The Way We Were: Abba-esque EP, June 1992

I like blondes.  Agnetha From Abba, for example, or Yvonne, from my philosophy tutorial group. I’d liked her all year, but it’s difficult to chat someone up when you’re doubting your very existence, doubting your existence to first-class standard if my Descartes essay mark said anything. 

I like brunettes too,  Frida from Abba for example. Or Kaz, from halls, who I’d been hanging around with all year, but had never had the opportunity to ask out due to the unfortunately lingering existence of ‘boyfriend at home’, home being Dorset. 

I liked Abba, not just the blonde and the brunnette, I liked the music as well, though secretly, I had a reputation to think of, specifically Terrence Oblong’s reputation, the alias I DJed under on the student radio station. 

The Terrence Oblong Radio show, my audience-free, off-peak show, was where I inflicted my non-existent audience with the fringe indie music I lived for, Frank and Walters,  Half Japanese, the Family Cat, Shonen Knife, Dr Phibes and the House of Wax Equations, name any band you’ve never heard of and I played them. 

Abba, of course, hadn’t been cool for a decade, outside of chez Kaz, where they rarely left the cd player.  

Underneath my cool-as-fuck Werefrogs T-shirts I liked them too, but, well I could hardly play Abba, even to a non-existent audience. 

Except. 

"Bjorn Again are playing the summer ball,” Kaz said. She was prone to saying such things. She inhabited a world where balls were events you danced at, not miniture globes you kicked around on mud-strewn fields. I blame her latin classes. 

“I wasn’t planning to go to the ball,” I said.  

“Shame, I was hoping you’d take me,” she said. 

“Except.  I should probably do an interview with Bjorn Again,” I said. “Who are Bjorn Again?” 

“An Abba covers band.” 

I’ll contact their people,” I said. 

In those days you didn’t just google band names and find their agents and record companies, you scanned the music press, then, once you’ve found the record company, you poured through the record company catalogues in the radio station ‘office’, then you would go upstairs to the Rag Week Office to make a call (the radio station wasn’t trusted with a telephone) and blag. 

“Of course, you can interview them before the gig,” their agent said. “It’ll be good publicity.”  

“That was the new single by Cud, and before that you heard Kitchens of Distinction” I said later that day, during my off-peak radio show. “Coming up in two weeks’ time it’s the summer ball, with real live music from Bjorn Again, so to get you in the mood, this is one by that Bjorn Again covers band, Abba.” 

I played ‘The Day Before you Came’, a song which surely had retained a vestige of cool, There were a handful of Abba singles in the record library, and of course I had access to Kaz’s extensive collection, so Abba slowly worked their way into my set list, pushing out eminently playable tracks by the likes of A Band Called Jeff, Bongwater and Foreheads in a Fishtank.  My regular fans, had they existed, would have been furious, or possibly not, even a non-existent Terrence Oblong fan secretly always loved Abba.  

On the day of the ball, I met the band on site, at the back of the stage, carrying the finest hand-held record available to C-air, it even had ‘C-air’ written on it in tippex.  I’d inserted new batteries and a blank cassette tape, like the true pro I was.  

I was interviewing Frida (Dorina Morelli). “Fucking Erasure,” were her first words.  

She’d answered my first question before I’d so much as spoken. Abba were back in the charts, but not in the form of Abba, not even in the form of Bjorn Again, it was Erasure who had released their Abba-esque EP of covers. 

“You’re not pleased to see Abba in the charts?” 

“We made Abba cool again,” she said, emphasising the ‘we’.  “We’ve worked hard, played festivals all over the world, we spend hours on our look, getting the feel right, the clothes, everything, and slowly, slowly built a following, got the records back on the turntable, then from nowhere a fucking synth-pop group from Basildon are getting all the reward.” 

“You should cover Erasure,” I said, “Get your revenge.” 

“We might just do that,” she said, laughing.  

After the interview I grabbed something to eat, then went to meet Kaz at the arranged time at the front of the stage, but she was nowhere to be seen.  I didn’t know what to do, there was no way of reaching her, which meant that I was all alone at the ball. 

And then I saw her, also on her own, but looking stunning in a ball dress, Yvonne.  I went over and said hello. 

“I didn’t have you down as an Abba fan,” she said. 

“I just interviewed the band,” I said.  A thought struck me. “Would you like to go backstage after the gig and meet the band?”  

“I’d love that,” she said. 

With no sign of Kaz, and with Yvonne now having an excuse to hang around with me, we spent the ball together, dancing along to all the Abba songs and getting very drunk. Philosophy wasn’t mentioned once. 

Of course, I hadn’t arranged to go back stage after the gig, but I blagged my way, claiming I need to take photos.  The band were happy, still full of post-gig adrenaline. 

I used up all of the film in my camera, Yvonne with Benny, Yvonne with Bjorn, Yvonne with Bjorn and Benny, then Yvonne took photos of me with Frida and Agnetha, and then photos of me in a Frida wig, and me in an Agnetha wig. 

The band finally kicked us out. I walked Yvonne back to campus.  At the door of her halls we paused. “I’ll come in as far as the stairwell,” I said.  

“What’s so special about the stairwell?” she said. 

“The vending machine, I’m gasping for a Coke.” 

“I’ve some gin in my room,” she said, “if you want to come in for a mixer.” 

Are you mad, gin doesn’t go with coke, I thought, but didn’t say. Because she wasn’t inviting me for gin and coke, she was inviting me into her room, into her room at night. 

“I’d love that,” I said.  

“Terrence,” I heard Kaz call, bellowing across the campus. Yvonne looked confused when I answered. Kaz, as record librarian on the radio station, was one of few people who knew me as Terrence. 

Kaz ran over. As she approached, I could see that her makeup was a mess from crying bucketloads. “Mark’s left me”, she said, and collapsed into my arms. 

“Who’s this?” Asked Yvonne.  

“Who’s this?” Asked Kaz, noticing the blonde I was with for the first time. 

I did the awkward introductions. 

“Dave and I were just going back to my room for drinks,” Yvonne said, staking her claim. 

“Terrence was going to walk me home after the gig,” Kaz said, staking her claim. 

They both looked at me.  

I had a decision to make. A decision, I realised even then, that would shape not just the rest of my life, but even the very stories I would write.