Back in the 70s, lets say 1976 based on inaccurate memory, my brother had a certain mid-teen admiration for David Bowie. The music yes; the fashion most definitely.
The 70s being what they were, your average teen paper delivery round paid a very large smidgen under the amount needed to buy bespoke suits and flash rock star shoes. But hair - well, hair could be washed, gelled, waxed and hair sprayed into any design you liked. To look like anyone you liked.
My brother shaped the Ziggy Stardust coif to rebel-rebel perfection. No dyes needed, no mohican cut, just a tall blowdried hat of full Bowie-esque hair dancing like a musical mane.
He was lucky.
His hero was universally regarded as cool. To try emulate him was acceptable and brought admiration.
Back in 1976, I too had a hero; a man who appeared on TV regularly. Imposing, charismatic, electric.
Bald.
Yep, that's right - Telly Savalas, Ltn. Theo Kojak, TV cop, bald man.
For an eleven year old boy, the problem lay not in liking the Kojak character but how to emulate him. Let's face it, at an age where blending in is the ambition, standing out with a bald top was never going to achieve the desired invisibility.
"Why don't you try some other policeman" my mother said.
The others included Jim Rockford and McCloud. One lived in a caravan and the other rode a horse. All of a sudden life in Ballymun drew some positives.
But no, it was Kojak for me.
The only thing to do was adopt his habits, his mannerisms. Slamming street scum against a wall and ‘booking' strangers on the street was off the agenda, so I needed to find the one aspect of his personality that stood out. It was obvious.
Off to Larry's newsagent, coins jumping excitedly in my trouser pocket. No Beano for them today, no ‘caps' for the pistol. That 85p, slapped on the glass counter top was destined for one thing only. The lollipops.
"85p worth of lollipops please. Any colour, your choice".
"85p"?
"Yep".
"Are you sure"?
"Yep".
Enough for a week. Who loves ya baby?
Thursday night, Top Of The Pops. Brotherhood of Man, ShowaddyWaddy, Darts. The pre-punk charts more likely to cause cavities than my newly acquired habit.
Then on he comes, singing about love, feelings and some woman while wearing a peach coloured open neck wing collar shirt as he strolled through a flower filled set. The hard talking, crime beating, New York city cop sans lolly and very much sans credibility. Crest fallen yet ultimately relieved to still have hair, I did what every self-respecting loyal fan would do. I jumped ship. To the flash new golden TV crime fighters. BBC2, Saturday nights. One Starsky and one Hutch. Now this was the future. Running, jumping, joking, fighting and always looking sharp. Oh yeah.
Also, no, way you'd catch Hutch on Top of The Pops singing about love.
Right?
Any Day
Funny how bright light can bring dark
How chatter is silent
How busy stays still
How change is forever constant
For change it never will.
Testing Times
“So Michael, the results of your tests are in and it’s not
good. Your cholesterol is off the scale, blood pressure is through the roof,
you have a tumor on your liver, the onset of early Alzheimer’s and that freckle
on your face is a melanoma. You are also developing rabies, ebola and bird flu.
Your heart is weak, show signs of type 2 diabetes and could have a stroke
literally any day”.
“That’s what I was afraid of”.
Goodnight
He flicked the light unknowing
Put down his keys and hat
Took off each shoe quite slowly
On the kitchen chair he sat.
The rain outside had tapered
Patting lightly on a pane
Inside a dot past chilly
Turn up the heat again.
Dinner in the freezer
Not much of an appetite
A bare and quiet evening
Hope for hurried night.
Another day has ended
Along with its vibrant sun
The world outside has ended
A silence has begun.
Gone
So easily it falls
After climb so hard
Relief releasing form
Returning now
To practiced ways
Comfort through a norm.
Windsor Carpark
I had to look twice, without obviously wanting to look
twice. One of those snap-your-head-back-into-position moves that happens after
the event.
Looking in the mirror, I noticed the hair first, then the
red cheeks and puffy eyes.
“Here” I said to my friend Paul when I got back to our table
“Guess who I just saw coming out of a stall in the loos?”
This was three days after we beat them one all in Belfast (yes
that is possible).
Paul looked up and raised an eyebrow. Never one for wasting
words, our Paul.
“Billy Bingham”, I said.
Eyebrow arched closer to the hairline.
“Billy Bingham? Northern Ireland manager?”
Yeah.
“What was he doing in there?”
“Number two, I think”.
Navajo To Go
He-Who-Fights-Bears stood beside his onetime enemy and now
friend, Calming Wind.
‘Bears stood over six and a half feet, broad shouldered,
eyes that could turn black with a wayward thought. His solid silence in
contrast to Calming Winds’ slender, lean tautness.
Together since dawn, they had gathered whatever the hours
allowed them in order to see the day through. Both men aware of the unseeing
eyes passing them by.
As the sun tired of watching from high and eased itself slowly
to sleep, He-Who-Fights-Bears and his friend Calming Wind emptied the contents
of the small leather pouch they now shared, to inspect the day’s cache.
Five dollars exactly.
Enough for two hotdogs and a chocolate milk in the 7-11.
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