Acceptable in the Eighties

<< Tony Hart, 1925-2009

Ah, the Eighties. Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Big mobile phones. Roland Rat. Miners' strikes. Dexy's Midnight Runners. You get the idea. A line of facts sporting flock-of-seagulls haircuts, rooting through their filofaxes and playing with a rubik's cube have got me all nostalgic for a decade that ended when I was seven. Ah, those Eighties memories. Wearing a big jumper and eating an ice-cream (which seems illogical). Watching Bugs Bunny cartoons and needing a poo. Standing alone in a freezing playground. Heady days indeed.

When it comes to those who defined the Eighties in this country, Prime Minister and proletariat crusher Maggie Thatcher is right up there, just behind Phil Oakey and Max Headroom. Thatcher was born in Grantham, Lincolnshire, which is entirely unnoticeable in her mangled Victorian accent. MT was in charge for the entirety of the decade. When she wasn't being hated by her own citizens (Poll Tax riots, miners' strikes again, that weird thing on Swap Shop or whatever) she was putting it up nations much larger and more volatile than ours - Argentina, namely. What I didn't realise was that Argentina was under military rule at the time of the Falklands War. A nation run by an army, and Maggie was more bloodthirsty than they were.

Thatcher may have a lot to answer for, but being so intrinsically connected to the Eighties, she was probably at least OK at cutting-edge video game experience Pong. Gordon Brown, if this footage of him being shit at actual ping-pong is anything to go by, would struggle.

The Internet was a global phenomenon launched in the Eighties, although by 1989 only about 12 people were using it. It came into it's own under the jurisdiction of the Eighties' goofy kid brother, the Nineties. Initially, the Internet was called the Arpanet - a fact pointed out by Norwich Union in their desperate attempt to make the loss of identity triggered by their takeover and forcible name change look like a pivotal moment in their destiny. And incidentally, "can you imagine a punk rock singer called Vincent Pernier?" Yes. That's an excellent name for a punk rock singer. Much better than Alice Cooper, who sounds like a vet.

And finally, we bid farewell to an Eighties legend, and perhaps the finest artist in history - Mr Tony Hart. A volatile, experimental genius, Hart was renowned for creating breathtaking silhouette landscapes, only to sabotage his work by tipping vast quantities of glitter glue over it for no apparent reason. He also seemed like a thoroughly nice bloke, who will leave a legacy of shaky camerawork displaying rubbish kids' drawings, comprehensive guides to art and craft that would shame Neil Buchanan - and the Blue Peter badge. Cos he designed it.

The Bleak Midwinter

You know it's upon you when you reach into your pocket for loose change and find nothing but balls of lint, which have frozen into jagged icicles in the arctic temperatures. Or perhaps it's the moment when you fall headlong over the pile of Christmas decorations (which rather than packing away you have opted to allow to slide pathetically into a congealed mass on the floor) and find that ten minutes later you are still there, weeping hysterically. Maybe it's the moment you try to comfort yourself with the notion that the evenings are getting later, as you peer desperately at a dying sun, suffocated by clouds, as driving hail takes chunks out of your skin. Either way, there's a moment for everyone this month then the horror that is January hits you.

It's the month that makes you pine for November - a vacuum of money, joy, sunlight and motivation that feels never-ending. Even the election of a black president, and my team nearly buying the world's best footballer, have raised little more than a wearied grunt in these dark days. I don't know what idiot decided to place a whole week of festivities directly before this god-awful month, but it's created a comedown that takes up a twelfth of the entire year. It's not like February is any better - it just can't get any worse. The only thing to do is keep your head down, hold the tears back and distract yourself until it's Valentine's Day, when you'll have a whole new reason to be miserable.

Read a book - may I recommend J.D. Salinger's Catcher In The Rye? It's a contemporary classic filled with subtle overtones of longing and despair, and is also quite short. Happy Birthday J.D. - 90 on New Year's Day.

Drink until you're happy again - start with Coronas. They look more sophisticated than a dented can of Tennent's Super. Corona is brewed in Mexico, thus adding a much-needed exotic flavour to your midwinter binges.

Go on holiday - Why not explore the Shetland coast? It's 900 miles long. At least you'll be glad to come home.

Lag your pipes - In early colonial America, pipes were made from hollowed-out logs. The fact that water can pass through wood was something I assume they found out in time. Incidentally, does anyone remember a British Gas ad which had a 'sod's law' theme, but said "your pipes freeze on the coldest days?". I'd just like to point out that they freeze because it's really cold - it's not just a coincidence. You think they'd know that.

Watch a documentary which relentlessly exposes the chasm of misery consuming someone more talented than successful than yourself - as I did with Surviving Gazza, a slightly odd title seeing as Gazza isn't actually dead. If nothing else, it taught me that money can't buy happiness, that I liked Gazza a lot more when he was wacky than now he's a suicidal alcoholic - and that Bianca Gascoigne is his daughter.

Stare at Sky Sports News for hours at a time, clinging to the only constant in your life as everything else crumbles like so many Man City transfer negotiations. They might just tell you that Liverpool full-back Insua is Argentinian. Except I just did. And you don't care.

Consider throwing in the towel and heading back to uni to rack up another £15,000 of debt. Why the hell not? We'll all be living in huts soon anyway. Numerus clausus is a system used to allocate university places according to specific characteristics, e.g. race, gender. It was used by the Romans, and has been used for good (redressing the appalling imbalance in the opportunities afforded to women and people from ethnic minorities) and bad (I'm gonna guess... the Nazis).

Go and buy a big telly and rack up another £500 of debt. Why the hell not? We'll all be living in huts soon anyway. Richmond-upon-Thames has more debt per person than any other town in Britain - around £40,000.

Capture a bee and force it to sting you, in order to replicate even an unpleasant aspect of summer - bee stings can remain in your arm for several months. Maybe even 'til summer comes around.

Sit and stare at a wall, feeling unbearably conscious of your most basic bodily functions, such as breathing, blinking and swallowing. The average person produces 1.5 litres of saliva each day, which is unconsciously swallowed again.

Use the internet to book a holiday, gamble obscene sums of money, repeatedly watch a cat sitting on a moving skateboard, or pour out your January bile unto a small, passive white box, and let everyone you know read it. Internet usage in the UK peaks at 6pm on Sunday evening.

Watch soaps. Nobody's more miserable than people in soaps. In their Januarys everyone gets rickets and then the entire street gets torched when a kid's birthday cake topples over. Coronation Street isn't on on Sunday anymore.

Have a birthday. If your birthday isn't in January, just pretend it is. Everyone will be glad of the excuse. It doesn't matter if they know full well it's not really your birthday. Jehovah's witnesses don't celebrate birthdays. Not even in January.

Liven things up with a cold, flu, or exotic vomiting bug. Even the hiccups would break the monotony. Hiccough is pronounced 'hiccup'.