The other day (in a move that will confound some expectations, but more on that later) I purchased a copy of Tony Blair’s autobiography. Whilst standing in the queue at Waterstone’s, a woman brushed past and – eyes falling upon the messianic tome I was clutching – stopped, frowned and booed at me with disgust. As she shook her head and walked away, I reflected that this wasn’t the first time someone had given me a look of genuine displeasure…
I recall that, with a similar grimace, my father once told me that my hair looked ‘bloody ridiculous.’ Come to think of it, I can remember him making this observation more than once. In my defence, this was either 1989 or 1990 and I wasn’t the only one who thought that a centre-parting and the resulting floppy curtains where ‘a good idea’, and would probably increase my chance of having some sort of sexual encounter. I was a lot younger then, and for some reason I chose to ignore my father’s protestations, regarding them simply as the grumpy ranting of someone who clearly didn’t have his finger on the pulse and wouldn’t know Northside’s ‘Shall We Take a Trip?’ if a copy spun off my faux-wooden turntable and smacked him in the face.
Of course – irresistibly baggy wah-wah guitar from 03:32 to 04:01 aside – the aforementioned song isn’t actually that good. To be blunt, Northside weren’t that great at all really. Neither were Candy Flip, EMF or latter-day Jesus Jones for that matter. But the wider-Madchester scene short-comings are another topic for another day. My father on the other hand is, for the most part, a thoroughly decent kind of bloke and – whilst he can’t play guitar to save his life – he was spot-on about my hair looking more than just a bit crap. I just couldn’t see it (or through it) at the time.
It’s a strange and wonderful thing, growing up; working out exactly who you are and where you fit in the world. It’s even weirder to look back at those times in your life when you thought-you-knew-everything; when no-one over the age of 30 could possibly ‘understand you’ or know what you were ‘going through’, let alone have anything of any relevance to say to you. It’s still largely unclear to me why, when growing up, we refuse to listen to the common sense or the wisdom of our parents. (I realise that this makes the rather sweeping assumption that all parents are wise; this may not always be the case, of course. Your dad could be a total idiot. Someone like Chris Moyles, for example.)
Maybe we’re all pre-disposed to having to learn things the hard way?
Case in point: Last month I offered to drop my younger brother and his fiancée at the airport, prior to them flying away to sunnier climes for a short holiday. As we drove down the M3, heading towards Bournemouth International (actually a small shed in the middle of a field; a throwback to a bygone sepia-tinted age when people used the phrase ‘tally ho!’ with gusto – and without fear of being mocked or locked-up) I noticed that my brother's left hand looked decidedly… orange.
As it turned out, the reason for my brother suddenly gaining a fist like Dale Winton was he’d liberally applied himself with some ‘self-bronzing lotion’ the night before. Apparently, he had felt he was a little ‘too pale for the poolside’ and had hoped to kick-start what the Mediterranean sun would do naturally over the coming week. Whilst – with the exception of a rather suspect henna-hairline – he didn’t look too much like he belonged in Heat magazine (or a Bollywood movie), his hand was a different matter entirely. It positively glowed in the early morning sun and no amount of hand-washing could help. If it had been his right arm at least he could have used it as a kind of fleshy indicator whilst driving; intermittently waving it out of the drivers-side window like an Oompa Loompa on a state visit.
You know, underneath it all, I probably have more in common – politically at least - with the lady who booed me in Waterstone’s than she’ll ever know. Unless she’s a subscriber to The Militant of course. Although – penchant for public admonishment aside – she seemed fairly well-to-do and I don’t actually recall too many readers of that particular publication carrying Prada hand-bags or wearing gold bangles…
Maybe I’m getting older (well, there’s actually no maybe, I am getting older; but, you know what I mean). Perhaps it’s because I’m now married to a truly wonderful woman who keeps me in check and causes me to stop and think about things a little more - I’m sure that travelling and experiencing different cultures have had an impact too – but, I feel a little more inclined to hear ‘the other side of the argument’ nowadays. Give the other fella a chance to speak for a change. Lord knows, I’ve a big enough gob on me to get a word in edgeways if I still feel inclined.
This slightly altered take on life is one of the reasons for buying Tony Blair’s autobiography. Because it’s not the sort of thing that I’d normally do – let’s do the opposite for the change. What’s the worse that can happen? Yes, I may well find it dull, shallow or sycophantic – my brain may indeed enter a state of all-encompassing torpor – but at least I can say I gave it a go. It’d be nice to find out why we invaded Iraq too.
Besides, it was half-price.
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