I listened to a lot of music, some good, some bad, some great.
One man's voice stood out from all the rest, for me, and one of the many things I loved about it was that it shared the same accent as mine.
I watched black and white news clips that documented the rise to fame. I laughed at things that he said and did. I loved his sense of humour, his rapier wit. I listened intently when he was serious and cared passionately about those things he spoke of.
I loved watching him, listening to him, he was my hero.
I read his book, "In his own write" when I was about 13 years old.
I didn't set out to research everything about him, and in fact I don't know a lot, but information always seemed to be available somehow. You only have to mention him, anywhere, you can almost guarantee some snippet of additional detail will be given by another fan or music critic.
People still argue about how great he was, is.
I didn't want to be one of those fans that had created the problem that had resulted in his choice to move so far away, I still don't.
In his words and lyrics, his music, his films, and all the news clips, I felt I saw the man behind it all.
I think we (all of his fans) did that.
It doesn't matter if you don't like his music, I know, in some way, it's influenced yours too.
I can't think or say the word, "Imagine" without thinking of him too.
In Liverpool, there are places (I remember) that he sang about with his group
"Penny Lane" - "Strawberry Fields"
Included in my O Level Art exhibition (June 1980) was a pencil portrait sketch of him that I was very pleased with.
I was awarded A** by the examiners.
In August that year, much to my surprise and delight, he released a new album.
For the first time in years, it seemed, John was telling us how he felt and what his life was like.
Hearing how happy and contented he was, I looked forward to hearing more.
I'd left school that summer, starting working for the Inland Revenue in Bootle, following my 17th birthday (by a few days).
One Monday morning in December, around 6am, while everyone else was still in bed, I was in the kitchen at my parents home. I was ironing my dress for work that day as I listened to the radio.
The news came on, I couldn't believe what they were saying.
I stopped what I was doing, turned the volume up and held the radio to my ear.
"...We've just had confirmation............. John Lennon is dead"
I slumped into a chair at the table and wept while listening to his songs.
3.5 hours later, I arrived at work, puffy eyed and still in tears.
Who was I to mourn over the death of a 'popstar' I'd never met?
I watched the news
(today, Oh boy)
and knew that at least I wasn't the only one - who'd never met him - who also felt bereft, that someone very special in their life had been taken away.
Thirty years have passed and still it hurts. Is that strange?
I watched a programme recently, entitled, "The Day John Lennon Died".
It felt better, as I watched in tears, to see the people who actually knew and loved him, still emotionally affected by their loss.
To see some scenes that I remembered, and played some minor part in.
I'd paid my respects in pilgrimage to the original site of The Cavern, leaving a small note there. I attended the tribute in Liverpool where hordes of fans congregated in the square before St. George's Hall.
To All who knew or just loved him for who he was and why his loss meant and continues to mean so much.
