Obviously, as far as my mum was concerned, a line had been crossed. She was a product of her time, as all mums are, and rudery of a bluish hue was not acceptable, but there was a great deal of laughter in our house. The kind that’s propagated when two broken families have been welded together for convenience. Humour was our bond. A giggle based glue.
I had plenty more sources of amusement. The TV was running hot with American imports and there was ‘Mad’ magazine, a bundle of which I’d used to camouflage the coarse cartoons. It was an uncertain time for me, a fourteen year old, oscillating between Eric Clapton and Alfred E. Neuman. My conviction that I was having some sort of identity crisis was only strengthened by the physical changes that were happening to me on an almost daily basis!
When the schoolboy in you makes a clumsy attempt to emulate an icon.
While I continued to find rules to break, my voice was doing it all on its own. I was on the brink of new and exciting territory. A world where young stubble beckoned to be tidied up, only to be replaced by a rash of hormone driven zits. Still, what could I expect? A crackle of "crazy" was in the air, as the decade was approaching its end, with no signs of letting up. That time always reminds me of a quote from a long forgotten Saturday morning show, "All for fun - fun for all - it's Zokko!"