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shaggy blog stories · shared items · twitter · village blog · you're not the only one Thursday, March 29, 2007
He is oh, oh, ohhhhhh....
Towards the end of yesterday's Official Office Night Out, my esteemed colleague and newly acquired desk-neighbour JP (page 54) told me his full job title: the frightfully butch-sounding Information Security Compliance Officer.
I so want to be his Deputy. Just for the kicky little acronym. You'll have that going round your head for the rest of the day, you know. Well, I don't see why I should suffer alone.
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Tuesday, November 19, 2002
Defining Vignettes Of The 1980s.
Jump to first vignette.
People these days increasingly seem to equate the 1980s with the ephemera of the age. Ra-ra skirts, legwarmers, wacky hairdos, cheap synthesisers, red braces, smiley faced bandannas, that sort of thing. However, I remember the 1980s for rather different reasons. Here then are four curious little incidents, each of which struck me at the time as somehow illustrating key characteristics of the decade. In each case, I clearly remember mentally filing them away, placing them in a special category in my memory marked Parables Of The Eighties, to be related to Future Generations. Well, now seems as good a time as any. Gather round now, children - and let me take you back. Way back... 4. Dogma. Our lodger’s best mate was active in student union politics in London, and sometimes used to DJ in the union building. One night, in the middle of playing Free Nelson Mandela by The Special A.K.A., a group of students stormed his decks. Knocking the needle to the end of the record, they furiously demanded an immediate public apology, for playing such disgusting, offensive trash. Their reason? Free Nelson Mandela contains the following line: Are you so blind that you cannot see? Which, by comparing the blind and partially sighted community to the hated South African apartheid regime, was a gross insult to all members of that community. In the Eighties, you had to be very, very careful with language. The devil was in the details, see… Labels: vignettes
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Defining Vignettes Of The 1980s.
3. Style fascism.
If you were a bloke who wanted to go out dancing in Nottingham in the early 1980s, then like it or not, you had to wear a tie. Apart from the Irish Social Centre (students) and the Ad-Lib (students and rastas), every other disco in town (Annabelle’s, Isabella’s, Madison’s) insisted on smart dress. The situation started changing with Rock City’s “futurist” nights on Saturdays (no jeans, mind), and the opening of the Asylum in late 1982 – the city’s first dedicated “alternative” club. These were followed in 1984 by the legendary Garage club, which would be Nottingham’s Mecca of Cool for the next four years. Upstairs at the Garage, resident DJ Graeme Park gradually swung the music policy away from the early diet of endless Talking Heads tracks, introducing his dancers by degrees to funk, electro, rap, Washington DC go-go, and finally to early Chicago house. In fact, the Garage has sometimes been credited as the first club in the UK to play house music on a regular basis. Compared to the student hops and “shiny” discos of the past, this was groundbreaking stuff for us. There was, however, a major downside to this. Entrance to the Garage was by no means a given. In order to gain admittance, you first had to fit the door staff’s notion of what was considered stylish and cutting edge. If there was just one member of your crowd in stonewashed jeans, a naff T-shirt and a boring haircut, then you had a stark choice: ditch your friend on the spot, or forget about clubbing for the night. As a result, you would often witness awkwardly humiliating little exchanges at the door of the club: “No, honestly – you lot go in and enjoy yourselves. I’ll just get some chips and go home.” (earnestly concerned) “Oh God, are you sure?” “Of course I’m sure.” (rather more half-heartedly, stealing glances towards the cash desk inside) “But we can’t go in without you…” “Look, I’ll be fine, honest.” (gratefully, yet guiltily) “Well, as long as you’re sure then…” And so it was that one night, a bunch of us turned up at the door of the Garage – including a couple of utterly conventional looking people who had never been before. “No, sorry. You lot are alright to come in, but not you, and not you.” The two “squares” were actually veterans of the old Northern Soul scene, which had been big in Nottingham during the previous decade. They were certainly no strangers to dancing all night to obscure but fantastic US imports. They were here to dance, not to gawp on the sidelines like tourists. This was laughable. I found myself snapping out of my usual state of meek, nervous awe, and adopting what I thought was a tone of recklessly cocky sarcasm. Just as a parting shot. “Well excuse me - but we’re all interesting, creative, exotic people. You have to let us in!” Pause, as the cogs whirred. “Oh, OK then. In you come.” The door opened wide, and we all stepped through, trying not to giggle. These people had clearly been briefed. Interesting – creative – exotic. That’s who we want in here. Trigger words. Not very bright, these style fascists. Just tell them what they want to hear. A couple of months later, in a similar situation, I used the exact same line again, with equal success. Evidently, I had cracked the code. Jump to next vignette. Labels: vignettes
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Monday, November 18, 2002
Defining Vignettes Of The 1980s.
2. Greed.
We were visiting friends in London, just off the Kings Road. It was the height of the Lawson property boom (after the election landslide, after Big Bang, before Black Monday), when seemingly every other conversation was given over to a breathless comparison of house prices. On the Sunday afternoon, our friends suggested a stroll down to the swanky Chelsea Harbour residential complex, which was nearing completion. Perhaps we could pretend to be potential buyers, and bluff our way into viewing one of the show apartments? Just for a laugh, and to satisfy our curiosity. But also, I suspect, for the temporary buzz - of feeling like we were In The Game, playing the markets with the best of them. There was a general feeling in the air at that time: a highly conspicuous (and well publicised) group of people were busily making an awful lot of money, seemingly out of thin air. On the one hand, it was appalling – a blatant attempt to hype the illusion of a strong economy to a gullible populace, merely in order to prolong the lifespan of the Thatcher government. A mirage of a boom, built on clever advertising, wishful thinking, and ever-increasing amounts of unsustainable debt. On the other hand, there was a nagging feeling that chances were passing us by – chances that were almost within our reach, but not quite. We were outwardly repulsed by what was going on – and yet we were secretly in thrall to it at the same time. In we went. In the swish entrance lobby, there were glossy leaflets showing what the apartment blocks would look like when completed. In the corner by the reception desk, a video was playing. In it, the chief architect was outlining his creative “vision” for the project, in suitably flowery designer-speak (organic…harmony…elements...space). In front of us, a smartly dressed couple in their late forties were accompanied by a little old lady, dressed in noticeably cheaper clothes. The husband in a pale yellow V-neck golfing sweater. The wife with heavily lacquered Big Hair, a white blazer, and a navy blue pleated skirt. As we drew closer, we could hear them talking. The old lady was evidently the wife’s mother. Unlike her daughter, she had retained her East End accent. Her voice was tightening, trembling slightly, and expressing mounting levels of concern and disbelief, bordering on panic. “But surely you can’t expect me to live here, can you? You’re not going to put me in this place, are you? I’d be all alone! I wouldn’t know anybody!” “But mother, these flats are beautiful. And you haven’t even looked at them yet. Come on! Let’s get the lift, shall we?” “But I don’t want to look at them…I don’t want to live here!” At this, the old lady looked beseechingly at her son-in-law. “Come on, mum. Let’s at least take a look at them, shall we?” As he said this, taking his mother-in-law’s hand and dragging her towards the lifts, his wife dropped back, placing herself directly behind the frightened and bewildered old lady. Now safely out of sight, she let out a clenched snarl of frustration (“Gnnnrrrh!”), and started pummelling her fists up and down above her mother’s head, stopping just short of actually touching her, in a pantomime display of annoyed impatience. The family group moved steadily forwards. In a sickening flash, I realised what the daughter and son-in-law were up to. Drag the old bird out of the East End, bung her in a posh flat, wait for her to croak in a few years’ time, then pocket the profit. Naked profiteering, disguised as familial concern. K and I quickly exchanged disbelieving glances. I felt horrified, disgusted and increasingly angry. My curiosity evaporated in an instant. This didn’t feel like fun any more. We turned back to our friends. “Can we go? This place is vile.” “But now we’re here, don’t you even want to see one of the flats?” “Actually, no. Let’s just go, shall we?” Shaking their heads in bafflement, our friends obligingly turned round. We walked away in silence. Jump to next vignette. Labels: vignettes
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Defining Vignettes Of The 1980s.
1. Sanctimonious self-righteousness.
Late one Sunday afternoon, we arrived at a friend’s house for an informal get-together and a bite to eat. There were probably about nine or ten people in the room when we arrived. Most of them were on the dole, stuck in that disorientating void between student life and working life. At least a couple of them were about to start training as social workers. They were all impeccably politically “right-on” in thought and word and deed, each one of them following the same putative “how to be a good socialist” handbook to the very letter. Several of them were involved in either the lesbian or the gay equal opportunities sub-committees for the city council. Everyone wore black, either with ethnic trimmings or “Soviet chic” accessories. In contrast, K and I were now both in regular paid employment. We would shortly be moving out of our rented flat (which we had crammed full with brand new lacquered black ash furniture from Habitat), and would be taking on our first mortgage. Our clothes were newer, smarter, more High Street. These people weren’t really our crowd. However, with a lot of our old friends no longer in Nottingham, we were still finding our way socially – and these were the just sort of people we thought we wanted to know. Alternative-ish, left-ish, cool-ish, and a bit arty as well. Definitely a group to aspire to. We bounced into the large living room in high spirits, bottles of Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon in hand. “Sorry we’re a bit late”, we trilled. “We’ve been watching the Wimbledon finals, drinking champagne and eating strawberries.” A long and deathly quiet descended upon the room. People either dropped their gazes to the floor, or stared at us with expressions of distaste, bordering on contempt. I swear I heard tutting. Eventually, someone broke the silence. “That’s not very left wing of you, is it?” The scales fell from our eyes. Jump to next vignette. Labels: vignettes
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· tallinn 2002: mike's estonian eurovision fiesta · riga 2003: the seven stages of eurovision · 2004: previews · 2005: previews · 2005: too many effing drums · athens 2006: backstage reports from rehearsals week · athens 2006: america, meet the eurovision song contest · 2007: previews return to sidebar menu we read...
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big blogger 2005: festival of blog "last to be picked" champions league fancy dress (and ill-advised drag) my greatest pride... ... and my greatest shame a tale for the little ones * irrational fears & how to overcome them the seven ages of mike seven deadly sins of blogging where are they now? * seven stonkers & seven honkers seven reasons why i don't want a dog (* warning: contains in-jokes) feeling listless: review 2005: if it moves, rank it guild of ghostwriters (hand-drawn): When I Was A Little Boy... The Professionals Introvert (all three in one place) leftlion magazine: gay up me duck my boyfriend is a twat: troubled twat, or my boyfriend is a diva popping out for meat neil's wild years: 1993: doya do do do doya 1994: away with the fairies 1995: things they'll never see sashinka: introduction finger food hosting company from hell enforced jollity capsule review: blondie fun facts about toilet paper dry your eyes, mate ah, barcelona swisstoni's place: earworms of the week the art of noise: in the dock: the eurovision song contest 5x5 the naked novel (a collaborative work of modern fiction): chapter 3 tranniefesto ("collaborative dialogue"): conversations of an email variety uborka: channel 4 script editors eat your neighbour recipes of yesteryear YAHNET acronyms online enagement party: (1) (2) a song from under the floorboards chapter 8: pandora's inbox (start here) wherever you are ("consequences"): sorry, did that spoil it for everybody? return to sidebar menu we hosted...
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It's all © Mike, thank you very much. I don't mind if you nick the odd paragraph; credit me and link back, and we can still be friends. But no funny business, OK? I know lots of people, and we'll all laugh and point at you, and then you'll feel, ooh, that high. Snarl. Please note that all spam comments will be deleted, even the ones that pretend to be nice.
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