Fluff in the pool (posted 06.03.18)
Myself and Mr Warlow were reminiscing about those halcyon days in the 70’s when we all felt emboldened in our pre-ripped punk cottons to tell a park keeper to fuck off, but responded in polite Rees-Mogg tones whenever we visited a mate’s house -to listen to albums or leaf through some Hipgnosis artwork- and his mam came in offering tea & biscuits around the din of Beefheart.
But this isn’t just a madeleine cloud of whimsy echoing an ergophobic life of couch-surfing enveloped in shelves of vinyl. We did sometimes go outside. 1977 was, after all a baking summer; and led to myriad weekend treks to the coast to swim, drink, smoke and generally arse about in a pond amidst the sand dunes like we were Californian sophomores on a T-Bird holiday wankathon. In reality we were council estate lads paddling with newts and discarded Strongbow cans in the ‘Lurgy Pool’, and drying off in an old workman’s hut with a makeshift wood burner and several well-thumbed copies of Fiesta.
Magical times made all the more wondrous as our Grundig MW radio resounded to the static of Alan Freeman’s Saturday Rock Show. None of us ever really believed that old Fluff was a rock fan; but amidst all the operatic jingles and catchphrases, the show provided some daytime relief to the astonishing trite of maladroit music-haters like DLT, or the impenetrable guff of Emperor Rosko.
For those brief capsules of time we experienced freedom, music, hope and sunstroke in a world where the name ‘Thatcher’ was meaningless. Come swimming with us, and let Fluff be your lifeguard. Not ‘arf.