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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Fairground - All the Fun of the Fair

 

‘Grease’ was on TV again the other day. I caught the end of it when I switched on for something else and enjoyed singing and dancing with the end-of-school carnival.  The feel-good factor is excellent, the ‘happy ever after’ is perfect and that last five minutes at the fairground made me feel uplifted.  It rates highly amongst my favourite films of all time. I’ve seen it so many times, I know it word for word, song for song and never tire of it. The DVD must be everlasting.

The Pleasure Beach was on my doorstep but out of bounds to me when I was growing up. It made no sense to me at all because when I was twelve I was told to take my five year old sister to the nearby amusement arcade to ride on the waltzers upstairs. We were based on Central Promenade during that summer and it was far busier than South Shore. We went to the waltzers and the slot machines lots of times. Well, some rules are there to be broken and there was nothing wrong with the Pleasure Beach, as far as I could tell. My friends and I, beat-night skaters, would cut through to reach the Ice Drome and back again. Sometimes we would linger. I couldn’t relax. I was keeping watch for anyone working there who might recognise me from our pub, or know my dad. At home, I was told that dodgy characters frequented the Pleasure Beach, including some of the people who worked there. It didn’t deter me. They might have had a fit if they’d known how many times my best friend and I had talked ourselves into free rides on the Grand National. This was in the days long before wristbands or tokens and people could just go in and walk around for free.

This is David Essex, talking about his younger days working at fairs, which set him in good stead for his character, Jim Maclaine in ‘That’ll be the Day’,

“I’d actually worked on the Dodgems, I worked on the Whip, and what interested me about fairs – and still does – is that kind of scary-but-good atmosphere. There’s a menace there, there’s a danger in the fairground, in the midst of all the whiteness and coloured lights and amusements. Just around the corner is this underlying violence.”

I love ‘there’s a menace there’. Maybe that is what the warnings were about. I wasn’t aware of dubious characters on the Pleasure Beach. A couple of the ride attendants were lads I knew from school, on summer jobs. Nothing menacing about them. No David Essex before he was famous, as far as I noticed – I would have noticed.

Many years later, on a family holiday to Butlins, our daughter wanted to go on an Astroswirl, or something similar. She was about eight and didn’t like rides, but she fancied this one. I backed off and so did her brother, so left with no choice, my husband took her on. Then the screams started.

“Get me off! Get me off now! Stop! Daddy make it stop!”

The whole of Skegness, beyond Butlin’s must have heard her. The ride was halted. They got off and the other people had a longer second turn. Everyone was looking, except me and my son. We were just looking at each other as we wandered off, totally disconnected from the situation.  

I’m just wondering if I could fit ‘Grease’ in before tea time?

I found this poem by Scott Martin, a writer from an area of Scotland I know so well.

A Ballad for the Funfair

A Ballad for the Funfair,
A Seaside town,
The Soldier and his lover,
Lost at sea and their
Final meeting, wherever that may be,
At the End of the World.

Some like Roll-a-Penny
And some prefer the stalls,
Whilst others are mad for the Waltzers
Or flick the silver balls.
But you and me, my love
We were a Roller-Coaster ride:
Our ups and downs, our highs and lows
Were always side by side.

Under an electric star, inside the car
Our sweat glued us, like fear.
You gripped me tight in close delight
Breath pounding in my ear.
Excitement as real as the spinning wheel
And the crudely - painted rides,
Behind the facade of manic - laughter,
Where only sorrow hides.

You saw me once, when you were young
In a dream, standing alone
In some god - forsaken valley,
Battered and scarred by War; false hope
Tattered by reality - like the ragged flags
Hanging listless in the violent breeze,
Washed up, like our dreams
On some sad shore, as it will be
At our final meeting, at the End of the World,
Whenever that may be, with the Sun,
Blood-red and no time for tears
For we have wept an ocean these past years
You and I,my love, so long ago now
Since you sighted land, far away, and you waited
For the tide to turn, but the light faded and died
Over the horizon, as it did
When we stood, together, on a cliff - top
Lashed by the rain of a faded seaside town
Seeing the Carnival lights through the blue - Diesel haze,
The big wheel turning, in it's orbit, like the planets.
Time, standing still for a moment, in the tinny night.
The sad laughter hushed the screams -
Silence, poised, for an eternity of bliss
On the pinnacle of delight.

Scott Martin

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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