- Madonna: Like a Prayer
- Jason Donovan: Too Many Broken Hearts
- Donna Summer: This Time I Know It's for Real
- Paula Abdul: Straight Up
- Soul II Soul featuring Caron Wheeler: Keep on Movin'
- Guns 'N Roses: Paradise City
- Gloria Estefan & Miami Sound Machine: Can't Stay Away from You
- The Reynolds Girls: I'd Rather Jack
- Bananarama/Lananeeneenoonoo: Help!
- Kon Kan: I Beg Your Pardon
- Fuzzbox: International Rescue
- Sam Brown: Stop!
- The Bangles: Eternal Flame
- Bobby Brown: Don't Be Cruel
- Coldcut featuring Lisa Stansfield: People Hold On
- Pat & Mick: I Haven't Stopped Dancing Yet
- Alyson Williams: Sleep Talk
- Michael Ball: Love Changes Everything
- Chanelle: One Man
- Michael Jackson: Leave Me Alone
- S'Express: Hey Music Lover
- The Cult: Fire Woman
- Living in a Box: Blow the House Down
- New Order: Round and Round
- Roachford: Family Man
- The The: The Beat(en) Generation
- Womack & Womack: Celebrate the World
- Holly Johnson: Americanos
- Kym Mazell: Got to Get You Back
- Paul Simpson featuring Adeva: Musical Freedom (Moving on Up)
- Texas: I Don't Want a Lover
- Simple Minds: Belfast Child
- Transvision Vamp: Baby I Don't Care
- Brother Beyond: Can You Keep a Secret [remix]
- T'Pau: Only the Lonely
- Poison: Every Rose Has Its Thorn
- Goodbye Mr. Mackenzie: The Rattler
- Roy Orbison: She's a Mystery to Me
- Dusty Springfield: Nothing Has Been Proved
- Yello: Of Course I'm Lying
~~~~~
"Yo Paul!" Dad baritoned. He must have known that I hated him using "yo" to get me out of bed. I never used "yo" and it never failed to irk me whenever he used it - which was damn-near every morning until I started university by which time he must have figured I was old enough to get myself up. But it was effective. As always, his "Yo Paul!" knocked me out of my slumber.
"Happy Easter," he said using his regular speaking voice. He handed me a biggish chocolate egg inside a brown ceramic mug. A Smarties mug. My very own cup for consuming coffee and tea (though to this day I've heeded my mum's advice not to bother with the latter: black tea, she claimed, never turns out well in dark mugs) and I still have it. It was my preferred conduit for hot beverages during my awkward junior high years, those up and down days in high school, my drunken, desperate university period and those bouts of un(der)employment between flights of fancy to Asia that was my twenties. It's been with me on three continents and in about a dozen different houses and flats that I've lived in. And I hold it in particular esteem ever since a barfly I used to drink with offered to buy it off me for a pretty hefty price. (It's a pity, then, that the companion Wispa mug my sister got didn't enjoy a similarly full life: just a few months after we returned to Calgary, I jammed it in the dishwasher and it came out clean and chipped; Julie did hang on to it for a number of years after but it was never the same, just trotted out for the odd pity coffee)
"Oh, by the way," Dad said just as he was about to head downstairs, "Oxford won the boat race."
Our second week of the Easter holidays was a unique time for us: it was block of days off yet we spent every night at our tiny place in Laindon. With Dave visiting it was decided - not by me, mind you, but given how weary I'd grown of our endless weekend/holiday overnight trips (with some big ones still to come) I wasn't about to complain. It was nice to be able to take some day trips - and we did plenty of them over the last week of March. Easter Sunday was spent up in Essex's famed Constable Country, while the day after we took in Southend, as if we were out to show Dave that our adopted county was equal doses pristine and tacky. A lengthy, tightly-packed car ride to Stratford followed. Shakespeare's house was nice and the town in general quite lovely but it was let down somewhat by our first disappointing pub lunch - even though I wasn't expecting much from The Slug & Lettuce, which doesn't exactly evoke fine dining.
Back in Laindon, Dave was my roommate. I'd spend a couple weeks on a cot in my parents' room during Cookie and Meghan's visit in February but now it was Julie's turn. Dave continued to be easy going almost to a fault. As my mum later wrote to Grandma Betty: "Dave said that Paul never wanted to go to sleep, just wanted to talk all night". Following a trip to the beautiful village of Finchingfield we took a detour that took us close to two hours out of our way; while Mum, Julie and me complained and Dad berated his rotten luck in being unable to find a turn off, Dave took it all with good humour.
A busy week but just as Dave's visit was wrapping up, we found ourselves with a free Saturday. I emerged for breakfast and Dad and his brother were plotting a football match for the three of us. Wisely opting out of taking in the Tottenham-West Ham clash at White Heart Lane, they chose to take the longer trek to the decidedly safer environs of Plough Lane for Wimbledon-Nottingham Forest.
Like most North Americans, my knowledge of Wimbledon began and ended with tennis. I was still too young and naive to know that all stadiums and arenas are specifically designed to be in the dodgiest, most unpleasant parts of any given town and had imagined that the world's most famous tennis tournament (even though I've always been more of a Roland Garros man myself) would be situated in a gorgeous, upscale, leafy part of London. Turns out I was right about the leafiness but little else. Plough Lane was just another rundown dump of a stadium set in another rundown dump of an area. We paid our two quid apiece - an advantage of the days when teams played in shithole venues was that it at least it was cheap - peed on the wall of the men's room (since that was all there was) and had a sausage on a bun before claiming our spot in the terrace.
Dad and I had spent our first live football experience envying the mob in the standing terrace and this was our chance. We got there early and chose the very back. The terrace began to fill up and it was bumping by the time of the kick off. An Ipswich, a Norwich and a Spurs supporter thus became temporary Dons fans. I knew nothing of Vinnie Jones - nor, indeed, Wimbledon's Crazy Gang - but we immediately took to him. He was a bad ass on the pitch, fearless, tough and in control. He fully lived up to his hard man reputation, he was a football Dennis Rodman but not the headcase, a Brian Bosworth who wasn't in awe of the Bo Jacksons (as the iconic photo of him grabbing Gazza's lunch box aptly demonstrates), a Jim Peplinski who people had heard of. If he wasn't the best player that day then no one dared tell him otherwise. Years later whenever I would see him in Snatch or Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels or X-Men: The Last Stand, I would remark that I once saw him play soccer, much to the utter disinterest of whoever I happened to be with.
Vinnie's performance was a highlight of the day but it was being in the terrace that really stands out. I remember wondering how we could enjoy the action at such a poor vantage point but it hardly mattered. Our adopted team played an inspired game and the fans went nuts. Early on I felt silly rooting for a squad I knew nothing about but as the goals came it got easier and easier. The atmosphere was boisterous but not intimidating. The loyal Dons supporters were a well-behaved lot and made the whole thing seem like one big party. The game ended and we took the train back to Laindon, contented by our nice Saturday afternoon taking in the football.
Wimbledon's opponent was Notts Forest, who'd been on a roll since New Year's and were still in the race for the League. To lose, then, to the middling Dons must have been a blow for Brian Clough's side. (It's no wonder, then, that our mates in the standing terrace were so jubilant that their team prevailed) Nottingham continued to do well after the loss to Wimbledon, vaulting over the once first place Norwich City into third. Three days after trouncing Southampton at home they headed up to Sheffield for a crucial FA Cup semi final with Liverpool. A good thing we had our standing terrace experience when we did.
~~~~~
young Paul's favourite: This Time I Know It's for Real
older Paul's retro pick: Keep on Movin'
Back in Laindon, Dave was my roommate. I'd spend a couple weeks on a cot in my parents' room during Cookie and Meghan's visit in February but now it was Julie's turn. Dave continued to be easy going almost to a fault. As my mum later wrote to Grandma Betty: "Dave said that Paul never wanted to go to sleep, just wanted to talk all night". Following a trip to the beautiful village of Finchingfield we took a detour that took us close to two hours out of our way; while Mum, Julie and me complained and Dad berated his rotten luck in being unable to find a turn off, Dave took it all with good humour.
A busy week but just as Dave's visit was wrapping up, we found ourselves with a free Saturday. I emerged for breakfast and Dad and his brother were plotting a football match for the three of us. Wisely opting out of taking in the Tottenham-West Ham clash at White Heart Lane, they chose to take the longer trek to the decidedly safer environs of Plough Lane for Wimbledon-Nottingham Forest.
Like most North Americans, my knowledge of Wimbledon began and ended with tennis. I was still too young and naive to know that all stadiums and arenas are specifically designed to be in the dodgiest, most unpleasant parts of any given town and had imagined that the world's most famous tennis tournament (even though I've always been more of a Roland Garros man myself) would be situated in a gorgeous, upscale, leafy part of London. Turns out I was right about the leafiness but little else. Plough Lane was just another rundown dump of a stadium set in another rundown dump of an area. We paid our two quid apiece - an advantage of the days when teams played in shithole venues was that it at least it was cheap - peed on the wall of the men's room (since that was all there was) and had a sausage on a bun before claiming our spot in the terrace.
Dad and I had spent our first live football experience envying the mob in the standing terrace and this was our chance. We got there early and chose the very back. The terrace began to fill up and it was bumping by the time of the kick off. An Ipswich, a Norwich and a Spurs supporter thus became temporary Dons fans. I knew nothing of Vinnie Jones - nor, indeed, Wimbledon's Crazy Gang - but we immediately took to him. He was a bad ass on the pitch, fearless, tough and in control. He fully lived up to his hard man reputation, he was a football Dennis Rodman but not the headcase, a Brian Bosworth who wasn't in awe of the Bo Jacksons (as the iconic photo of him grabbing Gazza's lunch box aptly demonstrates), a Jim Peplinski who people had heard of. If he wasn't the best player that day then no one dared tell him otherwise. Years later whenever I would see him in Snatch or Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels or X-Men: The Last Stand, I would remark that I once saw him play soccer, much to the utter disinterest of whoever I happened to be with.
Vinnie's performance was a highlight of the day but it was being in the terrace that really stands out. I remember wondering how we could enjoy the action at such a poor vantage point but it hardly mattered. Our adopted team played an inspired game and the fans went nuts. Early on I felt silly rooting for a squad I knew nothing about but as the goals came it got easier and easier. The atmosphere was boisterous but not intimidating. The loyal Dons supporters were a well-behaved lot and made the whole thing seem like one big party. The game ended and we took the train back to Laindon, contented by our nice Saturday afternoon taking in the football.
Wimbledon's opponent was Notts Forest, who'd been on a roll since New Year's and were still in the race for the League. To lose, then, to the middling Dons must have been a blow for Brian Clough's side. (It's no wonder, then, that our mates in the standing terrace were so jubilant that their team prevailed) Nottingham continued to do well after the loss to Wimbledon, vaulting over the once first place Norwich City into third. Three days after trouncing Southampton at home they headed up to Sheffield for a crucial FA Cup semi final with Liverpool. A good thing we had our standing terrace experience when we did.
~~~~~
young Paul's favourite: This Time I Know It's for Real
older Paul's retro pick: Keep on Movin'
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