By Isle of Wight Observer
I’m always consumed by my latest project, and easily lose the ability to think about much else. Currently, I’m renovating an old house. Being a workaholic is a well-established personality disorder. I’ve often written about my business success – and that’s not conceit; it’s fact.
As with most success stories, I paid a price for my personal prosperity. At school, while my mates were focussed on girls, I worked several jobs. Spud bashing, shelf stacking, washing up, milk and bread delivery rounds, caddying for golfers, window and car cleaning – the list was endless. I did so much work, when I swapped school for fulltime employment, I took a pay cut. Still, I barely had time for girlfriends as I focussed on earning money.
Many of us are slow starters, and I thought I’d catch up later. But as those precious teen years pointlessly slipped away, I felt less confident and even believed I might be single forever. Annoyingly, friends and family started asking if I was gay or, “Have you got a girl yet?”
I’m the middle one of six kids, three brothers, two sisters. The other boys were far better-looking and slightly taller. They were fair-haired, while I was cursed with a boring brown blob that refused to be styled. Honestly, barbers and hairdressers pitied me.
Girls were always attracted to my brothers, and the lads down the pub had girlfriends too.
Where was I going wrong? I believed I’d grow into myself, but I couldn’t wait forever. I resolved to work harder at it, put some effort in, and lower my aspirations. At school, I’d been attracted to the obviously pretty girls, those in my own year and the year below. You’ll remember, of course, that 15-year-old boys have absolutely no chance with girls in the year above them. The best-looking are always in thrall to older boys.
In my own year, one particularly good-looking blonde had a boyfriend who collected her from school in a flash car. Another dated a lad with a customised Kawasaki 900 motorcycle. How could I compete with that? Whenever I tried chatting someone up, I failed miserably. If a girl actually liked me, I wasn’t interested in her. Looking back, I missed out because I was too picky, and oblivious to the wonderful possibilities right under my nose. At a party, aged 17 or so, I was getting on well with a pretty girl who appeared to find me at least mildly amusing. Some of my mates thought we’d be alright together. As the night wore on, I could barely contain my excitement, could she really be the one. At last, I plucked up courage and asked if I might drive her home.
“What car have you got?” she asked. “A Triumph” I replied, nervously fingering the keys in my pocket. The tension was palpable, “Dolomite Sprint?” asked the girl, knowledgably. “No, Spitfire,” I replied. She abruptly lost interest; sadly, I’d flicked her off switch, my fragile hope-filled balloon of love was deflated. The object of my desire left with some other lucky beggar.
In the ’70s and ’80s, the young men who enjoyed most success with women drove Ford Capris with three-litre, or 2.8 injection engines. They had natty sheepskin seat covers and eight-track stereos. I know this to be fact, because my older brother had one, and was never without female company.
However lonely I got, foolishly I didn’t buy a Capri. When I did finally get my first girlfriend, I drove a beige Lada. Quite rightly, she was very unimpressed with it – and soon dumped me.
Eventually I got lucky, but if only I could turn back time, life would be so different. I wouldn’t work quite as hard, and I’d never buy a Lada. I’d have a 3-litre Capri or that Dolomite Sprint.