Back in Time: The 1980s

We had it all in the 80s..

Goodish music, cool films, strikes, threats of nuclear war, creepy DJs and legwarmers.

It was also one of those rare occasions when we won the Eurovision.

What? No! It had NOTHING to do with skirts coming off!

A lot has changed in the last 38 years since the start of that decade. Technology has gone STRATOSPHERIC and I have no idea what’s happening anymore..

So, how about a few comparisons between then and now?

TV

Now. There are about, ooh, a million TV channels to choose from? Yet you can still spend half an hour flicking through to find there is NOTHING on. I literally spent AGES flicking through all the channels last night and I ended up watching Fawlty Towers which was made sometime during the middle-ages. ‘Flowery Twats’ may be un-pc these days but it’s still hilariously funny.

Basil to his car: Start, you vicious bastard. Oh my God. I’m warning you, if you don’t start… I’ll count to three. 1, 2, 3, right, that does it. I’m going to give you a damn good thrashing.

They really don’t make them as good as this anymore..

Then. We had THREE channels at the start of the 80s. BBC One. BBC Two and ITV. Channel Four was launched in 1982 so that made a grand total of FOUR channels to choose from. Channel Four was a God send for us teenagers with programmes like The Tube and Brookside. I mean, who can forget ‘Debbie and Damon’? De Romeo and Juliet of der Pewl, eh?

‘Come here boy! It’s been five minutes since I gave somebody a damn good thrashing!’

DISCIPLINE

NOW. “Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it, Sir. I’ll have you arrested, Sir. You’ll be somebody’s bitch in prison, Sir!”

Discipline in secondary school consists of after-school detentions, confiscations, isolation and exclusion. When it became illegal to thrash kids, teachers had to get creative – not to mention medicated. However, it’s my understanding that teachers still have the right to use necessary force pupils in certain situations like if they are going to harm themselves or others?

THEN. In my day you got thrashed with a big fuck off stick and I’ve seen numerous blackboard rubbers hurtling across classrooms aimed at somebody’s head. It’s a wonder there weren’t fatalities. Maybe there were? Come to think of it, pupils were prone to disappearing from time to time. Was it truancy? Or were they concussed in A & E?

The glory years of corporal punishment came to an end in 1987 (two years after I left) though private schools carried on thrashing until 1999. In this instance, I think that 2018 wins because there should never have been a place in society for hitting children.

NUCLEAR WAR

NOW. There’s probably have a game about it on X Box featuring zombies. Also, President Trump likes to have ‘my nukes are bigger than yours’ competitions with anybody who takes the piss out of his hair/face/tan/hands/leadership.

I’d say this gives some cause for concern..

THEN. In 1983 there were two close calls. ACTUAL danger of ANNIHILATION due to a tiff between the Russia and America. A generation of kids and their parents properly shat themselves worrying over this. Parents were stock piling tins of beans so in the event of nuclear war we could fart ourselves into comas. Thankfully it didn’t happen but it gave Frankie Goes To Hollywood some inspiration for their number one hit, Two Tribes.

Remember this?

“The air attack warning sounds like
This is the sound.

When you hear the air attack warning
You and your family must take cover.”

Magzilla
19 September 1983

PSYCHOTIC FEMALE PRIME MINISTERS

NOW. People think Theresa May is bad?

THEN. She’s aint a patch on our pearl wearing overlord!

Margaret Thatcher (or “that woman” as my Labourite father called her) ruled as PM throughout the entirety of the 80s. This was the woman who a few years earlier (as Secretary of State for Education) abolished free milk for schoolchildren. Also, she and her popular (not) Poll Tax was responsible for the worst riots in Britain. Thatcher was possibly one of the most hated women ever. Certainly wasn’t popular in our house. In my opinion, Thatcher makes Theresa May look like Jar Jar Binks – only in leopard print kitten heels.

LEGO

NOW. Parents have to take out a second mortgage so their kid can have the Star Wars Millennium Falcon? I am STAGGERED at the price of Lego these days! I want to buy a kit, not the company!

THEN. One board, some bricks and you considered yourself lucky.

PHONES

Now. I’ve yet to clap eyes on a young person who isn’t attached to their mobile phone via an umbilical cord. You see them slumped over their phones in McDonald’s – Diet Coke in one hand – mobile phone in the other.

ALL of them on their phones.

NOBODY speaking.

Are they all sat texting each other?

It’s possible.

Then. While mobile phones existed in the 80s – they were the size of a shopping trolley and cost a fortune so us peasants had to make do with landline phones or public phone-boxes. You know, the red ones that reeked of fags and wee?

‘Blocking’ was when irate parents fixed an actual lock on the phone after receiving a bill of EPIC proportions – £40 in 80s money and about £160 in today’s. This usually included a few months of being grounded. Early parole was usually granted because parents couldn’t cope with having stroppy teenagers under their feet being all hormonal and horrible.

MUSIC

Now. Auto-tuned, shit sampled crap with pornographic videos and lyrics that would give your nan a coronary.

Truffle butter? Do yourself a favour and don’t Google it.

You Googled it dintcha?

Certainly puts Madonna and her pointy bra into place, eh?

Then. Sexuality has played a part in music for decades. Elvis was thrusting his pelvis at teenage girls in the 50s and in those days it was shocking. In 1978 Olivia Newton John was prim and proper as Sandy in Grease – three years later she was wanting to get ‘physical’ with blokes in a gym and I don’t think she meant half an hour on the treadmill! NOT that I knew what it was really about then because I used to pull on my legwarmers and go round the house singing..

You gotta know that you’re bringin’ out
The animal in me,
Lets get physical, physical, I wanna get physicaaaaaal…

Highly appropriate when you’re eleven years old, no?

THE SELFIE

Now. According to University of Florida’s Eunice Kim and colleagues in a September 2016 paper, there are 93 million selfie postings every day! That’s a LOT of duckface!

Then. Selfies aren’t a new creation, I mean, what’s the difference between a self-portrait and a selfie? It’s still a picture of YOURSELF, right? People have been using cameras to take picture of themselves for decades, it’s just that it’s so much easier now. In my day if you wanted to take a picture of yourself it involved much faffing and possible blindness when the flash went off in your face. Plus we were working with actual film so posing your way through a gazillion shots was NOT an option.

The 80s were my teenage years and I am part of the generation before technology went supersonic. Sadly, teens won’t ever experience that kind of simplicity again unless it’s part of some historical experiment to show how we used to live..

Fast forward 38 years and we live in a technological world where we communicate more with strangers than we do our own families. For autistic people like me, social media helps us to socialise because we are generally crap at it in person. That said, social media is good in small doses because it can easily become overwhelming. Life is too technological for our brains to cope with and as a result our mental health suffers and we have to take social media and, in my case – technology in general – breaks.

I have mixed emotions about the 1980s. Happy because it was the decade where I became a mother. Sad/angry/scarred because I was bullied by twats. Despite this – the frankly criminal fashions and Agagdoo do do push pineapple shake the tree – the 1980s was simplistic in comparison to today.

For me, THE best decade was the one that preceded it. Yes readers, hold onto your goddamn flares because next time I’ll be hauling you back to the 70s!

 

All images are public domain

Margaret Thatcher

The Teenager That Santa Forgot..

One year, Santa forgot me.

It’s true.

To be fair, I wasn’t a small child. I was a teenager.

So how did I come to be left off Santa’s list?

It was 1985. The year of the first successful heart transplant, Windows 1.0, The Golden Girls, The Breakfast Club, Live Aid, Take on Me and wearing your jacket sleeves rolled up Miami Vice style..

I was:

Fifteen. Teenager. Vegetarian. Knew Everything. Annoying.

I don’t remember how I came to be vegetarian, I just know that from 14 I declared myself a meat free zone. I lived on cheese, as 80s vegetarian options looked (and tasted) like Trill. Thank God for Linda McCartney, eh? Problem was, Mum never did understand the concept of vegetarianism. She gave me cheese in place of meat but then poured gravy over it which kind of defeated the object..

Maybe it was hormones combined with my undiagnosed autism (and copious amounts of cheese) but my teenage years were funked up and not in a good way..

I’d argue that black was white and I’d do it with a PASSION. Not content with being meat-free, I terrorised everybody else for being ‘murderers’. Dad took it all in his stride. He thought it was hilarious, but Mum was suffering from the menopause (or rather we were suffering from her menopause) and that particular year she and I clashed more times than a pair of cymbals.

By Christmas, I was struggling. Doing the social thing exhausted me mentally and physically. Going out took hours of stimulating myself with rock music and days of recovery time afterwards. Every time I convinced myself it would get easier but it never did because exposure only works with shyness and I wasn’t shy. I was autistic.

That year I’d asked ‘Santa’ for loads of records including The Cult’s ‘Love‘. I’d been borrowing my mate’s LP but she was pissed off with it spending more time on my record player than hers, so I was looking forward to getting my own copy. Gimme a whoop!

Christmas Eve

We were allowed to lie on the sofa watching films all day and the jar of Quality Street was ceremoniously opened. It was a good day and in the evening Mum challenged her inner Hyacinth Bucket (It’s Bouquet) and did a candlelight supper, which was V posh.

I felt very grown up.

I was even allowed wine. SHHHHHHHH!

Dad was on the Jack Daniels.

Brother was semi-pissed on Southern Comfort.

Mum was on the Stella (I’ll fight you and everyone else) Artois.

Everyone was happy.

Until it went tits up..

I don’t remember what I said, exactly. Maybe it was something about meat and murder again? I just know that I opened my big mouth and said something that had my mother slamming the louvered doors off their hinges as she flounced off into the kitchen.

In my confused mind, ONE thing registered.

SHIT!

Dad was rolling his eyeballs.

Brother was smirking at me.

Elvis was crooning Blue Christmas in the background.

My mother was turning the air blue in the kitchen in-between nose blowing sessions.

Tentatively, I inched my way into the war zone but took one look at her face and knew that grovelling was futile. She looked like Alice Cooper, only with red eyes. Even in my limited understanding of body language, I knew my best (and only) option was bugger off upstairs and leave Dad to smooth things over.

So I went to bed and endured one of the most miserable nights of my 15 year old life.

What, in the name of Ian Astbury, had I said to incur SUCH a reaction?

I still don’t know.

All I know is that I was forever being reprimanded for ‘showing off’.

Showing off?

Er, I’M AN INTROVERT?!

In hindsight, I know that the Christmas Eve fiasco wasn’t ALL down to me. I blame Stella Artois and lack of oestrogen. Stella because it always made my mother do the crying thing and lack of estrogen put her on a permanent hair-trigger. It could have just as easily been my dad or my brother who said something to upset her, eh?

But it wasn’t them.

It was me.

Mostly what got me into trouble were my meltdowns. I’d become overwhelmed, therefore out of control, and it was interpreted as me being a little shit – as so often is the case with autism.

Nobody knew I was autistic.

Not even me.

Christmas Day

I unenthusiastically wished Jesus a happy birthday and prayed that he’d put in a good word with my mother overnight and she’d forgiven me for “ruining Christmas”. I lay in my miserable pit until I heard sounds of life downstairs, then slowly made my way down into the kitchen where Mum was perched on her stool puffing away on a Silk Cut. She narrowed her eyes at me. This look meant, ‘Approach me NOT. I’m still pissed off with you!’.

I slunk into the living room..

There, lit up in all it’s magnificence was our faux Christmas tree and underneath it were three piles of presents.

One for my brother.

One for my dad.

The third pile was my mother’s.

FUCK!

Didn’t say fuck – obvs -my life was hanging in the balance as it was.

For the first time in my existence, Santa had forgotten me.

I’D MADE THE NAUGHTY LIST.

THE SHAME!

Mum looked weird. Sort of angry and sad at the same time and that’s quite a hard one to pull off!

Brother was still smirking. That litle shit positively basked in my misery!

Tears slid down my face.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sorry for myself in all my life.

Dad couldn’t take it anymore. He looked at Mum and said, “You’ve made your point Flo. Come on now. It’s Christmas”

Mum snorted and flip- flopped upstairs in her new mule slippers.

A few minutes later she appeared with my presents.

She went from angry to misty eyed in a matter of seconds and hugged me so hard I thought she’d busted my lung.

“And let that be a lesson to you, Madam!”

Despite having no literally NO idea what this lesson was supposed to be, I chose to keep my trap shut.

Maybe that was the lesson?

Ordeal over, I started ripping into my pressies with the finesse of a three year old on E numbers.

My first gift?

It was Love.

When I tore off the wrapping paper that Christmas morning in 1985, I had no idea that 32 years later, the lyrics to the title song would have such significance to my very existence on this planet.

I guess you could say that I’ve spent most of my life in the ‘wrong hole’?

Now don’t go and ruin this moment by thinking rude thoughts about holes? *serious face*

I mean ‘wrong hole’ as in trying to be neurotypical.

Spent a long time in this hole
Spent a long time in the wrong hole

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s The Freakiest Show..

My big brother was into the 1970s glam-rock scene, I mean, he had the platforms and everything.. He looked a div, but then what teenage boy didn’t look a div in the 70s?

For what’s it’s worth, I also looked a div – only I didn’t have any choice in the matter.

Anyway, it’s from rooting through his records that I came across the phenomenon that was David Bowie..

Being born in 1970 rendered me too young to appreciate the glam rock scene first time around. However, I didn’t have to wait too long because it made a comeback in the 80s with the likes of Def Leppard, Poison and Kiss – only with less glitter and more hair. Oh. And the flares were replaced by skin-tight, testicle-trapping jeans which of course helped them to reach those high notes..

WHOOOOOOOOO-YEAHHHHHHHHHHHH

Of all the records of the glam rock era, Life on Mars is my favourite.

Bowie labeled Life on Mars, “a sensitive young girl’s reaction to the media” and added, “I think she finds herself disappointed with reality… that although she’s living in the doldrums of reality, she’s being told that there’s a far greater life somewhere, and she’s bitterly disappointed that she doesn’t have access to it.”

I know how she feels..

Reality sucks. You spend nine months in the womb being prepared for your big entry into the world only to reach the age of five when you start school and your world turns phenomenally crap.

Yes, I know how that girl feels..

Life on Mars was released as a single in 1973. I was three years old and still wearing plastic pants. So it’s fair to say that while I no doubt heard it on the radio (or saw it on TOTP) I wasn’t into it until a few years later..

First, I fell in love with Mick Ronson’s orchestral arrangement because, lets face it, it’s EFFING AWESOME! Then came my obsession with the lyrics (also awesome) and all these years later, it STILL does things to me insides..

When it comes to the lyrics, the song is somewhat ambiguous but I identify with Bowie’s description because, like the girl, I am also at odds with reality. I see life as one big freak show.

Sailors fighting in the dance hall
Oh man, look at those cavemen go
It’s the freakiest show

Bowie started out ordinary enough, apart from his freaky eye, but Mrs Bowie knew that his image was a bit crap so she turned him into the spiky red awesomeness that was ‘Ziggy Stardust’. He made weird, cool, and all the misfits and weirdos whooped with joy and bought all his records. He was like something out of space – which was kind of the idea. Nobody knew what the fuck he was. Was he male, female or alien?

Bowie wasn’t my dad’s cup of tea, as I imagine was the case with a lot of other parents of the time. Dad’s nervous cough would kick in when Ziggy beamed up via the gogglebox during those early years but he settled down once Dave brought out Lets Dance and ‘that one he did with Jagger’, got the Dad stamp of approval too.

Bowie has been a constant in some form or other since Ziggy. I almost had a coronary when the TV series Life on Mars was screened in 2006. Great plot. The legend what is ‘The Gene Genie’ (Gene Hunt) and a cracking 1970s soundtrack, including Life on Mars which was used a LOT. What’s not to like?

For those of you unfamiliar with Life on Mars.. the plot is is that Sam Tyler has an accident in 2006 and wakes up in 1973 wearing flares and driving a Cortina. The tagline is, Am I mad, in a coma, or back in time? Whatever’s happened, it’s like I’ve landed on a different planet.

I just hope to God I never suffer a head trauma and wake up in 1983 wearing a ra-ra skirt and legwarmers!

So, if I had to choose ONE song to listen to before I die, it would be Life On Mars. I want my life force to ebb away to this song but knowing my luck, it will be Justin Bieber and I will die with my middle finger stuck up in mid-air.

There is something satisfyingly poetic about Mick Ronson’s melodic string arrangements to Life on Mars being the last piece of music I ever hear before I depart this shit-hole planet. I am the girl with the mousey hair, or at least I used to be before I started dyeing the crap out of it, and I very much want this to be my swansong. Family, take note.

Finally, a bit o’ trivia for you..

The string arrangement for Life on Mars was written in a TOILET.

Genius.

Dancing With Myself

 

I have memories of dancing around the living room as a child. Even though I was (and still am) disturbingly uncoordinated – the freedom of movement was liberating. It didn’t matter that I looked like a div because nobody could see me.

Thing is, I am profoundly affected by music. Sounds wanky? Fair enough. However, it is a scientific fact that humans are hardwired to respond to music. Music is important. I mean, can you imagine films without soundtracks? Imagine Renton legging it down the street in Trainspotting without Iggy Pop’s Lust For Life. Or how about Jaws without the ‘duuun dun duuun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun’? Of course not. Films would be shit without music.

Life would be shit without music.

The Notorious G.O.D once said, ‘Yo knuckle-dragging peeps, 55,000 years from now your ancestors will be stressed off their tits and up to their eyeballs in something called ‘debt’ but they will have Coldplay and Radiohead.

Music was always playing in our house so many of my memories are evoked by songs. For instance, when I hear Ella Fitzgerald, I see Mum standing in the kitchen – pinny on – preparing Sunday dinner and it’s like she’s still with me somehow..

Mum ~ Circa 1975

As a teenager I went to a disco on Wednesday and Sunday nights.

YOU?!

Yes. ME!

Discos are usually avoided like the plague by the socially and sensory challenged. However, it was one of those situations where being social was a necessary evil if I wanted to experience music at a volume that would give my parents coronaries. You get this, right?

The routine was that I’d wake up on Wednesday morning (dry heaving) and I’d talk myself out of going. Then I’d get home from school – play my music – and it would give me a confidence injection. So I’d spend three hours faffing with my hair and troweling the make-up on and in the end I would look as far removed from me as I could be. Think actress and stage, rather than girl and disco..

Discos also meant BOYS.

I educated myself on how to be a girl and do boy/girl stuff because I was interested in boys, I just knew I couldn’t be myself or they would leg it faster than their Adidas trainers could carry them.

My research came in the form of teen magazines but the stories annoyed me because they were all ‘Wendy stared dreamily at Lee but he didn’t know she even existed. How could she get him to notice her?’. After a few pages of cringeworthy crap, Wendy gets a makeover at her mate’s house and Lee suddenly acknowledges her existence by snogging her in a graffiti filled bus stop which smells like a urinal. The end.

All this seemed ridiculous to me but apparently this was what was expected of girls if they wanted to attract boys? I did manage to attract a few boys because I remember kissing a random teenage lad to The Power of Love – Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s version. I don’t even think I knew his name before I started attacking his tonsils. Another lad (WHO WORE WHITE SLIP-ON SHOES FFS) bought me a Coke and I snogged him as a way of thanks. Snogging didn’t involve talking, you see. I understand that other female Aspies might identify with this?

Music was a drug to me and I needed my weekly fix of this ‘sound experience’. That’s an experience of sound – not Scouse lingo.

I was a disco junkie.

Sort of.

Because it wasn’t about the socialising. Nor did I need alcohol (not that they served it anyway being an under 18s disco) because I got my high from the bass sound which vibrated in my body. The anomaly is that loud noise usually affects me adversely. I cover my ears if a police car goes past. Loud music though? TURN IT UP!

Perhaps it’s no surprise that I have to wear a hearing aid now?

Anyway, combined with the lights (which fascinated me) I’d have been in heaven if it wasn’t for the other humans. My perfect disco? Just me, the music and lights. You can bugger the DJ right off too. I’ll pick my own tunes. Maybe that’s what my heaven will be? My own personal discotheque and yes, I AM old enough to remember the word, ‘discotheque’.

Spear of Destiny’s Liberator (Indie Rock) was played with full strobe light effects and I’d stand there with my mouth hanging open as if a UFO had just landed in the middle of the dance floor. Another anomaly is that, normally, lights affect me – especially fluorescent – but I LOVED THE STROBE! Couldn’t cope with it now (migraines) but in those days it just hyped me up with a similar effect as when you used to give kids E numbers..

The other thing about Liberator was that on hearing the intro, people would literally skid onto the dance floor and start jumping up and down like lunatics. You didn’t dance to Liberator. You shrugged your shoulders aggressively or swung your handbag round your head like a lasso. Plus, being in close proximity to other people meant you were always bumping into someone, like when I bumped into an older girl and demolished her glass of Coke. WHOOPS! Her mates helpfully inquired whether or not she was going to kick my face in?

‘I’M GOING TO KNOCK YOU OUT, COW!’, the girl informed me (aggressively) before flicking me the V sign.

She was probably all frosted lipstick and no action but I wasn’t in the mood to find out, so I legged it to the toilets as fast as my 6″ sling-backs would allow me..

At the end of the night, saliva would be swapped along with phone numbers. The lights would go on and the bouncers would start herding us towards the exits. To me, it was always a massive anti-climax to see the room devoid of it’s magic because the reality was that the dance floor was strewn with broken glass and fag-ends and it looked crap. It was like going to bed with Sean Bean and waking up with Worzel Gummidge. 😦

Once I got married and had children – going to a disco became a rarity. As life put more pressures on me, I became more and more unable to cope with social situations of any kind, let alone discos. I couldn’t recreate those years where the music would override my issues, so I stopped going. Once I was on my own, I would draw the curtains, put a record on and dance, or at least, my interpretation of dancing. Why do you think I drew the curtains?

I don’t remember exactly when I stopped dancing. I just know that I did. And now my bones are buggered so throwing myself around the living room is no longer an option. Not with my arthritis, dears. However, music is (and always will be) in my soul and the day I am no longer moved by it will be the day that I go to that great disco in the sky where the music never ends and God is a DJ.

That’s a reference to a song, by the way.

Until then, as Shannon once said, “Let the music play”.

“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic beyond all we do here!” ~ Dumbledore ~ Harry Potter & The Philosophers Stone