Sock Free Hideaway

BEATS OF LOVE

30. Young Parisians by Adam and the Ants

AS I type more and more peers are doing their end-of-year music appraisals. Generally speaking, to a dozen likes and a couple of comments. I think this time of year we sit back and reminisce much further back and ask ourselves whether Christmas actually once meant more to us than it does now. 

I recall my happiest Christmas was spent in 1981, crouched over the family stereo playing and re-playing every Adam and the Ants LP and single over and over. This went on until my father finally finished work over a week later to join us all. He soon put a curfew on it, so I then went out for the first time that school holiday and bought the biggest cards in Shaw for everyone before learning the adage less is more. 

That summer I went around the corner to a friend of a friend's house who was mad keen on boxing. I put on his red gloves and proceeded to get punched and punched and punched again. Luckily, after feeling frightened and nauseous, we sat down in his folk's living room and he put Dirk Wears White Sox on the stereo. I sat open-mouthed and really jealous because he had something I wanted. The fetishistic imagery went clean over my head, but I instinctively knew it was taboo. At least in my house. He then threw me back the boxing gloves, and I proceeded to run out of his house, never to return. 

Thankfully, after saving my holiday money on the drive back from Anglesey, I finally found a store that had a copy in stock. It had, up to that point, been a truly dreadful holiday. The highlight of which was sitting in my father's Capri listening to the top 40. Until it started swaying. Fortunately, before the locals could drag me out, I managed to wind up the windows and lock all the doors until my hapless father finally turned up to rescue me. He was furious about the scratches on his car.   

He was as furious when coming home from Christmas Day Mass, I knelt down and started playing my Ant collection. Everyone was ready to go to my Grandparents but as would often be the case in nightclubs a decade later, I screamed 'just one more' and played this. 

The song's simple structure belies the fact that Adam's lyrics were always adroit. Its provocative line may have escaped me, but not my father. It still smells more punk than a lot more noisy records made around that time. And still makes me smile listening to it. My Grandma did put my bloody great big card up in pride of place but I still wanted to leave that year and return home to my Ant collection. Not long after, my father upgraded his stereo and gave me my most prized possession. Largely to confine the noise, I guess. 

So, in answer to my question, the answer is no. Christmas never did mean more to us. At least those of us that are armed with a lot of records.