I Knew How To Rock And Roll

1979 (14 YEARS OLD)3 weeks ago

1979 - 14 Years Old

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. – Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

Dickens was spot on.

At least he was if you were crazy about Elvis and was an almost-Ted in late ’70s England.

Especially, if you were starting to have doubts.

And the source of my emerging doubts were threefold:

1. I was becoming ever more curious about different kinds of music.

2. The heyday of the ’70s rock and roll revival was well on the rocks by 1979, what with the novelty of Elvis’ death having run its course, the film Grease having long gone to video, and the distinct lack of almost anything resembling rock and roll in the charts; with the exception of talentless gobshite Sid Vicious completely fucking up a handful of Eddie Cochran songs:

And, 3, I had never seen a Teddy Boy with a girlfriend.

Hmmmm.

So that was the list of doubts, the order of which depended on the day.

I was starting to listen to a lot more 60s stuff, but Queen also came out with the single Crazy Little Thing Called Love, which probably was the true gateway drug from rock and roll into rock.

And the video had women dancing in stockings and suspenders. What else could you ask for?

Well, for your mum not to make you turn it off when she caught you watching “rubbish”, for starters…

And while I was having my existential crisis, my mum, when she wasn’t acting like the Taliban morality police, was apparently having her own.

This lead her to take a part-time job working for a bookie.

But it was England in the late 70s. Bookies didn’t look like this:

They looked more like this:

And they weren’t called bookies. They were Turf Accountants and had a nice office in an historic building in the market square.

At least Gordon Jarvis, Turf Accountant, my mum’s new boss, did.

And my mum became best friends with Chris (Christine), Gordon’s better half. They weren’t married, which was confusing to me at the time. But I didn’t spend too much time thinking about it.

All I knew was that Chris was one of the nicest people I had ever met.

Gordon was just alright.

And so in the summer of 1979, I found myself at a BBQ at Gordon and Chris’ house.

I showed up with my box of records, of course, but they didn’t have a record player. Just a large tape deck. Anyway, I doubt that I would have gotten any airtime.

Gordon seemed to be more of a Max Bygraves man.

How could he not be?

Chris’ nephews were there. They were studying physics at Cambridge, and, true to form for students studying the hard sciences at Cambridge, they were greebos (long-haired, leather and denim wearing, Heavy Metal enthusiasts).

I overheard them make a patronizing joke about Elvis, and it ticked me off no end.

I wanted to fight them. But my dad calmed me down. I’d have to wait another few years for the chance to clobber greebos.

AC/DCs Highway To Hell was in the charts that year, so I’m including this oompa version just to spite the greasy-haired comedians.

The 14-year-old Tim would appreciate that.

Bored off of my arse and walking around aimlessly, Chris suggested that I be the bartender.

In the 1970s, there was still a lot to be figured out, such as high-capacity microprocessors, lithium batteries powerful enough for cars, and AI.

They also hadn’t figured out that it’s never a good idea to put a 14-year-old boy in charge of the punch.

I spent my time keenly keeping the punchbowl flowing and people watching.

Besides the greebos, most of the guests were old. To a 14-year-old, that meant anyone over 25, with their sciatica medicine, corn plasters, stool softeners, and a glass to put their teeth in at night.

There were a couple of kids running around. And a lovely 16-year-old neighbour girl.

Who, of course, ignored me.

To be fair, though, she’d have to be aware of my existence in order to ignore me.

I tried to catch her eye by juggling pieces of fruit that were meant to go in the punch. But I gave up on trying to impress her after having to look for limes in the hedge several times.

The guests were knocking back the punch, and every time I added more alcohol to the crystal bowl, I took a sip to make sure it wasn’t shit.

I started out as a quiet barman. But as the afternoon went on, I started to get chattier and to address the men as squire and the ladies as luv.

At about 5 o’clock, my dad was driving me home. It was shortly after I was discovered in one of the loos spewing violently and shouting nonsense about greebos.

My dad drove home while I had my head out of the window, singing Do Wah Diddy Diddy, pausing occasionally to vomit down the side of the car and into the cool jasmine-scented summer evening’s air.

We were in my dad’s shit Datsun, so a bit of upchuck on the side didn’t make much of a difference.

My dad dropped me off home, and I slept the sleep of the damned.

I didn’t get in trouble. Quite the opposite. I became the golden memory of the BBQ.

In 70’s England, it was cute. Like that film of a host of different African animals eating the spoiled fruit that had dropped from a tree and getting legless.

I woke up at about 4 am the next morning starving. I went downstairs and opened the fridge. Chris had sent me (I assumed it was for me) several plates of food from the BBQ.

I ate it cold.

Like a savage.

And I learned the transcendent beauty of the hangover breakfast.