Fourteen

1981

Adam Ant was hurtling his way up the charts with Ant Music, Sir Freddie Laker's SkyTrain was giving the big boys of the airline world a run for their money, London got its first Marathon and yours truly took up roller skating!

I use the term 'took up' in its loosest sense. My parents had given in to my constant badgering for a pair of roller boots and made up the extra cash needed on top of my birthday/Christmas/spare pocket money that I had been ardently squirrelling away for what seemed like forever. Having an older brother working for a wholesaler finally paid dividends for me when I became the proud owner of a pair of shiny red white and blue mean machines:  4 chunky wheels and a 'reliable' front brake. Time would tell how reliable 'reliable' would be.

Quite why I thought this purchase was a good idea has never been clear to me, other than boys! I mean, I had problems staying vertical on the 2 feet I was born with let alone bringing 8 wheels into the equation. But in our little corner of West London, much the same as the rest of the country, the latest craze was roller skating and I was not about to be left behind.

The venue for this new found fascination was the local subways. No, not in the 2018 sandwich bar sense of the word but the local pedestrian subways, or underpass as it is known in some parts of the world: ours being under Junction 1 of the M3 motorway.  Not that it was used by many pedestrians. No, you'd rather take your life in your hands crossing each of the 16 lanes of traffic converging on the roundabout above. To use the chaotic warren of tunnels below would mean to prepare for a sensory & psychological overload: the non too pleasant aroma of wee and stale beer; the enlightening spectacle of mis-spelt profanities and hastily drawn cocks adorning the previously drab grey concrete walls; having your wits about you and being on guard for the sound of strangers' footsteps resonating from within the depths of the maze of subterranean passages before you. Halt! who goes there? Friend or foe? Nope, it was safer walking above ground, despite the abundance of vehicles hurtling their way through the traffic at break-neck speed.

The middle subway, the one that stretched under the 8 lanes of motorway, was like a ready-made roller arena. There was a handy wall at the end to leave your can of Tab and packet of Spangles. The acoustics were good for anyone that momentarily forgot that their Walkman's intended purpose was as a personal stereo: Einstein certainly was a go-go. And there was little danger of a dozen or so teenage rollerskaters taking out innocent passing pedestrians like skittles because, there were little, if any, passing pedestrians. So, dressed in their baggy jeans and white T shirts, the teenage hipsters took to their stage.

Unless of course you were me. I say this because I could not skate. No. Not one iota. I mean really, when I say I trip over air, believe me I did and I still do. Often. The teen pressure of not wanting to be left out meant I staggered on my tippy toed 'reliable front brake' stopper thingy all the way from my house to this new found teen playground. Now bearing in mind this was underground, meant I either had to negotiate steps down (!) or "the slope". Even I wasn't clueless* enough to risk the steps, so, making full use of the hand rail (and gravity), I somehow managed to descend into the dark depths of the Wonderworld below ground.

Take it from the expert spectator, watching other people skate is quite boring after a while - once the overwhelming wave of skate-envy has passed. And you realise you're never going to impress gorgeous Graham** with your marvellous mishap moves whilst syplph-like, super-spinning Sarah** is on the scene. There's only so cool you can look sitting there, hoping your mum was 'avin you on about what conditions could develop from excess sitting on cold concrete walls, whilst practising your penguin in the seated position. You can only hope beyond hope that the graceful gyrating gorgeous Graham has been too busy perfecting his grapevine and jumps to notice that your arse has been welded to the brickwork for the last hour and a half. He wipes his brow and heads on over to the wall, time for a break. You flick back your hair in a "phew this is hard work all this skating malarkey" sort of way and, sneaking a peak sideways, notice him glance over and smile. "Spangle?" you ask, coyly.

1981, when there were 2 Royal Weddings: Ken & Deirdre, followed 2 days later by Prince Charles and Lady Di. What an occasion that was! Were you even really
British if you didn't watch it from start to finish on the telly? Some people had street parties. I always felt a bit let down that the 4 lane dual-carriageway we lived on put paid to any ideas of that. Bucks Fizz won Eurovision and Frank Bough was telling us on Nationwide that some bloke called Bobby Sands was on hunger strike.

1981, when 3 TV channels seemed like plenty, Delboy, Rodney & Postman Pat came into our lives and, whilst us 14yrs olds were gripped by Gripper Stebson, our mothers were salivating over Selleck as Magnum PI.

1981, when Thursday nights saw Dad saying a little prayer as he places his little crosses in little boxes and the mere mention of a new household purchase would have the relatives gossiping as to whether 'they had won the pools'. Brixton and Toxteth had riots and John McEnroe coined his You Cannot Be Serious! catchphrase.

1981, the year of the strained, sprained and broken ankles. The getting home again from the subway with a friend on either arm dragging you along and praying to who's ever God was listening that they didn't let go and send you careering Frank Spencer style in front of a rusting Austin Allegro heading East on the A308 at a steady 40mph. The not quite making it from the pavement to the front door and the hours spent in A&E with your dad telling the Dr she's not screaming cos it hurts but because she's so bloody ticklish she can feel you approach from 4ft away even when blindfolded.

1981. The year I gave up on rollerskating but didn't give up on boys 😋


* I was

** Names have been changed to avoid blushes

But the music was whatever was the story, and the story was whatever was the song