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Let's go on the witch's hat!

I never liked Showaddywaddy. They were as irrelevant in the 1970s as they were ubiquitous. In fact, they're so irrelevant, they're not even the subject of this post.

Look at this photie. There they are in their heyday; striking a pose on - of all things - a witch's hat in a children's play park.

We had a witch's hat in our local park. It was one of those rare pieces of play equipment on which you could accommodate practically all the 4 to 8 year old kids in the village at the same time! For the best fit, all the younger kids would squeeze up close sideways, one behind the other, with a leg on either side of the wooden seat at the bottom. The older kids would then stand up, star-shaped - on the metal bar - facing inwards.

Making the witch's hat go round was easy, but the real fun would start when the standing-up kids would make the structure sway in and out at the same time. As the momentum built, the whole thing would jerk violently as it went round and begin making a joyous clanging noise; the sound of a structure being pushed to its absolute limits. The sheer thrill of this crazy motion was heightened by the feeling that you could fall off at any moment if you didn't hold on tight enough! The real suicidal amongst us would shimmy up the metal poles to the top and sit on - or at least cling onto - the peak whilst all this was going on.

Pretty dangerous in many ways, but then I don't remember any of us getting killed! That said, I can totally see why they took the cheesecutter down. Oh heady days.

It is time for you to laugh instead of crying

Having said all that, let's look on the bright side.

It might be fucking autumn. It might be dark by about four or five o'-friggin-clock. I might be on my fucking knees after month's worth of mind bending work. But... I'm also on piggin' holiday. Come on Sky, stop your sobbing!

Happy, happy. Joy, joy.

You can't wrap your arms around a memory

Ho hum... feeling a bit glum. Maybe it's the time of year.

The Mission were a band that I really loved around about 1987 to 1990. I finally got the chance to see them when they played live in Pittencrieff Park, Dunfermline, as part of their Highlands and Islands tour in August 1989. Yes, Dunfermline - neither highland nor island - was the destination for my favourite band and, to my delight, they previewed a lot of material which would eventually find its way onto the following year's Carved In Sand album.

One track stood out in particular; Butterfly On A Wheel was a kind of yearning paean to love lost, delivered (as the title might suggest) in a fragile, delicate, heartbroken kind of way. It differed from previous and subsequent Mission tracks because there was no mention of perfumed paths or the hereafter, everafter or, indeed, the evermore (whatever they're supposed to mean). The lyrics were heartfelt and we could feel Wayne Hussey's pain. Oh yes. There are some truly cringeworthy elements within The Mission's back catalogue, but I feel Butterfly On A Wheel really stands the test of time.

Although the highs far outweigh the lows, I've had some really grim times over the past two decades and 1990 was the very first time I properly experienced complete and utter, helpless, debilitating despair. And as much as I love the song, Butterfly On A Wheel is so directly linked with that desperate time.

The dawning of the new decade saw The Mission release Butterfly as a single within the first few days of January. I was still just 18, but how could such a young lad be so very, very down? Well, that's for me to know, but I do remember that the knock-on effect was a descent into alcohol. A winter of discontent and rapid weight gain ensued as I began to spend my student grant (and then overdraft) on pint after pint after pint in an effort to escape from reality. It never got as far as an addiction, but I do know I had a serious craving and no night was ever complete without puking Newcastle Brown all over my Doc's at least once.

I'm surprised I can remember it, but I do recall being in a bar called Shenanigans/Whisky Joe's in Dunfermline's High Street (it was called the former and changed to the latter around about this time) when the DJ decided to play Butterfly. I walked out, very calm and quiet with my pint still in my hand. In the street, the snow was falling heavily - it was deep and fresh and everything was just silent, nobody else around - and I remember just sinking to my knees and sobbing my heart out. I don't know how long I was there.

When there's a snowstorm brewing, you really can smell it in the air, can't you? Everytime I smell that smell on a really cold night, it just takes me right back to that night in January 1990 and Butterfly On A Wheel.

There I was - as the song says - broken and torn, crushed like a flower under the snow. I was only 18. 18!

We just got swallowed up by the whole damn world

Who here likes The Noisettes?

Yeah. I do. Good pop songs, catchy choruses, a soaring string here and a grizzly guitar there. Yep... I like them. But...

There's this 1970s John Savident lookalike who gets on my bus (that's my bus) at the Co-Op stop in Rosyth most mornings and he always likes to play his iPod loud. So loud, in fact, that he might as fucking well have it linked up to a set of speakers for all the good his "earphones" do. I dread this bastard getting on. It's not just the loud music; his sweaty demeanour, halitosis breath and really cheap, stale footwear are also utterly unbearable. I pray he doesn't sit anywhere near me and, thankfully, he tends not to.

Anyway, this morning, the back (and probably the front) of the bus were treated to the sociable sounds of The Noisettes. Could be worse, I suppose. But which of their tip-top albums did our 1970s John Savident opt for? None actually. He chose only one song... the catchy toe-tapper, Never Forget You. He played it nice and loud for us all to hear. And then he played it again. Then again. Then again. Over and over and over and over a-fucking-gain. I counted at least eight plays, but that was only after I tuned into the fact that he had it on repeat, so fuck knows how long it had been going on for.

Another bus journey ruined. Another perfectly good song ruined. Forever.