You spin me round like a record, Oooh sometimes, Like a Virgin. Songs we sang on the way to and from school. The smells of summer were Lou Lou and Aramis and boys wore their mullets long and proud. The in-crowd had Farah trousers and Diana flicks, I had Morrissey, black eyeliner and an electric blue undercut.
No smoking ordered the black marker pen signs around the school. The staff room was hazy with nicotine clouds. Yellow stained fingers covered my work with red Bic biro, they smelt of smug satisfaction. I laughed off the disappointment and bunked off to the Parkside shops, joined the rest of the waste of spaces on our eternal mission to eat blue pills, cherries and ghosts. Wakka, wakka, wakka, chips and cider. We don't need no education.
Band Aid promised to make Africa better. Bob swore on live television and Midge blurred into the background. I missed it, a jazz band performance at St George's Mental Hospital. We could call it that then, that's what the hospital sign screamed so it was ok. I hated every second. Green fur hats. Tan tights. An indecently short skirt. Every dirty old man's wet dream. I marched on and on hating my dad for making me be here instead of watching my beloved Bono and Nik. In the name of love. It wasn't the same on repeat.