Not So Sweet 16

This coming springtime my step daughter turns 16 and recently we had the inevitable request put to us:

“Can I have a party please!?”

Oh how the memories came flooding back about my own 16^th birthday party…

There will likely be a few people reading this who were present and will also remember that Saturday night back in October 1991.

I was on a swing in Easthill Park, Portslade late one summer’s evening, when I first thought that having a party would be the greatest idea ever. This of course was back in the days when mid teens actually went to the park to speak to their friends and hang out rather than have a relationship with them via their phone. In fact I don’t think I knew anyone who owned a mobile phone in 1991 apart from Derek Trotter.

So I sat there swinging away (in my shellsuit), mulling it over with a few mates at dusk and mentally working out a guest list. I recall one of the girls present stating that the main ‘rules’ ought to be a ‘ban on jelly and ice-cream’ and ‘no parents allowed’, because after all, we didn’t want it to be a kids party. So I slept on it before asking my parents the next day about what my chances were.

Amazingly they agreed to it! The only proviso being that the maximum amount of guests didn’t exceed 40 people.

I genuinely couldn’t believe my luck and knocked up my invite list, which was actually quite hard to do as I ended up having to omit some decent people, but I didn’t want to push my luck with the numbers, so out of fairness I stuck with the 40 allowed.

Ahead of the event, my Dad made the calligraphic invites, and as I was working on the day of the party, my Mum decorated the house with photos of the younger me and banners etc as well as laying out a brilliant spread of party food (no jelly and ice cream)

And true to their word, my parents and younger brother left me to it at about 630pm and toodled round to my grandparents on the other side of the Valley in Portslade and said they’d be back at approximately 1am.

I waited in great anticipation, in my new one-size-too-small red panel Chipie jeans… 

 …naively thinking that if 30 people showed up it would be pretty good going.

When I did a head count at 10pm, there were well over one hundred people!

In my genuine ignorance, I clearly hadn’t considered at all that there would be ANY gate crashers, let alone literally dozens of extra people turning up. Thankfully I knew most of them, but there were plenty of new faces too – including a Brighton & Hove Albion youth team footballer briefly.

Basically I got scared. I couldn’t control any of it and spent the night praying that the house didn’t get destroyed or set fire to! As it happened I suppose it wasn’t TOO bad really, but it felt terrifying right in the middle of it, and I guess in the era now of ‘Armageddon Facebook parties’ it could have been a lot, lot worse. Some events of note that caused me angst on the night stick in the memory though:

• The downstairs toilet getting blocked – so a neighbours pathway was used as an alternative
• The garden got flattened
• The vacuum cleaner being hurled down the stairs (and skilfully caught)
• The settee being completely caved in
• Various spots of blood
• Cigarette butts embedded in the carpets
• Dozens of beer bottles hurled into the neighbouring school field, and neighbours gardens
• Various videos and cassettes stolen 
• ...and of course, the next door neighbour’s derelict untaxed Volkswagen Beetle having its roof caved in:

I’m well aware of various other shenanigans that took place but it’s fair to say that there’s intentionally no names mentioned at all in this ‘before the watershed’ blog for many good reasons!

Back to the party (yes there was still a party going on), and there were, on occasion, quite a few minutes when I wasn’t actually hiding. Bless her, the same girl who had suggested a ban on jelly and ice cream offered to dance with me at one point as she could see I was suffering and not really having a good time! Just beforehand, one of the less bright attendees had suggested we put his cassette on to change the music. He said “you won’t need to turn the volume up Bez, as it’s automatically loud”. Okay then.

To my sadness, the majority of my best friends left relatively early for one reason or another. I really couldn’t blame them though, and I suspect I would have done the same as it felt the whole event was increasingly getting out of hand at times, especially when someone asked if there was a rear exit to the house because he thought he was about to be beaten up. Unluckily for him, the only exit was the entrance as we lived at the far end of a cul-de-sac. The poor lad legged it for his life as three other guys tore through the house, trying to attack him. Thankfully he got away safely.

And to put a cherry on top of my night, my parents came home an hour early at around midnight and surveyed the mess. The majority of people had gone by then, but a few wisely started to leave as my Dad was being told about the redesigned VW car roof by the understandably disgruntled neighbour.

The police were called, but so far as I recall they didn’t pursue any complaints made by the neighbours. My Dad promptly issued a warning/threat to all the remaining people that he would never allow any of them across his ‘threshold’ again. It took all the strength in me to stifle a chuckle when a soft lone voice replied on behalf of the group shuffling off: “Sorry mister!”

The next day though, Dad kindly offered invites to come back to half a dozen of my mates who had copped that rollocking at the end of the night. He graciously said sorry to them as I explained to him that they hadn’t deserved it.

Oddly enough I never got told off for it. I suppose my parents felt I’d learned my lesson by the shock and enormity of what had gone on. I spent most of the next morning tidying up, and a couple of friends very kindly came by to check on my welfare.

My brother returned home from my grandparents and claimed he had heard the party from the other side of the hill. And “what was that lingering smell everywhere in the house?”

He was also annoyed that people had been in his bedroom, which had rightfully been out of bounds.

*refer to earlier mention of shenanigans…

Pretty soon my parents were quite relaxed about it all – though Mum was peeved that most of the food she’d made had barely been eaten as someone had poured booze over it all... chicken vodka-vents are not nice!

It was probably no coincidence that the entire downstairs was redecorated within three months.

In truth barely a handful of people had really caused any aggro – it just so happened that too many people came, and I couldn’t be omnipresent in protecting the house. Even the majority of people I hadn’t invited were actually good as gold and gave me no problems. In fact the hardest thing I personally had to keep on doing was to persuade the smokers to smoke outside.

Overall it was a peculiar event. As a result of the mess and damage, my poor brother wasn’t allowed a 16^th party himself, but for me personally the most annoying thing was that I simply wasn’t able to enjoy the night at all.

Additionally, my confidence took its own little dance too. I guess amongst my school friends, I was always thought of as being quiet and unlikely to indulge in such an event that had just taken place, so my confidence rose slightly as it became quite a talked about event at school, and as a strange consequence my credibility also improved a touch. However I felt in other ways my confidence was absolutely shot as I knew I had ultimately lost all control of what was going on. Bizarrely I think it affected me for years as some aspects of my shyness came back with a vengeance.

I think I am able to laugh about it now though thankfully!

“Ha ha! *cough*”

So dare we answer in the affirmative to “Can I have a party please!?”…

Would you?

Moon River (Part 3 of 3)

The majority of you reading this will know I’m neither particularly special nor otherwise, but I think I rightfully recognise that my present family care, and my descendants might care too, about what happened on occasions during my lifetime. Exciting or dull, the content shouldn’t matter.

So to cut a long story short (too late) - Families and individuals COULD and SHOULD make more of an effort to record their lives for the benefit of future generations. I spent time researching my family tree in 2006…what a laborious task that was/is!

Even with help from relations that could recall folks who lived and died long before I came into being, it proved to be a lot of effort with little reward.

What I did ascertain is that I know barely anything about anyone before three generations prior to mine. Isn’t that insulting to their memories? Without them and the way they were, I wouldn’t even be here – well certainly not in the physical form I am now. It’s probably neither here or there whether my soul would have ended up in someone else’s body depending on your view of ‘how we come to be’ and karma amongst other theories.

So get yourself a project.

Could you possibly document everything about yourselves?

Highly unlikely is the probable answer.

Even my own efforts, aided by what I think is a good recollection of events that happened to me, caused me to question at many stages if I really ought to record absolutely everything.

But I found a healthy sprinkling is better than nothing and if it only provides the slightest interest for my children’s children’s children and beyond, then I think it will have been worth it.

Hopefully it will give them the opportunity beyond the 21^st century to find out about their ancestors during my generation. A joy I was denied when trying to find out information about my relations who lived in the early 20^th century.

         

Now here’s where I am a tease!

I don’t want my retro diary seen in totality until after I depart this world. The whole point is for the future to look back and see – not for the present to judge.

Indeed my work is ongoing, though I have made a rule of working three years in arrears, and if I can’t remember something I notch it up to it not being worthy of being remembered. 

If it never gets read then so be it, but it’s been tremendously cathartic in the making. 
And as a cherry on top, you might even just feel a bit more at peace with yourself!

Moon River (Part 2 of 3)

So should I try to forget what I can’t help but remember?

Confused yet?

I honestly don’t know if I should try to forget aspects of the past, but back in 2007 I started to write a retro diary anyway.

A manuscript collection of ruses is how it could be described and I wrote it as how I honestly saw certain situations in my life from as far back as I could remember.

I’m realistic enough to acknowledge that my version of events may actually be wholly inaccurate on occasions and for that I would be genuinely sorry to any reader. For starters, my lovely brother is always dubious about the accuracy of my recollections!

But being a great advocate of the fact that there are at least two sides to every story, I respect being corrected ad hoc.

However for the purpose of what I wrote, it’s just how I personally saw events (or non-events) unravel – it’s eternally incredible to me as to what is important to some and not to others, but that’s life I suppose!

Does it sound like I actually do have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder? You might not be far wrong. Besides which I wrote my diary year by year of course!

The reason I even began writing it back in 2007 is largely due to Grandparents.

For me I felt very fortunate to have experienced loving Grandparents during my upbringing. Both sets of my Grandparents gave me memories and experiences that will remain with me forever. The stories I’ve heard recounted time and again did, at times, get humorously repetitive, but who’s going to recount them once the storytellers are long gone – or if the memory has failed? Their stories were woven from times when they saved my country and gave me the chance to have the life I have and the lifestyle I live.

But did I write them down? Sadly not at all.

Presently, the most I can tell MY children and Grandchildren about their family history, is a diluted version of events with barely any names to the characters, and frankly I feel that’s just not right. It’s certainly not an honourable memoriam

Third and final part tomorrow! Click here

Moon River (Part 1 of 3)

"I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighbourhoods..." wrote Truman Capote. What a terrific opening line for a book – am I allowed to nick it? Not that I’ve read the book in question (Breakfast At Tiffany’s) but I have seen the film too many times to remember and although purists may shudder, I am happy not to ever read the book as the film does enough to satisfy and intrigue me.

The opening line attracts me as I feel I actually ‘get’ what Mr Capote means, whilst I rightly or wrongly suspect many people don’t want to...

Maybe it’s just that for many valid differing reasons, they choose not to remember their lives, be it yesterday or yesteryear. That’s fine – each to their own of course, but I’m not sure I mentally have a choice. I think I ‘get’ it because for better or for worse I seem bound to not forget many things that have happened to me. I wouldn’t dare to say for certain if it’s a good or bad thing actually, but I suspect it’s both…and for good measure it has at times been a hindrance to others too - my memory serves me pretty well, and no-one likes a know-it-all.

I’ve fought many rages trying to plead that I never professed to be someone who always has an answer to everything. My battle is usually that I feel an urge to have a perfectionist state where everything is factually accurate – OCD alert! Over the years I’ve realised how wrong my approach is, and I find that the older I get I’m moving more to the state of ‘live and let live’, which is a far healthier and more friendly way to be!

Part 2 in due course...! Click here