Some of my friends tried to stop the tape at the rightmoment to cut out the DJ’s voice, but I quite enjoyed listening to BrunoBrookes giving the chart rundown. It was quite a thrill to hear songs that Ihad known for years now being played at the time they were actually hits. Thewhole thing had a real retro quality to it.
This was the last one I’d taped before I came away, and itwas packed with classic hits, including the Pet Shop Boys who were at numberone that week during the height of their fame.
I found some of the elements of the show irritating, though.Because it was only two hours long, there wasn’t time to play all 40 songs, sothey tended to miss out those between positions 21 to 40 that were going downthe charts. This included a couple of my favourites that week, one of which hadonly gone down one measly place to number 31, but wasn’t deemed worthy of aplay.
What I did find rather quaint was the failure to play GeorgeMichael’s latest single, I Want Your Sex, which was in the top ten atthe time. In fact, during the countdown, Bruno didn’t even refer to it by itsfull title, referring to it simply as I Want.
How times had changed: it seemed that in 1987 you were noteven allowed to say the word ‘sex’ on the radio. As for George Michael’s song,it was incredibly tame by the standards of the stuff that had been around adecade or two later.
By then it was perfectly acceptable to thrust the likes of ascantily clad Christina Aguilera into every living room in front ofimpressionable kids of all ages. And as for the lyrics, Eminem and others hadpushed the boundaries way beyond what had been acceptable in the 80s.
Yet, in other ways, society had moved in the oppositedirection. It seemed that it was deemed quite acceptable for football crowds tomake monkey noises and throw bananas at black footballers, to which nobodybatted an eyelid.
It was a strange world, regardless of whether you movedforwards or backwards in time, where values were constantly changing: some forbetter, others for worse.
The tape ended, and I turned it over and started again,kicking off with Jackie Wilson who had entered the charts at No. 39 with agolden oldie, even by 1986 standards. It seemed there had been a bit of a 50sand 60s revival going on, hence Jackie’s return to the charts long after hisdeath.
As I listened, I reflected on the past three years.
I had been remarkably relaxed since my trip with Josh to2035. Now that I knew the future was secure, I could really get on withenjoying the present, and enjoyable years they had certainly been.
Between September 1987 and June 1989, I had been doing my ALevels at the Oxford College of Further Education, referred to locally by allas ‘Oxpens’. It was opposite the ice rink, close to the centre of Oxford, andthe location of two of the most fun years of my life.
On arriving at the time of completing my A Levels, I swiftlyacquired a huge group of friends, hardly any of whom I had seen after I’d left.
In this pre-social media age, all I had to keep in touchwith people was a small red address book that I’d kept for years, full of namesand numbers of people who were unknown to me. Now, at last, I was putting namesto those faces.
Life at the college seemed to be one long party and Iwondered how I’d ever managed to pass my exams. The college day was splitmainly into 90-minute lectures that began at set times.
Nearly all of mine seemed to be either from 9.30am until11.00am or from 3.00pm to 4.30pm. This meant that I had a four-hour gap in themiddle which coincided precisely with the opening hours of The Duke of York, a publichouse conveniently situated just across from the entrance to the college.
It seemed that the entire daytime social life of the collegerevolved around this pub, where a half of lager at 53p a pop could be made tolast a good hour or so for your average poor student.
I was still pretty well off thanks to the bookies, but itwas getting increasingly difficult to get bets on as I continued to getyounger. The pub itself tended to turn a blind eye to the underage drinkinggoing on, which was hardly surprising. It was doing a roaring trade atlunchtimes thanks to the college, and takings would have been severely dentedif they’d started asking for ID.
Unfortunately the bookies were a lot stricter, and even atthe age of 21 I was finding myself being frequently asked for ID, usually whenI was collecting rather than putting bets on, which was typical. They werehappy to take stake money from underage gamblers. But if they then had theaudacity to win, the bookie would ask for ID and, if the punter could notprovide it, would confiscate the cash.
Once my eighteenth birthday came and went in October 1988, Iwas in real difficulty. Any sizeable win, and my age was immediately broughtinto question. I didn’t possess any sort of fake ID, and had neither the meansnor the time to create one on a daily basis with the limited resources at mydisposal.
Reluctantly, other than getting in my dad’s good books bytipping him a few winners for his Saturday Lucky 15 bet, I had to concede thatmy gambling days were over.
There was still a lot of fun to be had in the pub and Idon’t think I ever enjoyed myself quite as much as during those two years.Darts, bar billiards and an ancient old console game called Pac-Man were allpart of the fun.
There was also a long-standing tradition where we alldutifully trooped into the poolroom to watch the lunchtime showing of Neighbourson an old-fashioned cathode ray TV attached to the wall. It seemed the wholecollege stopped one memorable November day in 1988, when the pub was packed tothe rafters with students ready to witness Scott and Charlene’s wedding.
The two years at college flew by. Disappointingly, it hadbeen a pretty
