From Spaceman to Bassman

If I look back to the ten years from 1969 when Neil Armstrong became the first man to actually walk on the moon, to 1979 when Sting just sang about it, I guess that those two extremes (astronaut and rock star) covered my pre-corporate dweeb career aspirations.

July 20th, 1969 was a big day for me. No, not because of the moon landing (at least not to begin with). The reason for my excitement was that it was the first day of our family vacation and instead of spending it with my aunt and her family in Rhyl, we were staying at the Butlin’s holiday camp in Minehead. Now, once I got past the age of twelve or so, it became a sniggering matter with friends if I admitted staying at one of Sir Billy’s establishments (a condition which really lasted for approximately 25 years until I came out of the holiday camp closet about a year ago). What you have to remember though is that to an eight-year-old boy, any Butlin’s holiday camp was just about the most place to visit ever. 

Butlin’s basic business model was loosely based on that employed by the Germans when they built prisoner of war camps during World War II. They tried to suggest that the barbed wire was to keep unwanted visitors out, but they didn’t fool me, I knew that it was to keep us safely inside where we could have “fun, fun, fun!” Just as the Allies had formed escape committees to keep themselves occupied 25 years earlier, this generation of inmates passed their time with ‘Knobbly Knees’, ‘Glamorous Granny’ and ‘Junior Tarzan’ competitions. Don’t even ask! All incriminating photographs are safely under lock and key, and I intend to keep it that way.

Anyway, before this tangent threatens to derail us completely, let me get back to Neil Armstrong. 
I’d been fast asleep in my standard prison issue cot (well, that’s what it looked and felt like) when my father woke me up and informed me that we were going to the TV lounge to watch a man walk on the moon. In my semi-comatose state, I wasn’t overly impressed with this news, so he tried to tempt me further by telling me that we’d be able to see it all in color. This perked my interest a little, as I’m sure that this my first the first ever opportunity to see a color TV. Unfortunately, seeing a color picture on a color TV had to wait another year, or so, because by the time we got there Neil was doing his stuff in grainy, blurry, black and white. 

Of course, that was irrelevant to me, as my father lifted me up over the heads of the adults, so that I could see the screen. Now, I had a new hero, and by the time we left the lounge a few minutes later, I was already planning out my distinguished career as an intergalactic space pilot. That dream continued on and off for quite a while, in part fed by my conspicuous consumption of any science fiction book that I could lay my hands on (starting with Heinlein’s  ‘Starman Jones’ which was a long-time favorite).

Let me make the switch from spaceman to bassman, by way of Starman Jones to Mick Jones of ‘The Clash’. I seem to remember that I had a couple of other career aspirations along the way, but they all seemed a little short lived, e.g. being a food technologist lasted all of two weeks or so, until I deduced that this was not about being a scientist who happens to like eating. Instead, I allowed myself to drift along with the cozily generic aspiration of scientist.

It wasn’t until punk (or rather the slightly toned version of it that filtered out of London and headed up the M1) came along in 1976, that I next focused on what I might want to be when I grew up (of course, for those of you who know the 38-year-old me, you can attest to the fact that the ‘growing up’ part is no longer an aspiration of mine). Yes, just as puberty kicked in big-time, so did my desire to become a rock star!

Now I have to say that the more energetic forms of rock stardom never really appealed to me all that much. Whether it was the wildly pogoing front man, the Townsend-like thrashing lead guitarist or the Moon-like bashing drummer, I instinctively felt that these roles were just uncool, primarily in that you ended up looking distinctively uncool yourself (all hot and sweaty – yuk!). No, what clicked for me was the laid-back dum-dum-dum of the bass player, the guitar hung suitably low on his hip, almost sneering at the audience as the amplified notes seemed to punch a hole in the audiences kidneys.   

Sadly, this was not meant to be, I guess. It’s so unfair when a complete lack of musical talent gets in the way of one’s dreams like that. Still, when I turned up college on my first day, with my peroxide blonde hair and almost legendary collection of eye make-up, I was pleased to pick up the nickname “Spike” and the attentions of a very beautiful girl named Jackie, who told me I reminded her of Sting. My love affair with music continues to this day (sadly, it never got off the ground with Jackie – our one attempt at an illicit afternoon together on a picket line outside the Houses of Parliament, was spoiled somewhat by her boyfriend’s decision to tag along… how very inconsiderate of him) and inside this outer garb of a daytime corporate computer dweeb, beats the heart and soul of a pan-galactic rockstar!

“Giant steps are what you take”
“Walking on the moon”
“I only hope my legs don’t break”
“Walking on the moon”

Deep, huh!