Friday, 2 July 2010
“See the street-litter twisting in the wind,
Crisp bags turning.”
Watching mid-80s US Brat Pack movies warned me off house parties. You know the ones … you invite a few friends over when your parents are away, they tell everyone at school, a rabble of older kids gatecrash and wreck your house while listening to Tears For Fears, and the kid who’s good at science drives your dad’s car into next door’s pool.
My parents couldn’t leave their house in safer hands when they went away. I hated parties. I rarely enjoyed being around more than one person at a time. And my tinnitus stopped me playing music too loudly. Yep, I sound like a real fun teenager, don’t I? Thing is, I’m exactly that way now too.
Only once did our neighbour come round to complain about the noise and he was quite surprised to find me in on my own. It was the summer of 1989 and John Peel had decided to play every session by The Fall over three nights. So I was listening to the latest show with all the windows wide open while doing some dusting. Yes, dusting. This is how I chose to spend my nights home alone as a teenager. I think my neighbour had rather hoped I was having a party so that he could report back to my parents that I was perfectly normal. Instead, he had to tell them he found me singing along to ‘Cruiser’s Creek’ with a feather duster in my hand. Very little changes in my life.