IN 1984, I was still at school, probably segueing somewhat less than seamlessly out of an anarcho-punk phase and into a hippy one on the back of some thoroughly mediocre (‘very disappointing’, as my parents might have said) O-level results and had only five cares in the world: rugby, girls, cars, booze and cigarettes. Probably not in that order.
All the old red braces and Porsche 911 clichés aside, it was a time of great excess and, re-reading the above, I was obviously quite precocious in that respect. Life was lived fast, extravagant clothes and haircuts mattered immensely (though not to me) and image was everything. George Michael, pre-facelift first-gen Madonna v1.0, Dallas at its peak (never knowingly seen it), wine bars and Ghostbusters. All set against the backdrop of…
