What A Winker!

In 1982 I was twelve years old, going through the hormonal change that is puberty and about to make the move from the cosseted existence that is primary school in to the hustle and bustle of the secondary school education system. 1

This is a time of great excitement and confusion for all pre teen chaps, as up to this point football, comics and piss poor imported American television shows were the main focuses of our attention. Whereas now for some unfathomable reason the fairer sex pop up on our hormonal radars for the first time and so the woe begins.2

Now if you are a person who is easily offended, like to bite pillows or has a predilection for mincing around, please do not read on as the remainder of this story may contain traces of actual swear.3

You could always tell when a chap had discovered what their nether regions were actually designed for, by the sudden change in their personal appearance and heaven help us, by our swift desire to appear trendy or “with it” in the fashion stakes. I myself overnight went from a pudding bowel hair styled, football obsessed, A Team fan, to an Old Spice aftershave wearing, side parted, chest obsessed pervert.4

My list of crimes included.5

Going to an actual hairdresser, staffed by people who wore braziers, rather than Wallace The Barbarian who owned our local barbers shop. Wallace was an old fashion barber who clearly hated children and could provide his customers with any hair style their hart desired, so long as it was short back and sides, a crew cut or number one pudding bowel.6

Drenching myself in a never ending cascade of aftershave, deodorant and anything else that the advertisers would have me believe would make me irresistible to the opposite sex.7

Carrying a comb, yes a comb, in my trousers back pocket and never missing the opportunity to utilize it when I encountered any reflective surface.8

Insisting on wearing a clean and ironed shirt every day, when had I stayed true to my prior form, my mother would have to sneak in to my bedroom and smuggle the shirt I had been wearing for the last three days in to the washing machine, before I saw fit to wear it for the rest of the week.9

New haircuts, smelling like an explosion in an aftershave factory and winking provocatively at any female who looked in my general direction not withstanding. I still was having no luck with the ladies and so drastic action was called for.10

I know, I thought to myself, I need to discover what these female types look for in a chap and thus unlock the key to their attention and perhaps if my luck was in, get the long awaited opportunity to get my hands up someone’s jumper.11

Now not having an older sister and the subject matter not being the type of topic a young man would wish to attempt to try and glean information from ones own mother. There was only one possible avenue of investigation left to us, yes we would wait until Knubnutts’s older sister was out of the house and read through her Jackie magazine.12

Now I read Shoot, a magazine dedicated to football, its tactics, squad formations and the like. However the teenage girls monthly read of choice was full of pictures of bare chested poofy looking chaps who claerly wore makeup, had adverts for ladies products or to paraphrase from Oss “Fanny pads!” and page after page of photographs of the latest fashions.13

For my own part, being young, naive and after all a male. I had absolutely no idea why women would require pads for there fanny’s and held the secret belief that they must be the female equivalent of shin guards.14

Imagine my surprise and total disbelief when less than a year later, a very embarrassed Ms. Sherburne attempted, during a sex education class, to explain that all women bleed out of their private parts once a month and this was “Supposed to happen?”. We all looked round at one another mouths agog, I’ll be honest here; I still was not sure what the fuck she was on about. 15

Anyway back to the upshot of reading Knubnutts’s sisters girls magazine, as I have once again been side tracked by the mystery that is the female form.16

One thing stood out for us and that one thing was the importance that people with bumpy jumpers seemed to place on footwear a.k.a. shoes.17

Now my mother up to this point in time had always had to drag me to the shops for the twice annual punishment that was school shoe buying. However now it was different, as with the correct footwear, allied to my aftershave and hair combing, I felt sure I would be beating the women off with shitty sticks and would be a dab hand at doing the sex in no time.18

A few weekends later I found myself the proud owner of a new pair of black, patent leather, slip on loafers complete with tassels where the laces on normal shoes would be.19

As I walked to school that sunny Monday autumn morning I felt sure these new shoes would ensure I became a fashion leader, if not an actual icon amongst my peers. Imagine my surprise then when I discovered their opinion was not what I had hoped and again I quote from Oss. “See those shoes? They make you look like a right cunt!”20

Once again arses. 21