, and when it came to the slow dance, I was more likely than not stuck in the corner watching the smooching couple with envy.

And there were occasions when a female friend would simply grab me by the hand and have a smooch dance – and being the utter blind pillock that I was, I would regard it as a friend simply dancing with me just so that I didn’t feel left out.

One mate used to say to me – “You have a harem; how come you haven’t got a girlfriend yet?”

The problem was that when I danced with these women, I spoke to them like mates and when the dance was over I would walk away, leaving them feeling insulted that I had not responded to their advances. And they would subsequently treat me with contempt (a smile here and there but largely ignoring me because I had mistreated them).

See what I mean? I was a complete idiot.

And this is where I began to have serious doubts about my understanding of the fair sex.

“She bloody fancies you, you total moron. What do you want her to do? Carve it on your forehead?”

“Why can’t women TELL me they fancy me?”

“Because they don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“They just don’t!”

No wonder I struggled. I was like a blind man walking towards a precipice.

I did have my moments though but usually this involved women I didn’t know and, of course, beer. When I had sobered up, I suddenly became very shy and the embryonic relationship fizzled out before it had even begun.

I was crap with women – I probably still am (don’t answer that, Mrs PM!).

And I haven’t learned my lesson yet – and thank God I no longer have to worry about it; the thought of having to go out and find myself a woman fills me with utter dread. All those memories of failure with a woman I was besotted with; a woman who tore out my heart and chomped it in front of me before casting aside for the vultures to devour; humiliation after humiliation.

Do you know what? I’ve changed my mind. I WILL tell you the name of the song that fills me with dread because of the woman who plucked my heart from my chest and laughed as I crumbled before her.

I feel we have bonded, dear reader, so I shall pour out my heart to you.

The song was “True” by Spandau Ballet – look it up on YouTube because I can’t bear to post even a link to it.

I may even tell you the name of the woman concerned – but you would have to get me very drunk first.

I prefer to remember Instinction.

It’s a pity that I have no instinct myself.

31 Days of Blogging - Day 12

Day 12 – Godley and Creme - Under Your Thumb



Students are a strange breed, and back in 1982 it was no different. The arts students seemed to want to express themselves physically and generally had a strange appearance.

I looked like a geek, as did many science students, but I was quite astounded to see a lot of overweight female students with bright pink hair, talking utter gibberish.

At first I thought I was missing something but then I realised that I simply didn’t speak “arty farty” as I so crudely and stupidly put it at the time.

There were no shortage of extra-curricular activities to pursue at university and I have to say that I dabbled in some pretty mad and sad pursuits.

For instance, I joined the Dungeons and Dragons society, having flirted with a game in the Sixth Form at school. I turned up and encountered the weirdest bunch of misfits it has ever been my misfortune to meet.

As I stood there in a room in the Students Union watching these six guys and one girl, I began to seriously doubt my own sanity. The clear head of the group was a long-haired bearded six foot five pseudo-intellectual – I initially thought he was gay but he proved me wrong in spectacular fashion later in the evening.

He took charge of the group and we all played this weird role-playing game involving dice and battles with imaginary people and weird troll-like beasts. About half way through the game, we had a coffee break (I went up to the bar to get some beer – I needed it - I was interrogating myself all the way to the bar asking one question over and over again - "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE WITH THESE PEOPLE??").

Eventually I returned to see the leader of the pack lying down on a table on top of the girl (who was quite chubby) and they were quite literally trying to eat each other’s tongues.

I was sick in my mouth briefly.

The remaining nerds were sitting there oblivious to this depraved snogging and chatting about mythical monsters as if they were real.

I gulped my pint and was on my way back to the bar to get another one (and I definitely definitely needed it after seeing the snogging), when I heard a huge thumping noise from somewhere else. Another student appeared and went through a door labelled “STAFF ONLY” and as soon as he opened the door, I heard music – loud music – very loud music - extremely loud music.

I opted to investigate and, fuelled by a little Dutch courage and an overwhelming desire to rid myself of the snogging memory, peered through the door and found myself in the main concert hall of the Student Union, watching a band perform. This was far more interesting than Dungeons, Dragons, Nerds and Nerd Snogging so I opted to gate-crash the gig instead. I saw a whole crowd of people standing outside with tickets waiting to get in so I joined the crowd already waiting at the stage.

The anarchist inside me rejoiced.

I didn’t want to ask who was playing so I stood still nursing my pint. The band currently on stage finished (they were the support) and then on came the main act – Bow Wow Wow – do you remember this song?



Weird.

So why did I select Godley and Creme's Under Your Thumb? Well I was never a fan of Bow Wow Wow but the song that was playing when I was trying unsuccessfully to vanquish dragons with the weird nerds was Under Your Thumb – and I love that song.

Sadly the main memory it sparks is that Dungeons and Dragons episode; but at least for this post you get two songs for the price of one.

I did see one or more of the nerds after that and, being a friendly chap, I talked to them fairly often. They even tried to persuade me to fight more mythical battles against even more bizarre imaginary beasts – but I refused, citing cowardice (though I didn't mention that I was really afraid to witness another large dose of inappropriate snogging).

But what was the real excuse?

I had a life.

31 Days of Blogging - Day 11

Day 11 – Blancmange – Living on the Ceiling



University is supposed to be a place of academia and study, a place where people discuss cerebral subjects and surround themselves in an atmosphere of learning and intellectual pursuits.

It was for me.

Additionally, it was a place of partying and absolute fun.

During my first year in Liverpool I was like the proverbial kid in a candy shop. I was away from home and felt like a puppy liberated from the leash. I ran around like a lunatic, sampling everything.

I had money (though not a lot) and I could do what I wanted. I could go to the pub, meet friends, stay up late, lie in and drink like an idiot.

I’m not going to bore you with my tales of excess and tomfoolery – there are too many to mention – but I had to calm down, that much was certain. Sadly, it took a couple of years for me to fully appreciate what I was doing.

I met countless new people: intellectuals, pseudo-intellectuals, fools, friends and foes.

It was mind-blowing and for a while I was lost. It was like being drunk (and drink was involved of course) although I mean the surreal feeling of being drunk rather than the physical symptoms. It was almost like a waking dream.

University is totally unlike the school experience. Attending lectures instead of lessons and being able to go and sit in a bar drinking coffee with your new friends is a bizarre experience. There were people from all walks of life.

I met one of my best friends there but his background is diametrically opposite to mine. I came from a poor working class background with a dad who worked in a factory and a mum who was a secretary before giving it up to take cleaning jobs to make ends meet.

My friend J went to public school and came from the richest part of Birmingham. His mother was a doctor and his father a vicar. His accent was and is extremely posh, his manners pristine, his outlook on life and his experiences completely different from mine.

Yet we bonded and became best mates, along with a group of other people who I still keep in touch with today.

After a couple of weeks of being a party animal I suddenly realised why I was at university and what I was meant to achieve. I had to be very careful as I had little money. I started to work.

And I actually enjoyed it. Maths took on a whole new level of difficulty and I found myself having to work really hard. My very first Maths homework involved ten really difficult questions. It took me two days to answer the first one and I struggled.

We were taught theorem after theorem, lemma after lemma (yes – what IS a lemma? It is a stepping stone to a larger result rather than theorem- apparently).

Computer Science was new and I loved it and I threw myself whole heartedly into it. I also had to endure statistics, numerical analysis and a few other bits and pieces.

There was a lot to learn and it was tough.

Nevertheless, as I have hinted, we found times to let down our hair and usually popped into our local pub on a Saturday Night – the Aigburth Arms.

The pub had a video jukebox and we used to hope that the locals put on our favourite songs (we would have but we had little money to waste). One of my favourites was the aforementioned Living on the Ceiling.

The locals in the pub didn’t take kindly to students and there was an uneasy atmosphere sometimes. We didn’t help by being loud and boorish. I was a target for abuse on a couple of occasions because, of all my mates, I looked like an easier target.

As a young man I was still slightly arrogant, slightly cocky and didn’t react favourably when somebody who I didn’t know, decided to take the piss. With blond hair and glasses, I was good fodder for the witty Scouse put down.

“Look at ‘im here,” said one guy once when I was standing at the bar. “It’s Bamber Gascoigne.”

These days I would laugh with them and not react at all. In those days I was not so civil and regarded such banter as a form of verbal bullying – and my response was not pleasant, particularly when fuelled by a little ale.

“Very funny,” I retorted. “Great imagination. Bet you’ve never watched University Challenge, have you? Can you even spell it? I’d offer you a starter for ten – but I bet you can’t count to ten, can you?”

I was an idiot and if I hadn’t been with a group of mates that particular response might have turned ugly. I was fairly lucky really – and I realised it when I returned to the table and my mates were horrified at what I had said, so much so that they feared reprisals. There were none – thankfully.

Incidents like this make me cringe when I look back at them.

It was essential that I grew up instead of acting like an arse. And I started to realise this and act accordingly.

The independence, the need to look after my own finances, the fear of failure and the freedom to express myself and do as I pleased all began to contribute to my becoming something else.

I was finally going to become a mature person.

And I liked the idea very much.

31 Days of Blogging - Day 10

Day 10 – The Human League – The Sound of the Crowd



1981 was a pivotal year in my life. The Human League released The Sound of the Crowd, the first song from the album Dare and it serves as a reminder of that year – both good and bad.

I love the song and it reminds me vividly of a year that was a rollercoaster of emotion.

In the summer of 1981 I finished my A Levels and left school. As you can imagine, it was quite an experience. My dad made sure that I knuckled down and revised for my exams.

It was difficult and I can honestly say that I worked really hard; I had too. Maths was relatively easy and I actually enjoyed doing past papers – so much so that I did them for fun.

My other two main subjects, Physics and Chemistry proved to be very challenging. From the day my Chemistry teacher said “Forget all you learned at O Level – this is what really happens” I realised that this was going to be tough. I didn’t really enjoy Physics either but I took it keep my options open. And it too was tough.

I spent most of my time in my room trying to turn my brain into a knowledge sponge – and just like a sponge, when you squeezed it, the knowledge flooded tight out again.

I became a hermit. I gave up my job at the newsagent. And I passed the exams – all of them.

When the exam results turned up, the first person I told was my dad – who was really proud of my accomplishment. I had achieved the grades to go to my first choice university; Liverpool.

My mum was happy but I could tell that she wasn’t comfortable with my leaving home for three years.

My dad on the other hand told all of his mates and was delighted that a factory worker had somehow spawned a child intelligent enough to get to university.

Everyone was happy.

Prince Charles married Lady Diana Spencer that year too. The UK celebrated and every town and city in the land had a party. The pubs were open all day and my dad took advantage of this by disappearing at around four o’clock in the afternoon to meet his mates in Walsall town centre.

My mates and I didn’t have enough money to spend all day drinking so we wandered around soaking in the atmosphere in the town before finally arriving in a pub at around eight o’clock – only to find my dad there.

He was quite drunk and quite generous.

We stayed there with him for a couple of hours before he finally said “We’d better get home. Your mum will go mad.”

S, my dad and I wobbled home chatting about life and the wedding. It was fabulous – we were all merry and laughing. I remember with horror my best mate Simon asking my dad:

“Would you do her, George?”

“What?”

“Would you do Lady Diana?”

“Too young,” said my dad diplomatically.

“I would,” I said at which point my dad almost fell over laughing.

The wedding was in July.

My dad died in August – he was only 44.

It is still difficult for me to get my head around how it could have happened and why an apparently fit 44 year old could die so suddenly. The cause of death was a pulmonary embolism caused by a blood clot in his leg.

My dreams were utterly shattered. The man who had pushed me to get to university, the man who was so proud of my achievement and the man who had sacrificed so much for me was gone.

I almost gave up.

I almost called Liverpool University to tell them that I would not be coming. I changed my mind when everybody who knew my dad urged me to carry on. People told me how proud he was and what he hoped for me and that it would be a complete waste for me to throw it all away.

After a lot of thought and encouragement I made the decision. I would follow my dad’s dream.

In October 1981, I found myself on a train to Liverpool with a suitcase and more fear and terror than I thought I could handle.

I got off the train at Lime Street Station and there was a party of third year students waiting to greet me. Somehow I plucked up the courage to approach them.

“I’m new here,” I said, sticking out like a sore thumb.

“Don’t worry,” said one guy. “You’ll love it here.”

And he was right.

31 Days of Blogging - Day 9

Day 9 – Adam and the Ants - Ant Music



“So unplug the jukebox and do yourself a favour – that music’s lost its taste so try another flavour.”

Christmas 1980 and as an eighteen year old I had discovered beer. Of course, I had been partaking in the wicked substance at the tender age of sixteen but because I looked like a ten year old, I found it difficult to get served in pubs.

I ended up carrying my birth certificate around with me to prove my age – which was very embarrassing. S, my good looking mate, looked about thirty as did the other guys we used to hang round with.

Saturday night was pub night and now I had something else to spend my money on, other than music. I had once managed to get myself horribly drunk (read about it here) and I almost became teetotal. However, thankfully, I started to take it easy and by managed to venture to a couple of pubs in Walsall town centre and arrive home feeling the good effects of alcohol.

I also did something about my hair. It had been like a white afro – a huge amount of hair that added about six inches to my height and width. I decided to have it styled and after that major operation I actually looked normal. My hair was the shortest it had been since 1970.

Having a good looking mate like S was a bonus because he lost his shyness after a couple of beers and would randomly talk to women in the pubs. This was particularly good around Christmas because invariably he would ask them for a Christmas kiss – and usually get one. I was just a hanger on and I got the odd snog too – which was a massive bonus.

I discovered that drunk women wear beer goggles.

We also discovered clubs too. Walsall had one night club called “Max’s” and I ventured in there whenever I could afford it – which was tricky on the little money I earned working in a newsagent. Sometimes my dad would help me out by slipping me a few quid, with the words:

“Don’t tell your mum. She’ll go mad if she thinks I’m paying for you to have beer.”

New Years’ Eve 1980 was magnificent. My dad treated me to enough cash to “have a good time” and me S and the lads found ourselves a pub that stayed open into the wee small hours. The bonus was that it was full of young women and we had a great time. I distinctly recall wandering home through Walsall town centre at around half past one in the morning asking every good looking girl I passed for a New Year kiss – and actually getting lots.

Beer goggles again.

Getting a girlfriend was still impossible (they saw me in a different light when they were sober – no beer goggles you see) but to be honest with all the work I had to do for my A levels and exams, it was difficult to juggle everything; a girlfriend would have been impossible. I had to make do with the odd night down the pub.

Of course, S had a girlfriend to occupy his time and I used that time to work. When we did pop out to the pub, we used to always put Ant Music on the jukebox and sing the chorus out loud - until we were shushed by the regulars – who suggested that the landlord really did “unplug the jukebox”.

Looking back, it was a strange experience still being at school and finding ourselves old enough to go to the pub. Sometimes, we would risk popping to the pub on Friday lunchtimes during school, removing our blazers and ties because officially the local pub had a policy not to sell beer to sixth form students.

The landlord must have known though – as well as the teachers (who must surely have smelled alcohol).

Coincidentally the local newsagent did a roaring trade in chewing gum and extra strong mints.

31 Days of Blogging - Day 8

Day 8 – Blondie - Atomic



I’ve had a lot of crushes in the past – and Debbie Harry was one of them. I wasn’t such a fan of Blondie but I absolutely loved Atomic.

Here are some of the women I worshipped from afar in the 1970’s:

Debbie Harry

Debbie Harry was amazing and had an edge that I loved. She was dangerous - or at least she gave that impression when performing. And I loved that about her.

Lindsay Wagner

I loved the Bionic Woman (being a geek) but the main reason I watched the show was because of Lindsay Wagner. She was just a clean cut American girl next door – with the power to punch a hole through the wall – see what I mean about liking dangerous women?

Jaclyn Smith

Have I got a problem? Jaclyn Smith of Charlie’s Angels fame, could “kick ass” as the Americans like to say. Again, she was dangerous but also very lovely.

Linda Carter

And the most dangerous of all was Wonder Woman, a lovely lady who could deflect bullets and had a whip powerful enough to scare even the most determined masochist.

There were other famous ladies that I fancied but those listed above were by far my favourites. I’ve always had a penchant for strong women and I guess my choices reflect that. That didn’t stop me from liking the girl next door though – I just love women who can stand up for themselves.

In 1980, all the girls my age were just as scared about life as I was and I found it very difficult to convince them that I was a worthy boyfriend. When I split up with C, I did so with nothing to fall back on and spent my final year at school embarrassingly free of love.

Mates at school and at home all seemed to be settling down into cosy little relationships – and yes they were becoming relationships. Even my two younger sisters had boyfriends.

It didn’t help that I was shy. I was fine asking girls out for S (as I said in my previous post) but I simply didn’t have the courage to express my feelings to the girls I craved. When I did (and it took a lot of courage I can tell you) I was told in no uncertain terms that I was not suitable boyfriend material.

One girl, with whom I was very friendly, jokingly said to me when I was around 18:

“When you finish university and get a great job, will you come back to Walsall and marry me?”

Like a bloody idiot I misread the signs. I plucked up the courage to ask her out but couldn’t cross the line to do so. I begged S to do it for me and, remembering past favours, went to her house to ask her out for me.

He came back and told me the bad news.

“She says that it will never happen.”

Again my soul was savaged and my heart fed into a shredder.

The next time she saw me, she told me that she liked me as a friend – but that was all. She confirmed that her marriage quip had been just a joke.

I felt like a complete and utter buffoon. I felt humiliated.

Thankfully S was the soul of discretion and so was she. Nobody else knew so I was spared wider humiliation.

None of this stopped me from feeling gutted and although the girl and I kind of remained friends I found myself drifting away from her. I haven’t seen her since 1981 either – but recently she found me on “Friends Reunited” and we are kind of “cyber friends” even though I have only briefly asked how she is.

So as well as having to make important career decisions, pass important exams, deal with hormones, and cope with untold other stresses, my heart was being eroded gradually by failure after failure with women.

1980 and 1981 was the time when my life started to change and not just because of A Level exams and the prospect of going to university. I had to change on a personal level and I finally began to take steps to do so…

…starting with my hair.

31 Days of Blogging - Day 7

Day 7 – Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark - Messages



By 1980 I had my own music centre. My dad had moved along with the ever advancing progress of technology and splashed out on a brand new music machine.

I inherited his old one but I had to share it with my two sisters. This was bad news.

The good news was that being the eldest child and almost 18 years old, I was allowed to keep it in my bedroom. Sadly, this meant that most of time when I returned home after school or hanging around with friends, I found one or both of my sisters camped out in my bedroom listening to their dreadful nonsense.

Thankfully I was able to take advantage of the times when they weren’t in and hide in my room with the volume turned up loudly playing great songs like Messages, which sounded magnificent.

Also, at around this time, I managed to acquire my first serious girlfriend.

I’m not sure how, to be honest – this is the story of my life really.

I’m one of those people who simply cannot understand women and cannot spot when a woman actually fancies me or really likes me. When I have tried to get a girlfriend in the past, I have poured my heart out them, declared my undying love for them, only to be shot down in flames.

My friend S was a girl magnet. He was my best friend and he always seemed to have a girlfriend. I never understood why. Perhaps it was because he was cool and trendy, had a car and was (so I’m told) very good looking.

I was small, scruffy and looked like a warthog wearing a wig. My hair was long – very long – and also very bushy.

I was a lot more intelligent than S – he left school at sixteen and got a job with his dad who was a builder. He had money and a clapped out old Ford Capri while I was at school with nothing but my books.

I envied him. I wanted to be him.

I also used to chat up women for him. I had no fear as long as I wasn’t doing it for myself. Why did I do it? Because S was very shy and I wasn’t as long as I was doing it for him.

Once, on one of the rare times he was between girlfriends, we were driving along and he spotted a girl who lived at the top of my road, somebody he had fancied for a while. She was divinely gorgeous. He was too scared to stop his car and talk to her. So I wound down the window and shouted,

“Hiya Sexy!!”

I had nothing to lose.

Two days after that I passed her in the street, without S, and she recognised the baboon who had screamed out of the car. I knew S was besotted with her so I said to her, “Would you fancy going out on a date with my mate? “

“Do you mean you or your mate?” she asked.

“My mate,” I confirmed. I wonder what would have happened had I said “ME!!!”

I reckon she would have said “NOOO!!!” and run off screaming.

Instead she said “Yes,” when she knew I was talking about S.

She’d only seen him a couple of times. I arranged a time and a place for them and, of course, S swept her off her feet.

There were times when I hated him.

I was still working in the newsagents at this time because I needed cash, but I had graduated to helping out in the shop, stock-taking etc..

One girl, who also worked there, a sixteen year old who I shall call C, took a real shine to me and hung around with me all the time. I treated her as a mate and had no idea that she was utterly infatuated with me.

Everybody else saw it apart from me.

And then one day, we were sitting down in the back of the shop when something inside her must have snapped. We were talking and she said

“Just shut up!”

I was astounded and said “Why, what have I …”

She grabbed me and gave me a massive kiss.

She later told me that she had been dying to do so from the moment she met me. See what I mean? I was blind to the obvious and I have not learned to read female body language at all since – as you will no doubt discover further in the next few instalments of this blogathon.

Messages brings back vivid memories of that time, reminding me of my first real relationship – although it’s a bit weird referring to it as a “relationship” really when both us were just kids.

Still, it lasted a year before we eventually parted. And when it did, my mum was utterly devastated. I don’t know what she thought might happen but she really liked C, so much so that she actually told me off.

Can you believe that?

My mum still lives in Walsall and has actually seen C a few times in recent years. I haven’t seen her since 1981 – but apparently she still asks about me.

Which is nice.

A Recipe For Disaster

In the past, on this blog, I have tried to give you the impression that I am an intelligent guy.

That is true – but at the same time I can be a bloody idiot.

How do you make a so-called intelligent Plastic Mancunian into an idiot? There are many recipes; here’s one of them I used a long time ago:

INGREDIENTS

One sober young Plastic Mancunian.

One ridiculous set of clothes that are fashionable only in the eyes of the Plastic Mancunian.

One mirror.

Two other sober young friends of the Plastic Mancunian also prepared in ridiculous clothes.

One ATM card.

Several pints of fine English ale (or lager if none is available)

One Friday or Saturday night.

Several expensive pubs in London.

One very expensive night club in London.

A large group of people willing to dance.

One DJ.

One night club bouncer.

Approximately two hours of cheesy music.

Three young ladies who are well out of the league of the Plastic Mancunian and his mates.

Several cheesy chat up lines.

One stupid idea.

One taxi.

One time machine.

PREPARATION METHOD

(1) Using the time machine, transport the ingredients back to 1985. It doesn’t matter if the year is 1984 or 1985 – that should be close enough.

(2) Dress the Plastic Mancunian in the set of ridiculous clothes and stand him in front of the mirror until he believes that he is sex on a stick. This should take approximately two minutes.

(3) At this moment, take the pre-dressed friends and put them and the Plastic Mancunian into the first expensive pub in London.

(4) Soak the idiots in a couple of pints of beer.

(5) When the conversation starts to get silly and the three young men start to turn into idiots, transfer them to another expensive pub in London.

(6) At this point, you may need to apply the ATM card, particularly if any of the idiots have run out of cash.

(7) Repeat steps (4) to (6) for several hours until the three young men are fully matured idiots.

(8) Apply the ATM card one more time.

(9) Transfer the three idiots to the very expensive and preheated London night club.

(10) Apply the ATM card again because the idiots didn’t get enough cash.

(11) At this point the idiots may realise that they are about to make a huge error in judgement. If this is the case, liberally apply more beer in another pub. That idea will soon diminish.

(12) Apply the ATM card again if necessary.

(13) Before reaching the next stage, the three idiots should be well-oiled and may even be rat-arsed. Ideally they should all be able to string together a coherent sentence and understand each other – just.

(14) Place the idiots outside the very expensive night club in London at the back of the queue of people who are willing to dance.

(15) Slowly place the group of people into the night club for just enough time to irritate the Plastic Mancunian. Two minutes should suffice.

(16) Before putting the idiots into the night club, make sure that the Plastic Mancunian has been allowed to exchange words with the night club bouncer.

(17) Do not allow the night club bouncer to mutate into a violent moron – that will ruin the recipe. If necessary subdue the Plastic Mancunian with a diversionary tactic; pop the three young ladies into the night club (though they can be applied later).

(18) Once in the night club, apply liberal lashings of lager. Be careful not to overdo it at this stage.

(19) Mix the DJ, the cheesy music and the group of people willing to dance until the atmosphere is HOT, HOT, HOT!!!!

(20) Take the stupid idea and mix it with the idiot that is thriving best in the lager. The best idea to use is Impersonate the Dancer, whereby one of the idiots tries to exactly copy one of the more bizarre dancers for one whole song.

(21) When the idiot has finished dancing, and assuming he hasn’t been attacked by the target of his impersonation, he must select another idiot to impersonate another dancer. At this point it may be necessary to apply yet more beer and if you have any, some Dutch courage.

(22) Repeat steps (20) and (21) until each idiot has played the game or until the threat of violence has reached alarming levels.

(23) At this point, mix in the three young ladies who are out the idiots’ league (if not added already) and liberally pour in as many cheesy chat up lines to add a little spice. My personal favourite is

Hey Doll. Have you got a license for those eyes?

Nevertheless,  

Fancy a snog?

will do if all else fails.

(24) There may be a few slapped faces at this point but that will add to the pleasure; the idiots won’t feel the pain; they should be totally sozzled at this point.

(25) Continue to cook at a high temperature until the idiots start to wilt or the three ladies resort to more extreme forms of violence.

(26) Now transfer the idiots to a taxi, applying the ATM card for one final time if necessary. There is no need to worry about the three young ladies at this stage; they will have disposed of the idiots in suitable fashion. The three idiots will be saying “Yeerrr my bessst mate!” to each other anyway.

(27) Leave the resulting mess to rest overnight.

When you have finished in the morning, you will have three colossal hangovers, no memory, no cash, no egos and lots of embarassment all nicely wrapped up in the stupidity of youth with maybe a little vomit on the side.