Stetched to the limit of sanity.
“When I was just a littul boy, I asked my mammy, what should I be?”
“Lead singer in Whitesnake, hmmm? Although you’re crap, maybe you’ll have to make do with White Lion.”
As a young Stretch, night-terrors like this would invariably afflict me. When I was a nine year old boy, I was given Led Zeppelin IV to listen to by my bro (I will always be thankful). I fell in love with rock music, but somehow for a short period of my young life, I was supremely affected by what is now termed Hair-Metal.
Weirdly I graduated from Led Zeppelin via the acned Gary Moore straight into Bon Jovi land and to Whitesnake. The charts were full of this abominable music and naturally as a young, quiet and small Stretch, I felt I shared and identity with these bouffant-ed men. I started to grow my hair long, well, a mullet. I saved and begged my mother to buy me a pair of runner boots, but I did not possess a pair of black, skinny jeans. So, I put on my ordinary black jeans and tucked them into a pair of black football socks and I looked the part. Well, no. I looked like an idiot, but luckily I was not alone at the time. In the land where I lived, many men in their 20s and 30s had this look too. Biker people they were. Scary for a nine year old. But something strange happened. When I would hang out with me friendies, some of these elders would come over and say such nice things as,
“Hey, cool t-shirt, TWERP!”
and I would say,
“What? Do you mean this DIO t-shirt? As you can see, it is home-made. Yes, that’s right, I used special t-shirt paint I got for Christmas and carefully copied the intricate Greek lettering and voila!”
However, I had my eyes closed during this speech and didn’t realise that the men had left after I
It was only when I had discovered Whitesnake, that I realised something sinister was going on.
“Here I Go Again,” the single by David Coverdale et al off niftily titled Whitesnake, (or Serpens Albus as it was called in Japan, Latin being closer to the Japanese language than English) was shooting up the charts.
I started to see changes in my body. Around my precious bits, a single curl appeared. This is interesting, I thought. I didn’t think about it and put on Pyromania by Def Leppard and oh yeah, rocked out in my bedroom.
Over the following weeks, it seemed the more of this shiny new brand of rock I listened to the more hair would appear “down there.” This was becoming very odd. I stopped listening to White Lion, Dio and all those bands, but it was ceaseless.
So I went back to listening to to the glam rock, adding Poison and Motley Crue to my collection. The hair took on a life of its own. It glistened and streaks of blonde could be seen throughout. I was getting very scared, but who could I talk to, who would listen? I asked a reluctant friend to have a look.
“I really don’t want to do this, man,” a small boy said.
“You think I want this? I’ll make it quick,” I replied. However, by then my whole crotch area was glowing.
I unzipped my non-skinny black jeans and pulled my them down to my knees. I could hear the faint sound of hard rock in the distance. My friend shivered. My boxer shorts could barely contain the flowing locks.
I pulled my shorts down. My friend screamed.
Just like that.
“It looks like Whitesnake, it looks like yer man from Whitesnake!”
He bent down to have a look as the beads of sweat began to subside on his short stumpy head.
“It’s very impressive, y’know! Have you tried headbanging with it?”
Feeling relieved after this conversation, I relaxed and went about my normal life. Until, one night while listening to Whitesnake’s “Is This Love?” and looking at the semi-clad women in Metal Hammer, my penis had what seemed to be a heart attack.
I never listened to soft rock again.