The birth of a mamil?
As an identical twin in the sixties it was impossible to be seen as an individual. I was always one of ‘the twins’ we were not Donald and his brother Denis, we were ‘the twins’, wherever we went we were dressed in identical clothes, and of course expected to be identical in everything. One thing is certain about kids, none of them are the same, they are all individuals; two of my memories of that time are this question and answer,
“Are they twins?”
“They must be identical, they look alike”
Our mum was oblivious to the fact that there were two kids in the house. One would have assumed that the pain of childbirth multiplied by two would have given the secret away, but even so I really do think that she thought she only had one child, albeit in two halves. (Maybe that’s why we only have one first name, instead of the normal two). Around the age of thirteen or so it was decided that we get a suit each, for a wedding I think but to be honest I can’t remember the people involved, there must have been two of them, I have that figured out! Frivolous spending on clothes was a non starter in our house, and following fashion was something that only Ray Davies of the Kinks did, as made famous by his number one hit of the same name.
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| Ray Davis and the Kinks, definitely followers of fashion Italian suits one can assume! |
Mum around this time had started using a Littlewoods home shopping catalogue, pages of clothes and household items that could be bought and paid for at ‘so much a week’. We never had a chance to choose our suits, mum chose them for us “Italian style” she said, "modern" and then “one each, both the same in case one gets jealous”. In due course the suits arrived. They were dark mustard coloured, tight legs as was the style in the sixties and actually pretty cool looking threads. We excitedly tried them on and I immediately took them off again, wool! I was allergic to wool. Any part of my body that touched the fabric started itching and eventually turned bright blotchy red. Denis was the same, his look of terror equalled mine as we told mum and dad. Dads answer was “make ‘em wear ‘em, soft buggers” mum was slightly more sympathetic stating “I know they itch, but I can’t send them back, you’ll have to get used to it”
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| littlewoods, purveyors of Italian suits |
'Get used to it', I felt as if my legs were being burnt off. When we had the suits on, our bodies writhed in a way that people thought we had the ‘jangles’, we could make a professional limbo dancer jealous. There was simply no way to stop the itch. Gladly we took them off, and waited until the weekend. On Saturday we had to wear the suits, protests fell on deaf ears, “clothes off, suits on, sit in car” Sat in the hot car, sweating, with itchy clothes, being told to “sit still, stop scratching, sit still” we eventually got there. There are probably only one or two really hot days a year in England, this was one of them. Somehow I held it together, until the reception, then I started to scratch, nothing irritates an itch more than a scratch. The circle of doom had started, itch, scratch, itch, scratch. Mum said I was showing her up, ‘they’ll think you have nits”, dad said we were “too young for long pants”, I was dancing like Mick Jagger on steroids.
The torture of the reception, (“the twins sure know the modern dances”) ended when dad declared that it was time to go home, “I have a big job on tomorrow” and we mercifully left. On the way home mum was staring straight ahead angry that she had been shown up with our writhing and dancing, dad was staring straight ahead smoking and driving, and I was sat in the back seat with my pants down around my ankles, the relief was priceless. Denis kept his pants on, a much stronger man than me I thought. However I was (or is) never one to suffer needlessly and a confirmed coward when it comes to pain, I was in heaven. That was until mum turned around.
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| nice threads |
The scream was deafening “Harry, Donald’s got his bloody pants off” what they thought I was doing or was going to do heaven only knows, “He’s what! Bloody hell!” Dad could drive a car, smoke a cigarette, lean backwards and give a thrashing at the same time, a skill that I have never had to use or think that I ever could. Guilt by birth came to light again as both Denis and I received a thrashing, “Why! Because Donald had his pants down” was the reason given to a protesting Denis. I felt sorry for him, he had the strength to keep his pants on, I was the weak one, after a sound thrashing to “teach the pair of them a lesson”, the journey resumed. With two very upset twins in the back seat of a car, an angry Dad, an upset mum, our red faces, my blotchy red legs, and two Italian suits.
I can still remember those suits. Denis and I talked about them when we met in June of this year. I still shudder at the thought of wearing them, if I was ever tortured it would be easy, mention an Italian wool suit and I would blabber faster than a rapper on speed. To this day I am allergic to wool, man made fabrics means made for Donald fabrics.
Maybe that’s why I have become a mamil? (middle aged man in lycra).
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