1986: You are the magic

Who remembers when Next was all the rage? I was around this time, and before it over-stretched itself and got truly ghastly, it was considered quite innovative and stylish at the time, with every other shop trying to have a piece of the chain's huge success. I was far from alone in adding the odd piece from there if I could afford it, and in my provincial university town it soon became our clothes shopping destination of choice.

There was this fantastic emerald green cardigan I owned, and a very nice white shirt with with red diamonds on it, though when teamed together it did look like someone had over-dealt at bridge. All sorts of Next garments passed through my hands over the years after that, but my favourite of all at time were a pair of dark purple - perhaps we'll call it aubergine - suede loafers which I'd coveted for a while. I think they may have been about £17, a smallish fortune back then, especially on student money. They were out of my reach.

But I didn't have to wait long. One day they were presented to me after my housemates rather touchingly clubbed together and bought them. I can't recall why they decided to do this - it was autumn and my birthday was in June - but whatever it was it was one of the kindest surprises anyone has ever sprung. 

Naturally I wore them to death, so much so that I had to replace them myself eventually. I finally went off them when my brother got a pair. Three years younger than me, that wouldn't do at all. (In later years I felt much better if he came shopping with me, him being the gorgeous one, the one shop assistants didn't ignore, the one who did manage to attract the attention of the aloof shop assistants in Red Or Dead who were always far too busy frugging to the background music to catch the eye of this lumpy old pongo).

I've often looked out for a similar shoe over years but never found one. They were subtle, autumnal, comfortable, stylish. Things like that never - or should never - go out of fashion. Unlike Next itself, which ranks one up from BHS in the style stakes these days.  Oh whither Foster Menswear, Woodhouse (another one with snotty assitants), Jigsaw Menswear and Chelsea Man, all littering the high street in the Eighties?

Though I like clothes, I hate clothes shopping. The key is being super-confident, and if I'm in the mood, then you notice how assistants dance around you. But there's nothing worse than feeling overweight and every inch of your 47 years and having the boy in Ted Baker addressing you with 'Alright geez?'. That's guaranteed to have me making for the internet where you can shop inappropriately for your age and no one judges you.

Anyhoo, this song, with it's highly wintry feel from a film on one's ever seen, really reminds of marching down the high street at 21, liking the way I looked and looking the way I liked, getting into that autumn/winter wardrobe and enjoying every minute of it. 

Golden days indeed.

1978: And you've been caught!

It sounds like one of those I remember the Seventies cliches, but it happens to be true. You really did go out on your bike at weekends and holiday with your mates and only reappear at mealtimes.

Mum was happy to have us out of the house, but perhaps she'd have thought twice if she knew what we'd been up to all day.

I was reminded of the risks one takes as a child when someone posted a link to this film Robbie on YouTube (end of part two). We were never shown this at at school, but perhaps we should. I don't actually recall seeing any safety films at school. It horrifies me now and it would certainly have horrified me then. It might have stopped me playing on the railway line. Or it might not.

Not that it was Intercity, just local freight trains, but it's dangerous nonetheless. And as for putting coins on the line or bits of wood - did we want to cause a train crash? Quite possibly. And what about seeing how far out onto the icy lake we could go as it cracked underfoot, or riding your bike down a hill really fast straight out onto the main road as cars sped round a bend? Not to mention playing on the bridge over the A33 and wondering whether it might be a good idea to drop stones onto the cars beneath. You can go to prison for that now. In fact, I know someone in a nearby town dropped a breeze block off a footbridge and killed someone, so that was the end of that little experiment for us all. I once tossed a bunch of bluebells over. Make love not war.

But then there were the poor cyclists who got stuff thrown at them as they cycled by, the knock down gingers to poor old women, the pretending to collect for charity then spending the money on sweets (I actually felt guilt at this one and posted the money back through the letter box, unseen), as well as the creeping through gardens after dark to see how far up the road you could get before it became impossible. And what about swimming in a disused quarry, and having to cross the motorway to get there. Oh the thrill of it all. That said, I wasn't the only one doing it and I never heard of anyone who came to any harm, amazingly enough.

This song makes me think of the evenings turning dark, and going apple scrumping or climbing into gardens or smoking or anything else I shouldn't have been doing all those years ago. It makes my blood run cold. It's not only a wonder I'm still here but that I avoided a young offenders institute.

No amount of public information films seemed to make much difference. In fact, it just made it all the more forbidden. I think it was the heavy-handed accusation of shop-lifting that brought it all home to me (see 1979: It might be a sin). After that I reigned it in, had other interests, etc. But back then, the more daring it was the more exciting it was. We've all been there haven't we? Perhaps I wasn't as bad as I thought I was - I was never in trouble with the law - but it certainly felt bad. So bad it was good.

For some of us the bad felt so good it spiralled out of control. I'm happy to say I followed a righteous path. Sort of.

1984: I ain't missing you at all

It's more than halfway through the autumn term, 1984, and it's all going swimmingly well at university. I was now in the process of ditching most of the friends I'd made in the early days and moving onto a new group who were much more fun. It wasn't proving to be too tricky as everyone was doing it, but there was one sticking point: that girlfriend 'back home'.

To be honest I was never that into her. She was a friend of my old boarding school room mate from his home town, about 18 months younger than me. She was cute, amusing and we were both really into music. But I didn't actually consider her a romantic prospect. We'd kind of been thrown together in the early summer during our disco days, when I was staying with a friend in London pre-Bahrain, and she was coming up a lot and we were going out in the West End and having a lot of fun. We fell into each other and kind of carried it on, despite me being off the scene for a few months. Was there something in this after all? No.

I'd started the term off going back there every weekend, ostensibly to see her but in reality much more looking forward to meeting up with my old school friends and other hangers on at this room mate's mum's place, a sprawling farm in the Sussex countryside. We'd use it as a base and take it from there. With girlfriend being around she was more often than not an irritation. She wasn't childlike as such, but she seemed unworldy, rather prudish and frankly a bit square. I realised I had no real feelings for her at all. I'm ashamed to say I didn't think twice about cheating on her when I got to university. I felt no pangs of guilt whatsoever.

She wrote me letter after letter, we spoke at least twice a week if not more and I saw her most weekends. We went to her friends' parties, and one engagement party (I know, at that age) we attended Missing You was the song of the night. I sang the 'I ain't missing you at all' line to her face. Unfortunately I wasn't joking. She laughed it off. But it said it all.

October saw her 18th birthday arrive and she was having a black tie dinner party - at 18! I had no idea this meant tuxedos. I thought it just meant you had to wear a black tie. The look on her face when I turned up in a check shirt and black tie was a picture. Who was this oik? I'd also not bought her a present. It hadn't even occurred to me to do so. What sort of boyfriend was I? A bad one, that's what sort.

As the term went on and those weekends became one in two then about one a month, things were changing. I wanted my life and my weekends with my student mates, not spending dull days and nights with a schoolgirl in a ski jumper and pearls. But I didn't have the heart to dump her. I found anything like that far too heavy and laced with huge amounts of guilt, so to save myself I usually ended up being the one who was dumped. It was far less painful. So on it dragged.

The night before I was flying out to Bahrain for Christmas we stayed at a friends house in London. I had to be up at the crack of dawn to catch my plane. As I crept out in the still dark morning to get into my taxi I saw her vintage (or second-hand, as we called it back then) tweedy old man's overcoat hanging on the end of the banister. I took of my jacket and swapped it with hers. I left for hot climes wearing something that was not only completely inappropriate, but not mine.

A week or so later a letter arrived, furious. How could I have done such a thing? What did I need an overcoat for in the Middle East, etc., etc. We needed to talk.

On my return we met up for this talk, and to my relief, she dumped me. Saved me a job. I never saw her again.

I know now that I was incredibly emotionally immature and selfish, toying with a young girl's heart like that. It was kind of cruel. I should have had the courage to not let things spiral just because I couldn't face confrontation. But that was me back then. Lessons have been learned.

I don't miss that at all.

1979: The light that burned so brightly

I never asked for a rabbit. Mum came home from work one day in 1976 and said that someone had some baby rabbits that she needed to get rid of, and did we want to go and see them? They were only round the corner.

Of course, we came home with one. A little grey one we called Bugsy, partly after Bugs Bunny and partly after Bugsy Malone. And I loved him with all my heart.

He lived freely in the shed at the end of the garden, hopping around among piles of hay and straw. He was a delight, quite a character, who'd sit in the window of the shed before meal times as an indication that he was hungry and where were we?

My friends loved him, and he grew into a huge big bunny, larger than normal, bigger than a hare. We also got a kitten during this time and while it tried to antagonise him, Bugsy was the bigger fish, even attempting rape at one point. The kitten soon knew who was boss.

Our menagerie was growing. Next door brought two guinea pigs home from the Southampton show, and within two years had mulitplied to over 100. Their whole garden was given over to them and the squeaking was unbelievable. They also had a couple of lambs at one point, brought home from the father's agricultural college job. If Bugsy escaped he'd be found following them round usually until one day they disappeared, only to be brought home again as Sunday joints.

I was animal mad, and I'd just bring guinea pigs home from next door and they'd live in the shed with the rabbit. If you surprised them on cold nights you'd find them huddled round him, sleeping across his back, behind his ears, all keeping each other warm.

But he could be vicious. He bit the girl next door, and chomped someone's knee through their trousers. Demands to have him put down were met with deaf ears. He'd often escape and if not with lambs, he'd be found in the jaws of the Doberman five doors up, but he'd be delivered back to us safely. He was indestructible. Or so I thought.

One Friday night in July, 1979, someone in my class was having a birthday treat, which involved five of us going to see the new Superman film. We were over-excited on the way there, flicking V-signs at pedestrian's from his mother's Renault, giggling like maniacs. We were no better behaved in the cinema either, and badgered the presenter of local kids' show Hey Look! That's Me! until he threatened to have us chucked out. What fun it was. 

When I went up to feed Bugsy the next morning he was lying out in his attentive but relaxed position - but stiff as a board. I was heartbroken. I called for Dad who came running up the garden to see what all the fuss was about. Bugsy was dead.

We were all devastated. The next day we went to a local agricultural show and bought a new one, a Silver Fox which we called Roscoe. Well, Wimbledon was in full swing. But it was never the same.

We still talk about Bugsy to this day. He was such a character, and remains in the top three of the myriad of Peake pets through the decades.

I often dream of him, but it's usually that I've not fed him for 20 years and he's all emaciated. It's a classic guilt dream. Sometimes I used to have to be physically made to feed him and clean him out, and if I could get away with not doing it I would. It was such an effort to go 30 feet up the garden. But that's kids and animals. Parents end up doing all the work. You do all the loving. 

Anyway, whenever I hear this song, I think shed, overcast skies, quiet Saturday afternoons, the smell of earth, bonfire smoke, the sound of fresh straw, wet grass and soft fur. 

1983: While everyone sleeps

The alarm would go off about 6.45am. I'd drag myself over to the stereo, pop the button and slink back into bed. Then I'd doze fitfully as the songs of the day entered my brain by osmosis. My room mate was very good about it. Not as much of a music fan as me he was happy to be steered, and though there was initial resistance to the Radio 1 Breakfast Show going on at the crack of dawn, I wore him down.

There was nothing I liked more, drfiting back into a snooze but never missing a thing, knowing that I didn't have to get up for a least half an hour. The songs and chit chat would wash over me, enveloping me in a cosy comfort blanket of hits until it was time to face the day proper.

Every so often, however, a song that was new to me would come on and I'd have to shake myself awake to cry and catch what it was before the opportunity was gone. No looking at playlists on the internet back then. Today, the song that was perhaps the oddest, most amazing thing I'd heard to date was The Lovecats by The Cure.

Hold on a second. The Cure? Are you sure? Aren't they all gothy and moody? Could they really be behind this upbeat slice of Parisian, images of Disney's The Aristocats-conjuring, jazzy, surrealist, hysterical pop with the catchiest chorus of year? Indeed they were. Gosh.

It embedded itself in my brain at once and stayed there. Forever. There are only a handful of songs they have ever done this to me, though only three immediately spring to mind: A Winter's Tale by David Essex (not so keen nowadays), Ramblin' Man by Lemon Jelly (drink in the unconfined joy) and I Feel Like Buddy Holly by Alvin Stardust (I'm welling up just thinking about it).

I went off The Lovecats after about 10 years, mainly because I'd listened to it endlessly, and though it's been knocking about a bit since I've not paid it much attention. The other day it came on in the car and it sounded great. Funny how different songs from that era sound now everything's on FM. You missed so much on medium wave.

Still, this song reminds me of one the greatest periods of my life, when I was having an awful lot of fun and music was all that mattered. I must never forget. This song is back.

1986: I never will forget

Thailand was quite an exotic place to go back then.

When asked by my parents if I wanted to go on holiday with them earlier in the year, my immediate response was no. But when they said they were going to Thailand I rapidly changed my mind.

I was going out to Bahrain for part of the summer anyway, but was staying down in my uni town for a month or so. This in the end proved to be a mistake, as there was hardly anyone around and I was paying rent on a place that just had me rattling around in it. A far cry from the summer before when I'd had a high old time sticking around for the entire summer with a houseful of friends.

So it was better that I save my money and head out east. Thailand was a bit of an unknown quantity to me and most people I knew. It was beginning to turn up on people's travels but wasn't the everyday holiday destination it is today. So I was excited.

First stop was Bangkok, then onto Phuket, which was but a beach with a couple of hotels on it, unspoilt, quiet, idyllic and a million miles form the Benidorm it would later become.

We were staying in wonderful hotel in Bangkok right on the river. It was the first time I'd ever had Thai food and we saw some amazing sights. But none more amazing than the live sex show we saw - en famille.

We had gone to Thailand with another family with similar aged children, and the two dads had asked the hotel concierge if they could recommend an interesting evening out. Not to worry, sir, he was told, we'll sort everything. We clearly hadn't tipped enough as when we took our seats in a rather shabby-looking club, something was clearly amiss.

And when a half-naked girl with a bag full of dodgy looking pills and grass sat on my 17-year-old brother's knee and shook everything in his face, she was quickly shooed off by mum. But things really took a turn for the worse when the girls took to the stage and shot miniature bananas out of their, er, well you know, opened bottles of beer and fired ping pong balls into the air. And then the men entered and hence began the most embarrassing moment of my life to date: watching people having sex for real in front of one's parents.

We made our excuses and left.

Back in our hotel room my brother and I half laughing, mostly dying, dissected the events of the evening. The inter-connecting door between our our room and our parents' room suddently burst open, and in skipped mum with a bunch of baby bananas. "Hello boys!', she trilled.

I'm going cold thinking about it. At least we can laugh about it now. It's not the sort of experience shared by most people.

I thought I was so grown up back then, and didn't even really want to be seen with my parents, let alone go on holiday with them. So on the nights we did shake them off and hit the hotel bar putting drink after drink on their tab, to have the singer point at you and say, 'this is for the people who've just walked in', and start singing 'I believe the children are our future..', just piled on the humiliation. As if we hadn't been through enough already.

I remember seeing the marriage of Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson as a minor item on the Thai news and on our return to the UK Lady In Red was number one. Though it's a song I despise, it will be inextricably linked with this whole affair.

Man With Red Face was at the top of my chart though.

1977: If you feel that this is you

I'd have liked a career in radio. Well, up until I was 12.

Since I'd gone mad on music and was glued to the radio, it was a place I wanted to be. I really wanted to visit a radio station, and sooner than expected, here was my big chance.

Okay, it was hospital radio, but it was a start!

Mum and Dad had a friend who was a DJ on hospital radio. Desperate to fill hours of airtime he'd taken to interviewing his friends, a sort of 'in conversation' half-hour chit-chat with someone non-famous but local.

I remember each of them going to to record it, and coming home with a tape of the show. One of the subjects my dad brought to the table about how he'd recently been introduced to barbecuing by our new American neighbours. We all know how that ended.

But I badgered to visit this radio station, far away from the hospital, almost on the other side of town, until a favour was called in. So one evening we took the trip.

I don't recall much about the visit, except I had to read out a dedication to some woman who was in hospital and who 'resides in Guernsey'. I didn't know what that word meant and I stumbled over it. I was allowed to choose the record for her though, and while it was No.1 for just one week and so was at the front of the record box with all the discs arranged in chronological chart order was... Float On by the Floaters (on ABC Records with that yellow and pink centre, IIRC). That's probably most soothing if you're nil by mouth. No I Feel Love or Pretty Vacant here.

It all looked a bit complicated, a bit dark and a bit quiet, a bit like Clint Eastwood's studio in Play Misty For Me, but there were people watching you through glass. It didn't live up to expectations at all. So I went off the idea. For a while, at least. This wasn't exactly the big league. Give it five years and I be fascinated by it all over again. At one time my dream job would have been sorting out the records for radio shows. I still fantasize about what I'd play on my own slot, should I be allowed to create my own playlist. I never achieved that ambition. I just play DJ at home.

So those of you actually working in radio today - especially you Matt - you are the lucky ones. But just be thankful you're not Jimmy Savile, Mike Read, DLT ...*list of washed-up, scandal-dogged, disgraced, daft DJs goes on forever*