1985 And All That

And so, finally, to the Norway trip.

You’ll remember that I had taken a break from this thread whilst I located and then perused the diary that I kept during the two weeks I attended the school’s Canoe Club trip to Norway.

Well, I’ve done that now, and I have to report that there really isn’t much of any great interest or amusement that I can reproduce here.

However, in the run up to our trip, when I wasn’t busy getting arrested for shoplifting, several of us impressionable young men had become rather excited by the prospect of visiting a Scandinavian country, particularly because of the reputation this area of Europe had for producing gorgeous women.

And so one day, about a week before we were due to catch the ferry, Pete (still not his real name, but I suppose I have to stick with it now) and I found ourselves in conversation about how best to capitalise on the situation.

What do we know about Norwegian girls?, we thought.

About as much as we knew about English ones, we concluded. Not much.

Except…except…of course! It seemed so obvious! If what we had heard was true, everyone in Norway was blonde. Which meant that Norwegian girls must like blond guys. What Norwegian girls clearly wanted was more of the same.

Neither I nor Pete was blond, so we deduced that if we wanted to maximise our chances of pulling whilst we were away, we needed to do something about our hair colour.

And so to the local chemist we ventured, where we purchased what seemed to be the simplest way of lightening our follicles – a bottle of Sun-In.

For the uninitiated, this was hair dye in a spray form, a small white bottle which claimed to alter the tone of one’s hair with just a few squirts and a bit of a comb through.

Which would have been fine, if that had been all that we did. The bottle and packaging contained no information as to how long after administering the first squirt’n’comb application one had to wait before results could be seen.

And so, when I wasn’t immediately rendered a scorching blond within five minutes of the first go, fuelled by impatience and no small measure of frustration of one sort or another (ahem), I decided that I hadn’t added enough, and went again.

And when that didn’t seem to work, I concluded that I must have the sort of hair which was particularly resilient to this particular form of hair dye, and went again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Until the bottle was empty.

The next morning I awoke to find my hair had not turned blond.

It had turned orange.

Which leads me to the next song, which didn’t get released until 1997, and which I didn’t buy until a year or so later. However, it seems particularly appropriate here, so you can have it early.


David Devant & His Spirit Wife – Ginger

I am now bald. I’m sure this cannot be a coincidence.

More soon.