It was a hot afternoon, last day in June
Entry posted by GhostOfClayton
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Warning: The following blog contains strong language, and scenes of a sexual nature.
But first up, more from the iPod:
2-4-6-8 Motorway � Tom Robinson
Woo Hoo � The 5-6-7-8�s (Weird coincidence, given the previous track?)
Up the Junction � Squeeze
This Town Ain�t Big Enough � Sparks
Summer (the First Time) � Bobby Goldsboro
I love "Summer (The First Time)", maybe because it's every man's fantasy first time, eh lads? Mrs Robinson, and all that . . . YOU know what I mean. Whereas, the reality . . . .
Maybe I should compare and contrast Bobby Goldsboro's 'First Time' to my own experience.
Oh! NOW you're listening, are you? Last blog, I recounted the dramatic demise of two WWII bobber crews; heroes who died whilst bravely defending our skies against tyranny. Not one single comment was posted in response to that, but I offer to spill the beans about one of my most intimate secrets, and suddenly your ears are pricking up! Shame on you!
Where was I? Oh yes. If Mr Goldsboro were to sing about yours truly breaking his duck, the first verse would be about an (ultimately futile) battle between a youth and a bra clasp. Not a bra like the black and lacy, well-filled bras that had previously wobbled their way through my adolescent fantasies. Oh no, none of that. This light-grey veteran of many a hot wash was going nowhere, no matter how desperate my inexpert fumbles. (Nowadays, of course, I can undo a bra with a mere flick of the fingers and twist of the wrist! Honestly!)
Moving on. You would've thought that, with Mother Nature's most beautiful of unions, having been perfected and evolved over eons, hitting the target would be a mere formality. Far from it. On this occasion success could only be had with much manhandling (and tutting).
The line about seeing the sun set as a boy and watching it rise again as a man is very powerful and beautiful, and leaves a lasting impression of the significance of the previous night in Bobby Goldboro�s young life. In my particular case, I neither saw the sun set, nor rise again. The line would have to go, "the sun set over a pub in which a boy was drinking bitter, and rose again over a semi-detached house in which a man was hungover". Not that catchy, is it? And could I really call myself a man? A man would have spent the day reflecting on the joyous beauty of the act of love he had just experienced with a woman he honoured and respected with all his soul. The boy that was GhostOfClayton actually spent the day in childish, self-congratulatory "yes"es, and finding all his mates so he could brag about his conquest. What a twat!
Lastly, so you know that I don't think of my 'partner in crime' as just a sort of sex object or maybe just someone that was prepared to let me 'do it' to them, I shall put your mind at rest. I'm not going to introduce you to her personally � she may be reading this blog. It's not very likely, but if she is, there are two things I'd like to say to her. Firstly, it really did mean something to me, despite all the stuff I've just said (I did blog about it 30 years later, didn't I?) Secondly, I hope that in the intervening time, you have treated yourself to a better bra.
So . . . there you have it. Was your first time any better? And, yes. That question is by way of laying down the gauntlet to other bloggers.
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