1955: aged five years and what a haircut! (I was a visionary for the 70's) My mother
continued to dress me like this well into my thirties and I always wore a tie in bed.
She kept me clean by dousing me regularly in bleach and forcing me to eat bible and
chips. Consequently, I was able to remain chaste by a combination of this dietary
balance and the fact that she kept me soaked in brine. I retained the smile, in fact, I
was unable to muster any other facial expression for years after this formative
attention and treatment.
Hey! What's this? Yes visitor, I learned to pull early in life.1960 or so witnessed the birth of
the unidirectional toupee, popular because you could wear it back to front and no one would
notice. Beer was still someway away, but you notice the keen awareness of the photographic
opportunity balanced against the surreptitious placing of the elbows to obscure the developing
girth. The unwitting observer may be led in to believing that I was a tall boy for my age, but
the borders of the picture hide the fact that my feet were only a couple of inches beneath it.
Revolutionary surgery of the time allowed me to take my place in society as a six feet tall
adult, but I still rue the addition of those ostrich legs - they may have been hidden in trousers
for much of my life, but they ran like hell at the first sign of a woman. This hindered my
education, as I cannot recall a male teacher throughout my entire education and crucial
exams had to be taken from a considerable distance.
About 1963 now and as you can see, the smile has stuck (I hope you didn't think that I
was kidding earlier). At this stage, a career as a drag artist loomed - not my idea, but the
gem of our careers officer at school. Actually, he wondered if I fancied the prospect of
becoming a policeman, but it wasn't because of any notion that I was observant, inquisitive
or tough. No, it was because I could walk and swing my arms at the same time. It was
around this time that I began to notice girls and wondered what they were, but the fixed,
'American Presidents' mask soon saw them off.
1968. A summer of love and people walk around with flowers in their hair - in California.
Here in Wath-upon-Dearne, however, it was a different story, but as you can see, I
managed to cultivate the cannabis bushes cleverly to the extent that they look like
privet hedges. When the old man ran out of tobacco, it took him a while to realise that
he could smoke most of the garden, but from that moment, we could not keep him
from trimming the hedge on a daily basis. The next door neighbours frequently had to
remove the shears carefully from his hands, as he administered the implement to his
own head in search of the perfect coiffure. Pablo Picasso took inspiration from the result.
We leap forward ten years now and finally I begin to learn to read, which begins to
complement the writing skills that I developed in my teens. Still, even for the
keenest photographer, I protest that my least attractive feature is my left ear and
manage instead for my broken nose to be highlighted for the first time. Green
straitjackets are introduced and my carers eagerly acquire one for me as a birthday
present. I attempt to write a note to them in protest, but cannot remember which
comes first - the curly c or the kicking k - in the base adjective I adopt in expressing
myself.
And just as I learn to face the camera, my hair grows in time to cover most
of my face for the duration of the 70's. I receive fanmail from Charles Manson
as I become a fashion icon for the mentally unstable and people become
alarmed in conversation upon realising that this is the front of my head,
preferring instead to speak to its rear. I promote myself heavily as a rebel
and request to be referred to as Che Guevara, but acquire instead the handle
of Che Canvac due to my hereditary dandruff. I develop the habit of shaving
regularly as a result of my disillusionment, but the follicle growth is unremitting
as this picture's fiv 'o clock shadow reveals.
Hey, Hey, Hey! A publicity shot and even after the sternest warning, I manage to
smile for the police photograph. It's 1978 and I insist on wearing a blond wig on top
of my own to keep my head warm and look taller. This portrait is spread far and
wide and at last people begin to sit up and take note... ....of the fact that Margaret
Thatcher looks like a better bet for the next seventeen years or so. It was the
worst of times and it was the best, no the worst of times. Having developed the
smile into a grin, I perfect it into an fixed alabaster balm and confuse the judge and
jury when I tell them that I was born inside out and that what they saw was what
they got. My philosophy is rewarded by four years inside and what I got was sore.
Increasingly, I cannot do a thing with my hair and seriously consider a crash
receding course, before next door's dog suddenly develops a keen appetite for,
well, me.
And at last, I show the world a tempting bit of left ear, albeit from a distance.
1980 has arrived and so has an extra pair of eyebrows, which have attached
themselves to my top lip. Around this time, I develop a healthy interest in wind
harmonies from my various orifices, which propels me to stardom, but from a
very discreet and far social distance, as evidenced by the spare chairs either
side of me. Unabashed I persevere under the alternate title of Percy Vere and
take this art to the four corners of the, er, village.
Who? Cahill, Wells and Walker have nothing
better to do on a wet Monday afternoon
other than stand by me in the prison yard.
1974 - 1977: Taken from a safe distance. This masterpieces captures me with eyes closed - which is how I remember the 1970's. This technique of performing was very customer/audience focused, as it allowed them to leave without me knowing. Once, when I did peek, I came to the conclusion that all spectators walked backwards and that fate had dealt them a cruel hand by rendering them both speechless and clapless. No Gillette Mach III development would have ever taken place if they'd have caught sight of the forest stuck to the cheeks of my face during this time, more an 'INDIANA JONES TWIN BLADE MACHETTE, FOR THAT REALLY STUBBORN HEAD PROBLEM.'
