Lemonlight

You know how sometimes a situation presents itself and all you can think of are the lyrics to a song from the 1980s?

No? Maybe it's just me hearing this soundtrack of retro-pop. It's not that I'm stuck in a rut music-wise, in fact I much prefer to listen to new music (I love BBC 6 Music), but none of the new stuff sticks in my mind like the tunes I listened to as a teenager (I think that says more about being a teenager than any sort of critique on the music).

Anyhoo, what all this is leading to is the beginnings of a little sideline of mine - transplanting the lyrics of such luminaries as George Michael and Blondie and coupling them with thoughts and current events. Without the music the lyrics gain a poetic majesty - a bit like when you see a photo of a tough old rugby player mid kick looking like a prima ballerina. I'm waffling - have a look and see...

Glastonbury, 1990

We've just had the summer solstice, so it must be time for the Glastonbury Festival!

It's always been seen as 'the big one' to go to as far as music festivals are concerned and in 1990, when I was very young and a lot less cynical I went along and had a jolly good time. Actually, it was 1990 so to be precise I was 'Mad For It'! Everyone was 'Mad' for everything in the early 1990s so it was brilliant to see the Happy Mondays headlining the Pyramid Stage, awesome (although to start with we did all wonder if the roadies had been on the glue and taken to the stage - let's just say they took a while to get going)!

I wish I could remember more about the music, but all that really sticks in my mind is the mud (oh, so much mud), the crowds (70,000 vegan Hawkwind fans can get surprisingly boisterous) and some frankly bizarre human behaviour (who brings a horse to a music festival?). Thinking about it now though, the music was only a small part of it, the Glastonbury Festival is more than the sum of its parts - it never really leaves you once you've been.

You can see what it was like on this great website - can't believe how ancient the photos look!

I was still a teenager in 1990 which was ideal as I was still very much enamoured with anything tie-dyed; awe-struck by seeing famous people, and didn't mind going without sleep for a whole weekend. Glastonbury opened my suburban eyes to the tribal nature of society - it was a bit like being an Iron Age person for a few days. You get used to the smelliness quite quickly!

Nothing though ever quite prepares you for THE TOILETS FROM HELL. All those vegiburgers, magic mushrooms and rough ciders had to go somewhere - this is where they went. If all the toilets in the world were like this then society's obesity problem would be solved overnight, as people would (as I did) avoid all food and drink (apart from vodka) to curb any sort of bodily function.

Apparently 1990 was a big turning point for the Glastonbury Festival - it was the last year it was seen as a Traveller's Festival, the last year of it raising money for CND and of course it was the last year of Thatcherism. There was truly something to rage against in 1990, a reason to come together, something to be 'Mad for'.

Nowadays the whole thing is televised (thank you BBC), also a bit more business-like and 'trendy'. It does mean though that I get a sofa, indoor plumbing and the ability to fast-forward through the bits I'm not so keen on. Very convenient, but it's no 1990.

This is me looking 'Mad for it' in 1990 - just look at that hair...!

Apple or Egg?

Woo hoo, the long-awaited Apple store opens in Southampton on Saturday. Apparently the first 1000 people through the doors will get a t-shirt and rumoured other goodies, and I have friends who have seriously suggested getting there really early to scoop the loot. Err, no.

The last time I queued up for something like this was to get tickets to see Depeche Mode in 1983. I walked the 3 miles into town with my friend Claire (who had the perfect Dave Gahan fringe). We got to the theatre at about 6am and sat and watched the sunrise and the milk-floats clatter and chink before us... alone. Admittedly by 9am lots more teenagers had turned up - each and every one (both male and female) had their long fringe over the one eye and much too much black eyeliner. The only reason this was any fun at all is because I was 14 years old and anything you did without members of your family present was a big adventure – even sitting in a cold, damp alley-way between an old Victorian theatre and a 'no women allowed' Turkish bath in a dodgy part of town.

No, if you see me in an Apple t-shirt after the weekend it will be because I maintained my dignity and paid cash for it like any other sane person would. I know I am old now, as I would much prefer to spend the early hours of Saturday morning snuggled into my 15-tog duvet for as long as possible, only rising for my softly boiled, free-range, organic egg, wholemeal toasted soldiers and a giant mug of tea.

**update**

Here it is. I saw the back of a lot of heads and got much too physically close to some very dubious specimens of manhood and saw very little Apple action. Think I'll try again in a week or two when the frenzied mobs have subdued.

More of the madness can be seen here.

1986

Just look at that crucifix - it wasn't so much spiritual as on sale in Miss Selfridge. I thought I was so outrageous! I remember despising the healthy glow of youth that shone through all the layers of make-up, and wishing I was much paler and a lot less freckled.

You see that eye make-up? That took time, man! I got up at the crack of dawn to achieve that startled panda look, and I'm not a crack of dawn sort of girl (even today). I truly believe that my youthful make-up excesses are the reason I am so good today at hiding my feelings. There's no way you can afford tears, be them of mirth or sadness - with THAT much eyeliner and mascara.

Why am I showing this to you now? Well, i just found the power supply for my scanner... who knows what will turn up here next!

Pwllheli

In my childhood I spent many traumatic holidays in North Wales, in places with impossibly unpronouncable names with vrtually no vowels. Looking back at the postcards, I can see why I haven't been back!

Step back in time

I saw something today which got me thinking that, A) I'm a lot older than I think I am, and B) boys and girls aren't so different after all!

I was coming out of Boots (chemist store) and saw a very trendy guy, in his twenties, sticking elastoplat all over his blistered feet where his uber-cool suede sandals were rubbing him.

I've definately been there and done that as far as foot wear is concerned. My poor feet still bear the battle scars from prioritising fashion over comfort, but to be honest, I'd always though this was a girl thing.

When I was growing up, even the boys who wore more eyeliner than I did (and it was a LOT), would always wear comfortable shoes. Being a New Romantic whilst at school wasn't too hard to pull off; we would just embellish the school uniform with ruffled shirts, rip holes in our tights and introduce tartan wherever possible. School ties were always worn backwards so the skinny end was on show. Always. The only difference was that us girls would be hobbling (provocatively, we thought) in our too high, too pointy shoes we'd secretly purchased and changed into halfway to school, and the boys would be running ahead in their scuff-proof lace-ups trying to impress us by hanging off various items of street furniture (some things never change).

Thank god for for the late-1980s and the craze for Doctor Martn boots/shoes, otherwise I reckon I'd be getting my footwear prescribed on the NHS!

I am now 36 years old. Whilst I may be wearing the latest in Sketchers sneakers, I am really only wearing them because they're just so comfortable!

Kodak moment

Sweet baby Jesus, will you look at the hair on me!

This is a family holiday in 1984 - I'm 15 years old, and don't I look like I'm ready to murder my family in their beds! In my defence, it was 1984 and I wasn't the only one with stupid hair, stupid shoes and too much make-up - to be fair, the boys I hung round with wore more eye-liner than I did! Rather fittingly, me, my Dad and my brothers appear to be posing at Land's End in Cornwall - my mother was either taking the photo or hiding away in a Cornish tea-room pretending not to be with us.

Anger is an energy!

'Rise' by PiL - what a top tune! This may have to replace my previous number one song for singing out loud whenever I'm in an echoey room (which was 'Brass In Pocket' by The Pretenders). Even though I'm almost all grown up, this song still makes me dance around like a five year old.

Gonna use my arms, gonna use my legs...

I was flicking around the radio stations whilst driving home from the station and I struck gold with 'Brass In Pocket' by 'The Pretenders'. What a fantastic song that is - I'm sure everyone walking past my car stopped at the taffic lights on Shirley High Street would agree with me - I was belting it out  with the windows wound down - it's a HELL of a song!

Possibly my most 'politically incorrect' post, EVER. (So far).

Picture the scene... It's 1980; a very well meaning but painfully naive childrens TV show (Blue Peter) decides that the children of Britain need their horizons broadened in the field of 'people with disabilities'. This is fantastic. Great news. They should be applauded, really! I truly believe that the only disability people have is their inability to accept people for who they are (etc, etc). Well, things didn't go quite the way they planned.

Enter from stage left, Joey Deacon. He was, first and foremost a lovely, lovely man, he just happened to suffer from cerabal palsy. At the time this condition was referred to as being a 'spastic'. Now, I want to know how they thought 10 year old kids were ever going to be presented with a word like that and treat it wih any restrain or respect?

Joey Deacon had a marvellous story to tell, which was translated by Ernie (his helper) to millions of admiring and empathetic children sat at home, eating buttered crumpets and drinking milk. Nodding "Yes, what a brave man - fancy going all those years not being able to communicate, being a prisoner in your own body".

The next day at school, however... dozens of children get together and something happens to them. Children are not nice. Someone fumbles an easy field at an inpromtu game of rounders in the playground - in unison you hear the cries of "You Joey" or "Joey Deacon"! Actually, all through the eighties this cry could be heard about 19 times an hour in various formats and contexts. Songs and limericks were made up in his honour (or rather, in the honour of those whose 'spazzed out'). Remember, this was the time before Pokemon and GameBoys - this was almost a hobby! If only we had put the same effort into our school work, we'd be a generation of geniuses!

In short: Blue Peter - didn't so much educate a generation about a crippling illness - rather, it introduced a whole new vocabulary to those of us now in our 30s.

Joey Deacon - we will never forget you.