Did You Know... Life in 1960s/70s Britain: The Golden Age of the Milk Round - When Milk Was Delivered to Your Doorstep Before Dawn

Glass bottles, foil tops, and the clinkerty clink of the morning milk delivery.

I was watching a documentary recently, which brought back a memory.

It showed a milkman in his float, delivering milk to the nation’s doorstep. The sun was rising, and a dog was barking as he went house to house, leaving a pint or two at each. As the float moved away, it made a low humming sound against the silence of the early morning.

It was a daily scene across the country.

In a time before supermarkets opened early, and long before 24-hour convenience shopping became the norm, milk in Britain was delivered direct to the doorstep. For those prepared to pay, it arrived not from a fridge in a shop but an early-morning delivery direct to your front door.

For many, it was the height of convenience. 

If you had your milk delivered, it was like you had joined the jet-set. Your early morning tea was brewing, Cornflakes or Weetabix waiting, and all it needed was fresh milk. And there it was, waiting on your doorstep, every day.

In the 1960s and 70s, the milkman was a familiar part of daily life in Britain. He was often seen, sometimes heard, in the early hours, long before most people were awake.

The Sound of the Morning Round

Milk deliveries usually happened very early, when the streets and roads were quiet, curtains were drawn, and most people were still in bed waiting for the alarm to go off.

The world had yet to wake up.

Typically, the only sound that might disturb this peace was the soft electric hum of the milk float as it slowly made its way down the road. In some areas, delivery was still by a horse-drawn float. That became increasingly rare as the sixties moved on, as horses gradually gave way to the modern, all-electric-powered float.

Then came the unmistakable clink of glass bottles as they were placed on doorsteps. If you were a light sleeper, that sound was part of waking up. Perhaps not welcome, but it told you that another day at work or school was about to begin.

Did You Know… Life In 1960s/70s Britain: You Could Only Watch Three Television Channels?

 

BBC1, BBC2 and ITV — and sometimes nothing at all.

In 1960s and ’70s Britain, television was a very different experience. Today, there are hundreds of channels to choose from, with satellite, cable, and the internet giving options from around the world. It’s now possible to spend more time scrolling endlessly looking for something to watch than actually watching.

There was a time when the choice was simple.

In the early 1960s, there were just three television channels: BBC1, BBC2, and ITV. And BBC2 didn’t arrive until 1964.

And that was it.

A Nation Watching the Same Family Favourites

With so few options, television became a shared national experience in a way that’s hard to imagine today. Families across the country watched the same programmes at the same time.

Favourite programmes were watched by millions. When the weekly stats came out showing what we had watched, the top programmes would often have viewing figures of ten to twenty million.

And there were times when everyone did seem to be watching at the same time.

England’s world cup win over West Germany in 1966, shown live by both BBC and ITV, was watched by 32.3 million people.

The Apollo 13 splashdown was watched by 28.6 million.

I was too young for England’s win, but I do remember watching a number of Apollo splashdowns. Thirteen must have been one of them.

The next day, conversations at work or school often began with:

“Did you see that last night?”

And most people had.

Big moments on television felt bigger because everyone experienced them together.

BBC1, BBC2 and ITV

Each channel had its own identity.

BBC1 was the main channel. The BBC had been around for years. The first radio and then television broadcaster in Britain. It was why we had a television licence. Because of the licence, it was also advertisement free.

ITV was the commercial alternative. Each region had its own ITV channel, like Thames TV, Anglia and Grenada. It had many popular shows, but as soon as those advertisements came on, someone would shout out, “Not another one.” The steady flow of breaks for commercials were never popular.

I never came across anyone who ever said they bought something because they saw an ad “on the telly”.

BBC2 was launched in 1964, and was considered a little more experimental, highbrow, and initially not available across the whole of the country. I seem to remember that it was the home of anything a little different, not seen as mainstream.

Even Fawlty Towers was originally broadcast on BBC 2, in 1975 and 79.

No Daytime TV

And television didn’t run all day.

For much of the 60s and 70s, daytime broadcasting was limited.

There were programmes for schools, and also the Open University. Mostly on the BBC. The average OU lecture was presented by someone with long hair, a beard and wearing corduroy trousers. They might have a blackboard behind them covered in diagrams of thermodynamics, or of the vote share of parties during the Weimar Republic in Germany.

If you turned over to ITV, you might be presented with a hiss and a blank screen, nothing to watch there during the day. Screens for all channels were often blank for hours at a time, until the official start time of the days programmes.

Morning and afternoon television as we know it today, simply didn’t exist.

For children, this meant that if you were home during the day, there was nothing to watch — other than those programmes for schools. Television was something that happened in the evening, not something you dipped into throughout the day.

The lack of daytime television was in part due to government restrictions on the number of hours that television could be shown each day. The law was changed in 1972 when the Conservative government lifted all broadcasting hours restrictions.

ITV were the first to take advantage of the new law. In 1972, they introduced an afternoon schedule. The BBC didn't change. Their daytime schedule might gave us a selection of pages of Ceefax teletext, rather than the testcard, but, daytime television didn't arrive on the BBC until October 1986.

Closedown

Perhaps the most striking difference of all between then and now was what happened at night. There was no 24/7 television. No late-night scrolling. No “just one more episode to watch” of binge viewing. When the television for the night stopped, it stopped. At night, it closed down.

Except, in a way, it typically didn’t.

A few things happened to end our day.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: You Once Needed a Radio Licence To Listen To The Radio?

When tuning in legally required a licence. It was a paper licence that came in a variety of colours over the years, including light blue and green.

 

Yes, for much of the 20th century in Britain, you needed a licence simply to listen to the radio. Long before the modern era of streaming subscriptions and smart speakers, and before television dominated the living room, radio was the nation’s main source of news, entertainment, and music. For years, in most homes, the radio was the height of technology.

And if you owned a wireless set, as it was called back then, you were expected to pay for the privilege. Not just for the radio itself, which was not affordable to everyone, but for a yearly licence to listen to it.

Where It All Began

The radio licence dates back to 1922, when the newly formed British Broadcasting Company began regular broadcasts. At the time, like most new technology that had the power to change the lives of people, radio was considered revolutionary. 

To fund broadcasting, the government introduced a licence fee of 10 shillings. It was intended to regulate ownership of receiving equipment. In 1923, 200,000 licences were issued. By 1930, it was three million, and by 1949, over nine million.

When the Company became the British Broadcasting Corporation in 1927, the licence system remained in place. The principle behind it was to provide the BBC with a steady, independent source of income. This would be free from advertising and commercial sponsorship. It was a principle that would shape British broadcasting for decades, and still does.

Owning a radio without a licence was technically illegal. There were inspectors who had the authority to investigate suspected evasion. Fines could be imposed for non-compliance, and there was genuine public awareness, and questioning, of the requirement.

BBC radio even had its own listings magazine. It was called The Radio Times, and for years all it listed and promoted, was BBC radio programmes. When BBC1 and then BBC2 television arrived, that changed. The magazine remains today, and although radio is now only a small part of it, the name remains as a historical, and nostalgic, reminder.

A Fixture of Everyday Life

By the 1960s and 70s, radio was part of our daily lives. As with all technology aimed at the masses, over time the cost of a radio became more affordable. Sets sat on kitchen counters, bedside tables and in the living room. Many homes would have several radios, and all were covered by one licence.

Even as television became the dominant technology for entertainment in the home, the radio remained. Families woke to the morning news, listened to drama serials, comedy, and from the 1960s, pop music. In 1967, BBC Radio 1 hit the air waves, a final recognition that there was a youth culture in Britain that had and wanted its own music. This was partly a response to the pirate radio ships like Radio Caroline.

Even after television arrived, and had its own licence, the licence requirement for BBC radio still applied. If your household owned a radio, you still had to hold a valid radio licence. This meant that most homes had two licences, one for television and another for radio. Over time, combined licences were introduced, but the radio-only licence remained cheaper.

While the funding from each licence went to the BBC, both covered the BBC, commercial television and radio. But, even if you only watched commercial television, and listened to commercial radio, like today, you still needed a licence to do so. 

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: Tonight or Never - When Missing a TV Programme Meant Missing It Forever

No repeats, no recording — and the pain of missing an episode.

In 1960s and 70s Britain, television was often an event, but it was also unforgiving and fleeting. If you weren’t at home when a programme was broadcast, you simply didn’t see it. There were no streaming services or catch-up options, and until video recorders arrived in the seventies, once a programme was broadcast, that was it. There wasn’t even a reliable repeat. Miss it, and it was gone.

Sometimes, it was gone forever.

In the early days of television, many programmes were not recorded. It was broadcast, often live, and no record remained, as there was no copy. There were many reasons for this, including cost, but at the time, the idea of building an archive for future reference and reuse was a low priority. A big event might be recorded, but most were not.

In the home, television schedules were rigid, and families planned around them. Evening routines might be changed to fit the broadcast times of favourite programmes. Meals were hurried or delayed. A raised voice from the living room would annouce, “It’s starting!” This sent everyone racing for a seat.

The television would be in the main room of the house, known as the living room, and most homes only had one ‘telly’. In the sixties, the television looked like a large wooden box with a small screen. Turn it on, and it could take several minutes to warm up and produce a picture, which was in black and white.

By the seventies, sleeker television sets, offering a bigger picture, arrived, as well as colour. But there was still one thing that you had to do, and that was to get up to turn the set on or off, change channels, or the volume. The remote control was still a few years away.

The TV Schedule

The Radio Times and TV Times weren’t just magazines; they were essential guides, unless you were happy to rely on a newspaper. There was something else about these two magazines, in that they only gave details of their own programmes. The BBC had the Radio Times, while commercial television had the TV Times. You had to buy both to get the complete picture of what was on for the week ahead.

My parents didn’t buy them, except at Christmas, so we relied on the local paper and memory. I suppose that it helped that there were only three television channels, BBC 1 and 2, and a commercial station that showed adverts, which, in the region that I lived, was ATV.

One Chance Only

Most programmes were shown once, and once only. Popular shows might be repeated months, sometimes years, later, but that was never guaranteed. As a child, if you missed an episode of your favourite programme because you were out, ill, or late home from school, you had to rely on friends to tell you what happened. Sometimes, they would make it up, especially football results.

Once you had missed a programme, there was no way to catch up. You either saw it, or you didn’t. This made television, and your favourite programmes, something to be remembered. Each episode carried weight. Cliffhangers mattered, because if you missed it, you might never find out how they were resolved.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 - Day One: The Christmas Top 40 And The Number One We Waited All Year For

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 is my festive wander through memories, history, traditions, mishaps and moments — from childhood Christmases of the 60s and 70s to the quirks of celebrating today. Think nostalgia sprinkled with humour, a pinch of honesty, and the occasional whiff of Brussels sprouts. 

Let’s unwrap the season, one story at a time.

 

 

It’s just a few weeks away, but does the Christmas Number One record across the nation still matter?

There was a time in Britain when it was big, and it mattered to a lot of people. It was a national, glittering piece of pop-culture theatre we all gathered around the radio to hear. And, of course, it all happened long before you could tap your phone and know instantly who was selling what. 

There was a time when you had to wait. And wait. And wait.

In the 1960s, 70s and well into the 80s, the race for the Christmas Number One was a proper competition. And there was an annual battle between many artists, bands, and singers every year to produce a Christmas single and be in the top spot.  

The Sunday Before Christmas Countdown

We would find out who was number one with the ‘official’ chart show on the Sunday before Christmas. The ritual was always the same. Early evening, Christmas holidays ahead, or if you had finished school, celebrating already, BBC Radio One, then the countdown would begin. The chart rundown — 40, 39, 38 — each one bringing us closer to the big announcement. 

Who was in the top spot? Who had missed out? Which act, for better or worse, would forever be remembered as the Christmas Number One? Their name etched into British pop-culture immortality.

The Giants of Christmas Past

Everyone has a favourite Christmas Number One. 

For some of a certain age, it might be Cliff Richard. He seemed to always have a Christmas single out, and often still does. In 1960, with The Shadows, he was number one with I Love You. As a solo artist, he had to wait until 1988, when Mistletoe and Wine hit the top spot. This year, glam rockers The Darkness have covered it, hoping to hit the top spot.

Is it possible that in the 1950s, the first Christmas-type song to top the charts was Winifred Atwell, with Let’s Have Another Party in 1954? The next year, it was definitely a Christmas song, Christmas Alphabet, by Dickie Valentine.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: A Time When The UK Top 40 Music Chart Was Only Announced Once a Week.

 

No streaming stats — just the suspense of Sunday evening on Radio 1.

 

A long, long time ago, before Spotify charts, YouTube views or midweek updates on social media, there was just one moment in the entire week when Britain found out what the biggest hit songs in the country were. 

And on Sunday evening, Radio 1, we settled down next to the radio as the new Top 40 was revealed in real time.

The Weekly Appointment Everyone Kept

Imagine a typical Sunday evening back in the 1970s. Tea was over, or about to be served, homework for school, I hoped, completed. And the adults of the house were settling into that slightly melancholic weekend-almost-over, back to work-tomorrow vibe.

But the radio was on, and we were waiting patiently for that moment when the countdown to the number one record of the week would begin.

Then came the build-up: the BBC Radio 1 jingle and the DJ’s voice of the official chart show. At the time, the DJ’s were big names, Alan Freeman, Tom Browne, Simon Bates and Tony Blackburn.

This was a world where listening to the chart countdown actually felt like an event. A collective experience that would be shared by millions of households across the land. No algorithms had their say, no real-time stats, no leaks. The whole nation found out at the same time who was going up, and who was going down. We were told the new songs that made the top 40, and who sat on top — the nation’s number one.

And then it began — the official countdown of the nation’s favourite songs, all wrapped up in an hour or two, of jingles, sighs, and cheers. 

At first, it only covered the top 20, but from 1978, it was expanded — Top 40 down to 1. In an age of instant information like today, it’s hard to convey just how exciting the drip-feed of the countdown was. The slow reveal. The rising tension.

We all had a favourite artist, the bands, and singers that we hoped would be in the charts or move up. And the ones we didn’t like, we hoped would fall. 

The top 40 was the ultimate chart of mainstream music; it was based on actual sales in the shops. There were no downloads, digital stats or online listenin, just the sale of records. And they were vinyl records, the seven-inch single. You had to go out and buy them at an actual shop for it to count!

And vinyl records back then sold in their millions.

The Mystery of Chart Movement

Sometimes we wondered why a record was successful.

Here are a few typical comments that might be heard as the weekly chart revealed itself.

“Why’s that gone up seven places?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“How on earth has that dropped to 18?”

“Who is buying all these records?”

“Why would anyone waste their money buying that?”

But the chart was open to anyone who could sell records. Alongside the big names like The Beatles, Queen and ABBA, one-hit wonders could make their mark. Novelty records often became big hits. There was always a surprise or two in the charts.

Here’s a selection.

Bobby “Boris” Picket and the Crypt Kickers had a hit with Monster Mash in September 1973.

Sylvia had a holiday-themed hit with Y Viva España in August 1974, reaching number 4. “We are off to sunny Spain, Y Viva España…”

Actor Telly “Who loves ya, baby?” Savalas, with his lollipop got to number one with If in February 1975 due to the popularity of his Kojak character on the telly.

And actor David Soul, who played Hutch in Starsky and Hutch, did even better than Savalas. He had a million seller with Don’t Give Up On Us in 1976. Actually, he sold a lot of records. Between 1976 and 1978, he had five UK Top 20 singles, two at number one, and two Top 10 albums.

Jilted John, otherwise known as comic actor and singer Graham Fellows, (John Shuttleworth), had a hit with Jilted John reaching number 4 in August 1978, singing that Gordon was a moron.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: Every Town Had a High-Street Record Shop With Listening Booths?

 

We had HMV, Woolworths, and tiny independents where you could test a single before you bought it.

Back in the early to mid-1970s, I would pay a weekly visit to an independent record shop in the local city centre, or “up town” as we liked to say. By then, I was old enough to have my own record player at home — an old square box with a lid on it that made a tinny sound. It was mono, and the only speaker was built into the box.

It would be a while before I managed to buy a stereo record player with twin speakers.

The record shop visit was a weekend, Saturday ritual. It had to be a Saturday, because everywhere was shut on a Sunday. I would save up my pocket money, topped up later by money from a paper round.

The high-street record shop was a central part of teenage life, although you would rarely find me browsing the latest Top 40. I would spend my time looking through racks of records of the obscure. Bands and artists, many of which I had never heard of.

The city had the big high street names like HMV, with its iconic dog-and-gramophone logo. A place where everything looked neat, and they had knowledgeable staff. Woolworths, by contrast, had a jumble sale, pick and mix charm — rows of singles in plastic sleeves, “DISCOUNT” boxes, and “ex-chart” records that nobody had heard of.

But it was the smaller independent shops that had real character. Every town had at least one. They could usually be found down a side street, or in the back streets, out of the way. Shops that were a little scruffy, often looked run down and were owned by someone who knew everything that there was to know about the music they sold. They could tell you who produced the B-side, and whether your favourite band’s new single was “a bit commercial, mate.” 

This was long before online streaming, playlists, or algorithms. No YouTube or MTV. All we had was the radio, and that was, for the most part, very mainstream. Music wasn’t just something you clicked to hear. It was something you had to make an effort to get, physically, deliberately.

It was at the record shop that you might find something you liked, but only after a good deal of dithering. But the shop provided us with the means to do it — the listening booth.

The booth was a tiny wooden cubicle where you could sample a record before deciding whether it was worth spending your hard-earned 50p. It was like a phone box, but darker and a lot warmer. There was usually more than one, all in a row.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: Kids Could Buy X-Ray Specs from the Back of a Comic?

 

“See-through clothes!” promised the ads in Whizzer and Chips, The Beano, and just about every comic a kid could get their hands on. Entirely untrue, of course.

 

If you grew up in the 1960s or 70s, you’ll remember that the back pages of children’s comics were filled with adverts for itching powder, magic tricks, prank gum, and rubber masks. But there was one that stood out, aimed firmly at childhood gullibility: X-Ray Specs.

To younger generations today, with smartphones and high-resolution everything, the idea may seem laughable. But in the pre-digital age, a time when TV shut down at night, and “special effects” meant a blue screen on Tomorrow’s World — the promise of being able to see through solid objects was nothing short of a miracle.

That is what the X-Ray specs promised us. It would give us X-ray vision.

The adverts didn’t even try to be subtle about it. The drawing usually featured a boy staring wide-eyed at a young woman, the dotted outline of her body revealed as if by magic. Very 1970s, inappropriate, and unrealistic, but we all wanted a pair.

Just imagine showing up at school being able to look through walls, desks, and…clothes. 

Who would dare turn up with X-Ray specs? Well, my mate Tony did. He had seen the ad in the back of Whizzer and Chips, or it might have been The Dandy. He saved up and sent off for a pair. I think they cost him three shillings, which was about fifteen new pence post decimilisation, including postage.

The specs themselves were made of cardboard, with red-and-white spiral lenses. Inside were thin bits of plastic film that created a double-image effect. When you looked at your hand, you’d see a faint shadow offset from the real thing. That shadow was supposed to represent the X-ray. In reality, it just looked like everything was slightly out of focus.

Even back then, paying three shillings for a flimsy pair of glasses that looked like they would last five minutes seemed a rip-off.

How Son of My Father Found Its Name - The Story Behind a Book Title, and a Half-Forgotten Song

In 2022, I wrote a book called Son of My Father.

I remember the moment the title came to me. I was pacing around my home, thinking — searching for a phrase that might hold the whole story together. Titles can be elusive things, they are jotted down, forgotten, some look great, then they don’t. I had a handful of ideas, each discarded for one reason or another. 

None seemed to bring the chapters together in the way I wanted.

At one stage, I had an idea that I felt could really work — to open each chapter with a subheading drawn from a song of the time. A piece of music that had shaped not only my personal experiences, but also the atmosphere of the era I was writing about. I imagined each song acting as a lyrical thread connecting memory, mood, and meaning to the story.

Then reality intervened. Copyright.

Yes, “fair use” might have allowed me to borrow a few lines, but even that felt like a legal grey area. The deeper I looked, the more it became a potential minefield of permissions and costs. Reluctantly, I let the idea go.

Still, once music had entered the conversation, I couldn’t get it out of my head. Songs have a way of unlocking memory, and as I sifted through those from my past, one stood out: Son of My Father, a 1972 hit by Chicory Tip.

I can’t say the band were favourites of mine, nor that the song had any special place in my life at the time. I remember it being played on the radio and Top of the Pops, but I was more into music by T Rex, Slade, Sweet and ELO. Years later, the song — and something in its story — resonated. It felt as though it was an ideal title for the book.

Here’s the song:

I later discovered that the title had been used before — in books, in other contexts — but that didn’t matter. For me, it fit.

Because although my book isn’t solely about my relationship with my dad, he is the presence that runs through it. The man, the mystery. As he left my life almost fifty years ago now, the book is most of what I know about him.

Writing Son of My Father was, in part, an act of discovery — not just about the past, but about what remains when memory fades and imagination takes its place. 

Read more reflections like this here.

 

Image by Tibor Janosi Mozes from Pixabay

When I Was a Lad: Billy's Boots, a Blast From the Past.

I was on Twitter X the other day, when I came across a post about the comics that were a big part of life for children back in the 1970s. The question was asked, how many did you buy? There was a picture of the comics available at the time. Not sure if it was all of them, but there were a lot. 

Most of them were for boys, some, Sally, Bunty, and Diana, for girls. There must have been more available for girls, surely?

Here it is.

It's an impressive number. The ones that I bought regularly were the Beano and Dandy. I think every kid bought those, or had parents who were generous enough to pay for them.

I also remember Look-in, Joe 90, Marvel and Spider-man. Most of the names are familiar to me, and the chances are that I occasionally bought them. It has to be said, though, that I couldn't afford to buy all the ones that I wanted. And the local newsagent didn't always have the new ones in stock. I assume he only wanted the comics on the shelf that he knew would sell.

I don't remember ever seeing Terrific, or School Fun, though.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas - Day Four: Andy Pandy is Coming to Play.

Amazingly, this is my most viewed tweet on Twitter X in 2023 and for a brief period, a few weeks after posting, it was trending.  

It has 7200 views. Go figure.

Andy Pandy. pic.twitter.com/xeZTauSFc6

— Lost In Words (@LostInWords2023) November 9, 2023

Andy Pandy (1950)

Each episode began:

Andy Pandy is coming to play, la, la-la, la, la-la,
Andy Pandy’s here today, la, la-la, la-la.

And ended:

Time to stop play, just for today,
Andy and Teddy must now go away.
Time to stop play, just for today
Andy is waving goodbye …, goodbye …, goodbye.

If you grew up in the 1950s or 1960s, this was most likely part of your childhood. Not that there was much to watch on television. 

Andy Pandy is coming to play. Don't have nightmares.

Until You Realise, It's Just a Story

43 years ago today, the band Teardrop Explodes released their debut album Kilimanjaro. An unofficial Twitter fan account describes their music as bubblegum trance music, psychedelic soul music. Not sure what it is, but it is very pop and melodic, very 1980s post punk, new wave. It was music that I had long forgotten about until I listened again today.  

Music is subjective, so just to say that having rediscovered this today, it is like finding something new. I will be reacquainting myself with their back catalogue of music for a few days now. It seems to have stood the test of time.

As they say. Until you realise, it's just a story.

Is it Christmas Yet?

Clearly not, but I was in a local charity shop earlier today and I noticed that the music playing in the background was a Christmas tune. At the front of the shop was a table set out with potential Christmas gifts, including a box of books, all of which had a Christmas theme.  The saving grace was that there was that they had not yet put up a Christmas tree.

The music was coming from a CD player, the CD that was playing being a Christmas greatest hits compilation album. Track number one was Slade's Merry Xmas Everybody. In merry old England, you always know that Christmas is just around the corner when shops start playing the Christmas hits of the past.

Except it is the 6th of October, the sun is out and this weekend into next week is expected to be sunny and warm.  Might even be hot. 

For the shops, even charity shops, the time to sell for Christmas just seems to be getting earlier. I have to say I wasn't tempted to do any Christmas shopping just yet.