toast for tea

Okay – I’ll admit it. I was a die-hard Monkees fan. But I couldn’t help it. Demographics. I was just the right age to be in the target audience. I had no defences against the monster marketing machine that churned out ‘Last Train to Clarksville’ and ‘I’m a Believer’. Oh yes, I was a believer! And as for that wacky television show – I was a sitting duck. Sitting on the couch watching the box waiting for my mum to come home from work. What else was there to do? I mean, I was putty. Fresh off the boat after braving adventure and the high seas with the Famous Five and Secret Seven , I was looking for adventure of the fourteen-year-old kind. Romance. So I fell immediately and madly in love with Peter Tork – on account of the way his golden locks swished across his face as he pummelled the keyboard or bass guitar. Every Saturday I’d scan the racks at the local newsagent for Teen Scene magazine and its cousin publications for updates on my favourite four. Monkee business was all I was