55 From 55 - 1979

55 songs in 55 days - one for every year of my life...so far. 

One of the guys at the office rented a large house just off Christchurch Park, a pretty nice part of Ipswich. He took the biggest room and sub-let the rest to friends and co-workers. I'm not sure how legal the sub-letting actually was, now I come to think about it. When one of his 'tenants' gave notice, he made it known at work that he was looking to fill the room. Without thinking too much about it, I said I'd take it and that evening, told Mum and Dad I was leaving home. I'm utterly appalled at my younger self for the way I dropped this bombshell on my parents. They knew the day would come, but were clearly hurt at the blunt way I broke the news, something my immaturity couldn't comprehend, yet to their immense credit they still helped me considerably when the day of the move came.

Don't say I didn't warn you about the 'tache! 1979

It was at the end of 1979 that I started working in a record shop. I wrote about those early days on the other side of the counter a couple of years ago (here). Earlier in the year, around the time I was leaving home, I bought 'Telegram' by The Monitors, a glorious, jangly little thing that I love dearly. I loved it so much that I also bought it again a couple of months later, when the single was reissued on a major label. Over the years, when times have been hard and money short, I've reluctantly exchanged bits of my record collection for cold hard cash - and usually regretted it. But I've never regretted anything quite as much as selling my original Monitunes copy of 'Telegram'. What a fool I was.

A Couple of Close Shaves

I've done some daft things in my time and here are two of them. The moustache years. What was I thinking? What was I thinking? Actually, I know exactly what I was thinking. Throughout my early teens I looked forward with excitement to the day when I would be 'grown-up enough' to have to start shaving, but, when the time came, I quickly became bored with it and, having no chin hair to speak of, swiftly sprouted a full and luxurious 'tache. Of course I should have just as swiftly hacked the damned thing off, but unfortunately it stayed - for way too long. I grew to hate it, but convinced myself that everyone would laugh if they were suddenly exposed to my bare upper lip. This was 1975-79. I attended my first Clash gig wearing a moustache for goodness sake! Eventually, one evening, I'd had enough and took a razor to the offending bristles. The following morning I steeled myself in preparation for the ridicule that would surely come my way when I reached work. No-one batted an eyelid. Not one bloody comment! I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

In subsequent years I've flirted with various facial hair permutations, from goatee to soul patch, but never again the solo 'tache. Every Movember I consider joining the terrifically worthwhile charitable fray, but wind up donating my way out of actually participating. Who knows though, perhaps a moustache would suit me more, now that I'm in my dotage? Maybe this year I'll summon up the courage to be among those receiving the donations, as well as giving them come Movember, as I dazzle one and all with a dashing handlebar, chevron or walrus!

                              Summit of Helvellyn (destroyed feet not pictured)                Looking back along Striding Edge   

The other daft thing I was going to mention? In 1977, aged 17, I went on holiday to the Lake District with three mates (all equally 'tached up as it happens). While there, we climbed Helvellyn, the third highest mountain in England. Impressive? Well, looking back, I was remarkably fortunate to have made it up and down unscathed. My chums were fully kitted out in walking boots and all-weather gear, while I made the climb in shirt, jeans (flares!) and regular street shoes, not forgetting an Iggy Pop t-shirt for extra warmth! It's not Everest, but people die attempting to scale Helvellyn and I was insanely ill-prepared for such a trek. By the time we made the final scrabble from Striding Edge to the summit, the backs of my heels were cut to ribbons and bleeding profusely. The views from the top were spectacular, temporarily numbing the pain, but it took us a further three hours to get back down and, in fading light, locate the car. I couldn't walk properly for days.