Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?

An eye witness account of the '80s.

By Amanda Hallay

Earlier this year, I had pink hair. I mention it because that was the second time I'd had pink hair. I was seventeen the first time. The year was 1982. I may have been born in the sixties, but I am truly a child of the eighties…and all that that entails.

So what did it entail, that decade of shoulder pads, big hair, and endless accessories? Was it all Billy Jean and Dynasty, Michael J. Fox and Spandex? I think it depended on where you lived. My eighties were spent in England, a country that was hit (hard) with both the good and the bad of the decade. For the good, we had The Human League, Duran Duran, and Morrissey. We rode Chariots of Fire, giggled with The Young Ones and were bitten by Black Adder. Girls were either Bananarama or Princess Diana; our boyfriends a hybrid of the Georges we adored, both Michael and Boy.

The bad was less colorful. We had mass unemployment, The Minors' Strike, and Margaret Thatcher. We spent hours queuing for our dole checks, all of which were spent on extortionate rents in slum dwellings. We were told we had no future. The Times called us the Lost Generation.

No wonder we were 'lost.' We also had A Flock of Seagulls.

Politics raged. You were either a 'Tory Bastard' or 'Labor Scum' (the 'Social Democrats' were just laughed at). The country was divided between those who had a Filofax and those who did not. Those who did voted Tory, lived in London, and liked Phil Collins. The rest of us lived on our £34 a week, smoked roll-ups, and lived in the North, convincing ourselves that we were buying clothes from Oxfam to be 'retro.'

And many of us were 'retro.' Somewhere along the line, many of us lost the eighties, intentionally retreating to the '40s, '50s, and '60s. Only now do I realize that 'retro' tastes in Eighties England was as 'Eighties-England' as everything from which we were trying to escape.

And escape we had to. Fergie was on the loose.

The North-South Divide was as heated as in The American Civil War. We in the North hated anyone south of Watford. Londoners were not to be tolerated; they were 'posh,' 'spoilt,' 'soft,' and (worst of all) 'Tory.' In fairness, Londoners hated Northerners. We were 'scummy,' 'lazy,' 'common,' and (worst of all) poor.

And in Eighties England, most of us were very poor. Hard as it may seem to imagine, there were truly no jobs. I'm not talking about 'career opportunities' - I'm talking about jobs. When McDonalds opened in Liverpool in 1985, there was a queue of over seven hundred hopeful applicants. Don't laugh. It wasn't funny. England in the eighties was a desperate time, and a part-time job at McDonalds made the difference (especially if it meant free meals).

I was luckier than most. The eighties were a lively time for the British music industry, and as a session singer, I often had employment. And when I didn't, I worked as a barmaid. And when I couldn't find work as a barmaid, I joined the millions of other unemployed and desperate people queuing for my Gyro (welfare check) and trying to fill the endless, boring days, which those without work must endure.

Many of us filled our time well. We painted, wrote, and started bands, the positive side to the employment crisis being a wave of creativity and personal development. Yet not everyone is creative, and for the vast majority of the Eighties English, day after day was spent reading want ads and watching the telly.

We watched a lot of telly in the eighties, the T.V. guide treated like a Koran in many households - constantly consulted and religiously revered.

Was it all so bleak and depressing? Well, yes - but we did have some wonderful moments of genuine excitement. We had Band Aid, Live Aid and two Royal Weddings. Brookside and Eastenders debuted. So did morning television! Television in the mornings? We were truly being spoilt. Best of all, we had Princess Diana. The only unifying force in Eighties England, we'd follow her every move in The Sun, The Mirror, and The Daily Mail, a British Evita bringing a spark of glamour to the lives of her beleaguered subjects.

Although there are countless 'Remember the Eighties' websites in America, there are none in England. I suppose we don't want to remember the eighties. The best we can really say about the decade is that we survived it - but only just. It has certainly left its mark, especially on my generation, the young of Eighties England. We have been marked by our decade. We lack ambition. We're not good with money. We're low on self-confidence. We're suspicious of Filofaxes. And we really like the telly. We spent our twenties being told what we couldn't do, not what we could.

The Times called us the Lost Generation.

For me personally, I can now look back on the eighties with nostalgic fondness. They were, after all, my formative years, and a decade of fabulous firsts. I had my first flat, my first job, my first love, and my first heartbreak.

And I had my first pink hair.

The eighties were my twenty-something decade, just as the first ten years of the New Millennium will be the twenty-something decade for many of you. I hope with all my heart that you enjoy it - and I hope with all my heart that it'll be better than mine.

Of course it will be.

You don't have A Flock of Seagulls.