Wednesday 27 February 2013

Baby Won't You Please...


Browsing John Medd's blog earlier this morning, I had a small flashback. Not to one of my cherished Jam gigs, though they are fine flashbacks to have, but to an altogether gentler place - a small patch of grass in the centre of the vegetable garden near the chapel at my old school.

 The garden was an oasis of calm in that hive of neuroses and nuns, and even more importantly was one of the few places where you could get perfect reception on your absolutely forbidden, tiny tinny transistor radio at around 1.00pm on a Tuesday when The Charts were broadcast. It was a shining badge of cool to be among the ones who'd heard the new Number One go out LIVE - hearing it third hand on the bus home at 4pm carried no cachet at all. And to be as I was - a possessor of the requisite radio PLUS unusually strong inclusion needs - meant a weekly dance with death as I plotted and planned my way past the sentinel Brides of Christ and bored lay teachers who littered the playground like landmines, to the sacred plot where I and a chosen friend, could hunker down and carry out our rebellious teenage duty.

 On this one particularly warm day we found a cosy spot beneath the runner beans, where we stretched out side-by-side with the radio cradled between our Batiste-smelling heads (perpetual greasy hair was the curse of the average 14-year old in 1978, so copious application of dry shampoo was the only thing that stopped the sebum from running down our necks in hot weather. They don't know how lucky they are these days, with their good shampoo and 'product'.). Sheltered from all sight and pleasantly excited by the progress of the countdown, we began to dance on our backs, twitching gently at first and then gradually beginning to roll and thrash as though we were receiving either the Holy Spirit or a good dose of ECT. By the time John Miles 'Slow Down' came in like a bullet at number eight, we were in free-form interpretive frenzy, flailing our limbs and jerking as we screwed up our eyes and laughed hysterically at the pictures of ourselves we could see in our own heads. "Slow DOWN, Baby...."

 It was when my head spasmed crazily to one side and my eyes opened for a second that I saw the unmistakable, strict black lace up shoe tapping slowly and with incredible menace a foot from my face. Such a shoe could only be cradling a foot that belonged to a nun, and the prominent bone on the skinny ankle confirmed my worst fears that we were being observed by Sister Ignatius Loyola, the pinched, yellowed sadist who had taken holy orders at the age of 14 and consequently held a lifetime grudge against non-ordained females of that very age. My friend was still in ecstatic oblivion and continued to lead us all in the dance (said she) for a good twenty seconds more, until she realised that I had been turned to stone beside her. Her reaction on opening her eyes was more extreme than mine, an exclamation of "Oh, JESUS", which provoked the chillingly calm comment from the nun of "I am afraid not, Gillian. But I AM here on his behalf."

14 comments:

  1. Brilliant memories from a time when the charts were worth taking a risk for. She may have been a terror, but props must go to Sister Ignatius for her lightning fast retort.

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    1. Sister Ignatius eventually turned up her toes at the age of 89 (she was 85 at the time she caught us!). When she was laid out in her coffin, the sixth form had to file past her. Imelda Quirke whipped one of her shoes off.

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    2. Yes I was going to say that--not a bad answer!

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  2. Here comes a guilty pleasures moment - I used to love John Miles!!! I bought his first three albums - this is the first single off his second album Stranger In the City - which was possibly his best album.

    I even had my hair cut in that style... and tried to grow a "bum fluff" tash!

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  3. I like John Miles' High Fly, but I was never a fan of Slow Down. You won't be finding that on Peake of The Pops, however you might find some hideous Catholic school memories, if they're not too painful to dredge up.

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  4. Anyone who can freely admit to emulating that extraordinary cotton-wool 'tache has my absolute admiration, F-Ron. Any photos surviving??

    Jon, I think overall High Fly was the better song (did YOU emulate his hair/facial hair too?), but you couldn't thrash around to it like 'Slow Down'. It's all in the thrashing around.

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  5. I had a Ignatius Loyola once, it was a bugger to start on cold mornings. I'll get me coat...

    My Tuesday dinnertime Top40 reminiscences involve the local branch of Kentucky Freied Chicken (as it was known in them days). Hey-ho, happy days.

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    1. Ah...and this may be the LAST time anyone says this to you, BA...but you're just too young to understand.

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  6. We need to talk! I too was taught by n*ns (at infants) and was *this* close to usurping The Jam for Miles; one of my very first picture sleeves if I'm not mistaken. As for the Tuesday lunchtime charts, well, that's a Blog all on it's own. J x

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  7. Tuesday chart day was always special but I was blessed to not have to run the gauntlet of the church's own storm troopers to hear them. Nice tale.

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  8. Ah, brilliant - you've rekindled such memories of the Tuesday charts and covert listening to the radio at school.... but without the nuns. I've had absolutely nothing to do with nuns during my entire life but occasional sightings of them in the street as a child made them seem rather scary. Something about those weird black capes and bad teeth (or am I getting them confused with vampires?) Then I saw Bedazzled and imagined them all as Peter Cooks leaping about in the Order of St Beryl's. Now that innocent illusion has been shattered once more. I think it was the words, 'pinched, yellow sadist' that did it.


    (Btw If you've received this comment twice please delete one! I had a bit of trouble posting this and had to re-write!)

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