So today I have had yet another meeting to discuss important, but possibly overwordy policies for our new merged NHS trust. Sitting in efficiently characterless meeting room, on an efficiently characterless industrial estate, as I momentarily glanced ..outside at the huge power station that dominates the town of Rugeley the song Stool Pigeon by Kid Creole and The Coconuts popped into my head… Why that?.. Why now?… Why here?.. Just why? tumbled my thoughts until my focus snapped back to the discussion of disciplinary policy appeal timescales.
I blame Jane. After all, blame is useless without someone to be pin it to. Jane is a twitter friend become flesh, in that I have actually met her, sadly only once to date. Anyway the other day I was trying to think up police/hockey themed songs for my little brother’s pending wedding. Jane had suggested Stool Pigeon, and somehow those words loosened a worm from my crack addled brain (hmmm that doesn't sound quite how i mean it). “But” I hear no one ask “what has that song to do with Rugeley power station?” Well Rugeley power station, or at least a caravan park in its considerable shadow was the unusual setting for my first holiday without parents. Let me explain….
Late Summer 1982
Darren Colclough (DC) and Kevin Holmes were my literally closest friends through that awkward Primary / Secondary school transition, in that we lived just a few dozen yards from each other on our small 60’s built estate, in the Staffordshire village of Upper Tean (take that Lower Tean !). Our friendship was characterised by long hot summer bike rides into the Peak District, overcomplicated Subbutteo leagues complete with tape recorded commentaries (how I would love to hear them now) and football kickabouts (or missabouts in my case) up Gorsty Hill. Oh, and illicit horror videos watched round at DCs on a Friday night. I'm not sure how and where we rented them from, but I can graphically recall one particular “Nasty” called Absurd which included a power drill / nurse’s head combination. I don't think it did us much harm, and if you believe the Daily Mail it is probably now part of the school curriculum. The evening always seem to end with the Paul Hogan show on channel 4 and his unfunny wino sketch .
How our caravan holiday came about is unclear to me now, but I would guess it was DC’s idea. Mainly because it was his family that had the caravan. We would have been 14 at the time and I'm sure my albeit progressive parents would still have taken some convincing that letting us have a week away completely unchaperoned and was a in any way sensible idea. Not only would we be unsupervised but pretty much out of contact in those days when mobile phones were as unimaginable as Marmite flavoured Cheese. One way or another (mainly whining and nagging I guess) I got them to relent.
We were driven the 30 odd miles in 2 cars. DC in his dad’s Rover towing their modest, but to me so so exciting, 4 berth caravan, while Kev and I followed in my Dad’s vinyl roofed, dark blue Sunbeam Alpine. The caravan site, was barely that. A small strip of a field next to a pub come cafe. Running along the site was a canal and towpath with the Power Station looming above, like a big grey loomy thing (more work needed on this simile methinks). As our respective dad’s cars drove away we would have laughed and giggled away the elation of absolute freedom.
The weather that week must have been pretty dreadful as evidenced by the memory pricking of Mr Creole and co. Weather-bound,in a small caravan in the early 80s, with the blatter splatter of rain on thin plastic windows, the only available entertainment we had were board games and Radio 1. In particular Steve Wright in the afternoon. Back then to 3 fourteen year olds, Steve Wright’s show was fresh, funny and cutting edge. Sadly though, the same could not be said of Radio 1’s playlist. To a captive audience it was as limited as the Status Quo chord book, consisting of the week’s chart hits reshuffled ad nauseam. The soundtrack to our particular week was regular spinnings of, amongst others; the aforementioned Stool Pigeon, the downright odd Da Da Da by Trio and (surely the only Rogers and Hammerstein cover by an ex goth) Happy Talk by Captain Sensible. These days, songs that stick in the head are called earworms. These particular worms must have been very persistent and burrowed right through my ear canal to stay lodged in my brain, only to tumble out of a crack 29 years later. The weather would not and could not contain us, and every opportunity to break out . We would take off on our bikes into the depths of Cannock Chase, our drop handled racers totally unsuitable for some of the rough trails. I remember riding nearly a whole day on a flat back tyre, after a morning puncture. I swear i can still feel every bump now.
Maybe time has varnished my memory, but i remember it as an utterly joyous week. Oh to be fourteen and unfettered once again. Like all the best remember times, the location and weather matter little compared to the company and circumstance. It was the best of times. We were the best of friends. At an age when I often struggled to cope with teen angst coupled with my deep rooted gender confusion I desperately needed the pure escapism of that week outside a power station, just as much as I now value the escapism of writing this blog post.
