The Inside of a Boy's Head

I seem to dimly remember that in the pre-Frankie days me and Charlotte had one bedroom each of our three bedroom house just to keep our own stuff in, which was a luxurious state of affairs indeed.  Predictably enough mine was done out like a particularly shambolic indiepop disco, complete with unflatteringly stark lighting, stacks of Darling Buds 12 inch singles spewing from battered vinyl carrycases, black-and-white postcards featuring stills from French Nouvelle Vague films, and a dartboard.  There may also have been a hatch in the corner serving cans of Red Stripe and styrofoam trays of chips, or I may be confusing late 90s suburban Levenshulme with the sticky innards of the Venue Nightclub on Whitworth Street.  You have to understand, I'd had a lot to drink.

And then one day Frankie came along, necessitating a radical redrawing of the continental boundaries.  Me and Charlotte's personal fiefdoms shrunk dramatically, and for the last six years the Darling Buds singles and Nouvelle Vague postcards have been squeezed tightly into the shelving taking up a corner of the attic, where they fight for space with other amounted ephemera, such as a pile of When Saturday Comes magazines dating from 1988 onwards, a black-and-white portable 35mm Halina camera bought for 50p in the Keswick branch of Oxfam, a green cardboard folder containing a lovingly-typed 5000 word dissertation entitled 'The Decline of the French Communist Party', and a non-functioning alarm clock featuring a cartoon image of a Sporting Lisbon footballer.  Memorably, on surveying this array for the first time, my sister exclaimed 'Good God- it's the inside of a boy's head!'.

I've not even mentioned the books, but there are approximately 300 of them.  Or there were until yesterday when, the untidiness of the inside of my head having been pricking at my conscience and sense of well-being since, ooh, Autumn 2002, I decided to have a bit of a pre-Christmas spring clean.  Approximately 50 books made the long, uncermonious journey downstairs in a binbag, and thence into the blue recycling bin, including 'My Autobiography' by Wayne Rooney and 'Passing Your Driving Theory Test' by Her Majesty's Department for Highways and Road Safety.  Bibliophiles among you will be heartened to learn that a second-hand hardback copy of 'Ulysses' by James Joyce (liberated from the library of Kaskenmoor Secondary School, Oldham, Spring Term 1995) survived the cull at the last minute.  I couldn't bring myself to leave it in there with the sporting and non-sporting pulp non-fiction, and it's back now on the shelf, where it will no doubt lie unread for another 30 years.  

A few other items got shoved into the recycling bins though, and it seems only decent to mark their passing here.  A broken umbrella featuring a full-colour map of the London Underground.  A maroon, inflatable plastic armchair.  Every issue of When Saturday Comes published since the milennium (I couldn't part with the  early numbers which are in certain circles just as worthy of cherishing as signed first editions of 'Ulysses' by James Joyce).  A set of musclebuilding weights, optimistically purchased from Argos with the High Street tokens we used to get for tiptop performance on the flangedesk, and which were used maybe once (actually these aren't in the recycling; I couldn't carry them.  They will possibly be advertised for sale in a shopwindow postcard, at a knock-down price).

So what's left?  Oh, plenty.  I've even dusted everything down, and last night I bought a £2 14 inch by 10 inch frame in Bobby Dazzlers and did a job I should have done fifteen years ago- framing a crayon drawing of me in a Barcelona shirt, blue and red on a yellow background, with the words 'The Blaugrana' (it means 'the Barcelona fan') written underneath in the same colour as the shirt.  Sticking out of the shirt is my pre-beard twenty-something head with the John Lennon glasses on.  The head is cocked due sideways, partly because that is how it sometimes was/is in real life, mostly because my sister got carried away drawing the shirt and didn't leave enough space at the top.  

Is 'the Blaugrana' the one item from the inside of my head I would grab a hold of in the event of a fire?  I don't know.  Maybe.  But I'm glad that I can see it now, at least.  And I'm glad that I can sit upstairs here in the attic without tripping over a dumb-bell, or a spike protruding from a tourist-shop umbrella, or a magazine featuring Glenn Hoddle with a cartoon bubble emerging from his face in the service of topical footballing highbrow humour circa 2001.  The inside of this boy's head feels like an agreeable place to be this freezing cold evening, which is the first time it's felt that way in a while.      

Comments

[Cocktails]

One question: Did you actually read Wayne Rooney's autobiography before parting with it?

The Blaugrana shirt sounds fab by the way.

[Jonathan]

Never read it Cocktails. But then again I'm pretty sure Wayne didn't write it, so that's me and him even.

[looby]

Those inflatable armchairs. My daughters have got them as you get them free when you join the Beano Club.

I like you'r sister's comment, but I'm not sure what sort of family background you were brought up in if she thinks that "a boy" typically has the history of the decine of the French Communist Party in his head.

All that remains to be asked is have you got rid of the nudie mags? Cos if not, my mate might be able to take them off your hands.

[abby]

Oooooh, I finally got a chance to read about your tidy head and I am now thinking of ways to clutter it up -- there is nothing like order to make you feel like introducing new objects, I'd say. I'll try to find some useless but lovely bits and bobs to send you. And glad to hear that the blaugrana masterpiece has been framed -- hurray!

[Izzy]

High time The Blaugrana Portrait was published on Crinklybee for all to see. It has languished long enough in the attic. We're all waiting!!!

[Tim]

You are King of All The Bloggers. Although to be fair, the best line came from Abby. Still, excellent work.