Wednesday, 29th March 1978. Day One, First Disco. Gosforth Rugby Club
Cece – the chosen one. The darts had decided. Cecelia Noble, aka ‘Cece’, will have Kizzy and Robbie’s attention.
Kizzy: stylist, fixer, scout, and emotional bodyguard for her virginal twin brother.
First of all – town, for a haircut (the men tend to Salon66), then Marcus Price to capture the well-to-do Carnaby Street vibe, and the Kard Bar for old times’ sake, with its joss sticks, a Bowie poster, and some Doctor Martens for Kizzy.
Walking down Northumberland Street, Robbie spots a girl he thinks he recognises.
He wants to head over the road and say ‘hi’ simply because he knows her name and she’s in Kizzy’s Form Photo.
“Isn’t that Sharon, from, you know, the one you said ?”
“No, no, no’ Kizzy implores, pulling him back and wishing she could have him on a leash. “Don’t make eye contact, she’s not one to encourage.”
Robbie couldn’t see the problem. He thought she was a ‘bit of alright’.
“One girl at a time, we’ve spoken about this. Effort will be rewarded. Get distracted, who knows who you’ll end up with,” she adds.
The Italian hairdresser’s Salon 66, above the jewellers Reid & Son, at the top of Blackett Street, had the atmosphere of another era. Older men, not a teen present, sat in a vestibule with newspapers and male magazines (sports news, shooting and hunting). The huge aquarium full of exotic fish no longer held its appeal to Robbie. He recalled it as a younger boy, brought here for a haircut, the first he could remember, by his grandfather. He’d eagerly climbed on the back of a chair to pick out the tiny, shiny bluebottle-like guppy fish; to count the airbubbles that gulped from a ceramic grotto and to look close-up at the suckers of pleco, what his grandfather dubbed the ‘windowcleaner’ fish.
Looking around at the men in their forties or fifties, he wasn’t surprised when one of his absent father’s contemporaries spotted him and said a cheery ‘hello’. Seeing the style of cuts produced, Robbie quietly pleaded with Kizzy to get him out of there. Once the family friend had been called up for his cut, they escaped or risked Robbie getting the wrong look. For Robbie, the attack of the razor-comb had its charm. It said rebellion.
Marcus Price beckoned. If Robbie needed to believe he could be someone new. This was the place.
“Carnaby Street, Newcastle edition,” Kizzy declared, stepping through the door like a nightclub. “Prepare to be financially wounded.”
Robbie ran his fingers along the rail of patterned shirts. “I want to look like I’ve returned from a rehearsal with Bryan Ferry and David Bowie.”
He picked out a pair of shiny turquoise cords, a costly green velvet jacket, and a silk lining.
Kizzy looked doubtful. “Isn’t that… a bit much?”
“Too much,” Robbie corrected, “is the exact amount we’re after.”
Kizzy raised both eyebrows and sighed into the carpet. Robbie, with money, was like confetti at a wedding; he enthusiastically discarded it to create an instant effect.
Soon he was togged out in a deep green velvet blazer and a paisley shirt, the antithesis of the boarding school male. He posed in the mirror.
“Snazzy or tragic?” he asked.
Kizzy said nothing or risked putting her brother off early in this transformative process, from public school grot to Cosmo man. The final touch was a bottle of Brut aftershave bought at the till. Not that Robbie shaved. His cheeks were still as smooth as a baby’s bottom.
That job done, Kizzy headed for the Dirty Angel to meet up with a friend to get some ‘hot gossip’ on Cece. Unable to use the phone at home because it was locked, Kizzy used the phone box by the Rugby Club to set up meetings like this, or she turned up at a friend’s doorstep.
Robbie headed for the Handyside Arcade on Percy Street for The Kard Bar.
It felt like entering a high-roofed Victorian Kitchen Garden Greenhouse. Tab ends and discarded gum littered the pavement. Outside, there was a gathering of youths and ageing hippies. A few younger teens hung around, gawping through the large window panes.
The smell of pouttuli was strong, immediately evoking hippies, kaftans, and long hair, born of Woodstock and unwilling to modernise. This was the place for Roger Dean and David Bowie posters, faux vintage pub advertising mirrors and patches.
The floorboards creaked. Somewhere, a Jefferson Aeroplane ‘White Rabbit’ was playing on repeat.
Robbie wrinkled his nose at the smell of poutoulli and spotted bare feet from under tattered bell-bottom jeans padding about the shop. He stood in front of the full-length mirror in a too-big army surplus trench coat. Mum would hate it. He’d have it. He also picked out some cowboy boots. It was those or Doctor Martens.
Clothes, tick. Hair, to be sorted. Sunlamp, at home —it wasn’t vanity, it was armour, it was preparation. He then went to find Kizzy. They agreed to meet at the bus stop opposite the University Theatre.
“Important intelligence,” she reports, taking a notebook from a bag. “Cece is studying ballet. Rather good apparently!
On the way home on the bus, Kizzy gets off on Gosforth High Street to find a friend for yet more on the girl wonder with the dart in her heart and an eager boy on her trail. Robbie gets off a few stops later at the library, where he finds a copy of ‘A Concise History of Ballet’ from which he gleans notes on Tchovsky and doing plié. A plié in cowboy boots, though? Or he could lift her above his head during Wuthering Heights or something like that. He’d have to practice that move or risk injuring himself and her.
Then, home, and for Robbie, a bath, a long, transformative soak in Badidas. While he soaked, he continued to read Heinlein’s ‘Time Enough for Love’. From time to time, he sits up, grabs a pen and paper, and, trying not to drip on the pages, jots down a few notes—juicy aphorisms that he hopes will stand him in good stead. Heinlein offered two ways to lie: artistically, or truthfully but badly. Robbie preferred the first. He’d simply tell the truth… just not all of it. He wondered what lies he might need to use and what he could get away with. The greatest challenge was to know how to answer “Are you a virgin?” Why would she ask? What is the correct answer? Should pretend not to have heard.
Simply put on a rye smile. There was no right or wrong. Best to say nothing, but Cece’s not one for asking such stuff.” Then he turned a page and read, ‘Everybody lies about sex.’ Just as well. But what lies to spin? He’d done it, but when and with whom? Or he hadn’t because he wanted it to be special, implied, with her. And so on.
When Kizzy returns, she comes armed with the news that Cece has a Labrador. They had a pet Labrador as kids, and their dad had bred her for puppies. Kizzy dug around in the bottom of a drawer in Mum’s bureau and found a photo of the puppies.
“Puppies are cute, and people love to look at them. Do you remember their names?
Twitchit,” Robbie said, “the one that got its tail jammed in the garage door.”
Then, while having his hair blow-dried by Kizzy, Robbie thumbs through Manwatching for tips on identifying, attracting, and holding the attention of the opposite sex. Desmond Morris explains how to keep a girl’s gaze, direct them with a hand on the shoulder, and snuggle closer with a drink. This sounded like a plan. Could Robbie pull it off?
Afterwards Robbie thumbs through Shere Hite’s ‘The Hite Report’ while sitting topless in dark goggles in front of the sunlamp.
“This,” he mutters, “is like giving a one-legged astronaut a manual on propagating lettuce on the moon,” thumbing through the chapters with a pencil in his mouth and a hopeless erection buried under a spare towel to hide his modesty.
Kizzy, meanwhile, has the latest Jilly Cooper, which she reads aloud in mock-posh accents until it gets weirdly arousing and they have to stop. “Her thighs trembled as Sir Nicholas took her wrist and led her away from the Bentley for a night of passion.” Robbie recoils. “She’s 15, for God’s sake. “What is she expecting, a knight of the Round Table?”
Finally, just before 7.00 p.m., they’re ready to go.
Then, “Cece’s not the sort you win with charm,” she says, “You’ll need strategy, polish… and deodorant.”
One last thing, Cece pulls out the Brut and ensures Robbie gets a generous covering.
“It won’t guarantee you get a girl, but it’ll make sure you don’t smell like a male rugby club locker room’ says Kizzy.
Robbie turns his back on his sister, unbuckles his belt, flies, and splashes the Brut around his tackle. Turning as he zips up, tragedy ensues as he catches skin from his todger in the zip. He went commando; it was the Bee Gees look, with budgie bulge on display. Now he was in agony. Cross-legged, he waddled to the downstairs cloakroom. Kizzy wanted to help, but he wouldn’t let her at first. Eventually, he felt he had no choice. Seeing how delicate and recognising it was inappropriate, Kizzy handled the matter like a worker in a nuclear power plant handling uranium with very long tongs. The solution was brutal. She said, ‘Look at me!” He looked, grabbed the top of his trousers with one hand to keep them firm and tore the zip down with the other. This achieved the desired result. Robbie was then left to grab a handful of loo roll to dab away the spots of blood.
When he emerged, Kizzy pointed upstairs. Underpants. Now!
Then it was down the drive, around the corner, virtually next door, to the Gosforth Rugby Club disco, which was held in front of the bar above the changing rooms and plunge baths. It had the vibe of a private party at the yacht club. More decorous, with too many adults leaning on the bar eyeing up the ‘totty’ for the teens to feel comfortable.
Kizzy provides one last instruction while she thrusts him into the throng: “Current strategy: you approach Cece like Desmond Morris would approach a shy gazelle, quote Germaine Greer to show you’re ‘aware,’ pull a plié without spraining your knackers, and, if all else fails, talk about Labradors.”
Robbie, “If that doesn’t get me a kiss, nothing will.”
“Dart one,” Kizzy declared, “Let’s see if she was worth it”.
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