My mate Tom always tells me I never got over the nineties. He says it with a shake of the head and emphasis on the word ‘nineties’ as if I’m a right saddo just because I sometimes like to stay in and watch Sabrina the Teenage Witch on Youtube instead of going out, flirting with strong-backed boys, drinking cocktails and dancing to pop-tunes.
He might have a point somewhere in his layered, weary derision, but he’s wrong about the nineties. I have no desire to turn the clock back.
The nineties were shit for me. Bitchy, backstabbing teenage school mates, no source of income other than sporadic parental gifts of a fiver, acne, a sun-in damaged barnet, a wardrobe full of polyester ‘gipsy’ tops off Woolwich market and even less luck with the boys than what I have now. These were not my glory days.
Listen Tommy: I’ve got a confession. If you must know darl, the only thing about the nineties I never got over was Melissa Joan Hart.
I’m obsessed with her. I’m not just writing this for laffs – I actually do have a problem, beyond the fish porn.
It struck me that this was an issue – that I had gone from normal post-teen fan to crazy grown stalker-bitch – a few weeks ago, when I visited the parental home and got my gay brothers to compile a Melly J pop-quiz for me while I went out and had my nails done (‘and make sure it’s really hard…I don’t want easy questions’).
When I returned, all ghetto hot with my red nails did, I aced the quiz answering fifteen out of sixteen questions correctly. GET IN! (Don’t pity me readers, if you had any idea of the level of difficulty of some of those questions you’d be hand forging me a medal out of your melted down jewellery right now).
I can’t tell you what it is about Melly (is it weird that I call her that, in my head?) that does it for me. It’s not a sexual thing – I know that much (although I recently downloaded her new show off of Netflix and there’s a scene where she does the splits which did offer momentary arousal).
There’s obviously the wholesome all American-ness of the woman. That blonde hair, doe eyed, almost-perfect teeth thing. Plus, when I was a pre-teen I would have given anything to grow up and be Clarissa. You don’t get over things like that.
When you’re a Melly J fan you quickly realise she has done it all. In the conventional sense. Childhood fame, just enough controversy in her early twenties to appear interesting, but not enough to inflict long-term psychological damage, married an extremely handsome, apparently faithful rock star, two bubbas and one on the way. Holiday home in Lake Tahoe.
Why isn’t this my life? Is God having a laugh, or was I a very, very bad girl in a past existence?
As is usual for us stalker types, my ardour for Melly has been undercut with a certain amount of resentment. Little jets of bile when I think of her and realise that she’s got a lot of what I ain’t (money, hot husbands, baby childs, multiple homes of a quality blingin’ enough to feature on MTV’s Cribs).
Of course, I’ve needed to control all this bitterness so that I don’t come across as a right nut-case and jeopardise my career and friendships. And so, utilising a technique I was taught by a therapist, I changed my thought patterns and decided that Melissa Joan Hart is a reason to be single.
Melissa has, as I’ve pointed out above, done it all, if we’re thinking conventionally. There’s not really much point in treading the whole wholesome mother path now – you’ll only ever be a shadow of the wholesome mother Mel has managed to be.
This is liberating because now: fuck it.
There’s no point in flirting with rock-stars, getting married, having babies, buying homes. It’s unoriginal. I’m attempting a life less ordinary, a road less travelled (if you’ll forgive the banal clichés). Tonight readers, I’m going to try to begin that life less ordinary with the means currently available to me: cheap white rum, ice, the complete Harry Potter series, and the Olympic opening ceremony. Wish me luck darlinks.x