Molly

Stop the press, grab the rail, clench your teeth! I had never seen Pretty in Pink. Though being a mad fan of Ferris Bueller and Weird Science – God, Kelly LeBrock was hot – I had never seen a Molly Ringwald film.

Teen romance, often the cause of many a smile and scoff and snort of derision, was put before me in a wonderful, beautiful form where I could not but smile.

In a strange way, having not seen Jon Cryer's amazing wardrobe I was amazed at how, when at a young 18-19, I had donned the brooches and rings of Duckie – not the Duckies shoes, mind – but the jackets and plaid trousers had been a favourite, all without the film reference. We are twinned souls, and like Duckie I too now find myself helplessly infatuated with a friend whose affections are focused away from me.

Molly was a divinity. The so-called crazy girl from under the rocks of fashionable society is fashion. A vision of post-punk, making her own clothes because she can't afford off-the-peg, her finale prom dress bettered the $650 draped ghastliness. Her red curls and full lips would leave anyone with a discerning eye broken-hearted. Andrew McCarthy may have had the eye, but what a pain in the neck – snooze!


The rock I dwell under with my fellow leftfielders is a tight habitat foisted upon us by the conformist minds who consider us to be a protozoan commune deserving of ridicule and abuse. But we have hearts and souls, and most importantly, dreams. Watching Molly crudely drawing, then tearing, snipping and sewing because of her tenacious wish to prove her worth reminded me of those days when I had to keep on keeping on being who I was. And thank God I did, because I got somewhere. One can't helping wondering if James Spader's character made it or simply lived off his daddy's money, drinking and drugging his way through life until it sent him to the Betty Ford Clinic. The cliché has me vomiting.

On the whole, modernity has seen the loss of the punk, the young person who dreams and strives to be themselves. The entrepreneur is growing and flourishing – well, at least amongst my circle – but the punk is different. We don't try, we are. Emancipated from bank loans, with £10 we create. Troubleshooting with ingenuity and imagination results in truly wonderful creations.

Molly looked resplendent in her homemade pink dress, pretty in pink, as did the punks of 70's London, the post punk art of 80s New York and the music of Manchester. Their effect is with us; Basquiat and Haring can be seen everywhere; Joy Division and New Order permeate through music today and still garner respect and awe from young kids new to their talents.

I want to channel Duckie's determination with my own "Andi"; perhaps I can perform to Otis Redding and show my energy winning over the one I want so badly. Molly's tenacity and self respect is a lesson to us all and one I shall be definitely taking to heart; perhaps then I too can win over the one I want, who too considers me to be from the wrong side of the tracks. However, if all else fails, I assure you I will not be sitting in the rain crying. Imagine the damage to my new creation.


After watching, it had me rummaging in my library for a poem, a John Clare. " The heedless mind may laugh, the clown may stare. They own no soul to look for pleasure there. Their grosser feelings in a coarser dress." Such words are a motto for the punk, they are what motivate us, they are a reminder of how lucky we are to be able to open our minds and see the different, to actually own a soul that looks for pleasure and owns wisdom. Without it we would be just another hater who must purchase and consume to be accepted.

We accept ourselves, I accept myself, and hope desperately that I too will be accepted by "Andi". I won't be wearing pink, that is a definite but perhaps the Duckies will be the tipping balance. Without fail I shall be digging out my old brooches and rings, adorning them with memories and hoping they refresh my determined spirit. But damn the thinning hair; no kiss curl, I'm afraid.