Thursday, 9 June 2011

The sound track of my life

Can you keep a secret?
If I tell you something, do you promise not to shout it from the rooftop, or, even worse, laugh at me in a foolish manner?
Is your mind now racing ahead, dear readers? Perhaps you’re imagining the weird and wonderful things I could be harping on about today.
Okay, let me put you out of your misery, and also admit, it’s not very interesting, or perhaps not that secretive, come to mention it.
Are you still there?
I hope you haven’t turned on the television set, or made yourself a cup of tea, muttering under your breath, “Par, I’ve got worthwhile things to do with my time, and that doesn’t include the not very interesting or secretive secret from a blog titled Flying Pink Elephants.’
My news, dearest readers, involves a little obsession. Just a teeny, tiny, weeny one. Obsession may even be too dramatic a label. Let’s face it, obsession (other than a perfume by Calvin Klein) is not always a very nice thing.
Don’t fret. I am not obsessed with horrid activities, such as pulling the legs off frogs, or spying on my neighbours and meddling with their lives. Oh no, it’s quite a pleasant one as obsessions go.
My point? My name for this indulgence? Well, it has two names to be precise: George Michael.
You see, I did try to warn you, and I expect by now you are looking at that remote control, or reaching for the kettle switch.
But before you do that, there is a little story regarding this obsession, and it’s called…the sound track of my life.
George once reported in an interview (I have eagerly read and listened to many) that he writes the sound track of many peoples lives.
Including mine.
Especially mine.
I was thinking about this the other day, when I was driving to see my parents from my not so new home. Every Saturday I make myself comfortable in my silver bubble car, and I drive to see my parents. Due to heavy traffic this journey can take up to an hour. Therefore, before I visit my mum and dad for a banana sandwich and a light hearted chat around the kitchen table (whilst flicking through home interior magazines), or a trip to the garden centre to purchase plants for my outside tubs, I stack CDs on the passenger seat to sing along to at my hearts content.
My musical taste? My preferential songs? It’s all about George. And Wham! And for a whole hour I loose myself in lyrics about father figures and careless whispers.
It’s not only a trip to my parents, it’s a trip down memory lane. It’s the sound track of my life.
During certain songs I am immediately transported to a time when I was thirteen. These are the early days from his career and my life. When I was thirteen my parents held a party for me. In a hall, with a DJ. But I was mortified when the DJ’s equipment broke. Never fear, my dear, late brother was there. He rushed home for my record/cassette player and my Wham! tapes. The rest of the party was saved, and about fifty twelve and thirteen year olds boogied the night away to Wham! Rap and other such delights. Oh and we played post mans knock (much to my parents displeasure), after the songs become rather repetitive.
When I hear the guitar strumming away to Faith, I remember discos I danced at in a time when I had no idea what wine tasted like. My biggest interest in life was how high my (very curly, this was the era of the perm) hair could be piled on my head, and how outrageous my earrings could be. I was so excited when my mother finally succumbed to the pressure of holes appearing in my ears, and big gold gaudy earrings could be displayed, or huge glow in the dark hoops. I have four holes in my ears now, and guess what? I never wear earrings. I have no interest in them whatsoever. How times change.
Monkey is one of my favourite songs, for a special reason. I can replay the first time I saw George in concert, with my dear late brother, and he arrived on stage in a cage, to the opening line regarding a monkey on someone’s back.
You can probably understand now, there is another reason why I love George so much. He was my brother’s idol too. I recall vividly the day my bruv picked me up from school, in a green and battered Ford Cortina, and he said in a casual way, “Would you and Tracey like to come to Earls Court?” He then whisked my friend and I to London, trying to calm us down, and spent a long time and probably a lot of cash (which at that tender age did not enter my youthful financially unaware mind) buying us tickets from a greedy, fairly fat, ticket tout. It was one of the best nights of my life.
There have been many other great nights listening to George. At the house by the pylon, whether it was background music to Greek nights or dancing in the loft, everyone would request their favourite George song and I would happily oblige. Cowboys and Angels and Wake Me Up Before You Go Go springs to my mind when I remember those nights on my journey to my parents.
And as a result of these memories, during the journeys to my parents house, I have received rather odd and worrying looks from other drivers at traffic lights. I have then realized I am singing, loudly and hopelessly out of tune, to these familiar words.
I love Saturdays and my journeys back to my parents.
I am also in no doubt that in years to come, I will reminisce of a time when I lived at my first home with my lovely boyfriend. A cosy loving home, surrounded by red and white polka dots, and the most expensive toaster in the world. A time when I travelled for an hour, every Saturday, contently lost in lyrics and memories.
Record players, perms, tacky earrings, hummus and pita bread in pretty china dishes, and dancing in a loft with fabulous, slightly crazy, friends.
And now a home filled with red and white, and heaps of love, hope, and grand plans for the future.
The sound track of my life continues…