30 Day Song Challenge - Day 12

A song from your preteen years.

As a kid, it was such a big deal that they mentioned Glasgow in the lyric. The glamour . . . Agnetha . . . Be still my beating heart . . .

Abba - Super Trouper (1980)

I'm caught in a time loop, people . . .

Tried to explain the wonders of childhood Toast Toppers to the family in lockdown, and they just weren't buying it. It appears my descriptive powers are not as shit hot as I first thought. It didn't help that I also fell on my arse trying to describe a top cooker grill to them . . . 'You mean, it's like a broiler?' No, it's not a bastard broiler.

In exasperation, I dove into the internet, hoping to find a half decent pic of Toast Toppers in all its  last century glory but all I found was a thread from 2013 on Urban75 where people were shitting all over Toast Toppers. And, yep, I was in the middle of said thread, trying to defend the wonders of Toast Toppers. I'm living in a fucking time loop, people. No wonder I'm coping better than most with this lockdown repetition b/s.

Some of the better quotes from that 2013 thread. (I've removed the user-names, to ensure that the guilty are protected despite their snacking sins.):

• "It's a shame each variety looks like puke on toast.”
• “they look like a tramps vomit and taste like hells own armpit.”
• “Truly vile shit in a tin - even back in the day when they were the pinnacle of modernity."

And this particular contribution won the internet that day:

• "This is probably the most incisive class analysis thread on Urban. Love = working class Hate = middle class No fucking idea what you're talking about = ruling class."

"A Tufty Club badge . . ."

Still catching up (part 9)

28/50

Zéro de conduite (1933)

Knock off sheepskin jackets for goalposts

Brilliant pic from the '70s. Sadly, I will still dressing like this in 1981. I didn't stand a chance.

#ChildhoodTraumas

Boys’ pen, Anfield. Photo by Pete Marlowe

Little Green Man by Simon Armitage (Penguin Books 2001)

It was the start of the summer. I was sixteen. I got a job in a cardboard-box factory, worked eight till seven every day and Saturday mornings as well. It was a shit job with shit pay, but there was nothing else to do, and anyway I was saving up for America. Stubbs and the others, they'd still got a year to do. It was the holidays but I only saw them at night, a game of soccer in the schoolyard before it went dark or a bottle of cider in the bandstand. Then it was winter - they'd got their homework, I'd got my cardboard boxes. I was wishing my life away, waiting for my friends. Twelve months went by, until the day arrived. At three-thirty I turned up at the school gates with the same lighter. The summer stretched out in front. A summer like the year before last, the five of us going wild all over again. Then America, me and Stubbs and the rest if they wanted to come. Thumbing it from state to state. Occasional jobs. Getting into situations, getting out of scrapes. That was the plan, and today was the first day. I waited, but Stubbs didn't show. He'd sloped off across the playing fields. Like a traitor. And Tony Football went by on the top deck of a school bus, looking the other way. Like a thief. And Winkie was ill. I clenched the little green man in my fist, dug my nails into the jade. Only Pompous turned up, his blazer torn to shreds by the rest of the morons in his remedial set.
'Barney. Throw me the lighter.'
'Where are the others?'
'No idea.'
'Where's Stubbs? I told him I'd meet him here to do the business.'
'I don't know, all right? But he's not going to want his jacket tatching, is he?'
'Why not?'
Not if he's staying on next year. What's he going to come to school in - his vest?'