1972

So, here we finally are. The last blog for “The Maynards of Margate”. 1972 was the year I’d get my first salaried job and start my journey properly into manhood, a journey that has now led me at the age of nearly seventy to start contemplating my place in the scheme of things.

Influencer, eco-warrior, entrepreneur, activist, eco-vegan, feminist, philanthropist and any other ist you care to mention.  I am none of these. What I actually am is an ageing git of a baby-boomer eking out my retirement whilst contemplating the notion that, according to the Daily Mail anyway, if I keep a constant check for weird looking skin lesions, stop eating red meat, watch my weight, go easy on the alcohol, do my ten thousand steps a day, exercise regularly, keep taking the statins and blood pressure tablets, then I might – might – make it into my 80s in one piece. I will of course by then be suffering from some kind of Alzheimer’s related condition but the good news is I won’t know it because I’ve got Alzheimer’s.

All this aside, I’m left with the burning question for which I currently have no answer – what the hell am I going to do with all the shit I’ve accumulated over the last six decades of my life? I’m up to my ears in magazines – Playboy, Famous Monsters of Film Land, Starlog, Boys Cinema, Films and Filming, Rolling Stone  – as well as rock concert brochures, film brochures, film posters, thousands of vinyl singles, more vinyl LPs than I can count, CDs I’ll probably never play again, VHS tapes I can’t play even if I wanted to, and a DVD collection that’s heading for the nearest landfill site the minute I fall off the perch. On the other hand, once I’m dead I won’t care anyway, so I’ve got that going for me. Oh, and while we’re here, sorry about screwing up the planet, but I didn’t do it all on my own you know. 

The only thing that keeps me sane is my writing, yet perversely it drives me crazy as well. I remember an old saying about how easy it is to write a book. Upon being faced with a blank page, or screen, that needs to be filled with the thoughts and words your adoring public are breathlessly waiting to read, all you have to do is concentrate as hard as you possibly can until the blood starts to seep through the pores of your forehead. And you know something? It’s true. Writing is bloody hard, and don’t let anyone tell you different. But I love it.

I was going to list some of the films I saw in 1972 but seeing as my story finishes in February of that year then it’s not worth the effort. I thought long and hard about what this final blog might contain, then realised I’d written quite a big chunk of it already. Whilst rewriting “The Maynards of Margate” my part-time editor, Mark Stay, and the guy who tells me if I’ve strayed too far over the line vis-à-vis my non-PC witterings, told me he thought the ending was a bit downbeat and that I should “kill a few darlings” and finish it on a happier note. Which I did, taking to the task as if I were Darth Vader slaughtering the younglings in “Revenge of the Sith”. But, I didn’t throw any of it away. You never know when you might need the stuff again. By the way I hope you’re taking notes on this as it just might help you one day should you ever decide to take up writing. Just do it a damned sight earlier than I did.

I am going to leave you with a cautionary tale from 1974 that deals with the things that matter the most to red-blooded young men in their early twenties. I am of course talking about sex, drugs, music and sex. What else would you want to think about?

Metropolitan Tube Line, September 14^th, 1974

I’m hanging by one hand from a ceiling strap in the middle of a tube train as the carriage sways from side-to-side on its way to Wembley Park tube station. Me and my girlfriend Catherine and I have been separated by a crowd of other passengers who, like us, are on their way to a concert at Wembley Stadium to see the popular super-group, Crosby Stills Nash and Young. The carriage, in fact the whole train itself, is awash with a sea of denim, tie-die t-shirts and multi-coloured bandanas, this being the uniform of choice for all the young people who want to stand out from the crowd, myself included. Apart from the bandana of course. Even I thought that was going a bit too far. Catherine and I manage to throw the occasional smile in each other’s direction as a sign of our love for each other whilst the train lurches from station to station. I feel relieved when she smiles back. Things hadn’t gone too well between us the day before and I’m hoping that going to the concert together, which we’ve both been looking forward to for the last couple of weeks, might improve relations a little. 

I share a poky little one-bedroom flat with James Wilson, a friend from my Margate days, in Chiswick, from where I commute during the week to Sloane Square then on to my place of work at a computing company located behind Chelsea Town Hall just off the King’s Road. I’d moved to London in May and the difference between living there and in Margate is immeasurable. I’ve never been happier and I’ve promised myself that a team of wild horses wouldn’t be able to ever drag me back again there again. London is everything Margate isn’t, so why would I? My flatmate has gone home for a few days leaving the place to me and Catherine, which means we can spend some quality time together without our clothes on. I cringe inwardly at the memory of twenty-four hours before when Catherine and I were in the flat. To say that the behaviour of my girlfriend of the last month or so has been erratic is to put it mildly. One moment she’s telling me how much I mean to her and that she’s never met anyone like me before, the next she’s hurling invective and thunderbolts of anger in my direction accompanied by a diatribe on how all men are bastards and she wished every one of them were dead. Yesterday she woke in a sullen mood, and it was the first morning since we’d been together in the flat that we didn’t make love. After an awkwardly silent breakfast I tried to brighten things up a bit. I retrieved my trusty old red guitar without the pickup from the corner of the room and tried strumming a few chords to the Neil Young song, “Heart of Gold”, in the hope that the thought of actually seeing the singer in the flesh the following day might cheer my girlfriend up a little, but no such luck. Or maybe I’m just shit at playing the guitar.

As I went to put the guitar away, she held out her hand in a silent request for the instrument. Sitting on a large bean bag in the middle of the room, Catherine started to play a few random chords, telling me in a quiet voice that her father had once encouraged her to take lessons. At last. Communication. I sat on a small sofa a few feet away from her and asked if there was anything specific she could teach me to play. Catherine immediately launched into what was to me an astounding piece of classical guitar playing, demonstrating a mastery of the instrument that I hitherto could only have guessed at. I was just about to tell her how great she was when she abruptly stopped playing, screamed “My fucking father! Always fucking asking me to play the fucking guitar! I hate the fucking thing!” and then launched the offensive instrument into the air. In the split-second it took to fly across the room and land with a loud thump against the opposite wall I surmised three things about my latest girlfriend:

Catherine was not that enamoured of her father

Catherine wasn’t too crazy about the guitar either

Catherine wasn’t quite all there

I have to say in mitigation that there was one thing in particular that Catherine did like very much, as did I, so ignoring the age-old dictum to never sleep with anyone who has more problems than you, I gave her a pass on the last of my three observations, for a while anyway.

The carriage became even more crowded as another bunch of far out denim-clad hippy types pushed their way on to the train about three stops before our destination, with Catherine and I now separated even further apart down the carriage in opposite directions. Two young long-haired guys, still in their teens by the looks of it, were rammed right up against me, and started talking about the concert.

“So, who’s like, you know, on with Crosby Stills Nash and Young then?” asked hippy number one.

“Er… The Band, I think, and someone called Joni Mitchell”, hippy number two replied helpfully.

“Don’t know much about this Joni Mitchell. What’s she like, like?”

“Not sure really. A bit like Melanie maybe?”

“Oh, wow, Melanie man, she’s like, you know, real cool”

I should interject at this point for those of you who have no idea who Melanie is. She was an American singer-songwriter with a bit of a strange warble to her voice who’d had a couple of hits in the early 1970s with records such as “What Have They Done to My Song, Ma?” and a cover of the Rolling Stones song, “Ruby Tuesday”. She’d also enjoyed chart success in the UK with a novelty record called “Brand New Key”, the melody of which was later appropriated by a West country group called The Wurzels for their classic chart hit “I’ve Got a Brand-New Combine Harvester”, so we’re not exactly talking high culture here.

“Yeah, Melanie, man,” agreed hippy number two. “I’m like, you know, down with that as well”

“I saw her at the Festival Hall last year. She was far out, you know?” said hippy number one.

“Yeah, I know, man. I really dig her too. Melanie. She’s like –  a real child of God”

I looked down, in more ways than one, at the twat that was hippy number two. Melanie? A child of God? A few hit singles to her name, one of them complete and utter shite, a voice that made her sound as though someone had just poured carbolic acid down her throat and now she was the second Messiah? How many magic mushrooms had these idiots eaten for breakfast this morning?

As the train finally stopped at Wembley Park and disgorged the hundreds of delusional hippies who thought they were going to change the world despite being stoned out of their gourd most of the time, I realised that I’d come to the end of the line, in more ways than one, on the whole hippy thing. It just wasn’t for me anymore. I was twenty-two, well on the way into adulthood, and it was time to let go of the dreams I’d nurtured for a better world and start thinking about number one. I should forget about computers and maybe try and get into banking. I’m hearing any idiot can make a lot of money in banking. The only problem was I’d probably have to cut my hair though. Screw that.

Me and Catherine went to the concert and had a great time. There was so much dope being passed around we were zonked by the time it started. The Band were so-so, Joni Mitchell absolutely brilliant, Crosby and the boys not so much but we all had a real cool time anyway. In our last few days together Catherine and I adopted a 24/7 approach to sex and shagged each other stupid during our last few days alone together in the flat. Before I knew it she was off back to university from where she ceremoniously dumped me not too long afterwards. In a way I was quite relieved. Those flying guitars can take your eye out if you’re not careful.

Thank you and goodnight.