A few introductory words.

My name is Mick and I am an old fart.

When I was a teenager it seemed half the country was on strike. I remember a bill-board at the time declaring “Britain Isn’t Working”, and this appeared to be true. Industries were closing down at an alarming rate. The 3 day working week with it’s associated power-cuts each night was still a recent memory. It was the 70’s, and it was depressing.

If you were “different” there were things called bashings. These were happily dished out by gangs of knuckle-dragging morons. Gay-bashing and Pakki-bashing seemed to be especially popular – almost as popular as the comedians on the TV who were getting paid for telling us jokes about their “darkie” mates (usually named “Chalkie” or something equally hilarious). Oh how we didn’t laugh.

Corruptness was everywhere. Millions were unemployed. If you got something new you paid for it “on the weekly”.

There was also the odd explosion as well. Beatings, bills and bombs. Bleak.

And we had a bloody outside toilet.

This is the bit where I tell you we all gave up and surrendered to a drab inevitable future.

But…

Some damned individuals had planted a new rose, and we smelled it while we witnessed the rotten sneer. A man called Joe and some of his friends asked if we were taking over or taking orders. We were soon in a different kitchen with another music, and Weller had a thousand things to say to us.

It was truly a new wave of music, and it was everywhere. Even animals got in on the act, from Norvegicus rats to Parisian ants.

We trampled in gardens new, made in Hong Kong, and we roared along with Ian who was from Essex (in case you couldn’t tell).

We met other girls – one from another planet and one in the neighbourhood – and, like tin soldiers, we got stiff and skidded into the valley.

We forgot our lives, and in doing so we began to fully live our lives. There were no more heroes.

Except maybe Geno… Oh Geno.

Like Dickens nearly said: It was the worst and best of times. Darkness and light, the winter of despair followed by the spring of hope.

Music gave me hope. And still does.

My name is Mick and I am an old fart.

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Mick Collins

I am an old fart who was born in Woking, and grew up in a village about 5 miles away (from Woking, not from anyone reading this - that would be stupid. Unless you're reading this in Woking). I'm 6'3" tall and still own quite a few of my own teeth. I am really crap at dancing, but this truly and honestly doesn't bother me. Sing. Dance. Roar.

1 CommentLeave a comment

  • Cheers Mick! Welcome. I’m 5’8, own all my own teeth, but none of my hair and I’m probably a worse dancer than you. Look forward to hearing about whatever you remember.

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