86

Exactly twenty-five years ago today, J.W. etched this graffiti onto the pavement on Friar Street. In this entry, I'd like to tell you all about J.W, about J.W's life and times, and why J.W was on this street with time to kill a quarter of a century ago.

Unfortunately, I can't do that. I have no idea who J.W was, or is. It's entirely possible that he or she is no longer struggling along with the rest of us poor bastards on this plane of existence. Or then again, he or she may still walk down Friar Street every single day of the week, and have a good old chortle at the handiwork of their younger self.

However, I do know that Friday 7th March 1986 was a sunny day, as today was. I know that the papers were full of rumblings about ongoing political and economic turmoil, and an upcoming royal wedding (though it would be another six days before The Sun decided to drop the bombshell FREDDIE STARR ATE MY HAMSTER on the world). I know that the airwaves were pumping out plenty of A-Ha, and Billy Ocean, and Sigue Sigue Sputnik. I know that round here, the city council were thinking about turning the tranquil grounds of the Ashton Memorial into an Edwardian theme park, an idea that thankfully derailed as quickly as it sprang up.

One day, I'll get that DeLorean with the flux capacitor that I've been asking for on my Christmas list for the last two decades. When that happens, I'll do my eighty-eight miles an hour down Friar Street and shake hands with J.W. There'll be no internet, so I won't be able to let you know how it all turns out. But on the other hand, there'll be no reality TV or Simon Cowell either, so I may just be able to forge myself some kind of mini-paradise.