Look, if I'm going to be totally honest with you about this, then there were more than three.
But in case anyone I actually knew in 1978 is tuning in (unlikely, since no one who knows me would imagine there to be any items of remote interest in my past family stories), I shall pretend that I was a sensible, level-headed teenager who wasted no time on the fanciful imaginings of romance with handsome, unreachable mega-stars.
It began as early as the age of 12. I developed a terribly British (but rather unusual for a pre-teen girl) obsession with cricket. I never missed a Test Match. I knew the name of every player and every ridiculous player position ('deep silly mid-off' and the like). It was not the marvels of this historical game which had ignited my sudden sporting passion, however. In fact, it was not a sporting passion at all. Just a passion. Of the animal kind.
Ian Botham. 'Both', 'Beefy' or just plain 'Ian'. Who the Hell cared? Corrrrr. I am ashamed to say that I even sat and watched cricket with my dad, who naively believed we were having some 'dad/daughter time'. He watched the scoreboard whilst I watched Mr Botham's masterful strokes.
I kicked Ian in to touch when I first saw 'The Good, The Bad and the Ugly'. Now it was Clint. Oh, Clinty baby, what a dish you were! I hung a small but perfectly formed poster (probably cut out of some horrendous teen comic like Look-In) of Clint on my bedroom wall, directly behind my headboard. This was so I could kiss him goodnight full on the cold, papery lips. If this didn't suffice, I would use the back of my hand to practice snogging with him.
Clint, it seemed, was destined to be another's. And another's. And several more.
And then in 1978 I found John. Sadly, he never quite found me, but you can't win them all.
For most of my life I plunged these intense crushes deep into my memory, never sharing them. I suppose I thought I must be the only kid feeling this way. How many millions of other teens have done the same, I wonder? But Life's a Journey, right? We can't possibly go to our graves without sharing the memories of our passionate embraces.....
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