Songs for Lost Saturdays and Desolate Sundays

This feels like Saturday morning. It must be said it actually is Saturday morning, so surely this should be no surprise, but to be more precise, it feels like a certain kind of Saturday morning... I'm reminded of 1986 or 1986, where I'd have a lie-in, trying to listen to singles and albums I never usually listened to (AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Kiss, Tygers of Pan Tang) and trying to 'get into them'. These were usually the albums I bought because a) a friend was selling them cheap b) I didn't have enough money to buy a proper (ie thrash or hardcore) album c) I felt like 'experimenting' or d) I was in a town where 'proper' albums were not available. In regards to the latter point, considering that I found The Depraved album 'Stupidity Maketh the Man' and bought The Accused's 'The Return of Martha Splatterhead' in an independent record shop in Kidderminster of all places in December of 1986, I'm not sure where these towns actually were. The Tygers of Pan Tang album I bought on cassette tape from the newsagents we would pass by on the way to school.
These albums would pile up, not necessarily unloved, but just not listened to as much as, say, Carnivore or Virus or Sacrilege. During the week, those depressing post school day evenings of undone homework, I would never listen to them and it was only on certain weekends, probably when my then best friend Leighton had left Ickenham when his parents loved to Langley, that these odd albums would come to be played.
There would always be something slightly dismal about them. A depressing aura of being too slow and too light and entirely lacking the excitement of the more extreme bands I preferred. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy listening to them as such, it was more like some vital spark was not present. These were albums that described an English landscape (even if ACDC were Australian and Kiss were American) of roadside cafes, grim Midlands towns, and all under a weather of headache and drizzle. The songs plodded by, leaving little in the way of impression but a curiously desolate melancholy.
I would only play these albums once or twice, and then not think about them for months. They would languish forgotten in the drawers of my bedroom unit or at the back of my record boxes, waiting for the next lonely Saturday or bored Sunday to emerge.
This ia all because of those two Black Sabbath albums I bought yesterday for £1:99 each from a charity shop, 1985's Seventh Star and 1987's The Eternal Idol. Both albums seem to sum up the spirit of those lost teenage days; a dismal dreaminess, a dreary somnlence, the deep desolate light as Saturday afternoon sank into evening...
Strangely, I never had either of the albums back them. I remember them being around though, lingering in bargain racks or in the cassette tape sections of provincial record shops. I only heard both of them yesterday for the first time.
What is stranger, and perhaps more worrying, is the fact that I am enjoying both immensely.