It was 1977, the year in which punk reigned supreme. In the UK both the Sex Pistols and the Clash released their debut albums, while closer to home the Saints and Radio Birdman did likewise. Anarchy was in the air. Schapelle Corby was born. Gold and Black won the Cup. I turned seven years old. My sister Julie got married, and to her wedding I wore a cornflower blue suit.
That’s me in front looking surprisingly happy to be having perhaps my life’s worst fashion moment. I was probably doped up on Milky Way Bars. The white skivvy says it all really. I think it was either that or a bow tie, so better the devil you know. I find the brown shoes go well with the blue suit, don’t you? The flower was ripped out twelve seconds after this photo was taken.
On the left is Dad, timeless in charcoal suit, thinking about the outboard motor he could’ve bought for the cost of this bloomin’ wedding. Mum is wearing a nice floral number with a pink triffid blossom that threatens to go for the jugular. That’s Grandma on the right, down from Rockhampton, wearing one of her countless number of increasingly dazzling muumuus.
And then there’s the bride and groom. Nothing dates this photo more than the powder blue tux and velvet bow tie. Or maybe the hairstyles. Julie and her new English husband Alan (looking here like one of the cello players from ELO) were fledgling hippies, soon to move to Mount Gambier, where Julie would teach primary school and Alan would be a cabinetmaker. They baked bread and had a bean bag. I know because I slept on it when we visited the following year. (It was on this same trip that I was falsely accused of weeing on the toilet floor among other felonies.)