Down With The Kids (Blogging Experiment #1)

Post dedicated to Rosie, from whom the title is taken. Even though the post has nothing to do with her and comprises of my usual meanderings.

I’ve never ever been down with the kids. Even when I was a kid I wasn’t down with kids.

I wasn’t an outcast or anything quite so melodramatic. Just slightly different. I had glasses for a time and got confused about football.

Once I was accosted in the playground by someone who demanded to know what football team I supported. Luckily, thanks to my ability to remember useless information I was able to go through a list of minor teams before he got irritated and demanded to know what team in Division One I supported.

It got different when I hit those teenage years.

It didn’t help that I had unkempt hair. It was never long hair but for some reason everybody just assumed it was and reacted accordingly.

In the south-west of England there is a peculiar epitath, “jitter” (I don’t really agree with the definitions listed in that link by the way) and on the odd occassion people dressed in sportswear used to shout it at me.  Small towns are like that.

Also I sometimes used to hang out with the smokers at the end of the school field even though I wasn’t a smoker (coffee is better than cigarattes – hell, twirling my hair round my finger gives me more pleasure than smoking although I do like the smell of kreteks and some pipe tobacco). Once I was stood there, most likely listening to Pavement on my knackered no-brand Walkman with red headphone lead when someone ran up to us looking rather unhappy.

Kurt Cobain has shot himself, they said.

Really? someone replied. What year was he in?

(Actually that didn’t happen, I nicked it off the Sopranos, not the TV show but the book. Someone did run over and tell me in exactly those circumstances but there wasn’t such an entertaining reply worse luck. Still it could have happened.)

Later on yearwise myself and a group of friends befriended some people from Portishead and went to a RAWK* night at a sticky-floored venue known as the Bierkeller.

The people in front of me in the queue were stopped by the bouncer: Erm, he said. You do know what kind of music they play here don’t you? They didn’t realise and sloped off.

I was disappointed he didn’t say that to me. I mean do I look like a rocker. I probably looked more like the classic Belgian (checked shirt, brown shoes) crossed with an off-duty stockbroker (horrible cords). On crack, natch.

Heavens above, I thought. Maybe I am one of these “jitters” I’ve been hearing so much about.

I didn’t like the music there much although they did play the Pixies.

I am un chein andalusia!

* the only legitimate spelling in my humble opinion. Although it should have around 5 exclaimation marks for the full effect.