‘Alexa, play Parklife,’ says my young nephew, quite a lot.
‘Alexa, don’t you fucking dare,’ I would love to say, but don’t.

Overplayed. Overhyped. Boring. I’m not sure I ever liked it. And it was bloody everywhere. Still is. It doesn’t evoke anything in me because I’ve heard it too much.

The only good thing about it is for a punchline. You know when people go on a breathless social media rant, forgetting to use any clauses in a 50-word sentence, and then suddenly stop… and someone replies – ‘Parklife!’

It’s a shame as it’s the worst track on an otherwise decent album. The first I ever bought.

Blur came into my orbit after my sister gave me a copy of Select magazine. They were on the cover in black and white, with Damon Albarn, annoyingly good looking, at the front. I thought they were another boy band. 

At 16, I wasn’t great at music. I didn’t know what I liked in a contemporary sense. I bought albums by Chaka Demus and Pliers, and the dance group The Grid. I know. I needed help.

I bought Parklife on cassette tape from the Virgin Megastore in Nottingham. I remember sitting and waiting for the 141 at the old Victoria Bus Station, and taking it out of the bag, chewing at the cellophane, before slipping the tape into my Walkman. 

Girls and Boys took me away from the slabs and concrete, the fluorescent lighting, the smell of diesel and fags, the leering weirdos, the claustrophobia of the station, to somewhere sunny and full of young people… and young people… well, doing it.

Streets like a jungle…

The song made me want to go on an 18-30s holiday. I wanted some of that. I was 16 at the time. There was time to plan. I announced my attention to my dad. 

‘All that happens is,’ he said, speaking from experience. 

‘You’ll get off the plane, on to the coach, and you’ll realise it’s full of pissed blokes.

‘The only woman is the poor rep who, before she even says a word, gets told to get her tits out.’

My interest waned after that. 

Call the police…

The closest I ever got to an 18-30s holiday was Maguluf, in 1995… but with my grandma and sister. I was now 17. One evening I remember sitting in a downstairs British bar run by a Scot named Jimmy. He ran games of bingo, which in the UK is obviously perfectly normal. An acceptable, sedate, pastime. 

In Spain, hosting rounds of bingo was like running a crack den with an adjoining brothel. I was astonished that the game of my mothers, the purple rinsed masses, can cost someone their livelihood and even prison in Spain. Jimmy didn’t have a licence for gambling. He was risking it all for two fat ladies and legs eleven. 

It was stiflingly hot down there, there was no air conditioning and the pensioners wafted themselves pathetically with paper fans with badly drawn flamenco dancers. They’d do anything for bingo. Like crack addicts they’ll suffer for the hit. Jimmy was the dealer and they found him as soon as they landed.

Jimmy had a young lad on the door who would call down if he spotted a cop. If Jimmy got the signal, he’d bark at the bingo players, they’d down tools (dobbers and daubers) and groan…

‘Bloody hell. I only needed one for a line… typical…’

Shushed by Jimmy they’d change the subject, hurriedly conversing.

‘Ooh, hasn’t it been hot… I’ve burnt me sen.’ 

‘It’s too hot for me.’

‘Have you tried that paella?’

‘Seafood gives me diarrhea. I’ve been eating fish and chips all week…’

The officer walked slowly down the stairs, his baton slapping against his thigh, ready to brain an over-60 if he got a whiff of felt tip pen. Rod Stewart sang Maggie Mae quietly through the speakers. A tartan-clad, redheaded mascot held its awkward stare from its position on the bar. Jimmy started nervously buffing pint glasses like he was in a saloon in the wild west. 

The mustached cop continued his patrol passing each table menacingly. He ignored all the underaged drinkers, including me and my 15-year-old sister. 

Someone farted and he swung round. Sorry, she mouthed. Another woman, beads of sweat forming across her brow, pushed her bingo card further under a Tenants beer mat. Just in time. Phew. 

He knew he was too late. There’s nothing to see here.

Despite the drama, I was bored. My grandma tried to take a picture of me with my sister. I wouldn’t look at the camera. I looked depressed. I didn’t come here for bingo. Where were all the young people? To her credit she let me explore the town with a friend I’d made. We headed to where all the music was coming from. 

Looking for…

We’d walk into places and walk out again. We even stopped to watch an episode of Only and Fools and Horses. Del boy and Rodney were on every screen outside every bar…  Eventually we found a place with decent music and a nice outside area with lit up trees and plants. I don’t remember how, but I started talking to a woman who was on holiday with her friend. She was 29 and from Wolverhampton. We ended up kissing. Her breath tasted like cigarettes, but it didn’t bother me too much. I liked her, our conversation was easy. She told me about her abusive ex who was paranoid that other men were looking at her. ‘Well, they will look won’t they!’ She’d told him.

She told me it gave her a boost snogging a 17-year-old. How did I feel? Older women equalled ‘experience’ and that meant being ‘shown the way’. We agreed to meet the next evening.

(Now, if I shared this story with my son, he’d say this was all a ‘bit noncey’, and I think he may have a point. I was 17, but only just. Can you imagine if it was the other way round?)

The same night, I discovered my grandma and sister had moved from Jimmy’s and were now in a rowdy packed bar. The music was too loud and there was barely any space to move. There was lager and glass all over the dance floor. My grandma was sitting by the side having the time of her life. She was clapping along to ‘Alice, Alice (Who the Fuck Is Alice?) by Chubby Brown. 

Love in the nineties…

Shit. Shit. Shit. This woman, a year off 30, will be expecting me to, well… get it on, wasn’t she? This was it. Oh Jesus. 

I bought some condoms from a machine and locked myself in the apartment bathroom. While my grandma and sister napped in the afternoon I studied what to do. What else did I know? I’d watched Margie Clark’s Good Sex Guide – the closest thing I’d seen to soft porn, dressed up as advice – so I had a bit of an idea. Sort of. But where would it happen? Her apartment, the beach, behind a bar? 

This was stressful. And…

My generation remembers where they were when the AIDS advert dropped, even as small children. It started a fear that never left and while it may have saved lives, it made you, well, suspicious.  

It’s paranoid... 

Previous generations only had to worry about pregnancy and treatable STIs. But for mine, the GenXers, we grew up knowing a shag could mean death. Not the sexiest feeling going into a potential sexy situation.

I dropped a few hints… but nothing happened. We kissed, we talked. We later exchanged home addresses (this was the 90s, no email and no mobile phones. Plus, I don’t think this was my idea and I was reluctant). Did I want a relationship with someone 12 years older? Did I want to go to Wolverhampton? Not really. We arranged to meet the next day at the beach. She didn’t show up. I shrugged and left after an hour of waiting. That night there was karaoke in the hotel bar. I tried to get off with someone my age without any success.

A few weeks after returning home I got a pink letter in the post. In bubble handwriting, that busily filled the lines of the page, she explained why she hadn’t met me. She’d overslept and wasn’t feeling well, or something like that. She went on to say she’d had a good time meeting me… But explained why it wouldn’t work (the age gap) and sorry to break my heart. She hadn’t. I think I was both a bit disappointed and relieved. I wouldn’t have to go to Wolverhampton. To her credit she didn’t allow anything to happen in Maguluf. I’m not sure how I would feel now if it had. A bit grubby, I think. Regretful, definitely. There’s no bones about it, you’re still very much a child at 17. And being the father of a 17-year-old, I’d be furious at the possibility of him being groomed by someone who should know better. 

She did the right thing and did me a favour too. I expect she saved herself a lot of guilt and anguish for years to come.

Always should be someone you really love.