I was waiting in line outside a grey mobile classroom where our biology lesson was, with a tall blonde girl called Jane who was devastatingly pretty. She had immaculate glowing skin and a turned-up nose. She was my height with suntanned legs and had been given the role of showing me the ropes. It was my second day at my new school and so far, things had been surprisingly good.
My school uniform was better than the last one. It was bottle green and I had shop bought pieces instead of a home knitted brown jumper that had singled me out at my last school and filled me with shame. I had a decent pair of shoes too that slipped on and knee length white socks that I pushed down like leg warmers. My form was a little intimidating, but I didn’t feel the threat that I had at my last school where the older kids were menacing. So menacing in fact, that we had to be let out five minutes before them to make a clear exit and to avoid what was known as sprog bashing.
As we stood there, Liz in front of us turned around and asked me: “Which member of Duran Duran do you like?”
“John Taylor,” there was no hesitation on my part. “How about you?” I asked while studying her face.
She was extremely tall with a haircut that was shorter at the sides and sort of long and crimped on top. It was cool. She had electric blue mascara on her eyelashes.
“Simon Le Bon is the best,” she replied playfully.
A small sparky girl came bounding over to us, and barely caught her breath as she was so eager to get her words out: “You’ll never guess what? Jacinda Crowley has shoved a frozen banana up her fanny.”
A shriek of giggles followed.
At that moment the doors of the classroom flung open, and we all piled in. I had so many questions racing around my mind. Did she purposefully freeze the banana and if it was true why would she tell anyone. I’d never heard the name Jacinda. Was this a real person even.
I settled in and got on with things. I liked French and English. We were in sets and some of the boys in my English class had long hair, sideburns and their voices had broken, even their top lips had hair on them. I didn’t expect them to be in top set for English. I think it was because we were reading a lot of poetry, and it just seemed a bit incongruous. But I realised I was being judgemental.
The same boys were in CDT (Craft, Design, Technology) where they excelled at technical drawing. I studied the backs of their denim jackets and realised they had practised copying the covers of heavy rock albums, honing their skill.
My history teacher was incredibly glamorous. She wore a lot of carefully applied make up. Glossy lips, long eyelashes and pink blusher and her brown waves cascaded down her back. The rumour was that she was having an affair with the Maths teacher, Mr Giggs. I didn’t like to think of it, he was not glamorous and had sweat patches under his arms. She deserved much better.
Plus, she liked the Velvet Underground, which was a total revelation to me. We’d found out one day when she was late for class, and we’d been messing on the board, drawing our favourite record covers and I attempted to recreate Warhol’s banana from their first album. When Miss Bridge arrived, she looked at our gallery and said that it was one of her favourites too. I started to imagine her as a dominatrix in shiny, shiny boots of leather with Mr Giggs.
Our biology teacher had absolutely no control and we were grouped on long benches furnished with gas taps. Around the sides of the room were jars filled with liquid with various fleshy objects floating in them.
Once her back was turned, when she was writing on the board, some of the boys put their mouths to the taps while another would turn it and they’d fill their lungs with gas. This was the most rebellious thing I’d ever seen.
I learnt who to avoid. Two girls Tracey and Mandy were the queen bees. Tracey had muscular calves and reminded me a bit of Madonna. Mandy had lots of eyeliner and crimped hair sweeping over her eyes. I kept my distance, avoided their gaze, and tried my best not to sit near them in any classes.
On the way into school, I’d walk with my friend Lin. If the weather was fine, we had a short walk over the school field, but in the winter when it was waterlogged, we’d make our way through the allotments and up the ‘fucking hell the fucking hill’ and back down again. Over the next twelve months we moved from discussing the merits of Wham and Duran Duran, to Prince and Bowie and then Lin became enthralled with The Sex Pistols, and I was tuning in to John Peel.
My dad, who no longer lived with us, had left me his portable Bush radio. He’d spent Saturday afternoons in the bath with it, listening to the football scores and I didn’t realise you could tune it in to another station. I’d listen to Janice Long’s show while painting or doing my homework and then by the time John Peel came on, I was in bed with the radio next to me on the pillow. I’d wake up in the night with the long beep1 emitting in my ear and have to turn it off.
The names of the bands were great; Half Man Half Biscuit, The Men They Couldn’t Hang, The Jesus and Mary Chain, Strawberry Switchblade, The Woodentops, That Petrol Emotion, The Soup Dragons.
We got taken to see the fifth formers art exhibition that they had mounted as part of their ‘O’ Level. There was one that stood out. A fabulous sketch of Clint Eastwood and some other work. I took note of the name and then sought out the artist. He was cool, and I realised he lived near Lin.
It wasn’t my first crush, but it was my first crush at my new school. He was tall and skinny with a distinct haircut and just seemed to be totally detached from the rest of his year.
Lin and I would follow him home, which was fine because she walked that way, so avoided suspicion. This went on for a few months. I’d stay at hers for a while after school and we’d watch the Great Rock n Roll Swindle and listen to her brother’s records.
I’d joined the library and had started borrowing records and listening to them at home through headphones. Lin and I both had Saturday jobs now too which meant we had spends. We’d hang around in town, shopping and we got to know some of the older kids. There was a block of flats behind the station where a lot of drug dealing went on. It was at once dangerous and utterly compelling.
I plucked up the courage to call my crush, finding his number in the phone book. He asked me to come over. I was so scared I thought I was going to throw up, but I did it. His older sister answered the door with a bemused, slightly patronising tone and told me to go upstairs.
He offered me a drink and I sat on his bed staring at a giant poster of Marilyn Monroe who exuded glamour and gorgeousness and we talked about music. He had lots of records and we listened to Talking Heads.
We discussed films and his posters and then I asked:
“What do you like to do?” I was half hoping that I’d get an answer about art.
“Sex,” he said.
It was hard to know where to go after that and I asked him to put a record on, I finished my drink and left. That was the end of my crush. I was crushed.
Going into the fifth form, my interest in school was low, all we had to look forward to was exams. The teachers went on strike. At first the afterschool clubs were cancelled; followed by all pupils being sent home at lunch due to staff refusing to cover. Then the lessons were disrupted.
I’d never imagined I’d be the sought of girl that bunked off, but it began to happen. The first time I was scared, but I realised the consequences were negligible. To mark the end of our time at school a disco was arranged. I spent a long time planning my outfit. I wore a black T shirt and a skirt that I’d bought in Covent Garden which was long and black with two panels down the side with a graphic print. I backcombed my hair and wore lots of eyeliner and black lipstick.
We gulped cider out the bottle and stood around in small groups talking. It was dark and there were lots of bodies huddled together. Some kids filled with bravado, others sheepishly skulking in corners. We danced and swigged and as the evening whirred on, people relaxed. Someone threw up. Mr Giggs the Maths teacher walked past me and said Blackburn2 by name and Blackburn by nature in reference to my outfit.
Out of the blue a boy I knew from form came up and snogged me. I hadn’t picked up any signals from him other than discussions around the Jesus and Mary Chain. We were left with grey smears around our mouths. I then heard his friend call me ‘Blackburn black lips’.
School had released me from its grip. I would no longer have to worry about where I sat in class or think about what position to play in netball or whether I’d get picked for a team. This was it. Freedom was the smearing of black lipstick and the taste of warm cider.
This was almost 40 years ago. My daughter turns 16 this week and has been decorating her leavers’ shirt and finding a prom dress. She’s finished 21 exams and has two more to go. Some things change some stay the same. I bumped into the boy who snogged me a year or two ago. I hadn’t seen him since I left school. He’s now a cancer researcher/molecular biologist and still likes music.
The energetic girl who told me about the frozen banana incident became a friend.
The radio station shut down at midnight and a long beep would be broadcast.
My maiden name is Blackburn
God, how I loved Strawberry Switchblade
How brilliant! I’m a bit older than you but I remember the 80s as such fabulous, mega cool years, and you brought it all back. That Petrol Emotion!! My brother had their album! I loved Duran Duran and The Cure, and Killing Joke crashed my 21st birthday party!!! We found knickers in the toilets the next day 😂