Did You Know… In 1960s and 70s Britain You Had to Put Money Into a Coin Meter for Electricity?

For many households in Britain there was a time when paying for electricity did not involve monthly bills, online accounts, or direct debits.

Instead, it involved cash, actual physical money.

Electricity was often paid for with shillings and then, later, after decimalisation was introduced in 1971, a ten pence coin. As time passed and with inflation, a fifty pence coin became the norm.

Many homes had a coin meter. It was typically mounted on a wall, usually in the hallway or under the stairs. Sometimes it was hidden away in a cubbyhole. 

Unlike today, where meters are digital, the old meters had a mechanical number mechanism, that showed the number of units used. They also had a spinning wheel inside which would speed up when more appliances were in use.

At times, it would go really fast.

That coin meter controlled the electricity supply to the home, and to keep the lights on, you had to feed it with coins.

Paying as You Used It

Today, most people pay their electricity bills at the end of the month or quarterly. They are paying for electricity already used. But in the days of coin meters, it was different.

The idea behind coin meters was simple: you had to pay in advance. It was most commonly found in rented homes, bedsits and flats, or for families who preferred to manage spending week by week.

Inside the metal meter box was a slot where the coins were inserted. Each coin would add a certain amount of credit to the meter. As electricity was used, the credit ticked down. When it ran out, so did the power. There was no warning. It was a straightforward system, but it meant households had to keep an eye on the meter, especially in the evening when lights, televisions, and heaters were all in use.

The equivalent of the coin meter today is the prepayment meter. The modern version uses a card or key, which is topped up by a visit to a local shop or post office. You can pay the shop with coins, but the meter is all digital.

Unlike the old coin meters, prepayment meters allow an emergency payment. If the electricity runs out, you can use it straight away. Of course, you are charged a daily rate of interest for it, but at least the lights are kept on until you can top up again.

Not so in the 1960s and 70s. Once the lights went out, you were in the dark until you fed the coin meter again.

In the Dark

For those of us who lived with the coin meters, we remember the familiar moment when the lights suddenly went out, especially at night.

Darkness.

And silence — except for the occasional cursing of the meter.

Often the television went blank in the middle of a programme that everyone wanted to see. Shouting could be heard.

“Not now. I’m going to miss it. Anyone got a light so I can see what I’m doing?” Mam or Dad would say.

It was even worse when video recorders became available in the 1970s. If you were recording a programme, or out when the meter ran down, you came home to a blank tape or the final ten minutes lost when it cut out.

When cooking, it became a household emergency.

“Quickly, feed that meter; there’s a chicken in the oven.”

Sometimes, someone would immediately say the obvious words:

“Has the meter run out?”

A quick check usually confirmed it.

Coins then had to be found, often in a hurry.

If pockets and purses didn’t have the right coins or were empty, someone was given the task of running down to the corner shop, the off-licence, or the local pub. As a last resort, you hoped a neighbour was home and borrowed from them.

On one occasion, my Dad made that trip to the pub to get some change, and two hours later he was still there.

“Well, Stan offered to buy me a drink. I couldn’t say no, could I?” Was his excuse.

Mam wasn’t impressed.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: From Tin Bins to Junk Shops and Rummage Sales - How Recycling Was Different From Today?

Long before official policies and colour-coded bins, we simply made do.

In 1960s and 70s Britain, when it came to collecting our rubbish, there were no separate kerb side collections. We didn’t have to remember whether this week was the green or brown bin. And there was no requirement to sort the rubbish we put out for collection.

At the time, it was not a big issue. There were no public campaigns urging us to reduce waste to protect the planet. It was not a mainstream political issue — the UK Green Party wasn’t formed until 1990 (out of the PEOPLE Party, 1972). Television did give us The Good Life, a BBC comedy following the alternative lifestyle of Tom and Barbara Good. Self-sufficiency and recycling in Surbiton. The idea of recycling though, was a fringe issue. 

But people often did it because they had to.

Dustbins

The rubbish (garbage) was collected once a week. Everything was put into a small tin bin (larger items would have to go to the local tip). All we had was a small round metal tin bin or two (later they were black plastic or rubberised bins). Household waste went into those bins, and it all went to landfill.

Of course, this was bad, but we were none the wiser. However, in many ways, we recycled far more than we realised, and not because it was policy. But because we had to. Milk came in bottles returned for deposit. Drink bottles were reused. Paper and wood were saved for lighting fires. Leftovers became the next day’s meal. And clothes would be used over and over again.

There were many examples of people recycling, reusing, and repurposing everyday items.

Make Do and Mend

The postwar generation who raised families had grown up at a time when waste was frowned upon. The war years had required people to “make do and mend.” It wasn’t just a slogan; it was a necessity, and for many it became a habit. With clothes, after a few years of wear and tear, they would be repaired, taken in or out, and passed down. 

This happened quite often with children’s clothes.

“When you have grown out of them, they will fit your brother.” Mam might say to me when she bought me a new pair of trousers, shirt, or jumper. She would save buttons in tins. And old jumpers were unravelled for wool. Shoes might be repaired rather than discarded, or worn until the holes in them became too big.

But my mother had one big advantage when it came to making do and mending. She was a trained sewing machinist. If it could be made, altered or renewed on a sewing machine, she could do it. No job was too big or too small. She could make clothes last a long time or turn them into something else.

But, more often than not, when something needed replacing, the first port of call was not an expensive shop in the city centre.

No, we would visit local junk shops.

The World of the Junk Shop

Every city and town had junk shops.

Near my home, a fifteen-minute walk away, there was a street of mostly junk shops, or second-hand shops, as some would call them. They were often dimly lit, dusty, and in need of cleaning, but nobody complained. They would pile things high and sell them cheap. We didn’t care about the “shopping experience”, as we wanted a bargain.

These shops were full of other people’s cast-offs. Crockery without matching sets, second-hand books, mismatched cutlery, old toys, electrical items, and furniture. Anything for the home, as long as it fit in the shop, could be found there.

Nothing was labelled “vintage” even if it was antique. There was no eBay to check to see if an item was worth something. The age of the collectible was yet to arrive. I’ve no doubt that those junk shops did house some items that probably had value, but people were mostly buying for need.

For many, whatever you wanted, you tried the junk shop before you bought new. It was cheaper, practical, and despite years of prior use, whatever you bought was often built to last, with years of use left. Today, we might call it upcycling. Back then, it was just shopping.

In our family, we would visit the junk shops on Saturday, which was a traditional day of the week for people to shop — a busy shopping day. There was no Sunday trading back then, no 24/7 opening time, either. No shop-to-you-drop online options. If you wanted to shop from the comfort of your own home, you did it with a catalogue.

For many, Saturday was the big shopping day of the week.

Rummage Sales and Charity Shops

Then we had rummage sales. Also known as jumble sales, a weekend would not be complete without checking the local paper to see if there was one listed nearby. Clothes were piled high on tables. Toys and books were sold for pennies. In fact, most things were sold for pennies. Rummage sales were often the cheapest of all.

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: Daily Life Before Mobile and Smartphones - The Red Phone Box Era

 

We made arrangements; “I’ll meet you there” was a firm commitment — and that was that.

It’s almost impossible now to imagine daily life without a mobile or smartphone.

Today, that little tech gadget allows us to carry the internet, ask AI anything, take photos, write diary or journal entries, use an endless number of apps, watch news and talk to anyone. Everywhere we go, we now have access to the wider world. It’s all there in our pockets.

But in 1960s and 70s Britain, none of that existed. Somehow, we got by; life worked perfectly well — for most of the time, that is.

Out and About

When we left our homes, there were no texts to say you were running late. No reminders of when and where you needed to be, or quick calls to check where someone was. There was no watching films or playing games on the go. No scrolling while waiting, or just checking your social media replies.

If you spoke to anyone, it might be the bus conductor when you got your fare or a polite nod of the head and chat if you passed someone you knew. When you left the house, you were simply… unavailable, on a journey from A to B. It was expected that at some point you would get to B, and until that moment, you were incommunicado.

And that was normal.

Plans Meant Commitment

We had to make arrangements in advance, often days or weeks before, and remember them. “Meet outside the pub at seven” was not a suggestion; it was a commitment. If you were late, there was no way to phone and explain. The other person either waited or assumed you weren’t coming and moved on.

This involved discipline and trust. We took it for granted that if you arranged to meet someone, they would be there. Of course, it didn’t always work out. That pretty girl who you thought you had a date with might not turn up — “You were stood up!” Friends would say and laugh, as if it had never happened to them.

Everyone knew what it was like to be “stood up”.

Getting Lost and Staying Lost

Today, if you have a smartphone, it is difficult to get lost. Assuming your battery hasn’t run out, it can provide directions with a few taps. In the 1960s and 70s, whether walking or driving, navigation relied on printed road atlases, street signs, and asking strangers for directions.

Drivers kept folded maps in glove compartments. Passengers became “back seat drivers”, giving directions when necessary. Cars didn’t have their own built-in GPS or navigation systems, either. Journeys into the unknown were planned beforehand. If you got lost, you stopped and asked someone. And sometimes you stayed lost for quite a while.

You problem-solved, paid attention, learnt and remembered your routes.

Then there were those journeys where you would have to be there if you wanted a lift from someone who had a car.

“Don’t be late; we have to get to the concert by eight — I won’t wait. If you are not there, you will have wasted your money buying the ticket.” My mate with the car taking me to a must-see concert, told me.

I was late, but only by a few minutes, and the car was nowhere to be seen.

That happened in the summer of 1977, when I bought a ticket to see a new, hot band of the time — their name escapes me now — and I was left wandering the backstreets of a decidedly dodgy area.

What I do remember is that I still got to the concert, as I walked the four miles to the gig, asking for directions along the way. I missed the warm-up act — thank goodness for support bands. The concert was well attended, and on that night, I never found the mate who left me stranded. I had a long walk home.

The Home Telephone

Most households that had a telephone had just one, usually downstairs, perhaps in the hallway (assuming where you lived had a hallway). The first home that I lived in that had a phone was in the mid-seventies. Back then, there was only one state national telecoms supplier — the GPO (General Post Office). They eventually became British Telecom and were privatised in the 1980s.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: The Winter of 1963 Was Known as The Big Freeze - One of the Coldest in Britain Ever?

 

The Big Freeze that was the biggest freeze, bringing the country to a standstill.

 

The winter of 1962–63 is remembered simply as the Big Freeze. It remains one of the harshest and longest cold spells ever experienced in Britain. It was the coldest winter on record since 1740.

And I lived through it.

Now, I have to confess that despite being there, I have no memory whatsoever of that big freeze. I have an excuse, though; I was only three years old at the time. I can only imagine how cold it must have been, and life was very different back then when winter hit.

In 1962, early 63, it wasn’t just a few bad weeks of snow. The cold weather never seemed to end. It froze the sea and rivers; it halted transport and working life. Temperatures went to minus twenty degrees. For a few months it reshaped everyday life. It froze homes, routines, and memories.

When the Cold Took Hold

It began just after Christmas Day 1962, with snow falling across much of the country on Boxing Day. Falling temperatures followed and stayed that way for weeks. As we entered the new year and January 1963 got underway, much of Britain was locked under deep snow and ice, with temperatures regularly below zero.

It was a time when Britain was far less prepared for extreme weather than it is today. I know, we do complain about the weather a lot in Britain. It’s always a topic of conversation, and even being prepared is not enough to stop the weather when it is extreme. But in 1963, no one was ready for what was about to happen.

Home life

Central heating was rare. Many homes relied on coal fires, and keeping them going was a daily struggle and, for many, costly. Inside homes, families gathered around one heated room, the living room, no doubt with extra layers of clothing to provide some heat. Ice would form on the inside of windows.

And that was my home. My parents rented a small terraced house that relied on a coal fire and, occasionally, electric heaters. The coal fire was downstairs. Most of the rest of the house, and upstairs, had no heating. A hot water bottle, and many blankets, would have been your warmth against the cold winter.

I must have been wrapped up well.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: From Domestic Goddess to Women's Liberation - The Changing Role of Women

 

Changing expectations and the quiet revolution inside British homes.

In the 1960s and 70s Britain, housework was seen as "women’s work". If that sounds controversial, then yes, it was, but at the time, that was the norm. When it came to domestic chores — cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, and childcare were all seen as part of the assumed daily responsibilities of wives and mothers.

It was women that were expected to look after the home. Men, by contrast, were usually expected to “help out” with certain “manly” duties, like cleaning the windows or anything that might involve heavy lifting. General housework, only occasionally, if at all.

At the time, this was simply the accepted order of things in the home.

The Division of Labour

While women had been called upon to fill the void in the workforce in wartime, post-war Britain inherited a rigid division of roles. Men went out to work while women ran the home. It was still seen as an ambition for a woman to find a husband who had a good job, a trade, or profession, and get married. The married woman who stayed at home would invariably be described as a housewife.

Of course, there were jobs for and aimed at women, traditional jobs like secretary, typist, or care work. Many women worked, some even had careers, but they were still expected to be the homemaker, housewife, and mother. The war had brought about some change, but traditional expectations of gender roles remained.

My mother did both, she had two jobs.

She took care of the home and also went out to work, that is, until she became a home worker. She was a machinist, and a very good one. Anything that could be made on a sewing machine, she could do. After my brother and I arrived, she worked from home. Whether it was because of tradition or what was expected of her, she accepted the dual role. In fact, she was the “boss” in our home.

Even as more women entered paid employment during the 1960s and 70s, expectations at home only changed slowly, or not at all. If a woman had a day job, when it ended, she returned home to find that meals still needed cooking and the home and children still needed looking after. It was rare for men to do such tasks, as many would arrive home from work and expect their dinner to be waiting for them.

Home Life

Housework itself was time-consuming and physically demanding. For many people, the consumer revolution that brought technology to the home either hadn’t arrived or was not affordable. Washing machines, fridge freezers and tumble dryers are common now but back then were rare, as was the use of labour-saving devices in general. Handwashing of clothes and ironing was the norm, or a trip to the local launderette.

It all took time.

The idea that men should do their share of these tasks simply wasn’t widespread. When men did take part in domestic work, it was often described as “helping”, rather than sharing responsibility. It mattered because it implied that the home belonged to women and that men were assisting. Typical “men’s jobs” included mowing the lawn, taking out the bins, or doing DIY at the weekend. Daily tasks,like washing up, making beds, cleaning floors, were rarely part of a husband’s routine.

And for many men, this division went unquestioned. It was how their parents had lived, and how everyone around them seemed to live, too. The roles in the home had been set by tradition and expectation.

However, all of this changed in my family, but out of necessity, when my parents got divorced in the late 1960s. For a while, I stayed with my father, and he had no choice at that point but to take responsibility for the home and all domestic chores. My memories are somewhat sketchy on how good he was looking after the home; it probably helped that we did not have much to look after.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: A Time When Missing a Programme Could Mean Missing Out 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.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: A Time When You Got Paid To Return Fizzy Pop Glass Bottles

Pop bottle returns and the excitement of reclaiming a few pennies.

Long before plastic bottles, ring-pull cans and multipack deals, fizzy drinks in Britain came in solid glass bottles. In the 1960s and 70s, every bottle of pop carried a small return deposit, usually a penny or two, which you could reclaim by returning the empty to the shop. For a young boy (or girl), those bottles were far too valuable to throw away.

It was a simple system, but one that shaped a childhood routine. It could make a difference to pocket money economics. There was also the thrill of walking into a shop clutching a bag of empties, which would soon turn into a pocketful of pennies.

A Local Shop For Local People

“Where did you get them from?” The shopkeeper might ask.

I would try not to look guilty. Sometimes, I would take them back for neighbours, having agreed that I could keep the pennies. Often, I would find them. To the shopkeeper it looked like we drank a lot of pop, little of which had been bought from him.

The shopkeeper would inspect the bottles, count them, and either hand over coins or deduct the amount from whatever you were buying. A big haul could go towards sweets, crisps, or, maybe, another bottle of pop to start the cycle all over again. A few bottles might buy a comic.

The local shop was central to this system. Many had wooden crates stacked by the door, out the back, or behind the counter. The shopkeeper knew exactly which bottles belonged to which company and which were acceptable for return. Some were stricter than others. A bottle from the “wrong” brand might be rejected with a shrug. Others took them all. It depended on the shop, the supplier, and if your parents were a regular customer.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas — Day Ten: Christmas and the Sanity Clause

 

The Marx Brothers used to be on television over Christmas all the time when I was growing up. Their films, A Night at the Opera, A Day at the Races, Duck Soup, were just some of the best known. Years later the first two becoming names of Queen albums in the 1970s.

My favourite Marx Brother was Groucho, false mustache and funny walk. 

This is genius.

 Nothing more needs to be said.

Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash

The Twelve Posts of Christmas - Day Eight: The Christmas Selection Boxes That Never Lasted Till Boxing Day

 

 

There are certain Christmas traditions that almost everyone who grew up in Britain during the 1960s, 70s or even 80s would experience. 

Let’s start with the once-a-year treat of turkey for Christmas dinner and turkey sandwiches for a week afterwards. Then there was watching the big film on Christmas Day, only ever seen at the cinema before. And once a year, the Radio Times double issue would be bought, and planning for Christmas viewing would begin.

Then there was something that every kid expected — at least one chocolate selection box that would never make it past Boxing Day. 

In many homes, it didn’t even survive Christmas afternoon.

Selection boxes were bright, shiny, and exciting. For adults, they were an easy gift. For children, they were a chocolate-filled treasure.

And for most of us, they were gone within hours.

Although, I have to say, the selection boxes did seem to be a lot bigger back then. Maybe being a child had something to do with that — after all, everything looks bigger when you are a kid. 

But shrinkflation hadn’t been thought of yet. 

The boxes were big and were full of the chocolates everyone loved. A Mars bar, Aero, Kit-Kat, the Crunchie, the Flake, a packet of Buttons, a tube of Smarties and Rolos, to name a few. You would get ten or twelve to a box, and they were all full size — none of this miniature-size, two-bites-and-they-are-gone nonsense.

You can only imagine the sugar high.

I was always convinced that I could pace myself. Every year I’d unwrap the selection boxes and list them from favourites to potential swaps. Inside, the sweets were laid out like jewels: the Flake you could never eat neatly, the Caramel bar that stuck your teeth together, and I was always disappointed if I got a Bounty, because they were difficult to trade. Adults seemed to like them, but they had nothing to swap.

And then there were the negotiations — somehow, I had to offload that Bounty.

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 - Day Seven: When Snow Was Proper Snow

 

Will we have a White Christmas? Where I live, it looks like rain. 

There was a time when I remembered snow at Christmas.

There’s a saying you hear from a certain age group — “We had proper winters back then.” 

It’s usually said after a light dusting of snow causes the entire country to come to a standstill, or the occasional road hasn’t been gritted by the council de-icing trucks. And the telly weather forecaster on 24-hour news gets overexcited about “the possibility of flurries on higher ground”.

Whatever Happened To Snow?

But if you grew up in the 1960s or 70s, you’ll remember that we didn’t need to be warned about flurries. Snow arrived with confidence, and it a white Christmas was expected, long before Bing Crosby had told us so. 

Christmas snow was a given. It didn’t tiptoe in overnight like it does now. It marched in, dumped itself in great heaps across every road, garden and playground, and hung around for weeks. It was nice until after a few days it turned to ice, and you spent a week or two looking like a candidate for Britain’s ice skating Winter Olympics team.

Of course, back then, we didn’t have the 24-hour weather news or apps sending red alerts to our phones on the hour. We had the local milkman. I think his name was Stan, whose arrival at the doorstep was the first sign of how serious things were. 

“Cold today, I’ve had to put my gloves on. You won’t need to put these in the fridge.” He said, as the snow fell, covering the top of his hat.

Which was good, because I can’t remember whether we had a fridge back in the 1960s. Many of those mod cons didn’t arrive for us until the 1970s onwards.

Proper Snow

For us, when it snowed, it changed the whole rhythm of life, especially if you were a kid. We wanted snow, as it meant building snowmen and snowball fighting. It was the usual romantic thinking: waking up to a world made soft and silent, other than the crunch of boots on fresh white powder and the breath clouds forming in front of your face. 

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 - Day Five: Shopping like It's The 1970s

It’s Christmas, 2025, but yesterday out shopping, I was reminded of the 1970s. No, it wasn’t the sound of Slade or Wizard singing about Christmas over the tannoy; it was too early for that. I was looking at the prices on the shelf. 

It has become a holiday tradition for certain supermarkets, on this day, Aldi and Lidl, to reduce prices on a number of staple Christmas food items — usually, Christmas dinner.

The prices were at 1970s level.

Potatoes, carrots, sprouts, shallots, parsnips, and turnip were all priced at eight pence. At Lidl, I bought one of each: potatoes, carrots, sprouts and shallots, for thirty-two pence. The receipt told me what the discount was — £3.87.

You would need a time machine to see prices like that.

The UK has been going through a cost of living crisis for some time, and inflation is always there. The longer you live, the more of it you see and remember. Growing up as a young boy in the 1960s and 70s, I saw plenty of inflation. My pocket money, and earnings from the paper round, did not go far. Little changes in that regard, although I gave up delivering newspapers long ago.

So, if you live in the UK and have an Aldi or Lidl nearby, go and get a bargain, and party like it’s 1970!

** An update: I went to my local Lidl this morning (19th Dec), and they have dropped their price to five pence. It's more like shopping in the 1960s now.

And as I left the store, over the tannoy, Noddy Holder and Slade were singing Merry Xmas...

More can be found here: The Twelve Posts of Christmas

 

Image by CrimsonMystique from Pixabay

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: When People collected 'Green Shield Stamps' to Get Their First Toaster or TV

 

Collected from supermarkets and petrol stations, saved in books, then traded in for household goods.

Another journey, back in time to the 1960s and 70s.

Before we had loyalty cards, club points, air miles and shopper loyalty schemes, there was one system that reigned supreme for Britain’s shoppers: Green Shield Stamps.

For those of us who remember the time, these little green stamps were as much a part of everyday life as the weekly shop or the big catalogue that introduced the world of buying on credit. The stamps were everywhere and much sought after. Picked up at the till at the local shop or supermarket, or when filling up the car at the petrol station, they were tucked away into purses and wallets, taken home and stuck in a little book.

For millions of families, eventually, you would have enough for a new kettle, transistor radio or even the first colour TV. Consumerism, and the life of your dreams, was just a stamp away.

A Brief History.

What were Green Shield Stamps?

They were introduced in the UK in 1958, with a very simple idea:

Spend money = Get stamps = Stick them in a book = Swap books for goods. 

It wasn’t complicated, and millions did it. Supermarkets like Tesco, and other retailers, big and small, joined — thousands of them. Petrol stations were encouraged to take part as well. They all handed out stamps based on the amount you spent.

Each book would hold 1,280 stamps, and one stamp was equal to six pence spent. That was pre-decimalisation, 1971. In new pennies, a stamp was given for every two and a half pence.

An occasional trip to the local shop might yield dozens, while the big weekly shop could earn a sheetful. Over time, you’d collect enough sheets to fill up a Green Shield Stamp Saver Book. It was a chunky little booklet with a grid layout that, over time, got fatter and fatter as the stamps were added to it.

But adding the stamps to the book was a weekly job that no one wanted. Licking them was often given to the kids to do, with the comment, “Make sure you put the stamps in straight…” The stamps never went in straight.

It was a novelty at first, until that horrible taste of glue got the better of you. Licking several hundred stamps lost its appeal after a while. No one told us that using a damp sponge in a little soap dish was the way to go.

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.

Five More Signs of an English Baby Boomer - Things Can Only Get Better

 

1)  A cost of living crisis would happen every few years. 

Money was tight, inflation was often high, and austerity was the norm for many. People were told, “You have never had it so good.” Depends on how you define ‘good’. If it’s a little better than bad, then I suppose it was good.

2)  You watched television showing a man landing on the moon. 

I do remember seeing someone walking on the moon. Years later, pop group The Police sang about walking on the moon. And conspiracy theorists told us that the moon landing was recorded in a studio on earth. 

Next they will be saying that the Clangers aren’t real.