Friday, 12 June 2015

The decade to end decades....

It's been a while since I was able to write freely. I've started a couple of blogs lately and come to a dead end. I've started to approach them like a weary soldier on a training run, approaching a wall he knows he can't get over, but he attempts it regardless, just to appease his own desperate pride. Anyway, thought I'd share my agonising writers block with you....although I'm about as much of a "writer" as Nick Miller, I chose to give myself a title and I'm going to damn well keep this self-confessed delusion of grandeur going for as long as I possibly can, okay?!!!!

Anyway, I can only be arsed writing because I wanted to talk about the 90's and more specifically, how the anniversary special of TFI Friday is making me feel even more nostalgic and stuck in the past than usual. When The Stranglers recorded "No More Heroes", they must have been going through the same soul searching void that I currently find myself cosily tucked into right now. Do the current generation even have a grasp of the word "hero"? Where's their John McEnroe, their Morrissey, their BA Baracus?

See, now that's why I'm a fully qualified hero spotter, I was brought up in the 80's.....and that decade was brimming was them. The early 90's provided a brief hiatus for heroines the world over, that's what made Britpop, a tranquil realm of mediocrity and nothingness.....the calm before the storm. As soon as those heckling, monobrowed siblings came along, it sparked was to be the climax of feel-good, testosterone filled, alcohol fuelled mayhem that took the country by storm, all sponsored by FHM.

In all seriousness, it was probably this 'burning the candle at both ends lad-culture' that probably killed off the very notion that an alpha-male could ever be deemed socially acceptable again. I find it odd that I revelled in it to the degree that I did, I'm about as close to alpha-male status as Louis Spence, the only thing separating me from womanhood is my penchant for the 5 second rule and my occasional partially masculine glottal stop.

I do try and stop these biased, rose tinted burblings, but they really were fantastic times. For starters, the summers were sweltering. If you ever saw a heat-induced shimmering over the road on the horizon, it was pretty normal, no double needed. Euro '96 gave the country a genuine sense of optimism accompanied by the last proper football anthem. This was all before getting drunk became frowned upon, in fact, I'm pretty sure that binge-drinking was born in the nineties, Oasis, Chris Evans and Danny Baker led the charge, there was a dramatic scent of fuckitness in the air, we could all do with some of that now.

I was walking down my old high street last weekend, I almost felt I'd walked through a wormhole into the 90's akin to Nicholas Lyndhurst in Goodnight Sweetheart. A bloke stood outside the pub on his old Nokia in a tracksuit, looking like the lead singer of Embrace, a man walks past in an Ellesse sweater which was about four sizes too big for him, stray dogs had littered the street with white crumbly poo, a nostalgic tear fell from my eye like a watery nod to a beautiful era, lost in time. Plus, everyone looked mentally ill. Remember when every high street would have it's own resident mentally ill character? We had a few on Albany Road. There was "waste lady" who looked about 107 and would survive on anything she could find in front gardens, Bear Grylls looks like a pussy in comparison. Another guy would just walk around laughing his tits off, he was great for relieving social tension. Another fella would perform kung-fu at passing traffic, I'm pretty sure he got knocked over once. Now where are all these beautiful street dwellers? Sectioned, that's's that for human rights? It sickens me.

I'm going to cut this nonsense short now, TFI Friday is about to start and if someone doesn't swear I'm going to be seriously disappointed. Anyway, whack on Channel 4 and remind yourselves how the mighty have fallen.

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