I went to a pub on Friday night to meet some friends from the ’80s. Wang Chung’s Dance Hall Days was playing on the sound system. Oooh, I thought, how funny! So I started tapping out a Tweet to that effect when a bloke came up and said hello. I stared at him blankly for a moment before registering that it was one of the ’80s friends.
I tried to reconcile the mid-40s guy in front of me with the person who’d get sweaty on the dance floor with me to New Order, then buy us West Coast Coolers at the bar.
He looked much the same … well, the hair was a little less blonde, the eyes weren’t quite as mischievous, the skin was a fraction less taut. But basically familiar. And he was kind enough to say the same about me. Not the skin-less-taut bit, the much-the-same bit. Actually, his words were that I looked exactly the same. So he had to be lying. Because I don’t. And I have proof.
Here are some photos of me in the ’80s.
Remember lace gloves and brown curtains?
Remember white stockings and court shoes?
Remember echidna sloppy joes and frayed knee-length jeans?
Remember shoulder pads and lairy colours?
Remember spiral perms and high-waisted pants?
Remember polka-dots and baggy jeans?
Hmmm, upon reflection I’m glad I don’t look the same as I did in the ’80s.
Well, I wouldn’t mind the taut skin. The taut skin would be awesome. Oh, and eye bags that go away after a good night’s sleep. They’d be nice too.
But not the pants. Or the perms. They were terrible.