Britpop, Bible camp, Ian Paisley and me
It’s 1993 in provincial Northern Ireland; Ballymena to be precise. If you’re not familiar with the concept, Ballymena’s a market town, 30 miles north of Belfast, known for producing chickens, Liam Neeson and a particularly stern breed of Protestantism (Ian Paisley’s a pin-up in these parts). I’m 13 years old, rocking acne, curtains and a pair of canary-yellow DMs.
I’ve spent my birthday money in Woolworths, deliberating between a UB40 cassette and Blur’s (my early music tastes were by Suede, in the new-fangled CD format. I’ll turn the cover inside out, just in case someone takes a notion to rifle through my music collection.
