2 (26) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY V.

IF YOU CAN REMEMBER THEM...

The sixties. 

It has been said, too often, that if you can remember the sixties you weren't there. I can remember them well enough and that says it all. Never in my life smoked pot or wore flowers in my hair and, from my mid-twenties onwards, had little time for the music of the day. Was never a 'teenager' for that matter; they came later. Back in the forties you were just a spotty adolescent. Never lived in a tented commune with the smell of damp clothes and cannabis and free love, either. Might have been a nicer person if I had; but no, all that passed me by. I wasn't there. 

Met my Leader for the first time in 1961 (she tells me). We first went out the day the Berlin Wall went up. I'm not sure whether that signifies anything. We drove, in my Fiat 600, to a pub out in the country that she “had heard was quite nice.” When we got there the owner of the shop where she worked and one of his male assistants just happened to be “having a drink” in the lounge bar. What a coincidence! We had a pleasant evening and as I drove her back home I realized, in silent amusement, that I had just passed the first test: had I not I would have been driving alone and her boss or his assistant would have escorted her home. You'd have to be a complete moron not to admire feminine guile like that. 

The following year we were married: sold the Fiat (complete with fog lights and abarth dual exhaust) to help fund it. Went on honeymoon to Cornwall in a hired Mini with bald tires. Nobody gave a sod in those days. Later bought a former McDonald's fisheries van to drive to and from work. Cats followed me around for months. Well, I like cats. Mo found work with our local newsagent and I carried on working for the NHS (poor money, but one day there would be a pension). 

It was the year The Beatles recorded their first single (Love Me Do), and it was the year Marilyn Monroe died (who knows how). The assassination of JFK in 1963 was less of a surprise than it might have been. In a country where everyone has the right to bear arms, the decision to drive the American President into Dallas in an open car had to be fatally optimistic didn't it? That said, I don't think any of it affected us much. We were new to married life and gently happy. At the beginning of February 1964 our son, Neil, was born at a nursing home in Emsworth, on the Hants/Sussex border. Towards the end of July, 1965, his sister Jacqueline was born at home. Back then, hospital - home - hospital were the advised birthplace venues for successive babies. Might not be the same now. In the NHS, as in education, the police and all the public services, the bureaucratic goalposts were (and still are) constantly changing. It's the prerogative of politicians to meddle and, one way or another, they always do. If I had a thousand quid for every Minister of Health (from Derek Walker-Smith onwards) who was a total twat, I'd be a very rich man. (To be continued) 

READING. 

I finished Terry Pratchett's Men At Arms (published by Gollancz) with the smug self-satisfaction of a man who has come late to Disc World and still has a load more of the series to read. Do I need to laud the genius of the late Sir Terence any more? Surely not. If you've read him you'll know what I mean: if you haven't, get on down to your local bookshop and spend a few quid. You'll not regret it. 

The World According To Noddy (Constable). Noddy Holder's “life lessons learned in and out of rock 'n' roll” is an easy read. Lots of famous name dropping, but if you are as famous as he is you are bound to have lots of famous names to drop. The man is entirely down to earth and it is plain that what you see is what you get. I like Noddy so I liked the book. 

Apropos the above: Our son went to the Reading Rock Festival in 1980 and came back full of how Slade, a last minute booking, had stolen the show.

“You'd have thoroughly enjoyed it, Dad,” he said. “Nobody gave them a hope and they turned out to be the best thing there.” It did not surprise me. 

That was the festival where, as he was leaving, Neil was shoved up against a wall and searched for drugs by the police. He has never been a smoker - tobacco or anything else - or a drug user, so must have been chosen on appearance alone. (In his teens he could look a bit way out.) Anyway, they found him to be clean and sent him on his way. 

I have already told the next bit many times, so skip it if you've heard it:
I was paternally peeved. 

“Did you take down any of their numbers?” I asked. 

“No, why would I?” 

“Because you hadn't done anything wrong. If they'd done that to me I'd have taken down their numbers and written a stiff letter of complaint to the Chief Constable about it.” 

He shook his head: 

“They wouldn't have done it to you, Dad. You'd have walked down the middle of the road in your suit, tie and waistcoat and the only thing they might have said to you is: 'Good day, sir.'” 

A wryly accurate assessment which I doubt would still apply today. 

Enough for now. More fairly soon if my computer hasn't been packed for a move by then. The cat Shadow, unabashed by age, has found two new girlfriends next door. I fear he will strongly object to being shifted.