Crushed Diaries

A blog for Young Adults

Thursday, May 22, 2008

The Pop Idol

My girlfriend happily allowed her teenage daughters to go clubbing with their friends every weekend, on the one condition that she collected them at the end of the evening. My mother never insisted on collecting me if I went out with friends when I was their age. She never imagined that anything bad would happen to me.

When I was fourteen, I used to be mad about pop music and spent all my pocket money on singles – this was the age of vinyl, before the invention of CDs. I had a goofy looking friend who was a couple of years older than me. She was mad about The Rolling Stones and had such a major crush on Mick Jagger, she was convinced if she ever met him he’d take one look at her and ask her out. Personally, I think she had a crush on his long hair, not on him as an actual person. I liked the Stones too – I preferred them to the Beatles, but I didn't tell my friend I had a secret crush on Brian, the dead blond one. I used to write him loads of fan letters but he never replied. So, when my friend miraculously got tickets to see the Stones perform on a live music TV show called ‘Ready Steady Go’, and invited me to accompany her, I screamed 'yes' immediately – before I even asked my mother’s permission. Mum happily allowed me to go along to the TV studio, all the way to Elstree (outside London) on the train, reasoning that my older friend would look after me. Mum says she would never have allowed me to come back home nowadays on a train late at night without a grownup escort, but she never used to worry about me.

‘The weekend Starts Here’ was the pop show’s slogan, and I knew my weekend had started with a fizzle and a bang when my simpering friend and I lined up outside the studio before the show. I was in heaven! All the cool looking boys were dressed in mod suits and had hair past their earlobes. All the girls looked cool too, and had long dead straight hair, which was the fashion then. Unfortunately for me, I had curly hair (still do), which meant I always had to iron my hair underneath brown paper on the ironing board before I went out. I know it sounds really daft now, but It was considered social suicide for a girl to have curly hair in those days.

So, there I was in my mini-skirt and black fishnet top, feeling very good about myself until the first drop of rain fell on my bare head. I immediately felt my hair frizzing into a balloon and wanted to go home there and then. ‘You’ve got to be with me when Mick Jagger asks me out,’ my friend screeched, furiously polishing her National Health glasses. I couldn’t leave her – after all she had invited me along in the first place, and no way did I want to miss seeing Brian, my idol in the flesh. So, I reluctantly followed her inside the studio, ignoring the sly sniggers from the other girls, because by this time my hair had frizzed out into an Afro – a wild hairstyle which hadn’t been invented then.

I felt so self-conscious about my frizzy hair, that I couldn’t truly enjoy myself, and was shell-shocked that Brian was smaller than I expected. I immediately went off him and regretted writing him all those soppy letters. As for my friend – she was mortified that Mick completely blanked her. Not surprising really, as I thought she made a right idiot of herself, when she jumped on stage and gave him a big hug. No one would have realised she was sixteen.

Mum didn’t have a clue what I was really up to until by chance, she switched on the TV and saw me on the show – cowering and grimacing behind The Rolling Stones with my hands held over my head. Funnily enough, she allowed me to go to the show with my friend again. But the next time I went, I made sure I took an umbrella with me.

Copyright: Frances Lynn 2008


Post a Comment

<< Home