You better run, run, run

I was out in the mist and rain and cold this morning doing my usual 6 mile plod around the sites and sounds of north Leeds. As so often happens I allow my mind to drift and found myself back in my parent's kitchen circa early 1975.

I was about to leave primary school and start at big school. There would be new opportunities there, one of which was to learn a musical instrument.

"What instrument would you like to learn", my father enquired.

"The guitar", I responded without hesitation.

"Oh that's an easy instrument, you can learn that when you're older. I mean what proper instrument."

I was dumbstruck. The guitar was the only instrument I wanted to learn. Having become addicted to Top Of The Pops some three years earlier, I would ape the moves of The Sweet, Mud, David Bowie, Marc Bolan, The Rubettes or The Osmonds in my bedroom with my tennis racket. I knew all the words to Blockbuster and all the guitar moves. In fact, in the playground at primary school me, the two Michaels and Matthew had a popular beat combo that used to enact that week's glam hit to the adoring masses (well a handful of girls from our year). Incredibly I was the singer. This was as a result of me knowing the words and not on account of my vocal prowess. That and clearly being the best-looking and most charismatic 9 year old in the school.

I didn't argue with my Dad. Foolishly, wanting to please, seeking parental approval, as was my wont, I thought hard for several minutes to come up with an isntrument which would meet his definition of a proper instrument.

"French horn?", I said, hesitantly, hopefully.

What on earth, you might ask, made this budding Mick Ronson veer so wildly away into the lands of the eighteenth century chamber? Well, the only classical music I knew at the time (and sort of liked) was Mozart's Four Horn Concertos. I had a copy on a 3M Scotch reel-to-reel tape given me by one of my father's friends; a hi-fi buff and classical officianado. Which was great, or would have been if we had actually owned a reel-to-reel tape recorder. Despite this minor obstacle to my listening pleasure, I treasured the reel of tape. Mum threw it away one day without asking me and I was heartbroken. She said I never played it. I pointed out that I couldn't, us not owning the requisite equipment. She failed to appreciate how much I just loved the clear plastic reel, the magnetic ribbon and the green and white cardboard case regardless of the horning aural tosh it contained. A propos of nothing, the same friend of my father also introduced me indirectly to all things Italian through his love of the cars, the wine and the food. And probably the women, but what did I know at that age?

I don't recall what happened following my approval-seeking horn suggestion, because by the time I started at secondary school, the French horn had become the trumpet, which in turn became the trombone once my tutor saw the size of my mouth! For six years I laboured away on that bloody trombone and it would be fair to say that for six years I bloody hated it. Six wasted years when I could have been practising Shine On You Crazy Diamond or Bohemian Rhapsody or even Pretty Vacant. Instead I was farting around doing Grade 3 and Grade 4 pieces for tenor trombone and playing second trombone in the school orchestra. Awful, just awful. What bloody use was a trombone? It wasn't exactly a chick magnet. More of a bird repellant, a cacophonous scarecrow. Hi, what do you do? Oh I'm the second trombone in the school orchestra. Okay, well I must go over there now to tell my friends and laugh really loudly. Fair enough.

It was only aged 17 at 6th Form Colleage that I finally rebelled and said, no more. When I got to Leeds and university, first chance I had I sold the damn thing. Never been near a brass instrument or brass band since. I also bought my first guitar aged 17, but that story is for another day.