I can't believe he didn't post in this thread.
Shout out to the heroine of this tale.
Someone retrieved chunks of the original huge thread for me years ago, she was in that one.
You're right CBIT, how could I miss a flogging opportunity like this?
It just hurts too fucking much at the moment, I have t keep banishing her from mi head. I couldn't do it yesterday and had a bad morning but one of mi bessie mates turned up and distracted me.
Thanks onandoff, she dint want a service/funeral but a 'party', I'll chuck it up on here when I've sorted it - just picking off what I can/have to at the mo.
***************** First memory of meeting Vicky, it meanders a bit cos that's the nature of the book. She w pissed off when she first read it cos I said she wasn't Debbie Harry/Purdie/remarkable but missed that I was saying she was t me from the off, when I was drowning in girls. She got it in the end and the point of it was that dint do all the over the top Farah Fawcett or Susie Sioux or any of that presenting as cliched, socially prescribed sexy stuff. It was interesting, she got threatened a couple of times in the Phono by women cos she dint 'fit in, dint do the trendy Goth group look thing. People who'd b looking down on me and her dancing on r own to New Order-Procession - 'What's this shit?' - and then they'd pack the floor later f Blue Monday with New Order on the back of their jackets. There's a lot more t all that but maybe later. *******************
Who is it? And why I am so interested? She is not remarkable, not dazzling, she has not just come out as Barbarella, in Leeds , Yorkshire , England . There are no sexy, space-age costumes and a vague, sexual curiosity mixed with a passive acceptance. A half-glimpsed, distant girl, slotting a key into a door, like a thousand other girls. Why was I standing and staring, I was just 14, hadn't quite come out but was so inundated with girls that I was only vaguely interested in them. I was completely fascinated, addicted to the whole but the majority of the individuals, the parts of the whole, were simply there. I'd clock them and subconsciously log them but I didn't have to actually do anything because they would come to me. So why had I stopped and stared? Craned my neck? Why when the door shut behind her was I disappointed, felt like I'd missed something? She didn't scream sexuality and that was my main interest in females. She didn’t have the legs of Joanna Lumley, or maybe she did, she was wearing jeans. But she certainly didn’t have the leg-length enhancing, ‘up the shirt while gently jogging without a hint of sweat’ camera angle that Purdie had. There was no,
‘That was good but I didn’t quite get a flash of your white knickers as you jumped over the log. Let’s go again…. Cut. Now can we try the full leg, slightly extended, from the front? And can you change those tights, there’s a slight ladder.’
With this ‘disappearing behind a door’ girl, you wouldn't pick her out from a group of women, she wasn’t Debbie Harry. You would not stop and stare, I would, I just did. I shuddered, a strange positive shudder. Did I know her? No, I definitely didn't know her. I want to breed with her. Ah well, there aren't enough hours in the day to accommodate the demands of the current girls. The girls on their way out and in, the occasional girls, the intense girls, the girls that make me laugh or think, the girls who shine with a preened perfection and the girls who glow with a natural vitality, skin that radiates, re-energising under my touch, virile and alive.
I know who she is. I remember an orange chopper bike, a mate and a jumble sale, a snippet of childhood. She was the girl with the jumble sale at her garden wall. An exciting jumble of kids’ knick-knacks to be fiddled with, old stuff she'd had enough of, that made me want to run home for some change off mi mum. They made Tony want to grab them and peddle really fast. Tony's mum didn't like me, you can tell at that age, she was pleasant enough but there was something she just didn't like, I was polite, always loved manners, she just didn't like me.
Everyday before school, eight or nine, we'd go to Marsdens, it was further than the other sweet shops but Tony always wanted to go there. I'd get a packet of chicken crisps and he'd come out with all manner of goodies. I was always jealous, he had enough to get what ever he wanted, he'd get loads of sweets and magazines and let me have any pictures of Bowie that were in. There were always pictures of Bowie in the pop magazines in 1972. Years later I realised why his mother didn't like me, she thought I was a spoilt, little, rich kid while she was struggling, bringing up two kids on her own, she didn't like the influence I was having on her child.
It was Tony's fault, he was my best mate. When he'd come home with all the magazines, pockets stuffed with sweet wrappers and half chewed Curly Wurlies he'd tell his mum that I bought him them all. I only bought the pop magazines to get the pictures of Bowie so, once I'd taken the pictures out, I gave the magazines to him. The truth was that I only had exactly enough to buy one bag of chicken crisps, not a quid and bits worth of chocolate, sweets and mags. She thought I was spoilt stupid. When I started my milk-round, I suddenly did have loads of money, which just confirmed all her fears. The truth was that Tony was an accomplished shoplifter, even me, his best mate, even I didn't have a clue.
I have only, knowingly, stolen anything once and it was at this, somewhere between the ages of seven and ten. It was a small toffee bar from our local sweet shop, I think I was just checking if I dare do it. It killed me. It wasn’t right. I spent days on a rack, seeing injustice around the world and aligning myself with the baddies. God knows if it was the Catholicism. I think perhaps the Catholicism informed a more secular/social conscience of right and wrong. A couple of days later I returned to the shop and over-paid for something by exactly the amount of the item that I had whipped.
‘You’re change, love.’
I was at the door. ‘I’m late, you’re OK.’
The lady knew she had been the victim of some scam but couldn’t fathom it.
At senior school one of my best mates was into burglary, we fell out over it, big time.
‘But Mick, you’re walking past an open window and there’s two hundred quid sitting on the window ledge. You’d nick it.’
‘No I wouldn’t.’
‘Yes you would.’
‘No I wouldn’t.’
‘Two hundred quid, sitting there? You’d have it.’
‘I wouldn’t. In fact if I found a purse with money in, and an address, I’d either take it to the address, or to the police.’
‘Would you fuck.’
‘You’re off your fucking head, you are, y’lying cunt.’
We almost came to blows and weren’t friends anymore. His wasn’t thieving out of need but motivated by greed. Ironically, a couple of months later I found a purse, with money in, in a phone box and kept it, the temptation and pay-off were too much. I didn’t really, I found the woman who had lost it and returned it to her. She gave me very little reward, less than three percent of what was in the purse…tight cow.
'Tony, Tony, what y'doing?'
'I've nicked 'em.'
He had toy cars, some Clackers and a yo-yo and was pedalling furiously.
'You can't do that.'
'You can't do that.'
'Take 'em back.'
'Take 'em back.'
'I can't take 'em back.'
'I'll get caught y'tit.'
'Right give 'em here.'
'Give 'em here, I'll take 'em back.'
'You can't take 'em back, you'll get caught y'tit.'
'Give 'em here. Give 'em here. I'll knack y'.'
He passed them over, swearing under his breath. When I got back to the jumble sale she was still there. She was pissed off, I gave them back, she scowled, I rode off. It was her, it was 'disappearing behind a door’ girl. Did this childhood memory account for the fascination? At that young age, did she awaken a tingle or empathy? Perhaps in a former life she was a motor-racing champion and I worked in the pit or she was a particularly cruel prison guard and I was a prisoner, or vice versa. Maybe she was a farmer and I was a hen, the possibilities were endless. All I knew was that in my little world for some obscure, unfathomable reason, and being unknown to me, she was extraordinary. Like the favourite moustache or cardigan of someone waking from a coma, memories trashed. There was certainly a moment in time that stopped dead, a small road-block strewn across the lane of my mental connections. Anyway, not to worry, if it's meant to be, she'll come to me.
Last edited by MickMcCann (Tue 14 Jun 2016 8:19 am)
I’ll be an atheist until the day I die.