Girls in their Summer Clothes
Growing up as a teenage boy there are few discoveries more exciting than girls; at that age they are blissfully free of any male-induced mental frailties, unattainable expectations about life, stretch marks and the belief that an expensive wedding and subsequent breeding will make life perfect. Of course boys are born oblivious to anything other than the obvious; up to a certain point the only woman you had ever been aware of was your mum, usually in her apron with rolling pin in hand so to say we are under-prepared is on the money. The day little Percy Pecker begins to twitch at the sight of some dreamy young thing is the beginning of a life of never-ending torment.
Now it’s a brutal truism that in the early years attracting this new species is a highly competitive businesses so please do not believe any of that useless rubbish they teach you in school that life should not be competitive. We all want the gorgeous girl and will do most things to achieve this. Then once we have her we will dump her like a hot coal and go seek something new. It’s what young boys do…live with it…our brains are not sophisticated to cope with anything else.
Cricket – The Passion Killer of all Passion Killers
The Catch 22 here is that most girls view sport, and in particular cricket, with about as much passion as boys view a weekend shopping at Meadowhall. So if cricket is your sporting passion then there may be a problem or two ahead if you are seeking out the local hotties; for the average club cricketer the chances of copping off with some serious talent are about as good as scoring three hundreds on the bounce. There is simply no way that Mrs Flintoff and Mrs Pietersen would have swapped first class travel, five star hotels and exotic locations and settled for your average club cricketer.
What a prospect; a slot on the tea rota, a two quid bottle of Pinot a la Club after the game before being given the car keys and told to expect you later probably totally hammered, curry still all over your chin and hoping for a quickie. So we cricketers have to learn to settle for a loyal, contented, dutiful lass and the inevitable divorce as you choose a new Gray Nicolls Scoop bat at the same time inevitably forgetting her birthday in the process so dazzled by that red stripe.
Too Much Too Young
It was simply a land of discovery all those years ago and there were very few things with a sensation quite as exciting as that first, frantic fumble; No, I’m not talking about the day you got your first Scoop bat and rushed to put your pads on. Had I ever spawned a son – if you are out there it’s too late now – had he come to me and said he was thinking of settling down anytime before the age of thirty I would have locked him in the garden shed and never let him out again. Too much, too young as the song went.
Quite often I look back on those teenage days somewhat dewy eyed as I lurch towards dementia. It’s then that I resort to composing lists – not only the preserve of Nick Hornby – sometimes simply to get me through the day. Top Tens of Bruce tracks, favourite foods, fantasy women and all sorts of lists relating to girls generally.
So here is my reflective Top Ten Teenage Crushes (in alphabetical order – of course.) as a tribute to those girls that made my teenage years so enjoyable, maddening, frustrating and sheer torment. I have deliberately left out any surnames as most have selected husbands well over six feet and, in a true sporting gesture, who dumped who is not recorded…although they will all claim a lucky escape…and no desire to relive the experience.
My Top 10
- Alison – the summer of 1981. Blond, gorgeous with smooth skin that shimmered and all summer seemingly to enjoy her; having broken up from school forever and convinced my mate and rival, Andy Pickles, that he really fancied Alison’s mate; he didn’t but Andy was gullible and he got me back later. Sadly, Alison was unable to compete with Ian Botham smashing the Aussies to all parts that summer and the cricket rot had already set in; Botham’s Ashes might as well have been Alison’s Ashes for me. I met her many years later when she assaulted me ferociously with an ironing board in the centre of Bradford. Apparently she blamed me for her life going pear shaped post that teenage summer although I felt it was the Aussies’ fault for bowling such tripe at Botham. Had they bowled straight we would have lost the Ashes at Headingley, Alison and I would have married, had several kids and been divorced for at least ten years. And I would have been fleeced for more than an ironing board. Women, it seems, never forget.
- Caroline – my very own, at least in my oft-deluded head, Sweet Caroline. Endless long legs, long blonde hair and a body to die for. Despite my best efforts she preferred an older man who was the antithesis of what we all thought would “pull” Sweet Caroline. Taff was, to be kind, a bit left-field and was in the school year above seemingly constantly amazed he had pulled this Amazon woman and soon they were sporting the same perm – clearly a trend of yesteryear – wearing matching check shirts and I was toast. We went out when I was much older but the magic had gone – I was twenty. Last time I saw here was outside the local bakery as she told me she was on husband number two and had four kids. I tucked into my vanilla slice sensing a lucky escape from this fertile creature. As much promise those wonderful thighs may have held it would all have ended in tears.
- Chris – the year was 1976 and all summer I used to rush to greet my oil covered Dad on his return from work, grab the paper from his rucksack and rush upstairs to see if there were any new pictures of women’s tennis champion Chris Evert in the Daily Mirror. I could never work out what Jimmy Connors had over me but he had the girl and I had the grubby black and white photo stuck in the back of my maths book the whole of the following school year. Her Wimbledon win that year was probably the last time I watched tennis and that steely look combined with a flawless figure was in direct contrast to Martina and the muscle bound lesbians that were about to take over women’s tennis. Thank God for arrival in recent years of Kournikova and Sharapova and who cares if they can play tennis or not?
- Donna – my shortest ever “relationship”. We went to a cricket club disco and as was the tradition in those days you rarely spoke to a girl until you had nabbed enough Harveys QC Sherry from the older end to rustle up enough Dutch courage. I asked her out about midnight which probably meant I had scoured the room all evening for potentially psychotic girls seeking to add to their complicated lives and drawn a blank so had to resort to the pretty, sensible one which would never have lasted anyway. And it didn’t. Sixteen hours later I was trotting out for the very first time that old line: “It is not you, it’s me” and the pattern was set. She later married my mate Thommo, doubtless relieved to have escaped. I met here years later in a nightclub in Bradford out for a night with her daughter who was about the same age her mum was all those years ago and even better looking. Decided I had to escape fast and went home feeling very old and nothing else.
- Jane – still, unbelievably, one of the best mates I have, demonstrating years of ocean-like depths of patience and tolerance deserving of a medal. In fact I have to say it here – more like a sister than a mate – although she was (still are darling!) – a stunningly attractive woman. What with Jane, Sweet Caroline, Donna and a few others it was hard to focus on the cricket at the Villas all those years ago. Jane was mad as a hatter though with a rebellious streak displayed never more so than when she purchased a motorbike and became an apprentice engineer – boy did she look good in overalls. – production must have dived at the local firm. As we shared the same surname I was constantly approached by giddy lads at school desperate to find out more about my “sister”. So, if over the years lads have asked you if you really were a lesbian at school, I apologise. I was only looking after you “Sis”. Just weeding them out for you, one by one.
- Jayne – another lifelong friend and my first crush on an older woman…she was in Taff’s year so I suppose I was attempting a cultural exchange and I suppose Chris doesn’t really count. Even went so far as to buy her Cliff Richard’s Greatest Hits on a double album that cost me a fortune – she still has it and I still hate him as a weird consequence many moons later – but it counted for nothing as she went out with my good mate, Mark Cotton. As I have alluded to already, all is fair in love and war and Noel Edmonds may have had his Swap Shop but we had ours too. However, of all the low stunts I have ever played to woo a woman I still cannot get over the fact that I bought a Cliff Richard album…double at that…and funded that wrinkly old git. That hurts me far more that Jayne opting for Mark and leaving me penniless and wounded…at fourteen…back to the paper round to recoup my losses.
- Jude – at last an older woman wilted. She was twenty and I was seventeen. That’s almost Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher territory. It got better as she had a car of her own and a Lady Di haircut, plus she almost sounded just like her – which was amazing as she lived in Windhill, close to Shipley and where you did not want to get lost on a dark winter’s night. She worked at the local pub and it was when Duck and I attempted “Fifty Pints in Seven Nights” – see what you can do with your life before you get a mortgage and a wife – that I think she decided I needed looking after. Once again we remain the best of friends and I am pleased to remind her regularly that I was her toy boy even though our combined ages are now over a hundred.
- Julie – and God created woman. Blonde, stunning, athletic, funny, beautiful smile and, somehow, she was interested in the seventeen year-old halfwit that was me. I think this was after Jude had decided that she was not good at baby-sitting and buggered off in her search for someone a bit more cerebral. Once again a trend was set as I bombed out of a date with Julie to celebrate winning the Bradford Central Junior Cricket League in 1980 preferring the company of Duck and Dr Tetley at the Five Lane Ends. At the age of seventeen, looking thirteen I handed the trophy over the bar to Jack the landlord and asked him to fill it and bring it back as I was too small to carry it. As if this was not bad enough the fact that it had Under Eighteen Cup emblazoned on it seemed to give the game away. Jack was no fool and neither was Julie. Possibly the earliest sign of dementia now since well set in. She’s still gorgeous and I’m still dumb.
- Sharon– nobody’s schooling is complete without a Sharon. One heady afternoon of discovery, bunking off school early, cutting out across the fields taking up an invitation out of the blue – I think she was just going through the whole year group and I had got my turn at last – I ended up back at Sharon’s parents house for a wild afternoon assisted by a weird liqueur called Galliano – its presence behind a bar makes me smile to this day. The first and only time I think the Telegraph & Argus has been delivered by a pissed paper boy with a twitching willy on a very wobbly bike. She generated my first non-manual knee trembler at the same disco where I met Donna, albeit briefly, as it was cut short by Browny and Brenda rolling up in that battered old MG parking within touching distance of my backside. It was the first time I’d ever seen his pop up headlights work and it was time for my pop up toy to pop down.
- Sue – my inspiration for this book. Thank you wherever you are.
Paul Thompson says
Less on my daughter buggalugz lol!
Steve says
Scared me to death all those years ago…saw the missus at Pilates other week…must have scared her to death as not seen here since…hope you are well…regards to the Old Duffer and Mum