I'm in love with the girl on the ...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In photography, some things just work. A young couple hug in Eccles precinct, the lad's arms wrapped tightly around his girlfriend with a dangling 'sign' that says 'Virgin'! But I think this photograph is made so much better by the fact that the kid has spotted my camera. It's like we've caught him 'at it' .. we know what his plan might be now with this young lady, who almost seems embarrassed to have been discovered with him .. or am I reading too much into it? On another level, remember when everyone went around with LPs (they were never albums back then) in plastic bags from record shops? And, of course, this all ties in nicely with my Chris Sievey blog, as his band The Freshies did that famous track 'I'm In Love With The Girl On The Manchester Virgin Megastore Checkout Desk'. Hey, maybe that's her!

In me 'ead!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chris Sievey would have been 70 years old yesterday. Shocking to think he didn't make it past 54, the poor bugger, and even harder to realise he's already been dead for 15 years. Chris was Frank Sidebottom, if you see what I mean. It was his head inside Frank's, the only way he ever gained any real taste of fame after his band The Freshies failed to make it big. I was lucky enough to photograph a gig by the group in 1979, and shot them again a couple of days later during a fun day out in Sale. Years after that, I photographed 'Frank' at some launch event after I'd cheekily encouraged him to creep up behind Sophie, the Duchess of Edinburgh. (She wasn't best pleased after she spotted him, I can tell you!!) So this is for you, Chris. I just want you to know you're inside my 'ead, too!

65, eh? ..

 

 

 

 

 

Bloody hell, I've reached the grand old age of 65. Happy Birthday to me! Until recently*, hitting that milestone used to mean retirement after 50 years of hard graft and probably death within a fortnight! Sixty-five meant you were an old-aged pensioner, put out into the long grass to concentrate on your hobbies and contemplate the approaching end. It meant an awkward little soirée with your work-mates and a speech from the boss, two cans of Watney's, a gold clock and a bouquet for the missus. Until I was eighteen I worked at the Gardner Diesel factory in Eccles, where there were retirement parties like those in the offices and on the shop floor on a regular basis. I used them to 'practice' press photography, honing my skills until the day I could quit my shitty job and start working full-time on a newspaper. Here are pictures from two such events, the lucky new pensioners gripping hands with their gaffers and staring their demise in the face. How I feel for the chap that received an electric razor ..

*If I were still working, I would now face another two years at the coal-face before my time was 'up'. The retirement age was raised to 67, which makes me feel all the better (smug alert) for retiring a full ten years early. Anyone for frisbee?