25 years ago this morning, nearing the end of my first year at university, I slipped out of college at some ungodly hour and took the train up to London. I'd been to the capital many times before, of course, but this was the first time my solo teenage self had ever gone just for the sake of it. I took the opportunity to wear my brand new very-proud-of-it shirt, a black and white number with chessboard-sized checks, which I'd purchased the day before out of my meagre student grant. I note from my 1984 diary that I also chose to wear a pair of yellow socks, for which I now apologise deeply, but apparently 25 years ago these were deemed somehow fashionable. The people of 80s London would, no doubt, have been impressed.
I made tracks not to some obscure suburban museum or ancient medieval ruin, but instead to window-shop the entire length of Oxford Street. You may mock, but London's most famous retail thoroughfare has long had a magnetic attraction for incoming visitors to the capital. It's not like the shops there sold anything I couldn't buy out of town, but they did have quantity and convenience on their side. No trendy shirts attracted my attention on that Saturday morning, but I was tempted by a Human League album on audiocassette (quick check, yes, it still plays, but the 20th century sound quality leaves much to be desired). My ears were also serenaded by the passing chants of the legendary Hare Krishna procession, although thankfully for my studies I resisted any temptation to follow the group back to their Soho HQ for a vegan bowl and a strange haircut.
Next stop Camden Town. I know, how incredibly predictable for a first teenage jaunt, but you only ever find out these places aren't for you by visiting them. I did at least show promise for the future by choosing to walk there - a two mile yomp through the less than beguiling arteries of Euston. I've learnt a lot since then, and when I tried the same journey yesterday I managed to follow a rather more interesting backstreet route. My 1984 self discovered little to excite in north London's alternative Mecca. I'd made the journey specifically to visit one particular shop, but on arrival couldn't quite bring myself to cross the threshold and so stood wistfully on the pavement outside. I missed my chance back then because that shop's long gone, replaced by some kinky tat merchant peddling boots and blackness to would-be goths and rebels. No sign either of anywhere selling yellow socks. I must have been ahead of my time.
Then back to central London, by tube this time, to explore the mean streets of Westminster. I had my eye on a pair of white shoes, for reasons now thankfully lost in the mists of time. Maybe they were particularly trendy that spring, or perhaps I thought they'd go especially well with lemon-shaded hosiery. Having nobody with me to advise otherwise, I snapped up a pair near Bond Street for a mere £9.88. My suburban dustbin would claim them a few months later. Next to Soho, because you have to walk through Soho when you're a hormonal teenage bloke, it's the law. Nevertheless I was surprised (and mildly chuffed) to be propositioned by a lipsticked lady as I walked innocently passed the doors of one insalubrious establishment. I wondered at the time if she'd been particularly taken by my shirt, but I now know that these sexual sirens will yell out expectantly at anything with a Y chromosome and a pulse. No thanks, love.
I returned to university later that afternoon with a bag of underwhelming goodies and tired feet. It had been a very one-dimensional visit to the capital, more a tentative exploration of youthful independence and boundaries. But it must have planted a seed, because umpteen years later I've made umpteen capital explorations of a far more interesting type. And on my latest, round Camden Town and Soho yesterday, I was particularly pleased to notice a couple of well-dressed lads wearing large-check black and white shirts. The 1984 look is back in fashion, apparently, at least above the waist if not below the ankle. I was even moved to try on my slightly-faded 25-year-old shirt when I got home, in case I might be able to wear it again and look hip and cool out on the streets. Alas the days when I could button up a small-sized garment are long gone, so back into the vintage drawer it went. Probably just as well - one's childhood misadventures are best remembered but never repeated.
diary geezer - Saturday 5th May 1984
Next stop Camden Town. I know, how incredibly predictable for a first teenage jaunt, but you only ever find out these places aren't for you by visiting them. I did at least show promise for the future by choosing to walk there - a two mile yomp through the less than beguiling arteries of Euston. I've learnt a lot since then, and when I tried the same journey yesterday I managed to follow a rather more interesting backstreet route. My 1984 self discovered little to excite in north London's alternative Mecca. I'd made the journey specifically to visit one particular shop, but on arrival couldn't quite bring myself to cross the threshold and so stood wistfully on the pavement outside. I missed my chance back then because that shop's long gone, replaced by some kinky tat merchant peddling boots and blackness to would-be goths and rebels. No sign either of anywhere selling yellow socks. I must have been ahead of my time.
