Nostalgia is big business these days and it’s often easier to look back than contemplate an uncertain future, what with the daily bombardment of good news.
Personally, I always try to avoid reunions though; I have a reunion with my face each morning and that is enough for me.
Generally nostalgic gatherings are only ever attended by people that have actually done something of note and now want to bore you senseless with their new self-importance, having failed to even manage a paper round when they were kids.
And, of course, there is always the chance that the shy, spotty girl you cruelly snubbed in 3rd form is now a leggy Porsche owning stunner and doing the snubbing herself now.
Struggling through old photos you know you were right but that patience is, indeed, a virtue. Years ago few people actually took a camera out but now you can’t risk a pee without a quick snap for the album.
Fortunately, at my age personal histories are limited to the odd polaroid our mothers could manage, always assuming they were pointing the camera the right way, fingers not obscuring the lens, hands shaking from an overdose of Campari.
Occasionally though, life insists we all meet again so currently I am facing a glut of 50th birthday celebrations allowing me to visit a host of local working mens clubs and other dives.
Enormous tattooed barmaids serving cheap fizzy beer placed on formica tables awash with curly sandwiches and mouldy looking quiche.
Whatever happened to the summer of 1990?
Ticket Tout Tim recently celebrated his 50th at the Upper Bolton Conservative Club, a place David Cameron has surely never been and Boris Johnson would bomb.
Tout, a wiry framed lad with a mop of curly hair like Leo Sayer and a mad-eyed stare, was part of a set of lads that followed Swing Gate FC, our Sunday morning football team of the time.
On the premise that eventually all things led to a beer whether you were in the team or not, Tout was there for most pre and post match gatherings, all loyally held in the Swing at the insistence of team fitness coach, Big Al.
Tambourine in hand, dancing like a madman, most of us sat and watched, fearful of concussion as the totally totalled Tambourine Man whirled around the floor to the delight of the lonely DJ in the gloom of the far corner.
Few of us believed Tout would actually make fifty; if alcoholic poisoning had not got him then pneumonia surely would.
When he bought his first house, he was way ahead of the rest of us foreseeing the escalating cost of heating, so he simply never switched his on.
His first – and only – group hosting of a Sunday watching the footie ended with most of the team going out to our cars searching for blankets; it was the only time I have ever hugged Big Al.
Tout had invited several from yesteryear and a few had made long journeys back up North, nobody further than Darren “Vidal” Haynes, given his name apparently with regard to his obsession with his rapidly shedding hair.
During a marvellous two weeks in Tenerife in the late summer of 1990 we started the holiday as eight, temporarily went down to six and eventually back to seven; along the way we picked up a future wife for Topper and a lifelong friendship for me.
The holiday had got off to a dubious start as the local police objected to Browny and Binny providing the rest of us with a “golden shower” on our first night. The cops had just endured England’s finest during the Italia ’90 World Cup so international relations were strained somewhat.
The last we saw of both that night was them being chased off by gun wielding police as we all sought the comfort of a very hot shower and bade farewell to some drenched girls from Glasgow muttering “sick Southerners!”
Terrified, both spent the night on the beach and Binny (UKIP – Idle) not being entirely in favour of European integration, resolved to get straight back to the safety of Blighty with the “lure” of a rugby league match between Workington and Bradford Northern.
Browny had three attempts to get a flight home, forgot his passport each time and was greeted on his sorrow-full returns by storming renditions of “Welcome Home” a naff pop song of the time. By the close of week one he had yet to see daylight.
Binny, packed his collection of porno mags and a few days later was freezing his nuts off at the Cumbrian outpost, sunshine also now a distant memory.
Vidal and I had resolved to return home not only with a tan but bleached hair too. We would be Bradford’s answer to Bros, a little and large version to boot!
Our grand plan necessitated squirting our heads with Jif lemon juice which was fatally flawed from the start as it only encouraged violent swarms of mossies. I took the hint but Vidal pursued and the mossies left the landscape barren.
Not only had the flowing locks been consigned to the same scrapbook containing the white Ford XR2 – for younger readers a hot hatch that makes a Vauxhall Corsa look like a Tonka Toy (for younger readers a toy….enough! Ed) – but the once athletic frame has now blossomed. The passage of time can be cruel.
Browny was another regular on the touchline who most confidently expected to spend a large part of adult life in rehab. He had opted to travel light to Tenerife with his luggage comprising of one spare pair of boxers and twenty Rothmans.
A fan of regular washing he would deposit his dirty boxers in the sink to soak overnight whilst he went out to do the same. His aversion to daylight quickly earned him the nickname of Dracula.
In later life he did his weekly grocery shopping at the local takeaway and offered a solid impression of being constantly pissed. So to see him turn up looking like Bono after a year on the herbal tea was quite a shock.
All those years ago romance also blossomed and almost twenty five years later, Topper and Julie still look as captivated by each other as they were during those first two weeks in the sun.
Julie most certainly initiated the coupling and her technique was quite fetching as she would spend most afternoons lying on her sunbed, farting like a cuddly seal on a beach trying to attract a mate.
As Topper did a fair impression of Casper the Friendly Ghost, he usually stayed out of the sun until late afternoon by which time, several lagers on, Julie was in full flow.
Hailing from somewhere down south she referred to these windy escapes as “pipping” and legendary lothario Tubbs Taylor hardly spared her blushes as at each release of the nauseous wind he would exclaim:
“Bloody hell not again Julie, you’ll be gassing us!”
Tubbs in those days was a lethal charmer; with a wink of the eye and wag of the finger he could summon the ladies faster than Vidal could summon the mossies. A story teller of great wit and imagination he would often hold court around the pool, moving only when Julie rumbled again.
Living in captivity these days old Tubbs was there as well Saturday night, nervously clutching his coke, under the steely gaze of wife Julie.
“Don’t you be having too much of that Coke…you know it gets you giddy!” as she slurped her fourteenth Carling.
Tubbs gave us all a resigned look and went back to planning his escape rope for the next lads’ outing having perfected his sheet knots all those years ago to transport Browny’s case several floors.
The undisputed king of the charmers though was Piggy O’Grady who seemed to attract women effortlessly, so much so that it was always worth sticking close to him for the cast-offs.
Piggy’s method was to stay sober as a judge and watch us all drop randomly through the night, narrowing the field as he stalked his prey.
For the rest of us mere mortals we could only hope that her mate was not too fat or ugly and able to understand jibberish at four in the morning.
It was a magnificent holiday but looking back nothing flies faster than time. Will we ever be that daft again?
FOOTNOTE
I met a fantastic girl all those years ago who’s been my mate ever since although I nearly died the same night. When you are young, an invitation to go skinny dipping should never be refused.
Even so, despite the lure of the biggest pair of boobs on Tenerife, when I entered those waters I thought my heart would give way. Passion died on the spot!
Addicted to travelling, Amanda is currently in some far flung corner of the world, far from her native Kent, enduring tough times as the photo proves.
Stay safe old bird and see you when you get back!
DUMBEST THING I’VE HEARD…THIS WEEK
After a week of raging debates on energy prices with not one political party offering any semblance of either understanding the issue or being able to offer any credible solution, the Government has published its own advice; heat your living room during the day and bedroom at night!
Oh and if you could run between rooms that would help solve the obesity problem as well!
Remember these are the “elite”, the finest brains money can educate.
Modern Britain?
Tim Saul says
Great blog there Steve. Absolutely spot-on except about my first house – it was never that cold, surely !
Tout
Steve says
Tout they could have trained a polar expedition team at that house mate!
Paul Martin says
Totally hilarious Steve !!! I remember Darren haynes and Steve Brown from Hanson, good lads !
Reminds me of my own 18 – 30 holiday to Ibiza with Sean Archer, Neil McKay and Dave Collinson in @ 1985 – the brochure was full of dollies who were nowhere to be seen on arrival, just a coach with 50 bad boy scousers on it and 3 token welders bench jobs……..evntually realised that 18 – 30 actually referred to the IQ of everyone and had no bearing on age !!
Keep up the good work….