25 Years Too Late...

25 Years Too Late...

Thursday, 31 July 1986

Ritcherd 1990

‘Lagartija Nick’ – Bauhaus

This week has been a real screaming bender – apart from my amazing Sputnik LP!

Today we visited Uncle Keith, Aunty Liz, Vicky + Julian at Barnes Bysea (where they’re on holiday), which was a groove bomber!

Later:

My No.1: ‘Sex Bomb Boogie’ – Sigue Sigue Sputnik

LADIES + GENTLEMEN, LET ME PRESENT, RITCHERD 1990!

RITCHERD 1990:       I’m a space cowgirl!  I’m a 21st century whoopee girl!


Fuck off, Josiah!


What’s the price of semolina?

[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders including works originated by Elton Townend Jones, but excluding any images or design attributed to ‘The Situation’ which are copyright of The Situation (see specific acknowledgements in the ‘Thanks to…’ section below) / Based on true events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is non-profit; all video clips are used for illustrative purposes and always come from YouTube / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context.  Never forget: no man is an island.  If you think anything I’ve used is damaging you in any way, please comment and immediate action will be taken to minimise offence / This notice was amended on 13 July  2011 and is intended to cover this and all posts on www.25yearstoolate.blogspot.com that precede it]

NEXT TIME: ‘God…’

Special thanks to Waen Shepherd and John Guilor

Wednesday, 30 July 1986

Flaunt It

‘What’s The Colour of Money?’ – Hollywood Beyond



Bought Smash Hits, which was okay. 


There was a big article on Hollywood Beyond, who I quite like.


But, best of all – I now have Sigue Sigue Sputnik’s new LP Flaunt It


… and I can’t wait to hear it!




WHAT RITCHERD IS UP TO IN 1985 & 1983


[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders including works originated by Elton Townend Jones, but excluding any images or design attributed to ‘The Situation’ which are copyright of The Situation (see specific acknowledgements in the ‘Thanks to…’ section below) / Based on true events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is non-profit; all video clips are used for illustrative purposes and always come from YouTube / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context.  Never forget: no man is an island.  If you think anything I’ve used is damaging you in any way, please comment and immediate action will be taken to minimise offence / This notice was amended on 13 July  2011 and is intended to cover this and all posts on www.25yearstoolate.blogspot.com that precede it]


NEXT TIME: ‘Ritcherd 1990…’

Tuesday, 29 July 1986

Twelve Years From Now: 29/07/98

TWELVE YEARS FROM NOW…

'Life Is Sweet (Daft Punk Remix)' - Chemical Brothers

I’m drowning alone to the silent chorus of night.  Single figure, single room, double bed.  Empty.  And the.  Then.  Room like a can of worms; of hydra, biting, always gnashing at the past of a future still hidden and unknowable.


I glide across the landscape of a time beyond time, outside all I have ever known, yet still alone.  Suit of.  Not even a suit.  A jacket, my Father’s once, and trousers bought for a forgotten Christmas; secondhand waistcoat and cravat, too.  Bald head, like Crowley, like a witch doctor or a god.  The power I feel, fuelling my glidance.  Amber beer and cannabis resin in a belly aching for food, aching for love and.  When did I last speak to her?  It was some time during all the times in which I spoke to myself of legendary futures that would never really be.  When the secret of my life revealed itself to me, I failed to notice until too late; until all I had left was the realisation that my revelation had moved on.


I stood tall in Tibet, barely weeks ago; the mountains were fresh with snow, and all of it was here, in this room.  I wore purples and pinks and tartans.  My hair was long and blond, like that of my friends.  The record rack became a window; a view from some waystation.  The message was clear.  Life will take the course I need, as long as I go to the house on the hill and learn how to grow.


~ we’re only halfway there


How I sit and stare at darkened walls in nights that suck the sleep from sleep and fill it with thoughts of dreams and hopes of.  Mirror of video and audio, a single obelisk and 2D that begs me to invent inflicted pain, inflicted death.  Spaceships made of ape and bone.  Accursed clock of death.  I’m growing not fat, but soft.  A cuddly roundness, a clown-ness, a frown-ness about my face, this case for inner space.  My shelves collapsed the day my jowels did.  A calamity of books found new shapes against the wall and across the floor.  Such wonders for my prison.  The shit I carry.  The baggage I should lose.  Item no. 0534.  I missed the second five.  It comes between the three and the four.  When I broke the porcelain hand that held my books upright, grains of sand filled my bed.  Perhaps it was glass.


Oh, embraceable year!  Hard work and lost love.  Betrayal and nothing left to hope for.  A degree is surely not reward enough for these last few years of hollow pain.  I must take time to promise myself a future.  One I can enjoy and do whatever I want in.  I remember happiness, you see, and I expect I shall see its cheery face again.


~ you were never happy, said Fergie.  This is as good as it gets


I shall succeed.  At the very first attempt.  I shall grow closer to my friends.  Hah!  I tried.  Even though I was a tattered man of scraps and pieces, but she made me feel unwanted simply because she had decided our personalities did not match.  He was hers now, my time was over.  I was done and dusted.  It would be different now and after all these years my services were no longer required.  Watch that one, I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t because it was clear he loved her.  Loves her.  But why wasn’t he the one that made the announcement?  Why couldn’t he be man enough to tell me that they didn’t want me to move in with them after all?  And why did she even invite me along in the first place?  I don’t know.  I don’t know her.  Or him.  Or me.  But I will be healthier, sexier, happier and infinitely richer than any of us are right now.  And I know it. 


The disaster I had feared was actually a resounding success.  There was much drink, some dancing and even a smattering of chatter, kissing and lesbianism.  And so on.  And.  If only.


Gorgeous.  My word of choice.  She had a gorgeous smile.  Must be made of.  Forever.  So far.  She had a gorgeous smile, but they all laughed at her sky blue, thigh high dress.  I just wanted to buy her pints and caress her.  When we sat and we stared, our eyes locking tightly together, we found we had no need for words.  My best friend’s girlfriend would learn from this.  Smiling doesn’t hurt.  Being nice to people is good.  She felt my ear and I pretended she was taking an instinctive measurement of my spiritual strength.  I stroked her legs and she pretended nothing.  I could have fucked her, so they said, but I had the wonderful responsibility of friends.  I saw her naked, six hours later, legs wide open, eyes tightly closed.  Brighton rocks.


Singing carols and playing Blind Man’s Bluff with the children.  Small girls have always loved me, I never knew why.


She thought she’d left all that in the past, no offence to you.


~ I tried, lied her sister

~ don’t mince words, I said


She didn’t.


My girl left and fed me to the past.  Gone to America, her brave new world.  She told me she’d wasted eight years on me.


~ I am not one dimensional, I cried; my multitudes cried.


I dream of our cat-children every night, sending them light, sending them love.  Hectic weeks.  Coursework and workwork.  I should do.  My body, giving in to stress and bills and Uni and Christmas and moving house and cats with flu and rejection and customers and a lack of.  Well, it was practically a divorce, let’s be honest, and.  Yellow and blue.  Like the living room.  Cats climbing curtains and a new blend of coffee every week.  Kissing her body all over.  The thrill and the excitement.  Fucking on the stairs with the cats watching, agog.  Beyond imagining.  One of the cats sucked at my ear as I slept.  I promised not to let her die when she had the flu.  How ill.  How sweet.  My ear a teat.  How I loved them when last I saw them, refusing bowls of scrambled egg and taunting the dog in the wig in the run on the ladder to my shoulders, begging train rides to Cat Town.  Do they have a new father now?  A wife-beating drunk?  She said I had no get-up-and-go because I refused to play solely on her terms.  I expect she’d never make such crass demands of her husband.  She is her husband; modelled herself on him; read all the books he read; listened to the music he listened to; followed the career he followed; became him, like the ultimate stalker.  I no longer love her.


Gliding, I experience feelings, memories, sensations that ought to be mine, but I cannot place all of them.


~ one second, I said, I feel the spring of eleven years ago, nineteen years ago, twelve years ago or fourteen.  But I cannot locate them in the outer world.  Those springs are gone now.


I feel ghost-memories, ghost-feelings, lost to forever the instant I felt them; never captured.  Are they even mine? 


Time collapsed, coalesces, will disintegrate about me.


~ I kind of hope so


Brown envelope.  Job interview.  So even if I had moved away with her, on her terms, she would have dropped the job (as she did) and gone to America (as she did) back to him (an unconfirmed inevitability).  Oh god, I want to kiss the nine-year old I once was.  Hold him; tell him I love him.


~ who are you, I ask him.  What does it feel like to be you?  When did I stop being that particular me?  If Capitalism and the notion of a plentiful society are so good, then why do supermarkets number amongst the most depressing places I have ever been?


~ we move in an eternal present, I realised


That last month in the shadow of a possible war.  All possible wars.  And some impossible wars.  To see ‘Third World War’ written in the headlines did nothing for my apocalyptic personality.  My fingers are still very crossed, weird, moody.


~ I do not understand, but I love.  If it all goes away, I’ll be sad. 


I need a love.  I need to learn to love, to learn to love to need a love to need to love to learn to be me.  Another country.  To leave.  To avoid being financially crippled and being made to feel insecure.


I have become horrified by dreaming.  I have looked at myself in the mirror for too long.


I enter the mirror.


Shifting in mental/temporal space.  Drinking the water of the moon.  The television’s colours have fallen off, threatened by imprisonment and court.


~ why do we not make love?

~ I do not know, she replied


I am in agreement with Professor Gray nearly all the way.  Inspiration and joy.  To listen to God.  I want to be his friend.  You move me, like I’ve never.  But I am dysfunctional, lost, aware of my total loss.  Safe once, in the past, but now a fish out of my heart, locked in the.  Lonely.  Sad, but why is it twelve years ago?  Eleven years ago?  Closer?  Where am I going?  To where the dead dreams are, dark and unemployed?  Days, I felt fear.  That nothing had changed, that I was still the same, but I’m not, I’m moving still.  Moving.  Still.  Moving.  Still.  Moving.  Growing.  I have doubled my knowledge.  I know more.  The world is bigger and I am much smaller.  I matter less.  So many changes beneath a surface of fear.  And now I go again into the world.  All I am promised is work and jobs till death.  Childhood is long over.  And dreams belong only to those who sleep.  Oh, let me sleep.  Let me sleep.  Where is my deus ex machina?


I’m not sparking.


~ I apologise.  This is my academic hermitage


They used to be lovely, supportive.  I thought about acting again, but a children’s show reminded me how easy it is to despise the theatre.  All that repetition, being the same thing over and over, the artifice, the utter shameless, ridiculous pretence of it all.


I glide into another dream, warping through a void, a voice.  Stars and speed, I stretch across infinity, my body grown long.


~ we are all born long, said the Goddess


My rear catches my front and I float to the ceiling and look down on a chess board floor.  I crash to the ground, taking out statues of Venus.  Not the Venus I once knew, but, y’know, Venus.  God Venus.  I’m glad to have been drinking.


~ I love you, she said.  You’re a faerie.


It was an odd barbecue, but fun.  They let me drink their tequila.


Tigers and lions, twenty-two years ago.  That I can even remember twent-two years ago frightens me.  The ungrateful nausea of longevity. 


The warmth of a Norfolk accent, caught up in the gravity of a bad relationship.  Horseriding in her jeans and monkey boots.


I love him.  He reassures me, wants me, loves me, idolises me.  He is lovely, something I need, giving me the lost moment I’m looking for.  Beyond alcohol, ecstasy and cocaine, I surrendered my feminine self to his dominant male.  Just for that one beautiful night, painted zebra; by the light of our auras.  The most important night of my life, again.  He makes me feel like a big brother, friendly, loving and jealous.  Sometimes resentful.  What I wouldn’t give for a year of his true love, to have him love me, like lions and tigers on the loose.


Odd day.  To sit and talk of growing old and to love her a lot more than I actually believe I do, drinking.  Silly, not serious, for I seldom am, despite the grumps.  We have moved on, yes, we have.  I already miss them.  That part of my life was so vast, so mysterious, so thrilling – but perhaps only because I knew much less.  But even now I feel nostalgic for it.  Funny.  It’s friends I miss, a scene.  And, of course, that delicious, dashing young lad I once was.


Was I the young man who watched the stars and questioned a thing called God?


~ where did I go?  And when?


Some sweet gravity pulls me into a place where I do not want to be alone, and yet I am, while the Earth evolves into Heaven.  But the clock above the DSS is incorrect on all four faces.  And can you stop making that stupid bird noise?  Projectile shit-vomitting.


~ she goes, I whisper, taking the cats


It is over, my Enlightenment Project.  It has failed, that and everything else, forget it.  I am just me again.  She is going to America.


~ only to visit, she says


I do not believe her, she is a proven liar.  I do not trust a word of her.  I am just me again.  Monday only lasted six hours, which was all the more shocking as Sunday had seemed like it was going to be the last day ever. 


It’s been over four weeks now and not a word.


~ this is not the last time you’ll hear from me, she promised


The best part of Sunday was regressing back to 1985, or even before.  We took in every year on the way, too.  I asked him if he thought this room was the future.


~ you expect me to believe this is the future, he scoffed.


And he meant it.


Oh shit, I’m losing it again, losing it all; accepting that I can’t do the lonely batchelor bit, the dingy flat, the loneliness, the night after night after.  Not if my only solace is an average job, no direction, no purpose.  I lived with a woman, a friend, perhaps even a lover, in a house full of space and laughter and cats.


The cats were the most wonderful thing that had happened to me in years.


If only I could sleep.  Or shake the stars for guidance.




[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders including works originated by Elton Townend Jones, but excluding any images or design attributed to ‘The Situation’ which are copyright of The Situation (see specific acknowledgements in the ‘Thanks to…’ section below) / Based on true events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is non-profit; all video clips are used for illustrative purposes and always come from YouTube / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context.  Never forget: no man is an island.  If you think anything I’ve used is damaging you in any way, please comment and immediate action will be taken to minimise offence / This notice was amended on 13 July 2011 and is intended to cover this and all posts on www.25yearstoolate.blogspot.com that precede it]


NEXT TIME: ‘1986: Flaunt It…’

Monday, 28 July 1986

Eleven Years From Now: 28/07/97

ELEVEN YEARS FROM NOW…

‘Talk to Me’ – Tindersticks



I rang FERGIE tonight, to tell her about my many misgivings concerning my relationship with KATE: now we’ve managed to ‘get together’ we’re never together; she’s not always easy to get in touch with; Keith’s still around; she goes on holiday with her mum + Chloe on Thursday; and…  Well, I don’t necessarily trust her.  Her fidelity, I mean.


Still.  I’ll chill.


Why be heavy?


'...JUST GET ON WID IT!!!'


[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders including works originated by Elton Townend Jones, but excluding any images or design attributed to ‘The Situation’ which are copyright of The Situation (see specific acknowledgements in the ‘Thanks to…’ section below) / Based on true events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is non-profit; all video clips are used for illustrative purposes and always come from YouTube / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context.  Never forget: no man is an island.  If you think anything I’ve used is damaging you in any way, please comment and immediate action will be taken to minimise offence / This notice was amended on 13 July 2011 and is intended to cover this and all posts on www.25yearstoolate.blogspot.com that precede it]

NEXT TIME: ‘Meanwhile, forward in 1998…’

Sunday, 27 July 1986

Statement

‘The Walk’ – The Cure



BLOOD.  BLOOD.

                                    Statement, July 1986.



[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders including works originated by Elton Townend Jones, but excluding any images or design attributed to ‘The Situation’ which are copyright of The Situation (see specific acknowledgements in the ‘Thanks to…’ section below) / Based on true events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is non-profit; all video clips are used for illustrative purposes and always come from YouTube / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context.  Never forget: no man is an island.  If you think anything I’ve used is damaging you in any way, please comment and immediate action will be taken to minimise offence / This notice was amended on 13 July 2011 and is intended to cover this and all posts on www.25yearstoolate.blogspot.com that precede it]


NEXT TIME: ‘Meanwhile, forward in 1997…’

Saturday, 26 July 1986

Shock Announcement

‘The Crystal Escalator in the Palace of God Department Store’ – Bill Nelson


Well guess who was late in his visit to Angie?  Yes – Wanky Winterfood!!!  Well!  I can’t help it!  I’m just a spaz.  But anyway, we had a good afternoon around Wisbech, so there!

Later:

‘Fantastic Voyage’ – David Bowie



A SHOCK ANNOUNCEMENT:

Nathan ‘Birdy’ Bird today announced that she was in fact the secret, shrouded, secluded, superminded third member of comedy ‘duo’ The Situation.  In her latests press release she said she was in fact the actress who played Berwin Groomstool in the Psychotik Banana Pasty cassette.  But we know better!  When asked about her associaition wiv ‘duh lads’, she replied: ‘It was all my idea!’


Beelay!  Of course it wasn’t!



[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders / Based on true life events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is also non-profit and all video clips are used for illustrative purposes / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context, and never forget: no man is an island.]


NEXT TIME: ‘Statement…’


Special thanks to Waen Shepherd

Friday, 25 July 1986

Dosshaus

‘It’s Alright (Baby’s Coming Back)’ – Eurythmics



Knackers!

FLASH – the only 21st Century Toy!

Dosshaus have released a new 7-inch called ‘Dancing (And Prancing, N-Brown Style!)’

only bullets can stop them!

KARKER Pie!

This FISH is a donkey.

Hope you like my mag.


POISON

Later:

‘Rio’ – Duran Duran


You know what?  This time last year (or thereabouts), I was probably at Flash’s recording our songs.  Haw-haw!  Wot a birrova larf dat wuz!

Today I rang Angie and arranged to meet her tomorrow at 2pm.  Be there!


[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders / Based on true life events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is also non-profit and all video clips are used for illustrative purposes / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context, and never forget: no man is an island.]

NEXT TIME: ‘Shock announcement…’

Special thanks to Waen Shepherd

Thursday, 24 July 1986

Groove Groove Bomber Arrangements



Recently, I’ve been working on my Fighting Force comics again.  My artwork’s improved, but it shows you how bored I am!


Oh, and I almost forgot: Gasp!  Shock!  Horror!  The Jesus and Mary Chain, who I’m getting heavily into, have entered the GallupChart at Number 20!  Phew!  Cor!  etc.  I was quite chuffed to find that the track in question – ‘Some CandyTalking’ – is on the NME EPI purchased earlier this year.  Good, that!  [yeah! – Nicky, ‘88]


Erm… Worrelse?


Oh yes.  I’ve stumbled on some new groove groovebomber arrangements for Danyel ‘Flash’ Gordon’s Wisbech Summer Holiday…  Our old chum Daphne (+ Betty, possibly!  Who knows?  Can’t tell you yet! etc) are going to Ponty on August 10th and say they’ll pick up D.‘F’.G. and bring him back to Blackberry Narrow.  And (gosh!  gasp!  Ra-ra-ra! etc) George can take him back in late August!  Smart, huh?!



…well, I thought it was!


 
Cor!


 
Please yourselves!





[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders / Based on true life events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is also non-profit and all video clips are used for illustrative purposes / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context, and never forget: no man is an island.]


NEXT TIME: ‘Dosshaus…’

Wednesday, 23 July 1986

Poo on Bread


Listening to The Real Roxanne.

Another pile of rubbish was today! 


I must remember to ring Joey and ask him where Melanie’s wedding reception’s gonna be.

POO on bread!


Melba Dench used to be rait pervlicious!


>gone!<


Hey, Ma – look, no willy!


Winterfood loves She-Males!

Winterfood IS a She-Male!
(and why not?)


POO

Allrighty!

Flash is Dead!


farty face!

CHEGGERS IS GAY – poohing out his piggy pie-filling…


CHEGGERS:   Wot of The Wetlands Chronicles?

And here comes that Fat Stinking Ginner: Flabba the Gutt!

Ritcherd licks pussies.


WHAT RITCHERD IS UP TO IN 1985 & 1983


[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders / Based on true life events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is also non-profit and all video clips are used for illustrative purposes / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context, and never forget: no man is an island.]


NEXT TIME: ‘Groovegroove bomber arrangements…’


Special thanks to Waen Shepherd

Tuesday, 22 July 1986

Not Blue Peter

‘Talk Talk’ – Talk Talk



‘Hello!  It’s not Blue Peter!’

HELLO, MS. NICKY BROWN

(e’en tho’ you can’t read!)


Today was also crappy.  I mean it!  I really do.  I kid you not, not never no more.


Mind you, I managed to buy a copy of Smash Hits with a brilliant interview and feature on the Jesus and Mary Chain (‘loud, spotty and weird’). 


It also had stuff on: The Smiths, Art of Noise, Arcadia, Motorhead, and scrapping the royal family.


is that a banana in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?


Wat wosit?



[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders / Based on true life events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is also non-profit and all video clips are used for illustrative purposes / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context, and never forget: no man is an island.]


NEXT TIME: ‘Poo on bread…’

Monday, 21 July 1986

1985 Part Two

Dossy crappy day is all I can say, as I hate staying at home and working all day.


Later:


‘Burning Down the House’ – Talking Heads



HavE you READ FAG MAG?  why not?


April 1985 part two (i.e. 1986) was gudd!


Josiah D. Dogbolter (a rabbit) R.I.P.?  Umm… Billy!


Bender


Worra fishy crotch you’ve got!


WHAT RITCHERD IS UP TO IN 1985 & 1983


[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders / Based on true life events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is also non-profit and all video clips are used for illustrative purposes / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context, and never forget: no man is an island.]


NEXT TIME: ‘Not Blue Peter…’


Special thanks to Waen Shepherd

Sunday, 20 July 1986

Miss Evans' Party

‘Rock Lobster’ – The B52’s


Martin Fry (from the Hall of Old Heroes)

The Hulk, growling

Today was our last at (Billy!) Ponderosa!  So after clearing up the ‘Breakaway 28 Twin’ caravan, we went to Gorleston for some fish ‘n’ chips and a drink.  And then home, which we reached at 7.30pm – which meant I was 2 hrs late for Miss Evans’ Fifth Year Leavers’ Tea Party!


When I finally arrived, I was greeted by Stan Flowers

 [who? – Natalia, ‘88]

…and Cally Bell who were just leaving…

 


The people who remained were:

Angelene Hawkins (remember her?  February 17th this year?), Y-Fronts (who was a good mate o’ mine for a month in the Summer of ’84), Nigel Susan (a swot who I’m not too keen on), and my old Situation pal: James ‘Jabba’ Abbott!



What did we do?  Well…  Here goes (takes in a v. deep breath, pop mates!)…


When I got there, duh chids were playing ye olde curious game o’ luck ‘n’ brains, Boggle (wherein one has to make up some words out o’ various random letters, etc.).  Well, all those present had played three games before I had arrived, and following my ‘stardust’ entrance, I joined in, playing four more games.  And I won!  I scored the most points, even tho’ they’d all played seven games and I’d only played four!  They’d all played three more than me! 


Haw-haw!  Good, eh, pop-scoots?


Following this, good old Miss Evans made me some sarnies and I tucked in furiously.  And then I attacked the scrumplicious lemon meringue!  Groove-o!


Then, somehow, Jabba and I ended up telling the rest (captivated, they were, like any good audience) all about THE SITUATION CORPORATION and all the amahzing tapes we’ve worked on.


‘Let’s Dance’ – David Bowie



Angelene and I had some good conversations, mainly about how we both get on with each other, but it only ever seems to happen when we’re thrown together for some function or party or other.  I also told Angelene of her appearances in this diary, which she said she’d like to read. 


Well, hello, Angelene, if you’re reading this.  And think yourself lucky!


As the night progressed, we all discussed a number of topics: trying to be different (fashion + image-wise) from other people, getting beat up, Communism, Space Exploration, science fiction, the Labour Party, Neil Kinnock




Later, we all went outside in the dark to look at the stars, which were covered by clouds.  Whilst the others were arguing as to whether or not we should have Christianity, Angelene and I chatted about ghosts and the occult.  We also discussed growing away from friends now that we’ve left school.  Eventually Angelene gave me her number!  Must ring her, cos she wants someone to go to the pictures with her, i.e. me!  I do quite fancy her and she’s so wonderfully intelligent.


The night ended nicely, and I must say (I’m surprised!) that I enjoyed myself.


Thanks for a nice night, Angelene.  And many happy days to you, Miss Evans, for dropping hints about me in Angelene’s direction.  Whether you intended to or not!



[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders / Based on true life events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction.  Cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is also non-profit and all video clips are used for illustrative purposes / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context, and never forget: no man is an island.]


NEXT TIME: ‘1985 (part two)…’