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Allsorts of Christmas Memories
By Jegsy Dodd
Christmas is always a lit bit hit & miss for presents but for some reason one year sticks in my mind. I was about 16 and going through that mad hormonal stage that all teenagers go through. Paranoid about the way I looked. Was I too spotty? Was my hair too Kevin Keegan-y and not enough David Bowie-y? Will I be able to bag off when the Xmas kisses are dished out? All the usual stuff.
It was Christmas morning and the prezzies are getting dished out and I’m all excited. The ‘old girl’ had been over to the States a couple of months earlier and I had a bit of a hunch that she might’ve brought me back some original clobber. I could just picture me walking into the Youthy looking like the canines testicles, straight from the hood. The excitement mounted. So I’m opening this beautifully wrapped parcel from me mum and out pops this dark blue, crew necked jumper. I hold it up in the air and to my horror I discover that the front is covered in great big luminous liquorice fuckin Allsorts. I can’t pretend I’m happy and I drop it like I’ve just got an electric shock off it.
I said “fuckin hell mum, what d’you think I am? Some kind of Children’s TV presenter? I can’t wear that.” Imagine me bouncing around the Anfield Rd End offering all the away fans out, looking like a cross between Timmy Mallett and Bertie Bassett. Sorry Mrs Dodd but no can do. Unflustered she nods to the rest of the parcel with a knowing smile. She’s got an ace up her sleeve and she knows it. I can see the back pocket of an iconic pair of Levis and I’m thinking ‘Hello, this is more like it’. Looks like Elly Dodd has scored a late equaliser to save the day. She says “I bought them from the Official Levis shop when I was over in New York in September.” OOOOH get her! ‘When I was over in New York indeed’. It’s the first time she’s ever been abroad, never mind flown and she’s giving it the big one. Jetsetter of the Year and all that.
I hold the prized pair of dark blue jeans up to admire and it dawns on me that something is radically wrong. They are absolutely fuckin massive. Can’t remember if they were 36 waist or 38 but fuck me they were big. If you wore them for the match you could’ve smuggled a couple of your mates in. I said “Mother, what in Robbie Fowler’s name were you doing in America?” She says “What d’you mean?” I said “I’m 16 years old and I’ve got a 28” waist and you bring back a pair of jeans we could camp out in and a ‘geek chic’ jumper that says ‘Look, I’m a creepy loner but I’ve got a mild sense of humour’”. It would be alright if I wanted to be a Scout Leader or Alan Titchmarsh’s apprentice but I don’t. I just want to be one of the lads, clobbered up and sorted. And she says “Well I just didn’t think”. “No” I said “because you were probably smoking crack cocaine down the Lower East Side with all your homies, instead of getting your shopping done properly. Who’s gonna wear the Levis? Coco the fuckin clown?” She says “OK I’m sorry. We’ll just have to sell them to a fat lad and your father can wear the jumper”.
He wrestles it over his head and just when you think he looks like he’s about to read the weather, he bursts into ‘And it’s Hi Ho Silver lining, everywhere you go. I see the sun is shining”. I get up, leave the room and close the front door behind me.
Happy fuckin Christmas, readers.
Happy fuckin Christmas.
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