Flamboyant - Acceptance

 

When thinking about the word ‘flamboyant’, certain people come to mind, Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, Oscar Wilde, Freddie Mercury, Mick Jagger and many more. They exude confidence, they can walk into a room full of people and immediately ‘own’ it without demand or arrogance. I think it is something they are born with rather than worked on. I haven’t seen the Rolling Stones live – it’s not too late, still doing it – but I’ve watched enough TV documentaries covering concerts to see that Mick Jagger takes command of every inch of a stage, every move a performance. Charisma. Maybe Flamboyant and Charismatic go hand in hand. I wouldn’t describe myself as either, but there was a time, a long time ago, when someone said I wore flamboyant clothes. They were not being friendly and the remark upset me.

At fifteen, I was uprooted from all that was mine, familiar and secure. Another pub in another town was to become home. School and friends left behind. I kicked up a fuss, but I wasn’t old enough to be listened to, apparently. Since the passing away of my mother and the swift remarriage that followed, the family dynamics were different and I’ve said before that I no longer fitted in. Throw into this toxic mix a good helping of normal, teenage angst and I’m sure you’ll still hear the screams.

Halfway through the fourth year, modern day Year 10, I started my new school – not following the same ‘O’ Level curriculum, so I had lots of catching up to do, or not. Forever the rebel, of course it was NOT. I soon discovered that I was going to find it difficult to adjust. A couple of the girls were friendly and helpful, happy to welcome the new girl and I was glad for that, but we were worlds apart in our interests. Before this major move, I’d enjoyed ice-skating on beat nights at least once a week. No ice rink here, but there was a disco dance at the town hall, on alternate Friday nights. I was invited to go.

I wore a long, summer skirt with a cheese-cloth blouse tied in a knot at the front and a pair of sandals that were getting worn out, but I wasn’t going to wear my school shoes. Instinct told me there would not be any secret cider drinking. Oh the joys I’d had to leave behind! I met my new friends, one greeting me with, “Do you always wear flamboyant clothes?” as she looked me up and down. Immediately I’d failed the ‘come out with us’ test and I didn’t dare ask what she meant, but my attire was a million miles away from their two-tone pencil skirts and checked shirts. Inside was worse. I quite like soul music these days. Years of being drip-fed Tamla Motown by various juke-boxes means that I know the words and I have favourites, but back then, it was like being forced to listen to something totally against my music religion. I liked the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac (before the girls came), Yes, and my beloved Moody Blues. Some boys in baggy jeans and boots were in a line, bouncing out a tricky dance to Dave and Ansel Collins ‘Double Barrel’. Mods, Skinheads, whatever they were was the opposite to me, but as weeks passed into a month and the girls asked me to join them again, I tried to make an effort. After all, when in Rome…

I didn’t go completely mad, not quite. I earned extra pocket money by waitressing in the pub restaurant a few nights a week. It was train fare and skating money for trips back home. I used some to buy a Ben Sherman shirt and some cheap, straight-leg jeans from the market. My flared, embroidered ones wouldn’t blend in for the town hall dance. With nail scissors, I fashioned myself a feather-cut. Not my best move, but not too shabby. Frowned upon at home, but that was just because it was me and I was used to conflict. On the plus side, I mastered the ‘Double Barrel’ skippy moves at the dance. I can probably still do it, but I’m sure you don’t need proof.

At the Whit Week half term, I was packed off to family in London. A wonderful treat. I travelled alone on the train, met by my aunt at Euston, happy to be spending time with her and my younger cousins in Roehampton. Nothing was mentioned about my appearance, be it flamboyant or otherwise. I was wearing my normal, comfortable clothes with beads and sandals. By this time, I’d had a few more snips at my hair, which was also an unattractive  yellowy blonde. The things girls do! Within days, my aunt took me to the hair salon where my colour was toned down and my home-made cutting restyled into a proper shape. Next, a new dress and sandals, and me, spoilt again by my aunt. If my dad had asked for her intervention, she was tactful enough not to tell me so. The best news came towards the end of my stay. We were moving back home.

(If ever I'm back on a stage doing open-mic, I'll try to command it like Jagger. Just joking.)

My Haiku poem,

Flamboyant

I can’t fit in here,
I’m a fish out of water
And they stare at me

While they are dancing
To Dave and Ansel Collins,
That fast, skippy thing.

I learnt to do it,
Not that I was one of them,
More like “when in Rome”

Amused by my clothes,
They thought I was flamboyant,
Cheese-cloth shirts and jeans.

To try to blend in
I bought a Ben Sherman shirt,
It was a mistake.

I snipped at my hair
Attempting a feather-cut.
What a disaster!

Half-term in London,
Back to floaty tops and beads
And leather sandals.

With thanks to Auntie,
A cotton-print maxi dress
And a hairdresser.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Jokes of the week.

Good Afternoon readers,

This week on the Dead Good Blog we've been looking at jokes, being April 1st and all that.
In the week we've had the benefits system change, politicians protesting their ability to get by on a pittence and the chancellor wading in to a matter that frankly didn't concern him, you could say we've had our fair share of fools.
Speaking of which, I've just returned from a major supermarket petrol station- where I must warn you the thirteenth pump has a twitch. It twitched over the ten pound mark when I first replaced it. I thought, what the hell, I'll make it fifteen. It twitched again, after me checking the bloody thing had definitely stopped. Anyway, I wasn't having it and promptly explained this to the cashier. Apparently, I wouldn't get away with it in the big store- they'd call security. She didn't call security, despite my insistence that they should come and have a go on the pump, but there you go. As a result of their incredible customer satisfaction policy, I've dedicated them a haiku below. There is also one for IDS, Philpott, the puppet from Team America's lad and of course, George.
That about sums the week up, doesn't it?

Please scan your clubcard
Expand customer knowledge
We spy... milk you dry. 


Poor old IDS
Said "Wheels came off the wagon"
History repeats. 

Icarus Philpott
Did you even consider
Light six candles, think. 


Funny little man
Toddler with trigger finger
Perhaps try to talk. 


Chancellor, desist
Spurring on the Daily Mail
Vile product indeed.

Thanks for reading,
Shaun.

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Winter is Coming

by Ashley Lister

As has been noted, there has been a confrontational quality to my writing over the past few weeks. This has been noted in my angst-fuelled poetry, it has been noted in my furious fiction and it has been evinced in the internal memos I’ve been sending to some of the a***holes at the workplace.

I blame it on the encroaching summertime.

I do not like summertime.

Whilst many people enjoy the warm weather and extended hours of daylight, I am not a lover of summertime. I find it is an affront to the senses:

In the summer time, I find, there is too much bare flesh on the promenade.

Those who know me will be aware that I’m not a prude. Truth be told, I have a penchant for bare flesh and could look at it for hours. However, I have little time for the pasty-coloured bare flesh that gets exposed on the prom during a British summer. Half the time it’s like looking at a skinned halibut in a bikini. The rest of the time it’s not quite so attractive.

I also find there is too much perspiration.

It’s been said that deodorants and common sense are never used by those people who most badly need them. I shall say no more on the subject except to mention that summer offends my sense of smell.

Our national anticipation of summertime is a constant irritation. Everyone in the UK acts as though we’re going to have a California heatwave starting in late May and continuing until early September. When the reality kicks in, three mild days before a Bank Holiday downpour, everyone acts with aggrieved disappointment.

Personally I think we should start investing our hopes in one of the other seasons. The other three are more dependable because of their consistent ability to deliver. I’m hoping for a really crappy autumn this year, followed by a dire, miserable winter and an unsatisfying and unmemorable spring. If we approach the seasons with this mindset, even if our hopes are dashed, we won’t be disappointed. 

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