My memories of the 80's are a fluorescent and fingerless stew of the odd and uncool things that were peculiar to that time: Fighting Fantasy Gamebooks, divebomb whammy bars, 6502 Assembly mnemonics, my big red Walkman with 5 band graphic equalizer, thinking that Phil Collins was funny and cool [was there a Potion of Delusion +3 vs. Teenage Fatheads in the water supply?] and, oh yes!, Dungeons and Dragons.

This is well-covered ground. That spate of 'I ♡ 80's' TV shows mined that garish seam empty a few years ago. Whatever happened to those list programmes that clogged up Saturday nights on BBC 2 and Channel 4 and kept a slew of f-list celebs afloat?

It's the decade I did most of my growing up in. And it was as clunky, gauche, riven with contradictions, scary and soulless as that me was, looking back.

But my abiding memory of the 80's is zits.

Between 1982 and 1985 I was spottier than 1001 Dalmatians in pus-filled, polka dot pantaloons.

I singlefacedly [admittedly a big face] kept the anti-acne industry going. A merciless chemical warfare raged on my skin. I'm surprised my bedside table wasn't invaded by allied forces seeking to put pay to the Acne of Evil. I slapped that much Topex [yack!] on my face it bleached my bedclothes. Still, a bit of bleach on a teenage boy's duvet cover mightn't have been such a bad thing.

All these horribly self-conscious memories squeezed back into my conscious when I woke up and stared at myself in the mirror on Thursday morning.

There on my cheek, just below my left eye, was a humungous, pulsating postule radiating redness as if it thought I was in danger of being hit by a very low-flying aircraft.

Honestly, trust me, it was an amazing, freak of a zit. The kind that you are in awe of.

I'm nearly 38. Spots should be a cause for celebration. Having any gland that functions without delicate prompting is some reason for hope. However, Friday morning wasn't the best time for my body to remind me it has some molecules of youth left drifting around its nether-est regions.

You see, a couple of hours later I was due to be introducing the new episode of Dr Who to some lucky members of the public at Theatr Twm O'r Nant in Denbigh.

I don't get much in the way of that kind of work.

David Tennant wasn't free, and Russell Grant must have been having a problem with his jumpers.

Typical, then, that I have to get up on stage to face the public with an extra head growing on my cheek.

Fortunately, fate intervened and made that the least of my problems during the event.

We got to the beautifully renovated Theatr Twm O'r Nant in good time. There were cardboard cut-outs of the Dr and an Ood framing the doorway, and members of the public milling round.

I asked Jo if the concealer she'd plastered onto The Spot was still doing its concealment job.

"I didn't have enough to cover it," was her too frank reply.

And this was the first time that it struck me that this event was a relatively big deal. I had been too busy during the week to think too much about this screening of Dr. Who. The organisers had sent me a script, but I don't do scripts.

I will do from now on, though.

The BBC team at the Theatr were friendly and mentioned a few changes to 'the script'. I caught one of them looking askance at The Spot, but reassured myself that a strategic hand, or keeping my head bowed low, would defeat this sebaceous uprising.

Still, changes to 'the script' weren't going to throw me. I didn't really know what was on it in the first place.

There was a real-life Cyberman on-hand to come out and surprise the kids. I knew this in advance.

We couldn't do a dress rehearsal with him because we didn't want the public milling about in the theatre's foyer to know what was coming up. In retrospect, this was a fatal mistake. Fatal to my sense of professional dignity. I know! I was surprised I had one of those, too.

The idea was that the Cyberman would come out on stage at his appointed cue in my script.

All I had to remember to say was, "Are you ready?" -- the audience would scream, "Yes!", then the theatre would be filled with the sound of Cyberman boots tramping [courtesy of a sound FX CD], the Cyberman would appear on stage and make the event truly memorable.

"Go! go! go! You're on!" shouted Owain, BBC bod in charge of the technical side of proceedings.

I walked centre stage and began my spiel. Just to ratchet up the potential for ultimate embarrassment, I'd invited the family: Jo and Ava and my mum and dad were strategically positioned in the front-row where they couldn't escape the collateral shame that was about to explode from the stage.

I ad libbed, for the most part, but did remember to feed the sound guy and the Cyberman the "Are you ready?"-line.

The sound effect of the cyberman's stomping boots filled the audotorium.

I reeled back in the kind of faux terror that would be hard-pressed to earn me a bit part in an amateur production of Murder on the Orient Express.

And I stayed in the reeled position, cyberman-less.

And stayed.

And stayed.

There was no sign of the surprise metal nemesis.

"Are you ready?" I veritably screamed down the microphone.

The tramping sound effects started again.

But still no cyberman.

Someone in the audience giggled.

I died inside.

I contemplated wiping the concealer off the spot to give them a truly monstrous shock.

There I was, marooned in the spotlight, mumbled apologies doing little to cover the audience's confusion.

I made an apology and left the stage to go hunting the Cyberman. It was supposed to be the other way round.

He was stood in the dressing room with his make-up person on the verge of a nervous breakdown. They hadn't been able to get the helmet on and they'd heard both of my frantic deliveries of the feed line. My freneticism had only served to make things worse for them.

We got the helmet on, eventually.

I made my way sheepishly back to the centre of the stage.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes!" shouted the audience -- thankfully still game and sympathetic.

This time the Cyberman appeared. Thank the Lord!

But the damage was already done.

My pride had been deleted.

I am the spotty Alan Partridge.

A-ha.
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