Come on Eileen
Man, I remember shaking my tail to Come on Eileen many moons ago — when rat-tails were a right of passage and Molly Ringwald held both the lock and the key to my tiny pitter pattering heart. Back then it was all ice-skating and fairy floss; skateboards and trading cards. It was bags of chips by the rusty school fence and sunburnt faces on crackling summer days. It was Pepsi and Milo; showbags at the Easter show; and games of Twister by the electric heater. And all the while a soundtrack of pure musical and lyrical indulgence played on and on and on. Mighty props to the 80s. If it weren’t for the misdemeanors and feeing of unbridled potential that pervaded that decade like a bad New Romantic haircut, then every year since wouldn’t have made any sense at all.