Another year down (a drunken ramble)
Sixty one years, eh? How the fuck did that happen? I remember when I was in my Twenties saying that if I made it into my Sixties, that’d do. That’d be old enough, too old, I’d be happy to die then. Well sod you, you insufferable priggish arse of long ago. You know nowt.
In my time I’ve seen post-war rationing, the rise of women’s rights, a sharp decline in persecution of gay people, and the complete transformation of meaning in the word ‘gay’ itself. I’ve seen The Beatles play live and got drunk with The Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band. I watched Kirk Douglas gurn across the big screen of Rawmarsh Regal Cinema in The Vikings in 1959, and owned a Man From Uncle membership card. I remember pounds, shillings and pence. I remember farthings.
I wore love beads in the late Sixties, gawped at the moon landing as it happened, and was at the heart of the rise of punk in London a decade later. I watched England win the World Cup Final in 1966. I remember McDonalds first appearing in Britain. I gasped as fire blazed across the skies above the Rossendale valley at the turn of a millennium.
I married an amazing woman, and raised two other amazing women in their turn. I suffered under Thatcher (sidebar: the current Tories are FAR worse) and marched in protests against her government’s selfishness. I was involved with computing at the beginning of the internet.
And so much bloody more. A whole motherfucking maelstrom of experience that’d make your ears bleed taken all at once, and you know what? I want more. I’m not ready to piss off just yet, so the twatmonger that I was back in the mid-Seventies can piss off and play his pseudy Soft Machine records. Life is beautiful. I’m going to hang about a bit yet.