THE refrain of the familiar chart hit flowed from the lounge, a serpent of sound snaking its way up the stairs and into the pit that only just about qualified to be described as a bedroom.

"Sweets for my sweet, sugar for my honey..." warbled The Searchers lead singer Mike Pender, the telltale jingle-jangle of the guitars underpinning lyrics of pure testosterone Scouse.

It was April, 1964. I was feeling better. The upbeat message of these Merseybeat minstrels was matching my mood.

Yes, this is what I wanted to hear... songs of romantic optimism.

Such a change from a few days before, when only the saddest of tunes would have served.

For having given up all hope of Maureen Gardner ever falling in love with me, the previous week had witnessed the adolescent Phillpott marinading himself in the most melancholic offerings of the Everly Brothers, Rockin' Berries and the Ivy League.

What a difference a few days make. I was feeling much better, the sick-to-the-pits feeling had gone, and I was raring for some action at the Town Hall dance being held that night.

But just one thing was wrong. My face was plastered in spots. They were pebble-dashing my forehead, miniature mountain ranges, reconnaissance shots of the Himalayas taken by satellite. My right cheek sported a transistorised facsimile of the Malverns, complete with its very own pustular Worcestershire Beacon.

This heartbreak ridge graded itself down to a Hangman's Hill, an angry red rather than the more familiar verdant green.

It was not a pretty sight. And it meant only one thing. There was no way I could launch this moonscape of a visage on the assembled throngs of boppers and doo-woppers probably now waiting for my appearance at that night's shindig.

Yes. The mind may have been willing, but the flesh was terminally weak. There was no way I could present this lunar surface to eligible young ladies and expect a further meeting the next night on the steps of the Granada Cinema.

Forget it, son. You look awful. And so I resolved to stay in and watch Ready, Steady... Go! instead.

Spots. They have blighted the lives of young people ever since some young Adonis caught sight of himself in the pool's reflection, aeons before teenagers were invented.

And what a heartless hand of fate it is, indeed, that deals such a cruel blow to youth when life should be free from cares and woe.

ACTUALLY, Nature must have quite a sense of humour to pull such a stunt at the height of the human animal's reproductive potential, rendering the entire process unfeasible by the presence of eruptions great and small.

Why? Yes, Mother Nature - why? I'm talking to you. It doesn't happen elsewhere in the animal kingdom. Male birds strut like Beau Brummel and warble a la Pavarotti, looking the absolute business, capable of conquering the world.

Other mammals also put on their Sunday best for the Spring Ball. But why-o-why do so many young humans receive such a raw deal. Why!

Well, I have to report that help is at hand. Too late for me, of course. But it's good news for those who are suffering from a less-than blemish-free skin.

Doctors have recently announced that laser treatment for acne is having the most dramatic effect on the battle against spots for 30 years. A pilot study of 41 volunteers found that a single five-minute dose was enough to clear up half the spots treated.

Ten of the patients who took part in the trial at Hammersmith Hospital, London, were free from acne in weeks.

The trial was conducted by Dr Tony Chu, a consultant dermatologist and chairman of the Acne Support Group.

"The results were stunning," he is reported as saying. "I was a complete sceptic, but now I am converted. This really is the first major advance in acne treatment in 30 years. The effect of a single treatment lasts three months."

The Nlite laser was developed at the University of Wales as a way of removing wrinkles. Doctors apparently noticed that it also cleared up pimples.

It is now being used at about 25 private clinics, where a single facial session costs around £300.

Acne is the most common skin disease in the world, according to a recent report, affecting more than 90 per cent of adolescents and many people in their 40s and 50s.

For about 70 per cent of teenagers, the condition clears up of its own accord after four or five years, although it may leave permanent scarring.

For 30 per cent of sufferers, the condition continues long into adult life. Antibiotics can help for some people, while hormone treatment can be prescribed for a proportion of women.

Past studies have shown that light treatment can be beneficial by promoting the production of collagen and encouraging the skin's natural healing process.

DR Chu gave a single dose of Nlite to 31 men and women with mild to moderate acne who had failed to respond to conventional drugs, and compared the results with a group of 10 people given a sham treatment.

After 12 months, 81 per cent of the laser group showed significant improvement. Eighteen patients lost at least half their spots and 10 lost them altogether.

Dr Chu acknowledged that more work and larger studies were needed to confirm the findings, the report added...

Well, anything that improves the lot of the facially-afflicted receives my vote. Such treatment - if it proves to be effective - has to be an improvement on the earliest experiment conducted by myself and pal Phil "Soapy" Olive.

Listening to Sam Costa spinning pop platters on Radio Luxembourg late one night, we resolved to try out two of the acne-busting products being touted as the ultimate in blemish destruction.

No sooner had the Horace Batchelor infra-draw method advert finished, than a plan of action was drawn up.

It was agreed that "Soapy" was to give a cream called Clearasil a go, while a product called Tackle would be employed to zap my zits. The die was cast.

Sad to relate, neither of us followed the instructions. Wrong, wrong. The contents of both tubes were slapped on like emulsion paint, setting on their respective hosts like varnish/plaster of Paris.

The next day, upon meeting, we simultaneously burst into laughter, neither of us realising that the other had indulged in identical foolishness.

And what a sight it was, indeed. Such was the strength of the coating that merely to smile was calculated to send cracks rippling across the surface of this veneer.

And there was worse to follow - for when at last the awful glacier of detritus was removed, the angry-looking skin underneath was far worse than had it been left in peace.

However, if hope is truly at hand, then it makes me glad. I don't know what is today's equivalent to The Searchers - latterday serenaders by appointment to Spotty Muldoon-- but whoever they are, they just might be facing (pun intended) the prospect of having to learn a different tune.

But thank God those days are over for me. And Maureen Gardner can eat her heart out, too.