George VII – The Summer of ’76
” Come closer my son my throat is so dry “.
Our minds had become deserts, tarmac effortlessly melted like ice cream and folk lay like sweating pigs in deckchairs. Vitamin D was very much in abundance, but so too was the prospect of cancer unbeknown to us all back then, like the toxic fall out which would fall in Threads some years later.
The nuclear family were united, united around lamb chops, around the TV, united by hard times, united in strike after several years of downing tools, so the lights went off and candles came out. It were both exciting and mysterious to a young boy, and I have to confess that the frequency of flickering evenings did facilitate for the foolish prospect of fondling Christmas presents even if it were only Spring.
The nuclear family were united in their disgruntlement, as that insidious beast called inflation once more crawled from out its sty and began gobbling their over-worked pennies. The technical term for the increase in the money supply as controlled (or not as the case may be) by the Government of the day and the mysterious Bank of England, which in turn would inevitably result in the increase in prices at some later point in the cycle (incorrectly termed inflation), whether it be bread or shoes, petrol or fags. But the serious man inside the TV would sternly tell us that inflation were due to ‘we the consumers’ spending too much, and not for the first time either. Had we not learnt our lesson from the last time? Clearly the Government of the day had not. However, the serious man said it were all down to ‘our’ irresponsible behaviour. “Stop spending the money we are giving you!” warned the pointy finger of the Government of the day. Shame on us.
This I hasten to add were the same serious man my younger sibling served a refreshing beaker of diluted orange juice to via the vent grill at the back of our humongous TV set. A kind offering considering the scorching drought we were experiencing. However, said TV smoked like a broken car with a dry water tank and therefore sibling was sent to bed early – with no biscuits to boot. Serious man, who showed no gratitude for this complimentary drinks service returned once the TV eventually dried out to continue with his seriousness.
‘How much?!’ we grumbled and then we paid for it nevertheless. A mere month before the 12th of May and another newly elected Prime Minister (James Callaghan, this time) tasked with ‘sorting out our reckless overspending’ had threatened more debt. More debt, more heat. It would get worse before better. A tiny fraction of angry young people began to sizzle with vile intent. Trade Unions and Punk are indeed a toxic concoction. They shocked and looked shocked with the expressions of disturbed dummies. This may have been the dark matter for which scientists salivated for. With society being that perfect laboratory the discontent increased in temperature so one could expect the pressure to ignite. There is always a reaction at the edge, call it social fission. The suits of democracy were failing badly, as they inevitably do, the serious man showed us pictures of suits getting into cars and then suits getting out of cars, and how they all waved like vain ships leaving helpless harbours. It were our fault lest we forget as shoppers snatched their diminishing change at the tills and fashion had something serious to spit out.