The Grey Singles Box of Dubious Quality

Growing up, I had a grey record box for my 7 inch vinyl singles. My sister, Nicola, had a similar one, which was red.

My Mum and Dad's albums were in the big record box downstairs. Abba, Frankie Valli, Elvis. Were there any Beatles or Stones album? Nostalgic TV shows which have shown pristine copies of Sgt Pepper have messed with my mind... but didn't we have a copy? Not that we ever listened to it.

There was also a "Junior Choice" compilation. The Wombles, Captain Beaky, Matchstick Men and Matchstalk Cats and Dogs and plenty more that escape me. (Runs to internet ... no, can't find anything.)

Most of their singles were stacked in a cupboard, sometimes brought out for our curiosity. "Let's Go To Jersey" being the strangest, "Jimmy Mack"/"Third Finger Left Hand" one of the best. However, "Dead Ringer For Love" lived in one of our record boxes. Looking at the release date (November 1981) I suspect my Dad bought it, unless it was a second birthday present for my sister...

With the passing of time, I can't properly remember all of the singles I owned. As I've compiled my confessional list, some may have belonged to Nicola. She definitely had better taste than me. She owned Frankie Goes To Hollywood's "The Power of Love". She bought The Housemartins' "Caravan of Love" - and me being the long-time Paul Heaton fan.

I know many had plain paper sleeves, which doesn't help my failing faculties. One of these definitely had an oversized centre hole, which was certainly an Adam Ant single. But which one? Not "Apollo 9" because that had the picture sleeve. (Ant sporting unnecessary plasters, years before Robbie Fowler was doing so.) "Goody Two Shoes"? I don't know.

I know there were also some dodgy rock singles (Whitesnake!) in there, which I think came from my cousin.

However, my own purchases were far worse. I can see myself waking up one morning, having recalled another terrible single. I'll let you know when I do.

Musical youth

"If music be the food of love, play on."

He had a way with words, Shakespeare.

Like most people, music is something I enjoy. I have bought hundreds of CDs, been to dozens of gigs and a few festivals, written terrible lyrics that could have become awful songs, although never really had notions of being a performer. I bought, and still buy, music magazines.

I was born in 1977, Silver Jubilee year and about a month before the Sex Pistols were being held off number one by Rod Stewart and scurrilous rumours of chart fixing.

My childhood of the 1980s: the time of New Romantic, New Wave, heck even Wham! ...

... except it wasn't.

I did watch Top of the Pops when growing up ( "It's Thursday! It's 7 o'clock!") but can remember none of those iconic or awful - or both at the same time - performances.

My young taste in music was, frankly, terrible. (But is it not the same with any child?) Any singles I bought would be picked up in Morrison's supermarket with the weekly shopping. Woolworth's was a foreign land. HMV, Virgin, Our Price - these meant nothing to me. WH Smith may have prompted some curiosity, but I was more interested in the latest copy of Electron User or the computer games.

It wasn't until my first Saturday job much later that I began to expand my horizons. University broadened them further, bolstered by grant and student loan. I'll talk about my favourite discoveries separately.

But for now, and as I recall them from my ageing brain, I'm going to confess to the horrors I purchased with my pocket money. It might not be pretty.