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[myfriendsfromthe80s]

Name – Tony Pena (right)

Favorite song – Turn Back the Clock by Johnny Hates Jazz

Tony was a GREAT tennis player. It’s all he wanted to do. He trained religiously. His parents employed a personal tennis coach who kept him on a short leash.

During his teenage years he would devote all his spare time to tennis. As far as Tony was concerned, his future was tennis. Only tennis. No debate.

Sadly, as often is the case with my friends from the 80s, it didn’t work out that way. Following a nasty accident involving fishing wire, a washing up bowl and a meat tenderizer, Tony’s knee was badly injured, rendering it useless. His dreams of professional sports were shattered. His life was in ruins. He’d lost everything. But little did he know that this was NOT rock bottom. Indeed, life is a rollercoaster, and he was in one of its many, many troughs.

But not the lowest trough. To be clear.

Yes, Tony’s life was beset on all sides by the tyranny and evil in this world. Even his best attempts at creating a new life failed.

Tony left Chichester in 1991 to travel the word. He flew to Sidney where he worked in a factory for a while, until he moved onto Melbourne, before leaving the country for Thailand.

In Thailand he worked in the rice fields along side natives and other white-privileged twenty-somethings in a grotesque display of re-connecting to nature via hard labor.

Tony lasted two weeks in the fields before moving onto Bangkok where he wasted no time in employing the services of a woman of the night to show him a good time. Five days later he noticed small red lumps…

Now with a fresh case of genial herpes and a whopping amount of shame, Tony returned to the UK. He couldn’t face going back to his parents. Instead, he picked up a job in Stevenage as a farm laborer. He thought it would be a good gig. Keep his head down. Get healthy in the fresh air. Shake off the herpes. Get his life back on track.

Once again, Tony was only one step away from disaster. During a lunchbreak he managed to set fire to the hayloft when he accidently left a pop tart toasting too long in the breakroom, which was unfortunately in a portacabin adjacent to the barn.

Tony got his marching orders. On the road again.

It seemed to Tony, that wherever he went, whatever he did, it was bound to end in disaster and failure.

With the gaffers words still wringing in his ears, Tony boarded a National Express at Victoria Coach Station, and set of on a road to nowhere.

South Wales.

Gwent.

Newport.

I got word that he ended up becoming an HGV driver for Jerry Jones Transport and has been trying to keep it together since. Tony is single. He has a long-standing skin condition.

During the pandemic Tony tried to make it as an influencer. He started a YouTube channel specializing in conspiracy theories and anti-vacc videos.

The last I saw was of a live stream of Tony at an Ayahuasca retreat in West Wales with a notorious local shaman, who is wanted on a variety of (what he describes as) “jumped-up” sexual assault charges.

Tony was de-platformed shortly after.

Keep on going, Tony. Don’t give up brother.

Chase that dream!

[myfriendsfromthe80s]

Name: Joanna and Amy “Conjoined” Fahey.

Favorite song: Raspberry Beret by Prince

Joanna and Amy were twins that moved to our town in the early 90’s. They were already joined at the hip and hard to separate. Being twins, that’s likely to happen. Not conjoined twins. Normal twins. It’s a figure of speech. You get what I mean.

Anyway. They were full of love and life. They had dreams. Big dreams. Cocktails and dreams. Good kids. Good parents. Good people. Good for them!

The twins did well in school and loved playing field hockey and acting in the local drama association that met in the Methodist Church on North Street. The same church I’ve met lots of my mates over the years. It’s perhaps responsible for the undoing of some perfectly normal kids. Maybe there’s something in that? I’ll investigate when I have the time.

As I mentioned, they were always together, regardless of what they were doing. Sometimes this made intimacy tricky. You got a 2-4-1 when you ended up pulling either of them. Joanna in slacks. Amy in painted on jeans. Both with huge hair. Win Win!

The smell of hairspray was overwhelming, and highly flammable. You couldn’t go to a dimly lit wine bar for a drink, with its atmospheric candles about the place making it moody and romantic. The twins would have gone up like a bonfire. Combined with the high polyester content of their clothes, it would have been game over. So, we avoided open flame.

In fact, we avoided open flame successfully for several years. They were great years. Carefree! Just kids really. Enjoying our youth. Spirited and wonder-lust. It was all champagne and Ferrero Rocher.

But the good times ended abruptly one day in November 1992 when a group of us went to a firework display in Portsmouth. We knew the risks. The girls knew! Everyone knew. But still we decided to go. The twins said that they were going to back off the hair spray that evening in an effort to avoid becoming a human torch. Good idea. Strong.

Best laid plans, and all that.

A rogue roman candle managed to stream past out heads, narrowly avoiding us. Or so we thought. Before we knew it, we realised that the Amy had gotten the rogue rocket stuck in her huge quaff, and it wasn’t going out. Vuummph! Up she went. Like the Olympic flame. She ran around. Rolled around. Threw herself into a hedge. Vummph! The hedge went up as well. Oh how quickly the flame spread. The fire service was called, but there was nothing that could be done to save Amy. Poor thing. Rest in peace my sweet Amy! LORD…

Joanna went away for a while after that. Some kind of boarding school? I didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t know what to say. I mean, what do you say to someone who’s sister became notorious as the human torch that ran into a bush at a firework display?

Nothing.

I got word that Joanna had moved to Chanhassen, Minnesota. The same town Prince lived. She would just hand around his Paisley Park compound and sing Purple Rain, through her tears.

A real-life tragedy.

When Prince died, so did Joanna. Literally. She jumped to her death from the top of the Wells Fargo tower in Minneapolis.

Sweet Joanna. Oh!

With love.

[myfriendsfromthe80s]

Billy 'Bad Man' Madron Favourite Song: I Feel For You by Chaka Khan. Billy lived in the free world. Nothing could hold him back. At school he said that he was going to be one of the first to go to Mars. "A thankless task, but someone had to so it.", Billy said. That was Billy. Totally fucking delusional. However, Billy was an endearing guy. Had lots of friends. Lots of girlfriends. Lots of boyfriends. You get the idea. Billy was easy. Always looking for an easy fix for the emotional trauma he was going through. Sex games filled the huge gap between emotional content and his relentless manic depression. This went on for years. Too many years. Billy's looks deteriorated over time. The relationships that were once easy to form had become difficult. His old friends from that time naturally moved on. They had found their Higher Purpose! Billy was lost. Alone. Cold. So cold. One day Billy had had enough. He simply couldn't do another day of the same routine. Tinder and Grinder represented everything bad in the world, now. He disgusted himself. He was physically sick with shame and self loathing. Something had to change! Billy decided that a holiday was necessary. Where to go? He needed to put some space between his old way of life and the New Billy. After some careful consideration Billy booked a hang gliding course in the Peak District. The photo above is a shot of Billy on one of his first tandem flights. What a thrill!! This is what he'd been looking for all his life!!! Billy was so happy to have found hang gliding. You don't need to fly to Mars when you can fly above Glossop! Fantastic times lay ahead. Billy fell into a relationship with another enthusiast. Together they toured the world gliding the finest territories. They hit all the continents. One after another. They were both obsessed. The dream was a reality! Needless to say this story ends tragically. I got word that after a long battle with alcohol and drug abuse, Billys wife left him. Billy hit absolute rock bottom. There was no getting out of the hole he'd fallen into. As a last ditch attempt to pull himself out of the spirals that would eventually kill him, Billy went gliding. As you can probably guess that drugs, alcohol and hang gliding do not mix. A heady cocktail which is bound to hurt. Well, it did. Billy went for a flight above Glossop where he first met his wife. Some sort of romantic display? We will never know.. It didn't go to plan. Billy jumped off the edge to never return. His glider was set up incorrectly. What a Silly Billy!! If you can imagine drunk campers trying to put up a tend at Glastonbury in the rain, then you have an impression of how Billy looked that day. Billy plunged. Sad times, of course. I miss Billy. Poor Billy.

[myfriendsfromthe80s]

James “Scratch My Itch” Fitch Song: Do It Again, Stealy Dan

James was an odd sort of bloke. He never used a towel after showering. Just air dry and fistfuls of talc powder. This didn’t go down well in the changing rooms at school.

He was a reclusive kid. Loved videogames. He even locked himself in his bedroom cupboard and played Game Gear in the dark, just so nobody could interfere with his game time. Alone time. Time to think and feel. To be himself. No judgment from his parents and friends. He was a loner.

As well as videogames he would listed to him dads Stealey Dan L.Ps constantly. All the time. Morning till night, if he could. His dad would say that he was “Doing It Again”. Top bloke. Top laughs! James didn’t share his quick whit and japes. He said that his dad was boring and an embarrassment. His dad said that James just needed to open up more. And perhaps ease up on the talc powder.

So much talc powder!

After leaving school James got a job as a trolley boy and parking attendant at Tesco in Havant. It seemed like he had nothing to give, except gaming and relentless Stealey Dan record playing. All his spare time outside of his demeaning and un-fulfilling work was spent on gaming.

When YouTube came along he started to realise that people were recording themselves whilst gaming, and commenting on the game as they played. James had a go at it. He shouldn’t have. A total flop. Dog shit. Really terrible.

James took this personally, and by way of retribution founded a movement called Gamersgate. He would ramble on for hours on his YouTube channel about these “Commercial sell out Knob Trotters. Taking advantage of gaming to make a buck!”. Gaming, it would seem, did not need personalities.

His demise was quick and sad. He got ill. Developing lung cancer and liver failure within a year. A true medical phenomena. How?

Talc.

All the talc!

So much talc!!!

Over the years he inhaled and absorbed so much of the stuff that his lungs we clogged, cancer cages. His liver failure was due to all the secret underage boozing that he did in the cupboard whilst playing Game Gear.

James, man, In heaven I suggest you use a towel.

[myfriendsfromthe80s]

Jim and Carl "Hear Me Now" Cowell Favourite Song: Club Tropicana Jim and Carl did everything together. They had a strong brotherly relationship. Some said, too strong. A bit strange, even. Rumours mainly. But still. Despite their very different complexions and hair colour, they attempted a launch a Bros like twin pop outfit called Hear Me Now, (see a shot from the band promo photo shoot above). Not surprisingly it was a complete failure. Critics were to comment, "A couple of untalented, utter shitbox wankers with a synth".The boys forged on, but with thier confidence knocked it was time to look for other outlets for thier creative flair. They moved to Southampton to start a career in twin modelling. This was also an awesome failure. Their agent would say, "You don't even look like fucking twins!! Have you looked at yourselves? I mean, seriously! Jim, you look like an alcoholic postman. And Carl. Well, Carl. You look like a cat molester. What the fuck can I do with you two?" Jim was the first to succumb to a full blown drug addiction, quickly finding himself out of control on a violent downward trajectory. He died in 89 from an arson attempt that went wrong on a Beatties model shop in Preston. Carl didn't let these constant knock-backs slow him down and he made a success of himself, doing a bit of Import/ Export. Good lads.

[myfriendsfromthe80s]

Name: Laurent “Rock ‘ard” Brochard

Favourite song: Dancing With Myself, Billy Idol

Laurent was born in France but moved to Portsmouth when he was three. His parents came to holiday at Hayling Island but got lost getting off the island and just decided that staying would be the easier option.

Laurent loved cycling. As a kid he would ride for hours and hours, only to turn around and cycle back again, the same way. He didn’t know the area well and felt anxious about cycling in a loop (even though he lived on an island.

He rode on the right side of the road as a homage to his French roots, and ultimately a destiny of returning to his beloved France one day.

Laurent was picked up by a locally based cycle club and raced regularly. Wins started to rack up, and it wasn’t long before he was signed to a professional team- Castorama!

The sky was the limit. Photo shoots, signature range of apparel, cars, women, DRUGS.

Yes, he succumbed to joining the rank and file of drug cheats within the sport of cycling. EPO, cocaine, Rittalin, to name a few.

Laurent said that his continued success and score of wins came from his exceptional haircut, which really was outstanding.

The years were kind to Laurent.

Unfortunately on the Tour of Bhutan in 2001 he was randomly tested for drugs, and they threw the book at him.

Laurent did return to France. Humiliated, exhausted, and lots of other things ending in ed. He found it hard to live as an outed cheat, and took to drinking cheap Genepe and Ricard mixed. The concoction generating an out of body type experience. Finally, Laurent had an outlet. The Drink had taken hold.

He’s dead now. Poor git.

Still. Frenchie. You know, I was pro Brexit, so he got what was coming. French wanker. Never liked him.

[myfriendsfromthe80s]

Cristian “Gotta get me laid” Timbermaid

Favourite Song: Gracelands by Paul Simon

Cristian was hard working kid. Always the first one to bag a summer job, usually working for one of his dads golf mates in their architect firms or accountants. Always loaded and never one to spread the love, Christian developed a reputation for being a tight cunt.

Christian was an born over achiever, never satisfied with his status and obsessed with the notion that everybody was out to sabotage his dream of becoming a successful, inspirational, world renowned businessman.

Christian graduated with a 2:1 in business studies with a focus on leisure. Frustrating as it was, he began a career in selling timeshares on a leisureplex island off the coast of Cumbria. Totally isolated from the world and depressed to shit, he took to drinking bucksfizz and smoking cigarettes through his nose, to enhance the nicotine effect. Ropey days ensued.

Eventually he was asked to leave the island on the grounds of his constant displays of public nudity and random deification in the public areas of the complex. With his emotions spiralling out of control and a total loss of self respect, Christian took leave of the island in a hijacked lifeboat and set sail for Boston.

With little time to prepare for the journey, the oly provisions that he could manage to muster in his desperate state we two packets of Silk Cut snouts and a bag of rolos.

Once the petrol ran out 20 miles into the Irish channel, he was forced to drift with the wind and tide.

Eventually he was picked up by the coastguard and taken back to shore. Christian was given a 3 month suspended sentence and granted bail by, some said, by an overly sympathetic judge.

Once released he set about making a life for himself in the bustling city of Liverpool, selling counterfeit football tickets and Moody shammy leathers and general household cleaning goods door to door.

Last spotted on New Stoke Rd in red suspenders and a spangled cape, god only knows what the future holds for Christian.

Still, there was a time when the world looked like it was destined for Christian, see picture, in 88 when the weather was good and spirits ran high.

#Christian #myfriendsfromthe80s #stolenlifeboat #moodyshammyleathers

[myfriendsfromthe80s]

Harriet "fuck off you Janner" Banner Favorite song: On My Radio by Selekta Harriet was a tough cookie. I mean- look at that fucking hair. The amount of grief she used to receive was just off the scale. She could take a lot of stick. Proper abuse. Verbal. Physical. You know. Nasty stuff. She adored the ska scene, but the ska scene hated her. "Fuck Off You Janner, Banner" they would say. "Fuck off back to your miserable dark room from which you've clearly just crawled out of. And sort that fucking atrocious hair out, Scab!" Harriet survived the 80s but by 92 her will, determination and resolve had worn out. Police found her, dead, overdosed in a mens changing room in C&A. The store shut 10 years later, completely unrelated to her death. The whole company went under. That upsets more than Harriet. She was a shocker. And she gave me crabs. RIP Harriet

[myfriendsfromthe80s]

Cindy was fucked in the head. Too much hair spray and glue. She went for a walk down the long valley road, came back around like nothing happened. But something DID happen. She got love stuck by a song on the radio.. Take On Me by Ah Ha. Needless to say Cindy had an abominable crush on Ah Ha and used to dream in black and white sketches. She now lives in Wolverhampton with 7 cats.

[myfriendsfromthe80s]

Name: Gena ‘bitch you’re crazy’ Gravy

Favourite Song: Manic Monday, The Bangles

Status: Cobbler, Margate 

This is my old mate Gena. We go way back. We went to Tumble Tots together at our local Methodist church.

She was a crazy fucker. 

I remember once she went roller skating behind a bus, slip streaming through the traffic. Until the bus came to an abrupt holt to pick up a passenger on Richmond Rd, and Gena proceeded to crunch into the back and fell under rear axle. 

Its fair to say she never recovered, and suffered chronic neck ache and a spasmodic pelvic floor ever since. 

But the sun shines on the righteous, and Gena got a break working in the advertising department of the Department of Public Transport. She headed up a team of designers tasked to create shocking propaganda to stop kids playing on railway lines or indeed, rollerskating behind buses. That type of thing.

Luckily, wire fences were installed to keep kids off railways, and roller skates fell out of fashion. Thank god another crisis was avoided and the campaign a great success. But Gena was out of job. 

She moved to Margate on a whim. ‘I need to clear my head’ she told us. I couldn’t see how Margate would help. Its a fucking shit hole. But it wasn’t my life. 

Needless to say it ended in Gena stumbling from Mecca Bingo to Gala Bingo to Foxy Bingo, high on felt pen fumes and John Smiths Bitter. 

She gained 6 stones in weight, but lost everything else. Gena was at rock bottom. 

In the end Gena resorted to showing flesh in a ramshackle peepshow she used to run under the pier on Margate seafront. On night, one of her regulars called Reg offered her a way out. ‘Fancy working in my cobblers, you old slag’. Gena wept. ‘Yes...Okay....Please hold me?’. ‘Piss off you old slosh bucket’ replied Reg. ‘You’re mine, on my terms. Remeber that, you pelvic floor retarded bint’. Gena died inside, and cold sweat came over her. But what were her choices. She went with Reg. 

The rest is history. She and Reg run the cobbler shop at Margate train station. She looks absolutely terrible. But in respect, she was quite racy back in the day. Above pic does her some justice, (in her office days at the DPT before it all went South).

Gena asked me to say that this month Margate Station Cobblers are running a special offer on men’s heel repairs (2 for 1) and leather belts all £5.00.

[myfriendsfromthe80s]

Name: Jason Nugent

Status: Minicab driver, Eastbourne

Favorite Song: ‘I ran’ Flock of Seagulls. 

Jason was a shy boy. Never one to be late. 

He lived under the A27 flyover near Havant. A noisy motherfucking place to grow up.

His dad sold moody leathergoods to holiday makers on Hayling Island seafront, and on an evening he moonlighted as a one-man Shaking Stevens cover act across the South Coast. Well. Portsmouth, (Havant, mostly). 

Jason never wanted to be like his father. “I’m going to work hard, by a Jet Ski and jet off into the sunset” he would say. His farther thought Jason was “an air-headed cockswain no-good sonofabitch”, and he told Jason such ‘pon the regular.

Anyway, at school Jason would tell us of his great plan, and we were enthralled by his vision of luminous wet suits, sunglasses and blond mullets. “Apparently in the States they have Jet Skli competitions, and girl come to watch, and all the dudes get to touch the women, and things”. He was sold, and once GCSEs were done, Jason was gone. Straight to Florida. 

Things went great for the first couple of years. He did well in the jet ski competitions as well. Lots of women and Tab Cola. But the heady times couldn’t last forever...

So the legend has it, Jason met a man in the beachfront car park one day, as he was casually leaning against his Toyota 4x4 and looking wistfully towards the sunset on horizon. “Hey dude, you rule on that jet ski”. “Thanks man” Jason said. The man continued, “You like a rush, yeah?”. “Yes” Jason responded. “Then take this, it’ll get you Way Out”. Jason looked at the white powder and glass pipe. It did look interesting. “Why not, I’m cool and got a great fucking hair cut. I an handle this”. So he lit up the crack and got fucking gnarled. 

I’ll spare you the details, but needless to say it all went bad from there on in. After his initial interest turned into a Class A addiction he was forced to sell his 4x4 and jet ski to fuel his habit. When the money ran out he became a Rent Boy and part time car wash attendant. 

He spent years on the streets and in YMCA’s across the East Coast of Florida before eventually being forced to return home to England testify for his dad who’d gotten into a spot of bother with The Law. It turns out his leather goods which he sold on the beach were made from human skin sourced from the ethnic tribe of Oingo Boingo in Nepal. His dad was going down, and Jason was the only one who could help!

Jason got back to Gatwick airport in time, but needed to get high so bad that he ended up locking himself in a public convenience at the train station and got messed up for 3 days. Eventually the Pulbilc Trasport Officers pulled Jason out. He missed the court hearing and his dad was sent down for 3 years. 

They never saw each other or spoke again. His dad died of chronic arthritis caused by all the various Shaking and Steven’ing he’d done over the years. His one regret was that he never got to tell is son how much he hated him, and that he new all he’d “never amount to anything”.The dirty Puffin Fidler that Jason was.   

I got word recently that Jason was now working as a mini cab driver and living in shared accommodation along Eastborne Seafront. 

Shame.

[myfriendsfromthe80s]

Meet Justin from my old Design Tech classes.

Justin Jacobs- otherwise known as Justin ‘bustin for a shit’ Jacobs. 

He used to beat up kids regularly. Dead legs. Dead arms. Bitch slaps. That sort of thing. 

Once he joined a white supremacy gang, but soon found out he disagreed with a few of their fundamental beliefs.

Justin wasn’t sharpest tool in the box. But he did have a great haircut! Look at it!!

Windsurfing was Justin’s thing. Its all he talked about. Every moment spared would be spent going windsurfing. He had some real talent. 

Unfortunately this story ends tragically. 

One day he set off to sail across the English Chanel with nothing but a pair of luminous board shorts, sherbet dib-dabs, and some sun oil. It started well. He got off the beach. But he never reached Calais. 

So I hear, Justin was busting for a shit, but he didn’t know how to take a crap whilst windsurfing. He held it. And held it some more. Eventually his body absorbed the shit and he died of an infection. 

I maintain he died of a broken heart.