Memories of my early years remain somewhat blurry. However, a reliable source has indicated that I grew up a rather confused and delicate child, blessed with small, elf-like ears and shortish vowels in the metropolis the Romans had named Ratae Corieltauvorum.
I hit my teens at the turn of the 1970s, back in the days when men flaunted their facial and body hair and deodorant was for the effete. The Troubles in Ulster and industrial unrest seemed to be in the news every day. It was a grey era that culminated in the advent of the pernicious brand of Conservatism, whose effects in my humble opinion, have totally shafted the citizens of this country and continue to do so.
It was a decade in which football hooliganism had become a national past-time and made attending football matches for any young man with sensibilities and a dislike of violence, a rather nerve-wracking experience. It was when my teenage dreams of playing for Leicester City, Celtic and AS Saint Étienne were brutally shattered by the realisation that I might need a tad more footballing talent than I actually possessed. It was when the stylish white-framed Tour de France racer bike that I’d had my eye on for ages and had desperately hoped to receive as a Christmas present, somehow morphed into a red fucking Raleigh 20 shopping bike by Christmas Day. In hindsight, apart from Kojak and Punk, the 1970s were actually pretty shite really.
A bike like this left my early-teen credibility in tatters and offers a simple explanation as to why I never went out cycling with my pals.
I passed the eleven-plus exam and got into grammar school just in time for the local education authority to announce plans to phase them out. The transition from Grammar School Scholar (GSS) to Comp School Pleb (CSP) happened in what was then known as the fourth year; the year before my ‘O’ Level exams. I excelled in English, Modern Languages and History but was consistently mediocre in just about everything else.
I lost interest in school during the sixth form and unsurprisingly my A level results suffered. However, once I realized that going to work might mean having to do something, a punt at higher education suddenly seemed the sounder option.
University, or rather polytechnic, did not go well. My insouciant nature spawned a cavalier attitude to attending lectures and completing assignments. This did not set me up for academic success and unsurprisingly was not well received by my tutor and other lecturers. After I had failed most of my end of first year exams, it was politely suggested that I should pursue other options.
Undaunted by this reversal, I set out to make my mark on the world. Getting a place on an EEC sponsored language course led to a work placement at Radioflash 97.7, the PCI (Partito Comunista Italiano) run radio station in Torino (Turin), Italy. This was to inspire delusional ambitions of forging a career in radio broadcasting over here.
The last remaining memento of my Italian radio days. A Radio Flash Bob Marley Italian Tour ’80 sticker. I was in Italy when he died in 1981.
Upon my return to England and emboldened by my Italian experience, I cockily marched into a local radio station and generously volunteered my unique services. The offer was accepted and I was eventually rewarded with the prized position of gopher. This involved my going for this and that and doing whatever menial stuff the more important people couldn’t be arsed to do. I did however get some airtime and had the chance to mingle with and occasionally interview some pretty iconic pop stars of the early 80s. Serving a pious Bono with a pre-gig interview glass of milk immediately springs to mind. Sadly, the position was to be a victim of swingeing cuts at the loss-making broadcaster and I was unceremoniously dumped a few months later.
My next move was to apply for a job as a record company rep, which would involve schlepping the label’s new releases around the record stores and radio stations of the Midlands. I saw it as a way of getting a foot in the door of the music business. I nailed the first interview at Leicester’s Holiday Inn and was invited to attend a second at the company’s HQ in London. I then unwisely decided to go out on the lash the night before the interview and the rest as they say, is history. The only positive was that I saw the actor Nicholas Lyndhurst having a drink in the same pub as me in Victoria. It would appear that being out on the razzle-dazzle that fateful night didn’t harm his career one jot.
I then drifted aimlessly from one dreary, low-paid, low-skilled job to another for several years. I eventually came to the conclusion that a degree might improve my career prospects after all. Seizing the moment, I signed up as a mature student for a languages degree at a proper university. This time I turned up and actually did a bit of work (but of course, not too much). My efforts were rewarded with a BA Hons, class 2.1, which was pretty good, really.
Career.
As a thirty-something languages graduate I remained woefully bereft of a coherent career strategy. I decided to do a PGCE and become a teacher as a stopgap. The profession appealed for two reasons: the pay wasn’t too bad but more significantly, the holidays were brilliant. I reckoned that taking this route would pay the bills whilst affording me time to work on finding something more exciting to do.
Unfortunately, as I mentioned earlier, I am an extremely flawed individual with a laissez-faire attitude to life and a predilection for carousing in bawdy alehouses. These traits meant that much of that extra time a more mature person would have channelled into exploring alternative career options was metaphorically, pissed up the wall instead.
So, here I am thirty or so years later having to acknowledge that society will no doubt pigeon-hole me as a “man of a certain age”, a definition replete with negative connotations.
I recently read an interesting article on the BBC website, which discussed various aspects of middle-age. One of its findings was that 19% of the people surveyed on the subject believed that middle-age is a state of mind, something I’m quite happy to subscribe to.
Physically, I am still reasonably easy on the eye, but I cannot deny that I am noticeably pudgier around the head and midriff. However, audacious plans to restore symmetry to my once flawless physique and thereby facilitate unobstructed eye contact with my kneecaps and ultimately little me are under active consideration, as part of a lifestyle review due sometime in 2025.
I can still confidently claim to be largely continent and seepage-free in social situations, which is a positive boon, if you ask me. I have also assiduously avoided the acquisition of body and facial piercings, single or sleeve tattoos and wearing loud shirts, which all point to a man who is in the midst of a mid- or later-life crisis.
My mental acuity remains in reasonable fettle too. Of a morning, I am still able to quickly decide whether to have Cheerios or Frosties for breakfast, and then agilely admonish myself for my lax syntax in splitting an infinitive whilst doing so.
Future plans.
I believe that it will be really important for the ageing population to keep abreast of the fast-changing mores of the digital world. With this in mind, I now proudly self-identify as a lissom, age-indeterminate, multi-lingual, content creator.
In addition to producing posts for this blog, I would like to explore ways of potentially making money online. I’ve been led to believe that the OnlyFans platform can provide a lucrative income stream for creators of niche and specialist content. Whether that platform is ready for what I have in mind remains to be seen. Still, it’s food for thought.
The etymology of Timmeh!
Tim and Timmy are diminutive forms of Timothy, which derives from the Greek Timotheos (Τιμόθεος) meaning “honouring God” or “in God’s honour”. To those not in the know the -meh suffix sound is generally down the sloppy pronunciation of folk in my hometown. However, it is also an English expression of indifference and a couldn’t care less attitude. Make of that what you will.
Incidentally …
I suspect the juvenile scribblings I will post on this blog will largely fail to live up to the lofty ideals my forename’s derivation would suggest.