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: How We Lived Before Mobile and Smartphones?

 

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 : When Cigarettes Were Everywhere: Britain Before the Smoking Ban

 

Ashtrays, blue haze, and the smell of cigarette smoke were woven into everyday life.

In the 1960s and 70s, smoking was a common activity in Britain, and it was everywhere. Cigarettes were a part of daily life. People smoked at work, at home, in cafés, on public transport, and even while watching a film at the cinema. 

It was so normal that it barely registered as remarkable.

Today, it feels almost unimaginable. But at the time, it was simply how things were.

A Nation of Smokers

By the early 1960s, Britain was a nation of smokers, and smoking rates were at their peak. Around half of all adults smoked, with cigarettes heavily advertised and culturally acceptable. It was even presented as something that was desirable. Smoking was associated with sophistication, relaxation, and adulthood. For young people, it was also a sign of rebellion.

There were health warnings, and early medical reports had made the connection of smoking to lung cancer, but they were easy for people to ignore. The warnings were often drowned out by advertising that linked smoking with a life of glamour and freedom. 

It took a long time for a shift in public opinion to arrive. At the time, for many, smoking was a part of life and popular. Cigarettes were cheap, widely available, and socially accepted almost everywhere. It was the norm. In fact, you might be considered the odd one out if you didn’t smoke.

Smoking in the Home

I lived in a home where all the adults smoked. My parents, grandparents, relatives, and just about every adult who visited would quickly light up a cigarette or be offered one. My memory is of every adult smoking. Another memory that I have is of the smoke stains on the upper part of walls and ceilings. Cigarette smoke rises; it has nowhere to go but up. Brightly painted or papered walls would develop a cigarette smoke shadow.

I have never smoked, but for the first fifteen to twenty years of my life I was a passive smoker. At the time I had no idea that was the case, but later I became aware of it, after the death of the British entertainer, Roy Castle, in 1994. Castle died of lung cancer, which, as he was a non-smoker, he believed happened while working in the smoke-filled rooms of jazz clubs in the 1960s. As far as I know, my lungs survived the passive smoking years.

Smoking at School

At school, I knew certain boys that smoked. Yes, they would usually find a secretive place to go for a cigarette,  sometimes behind the bike sheds. That place was too obvious, though, and boys caught there would end up in the headmaster’s office for ‘six of the best’. 

I was never tempted.

A mate of mine was given the nickname JP, after John Player, the name of the company that made the cigarettes that he smoked. Later, we would call him ‘Wheezer’, as he would always end up coughing his lungs out when cross-country running.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: The British Staycation - The Nostalgic Charm of Holidaying at Home in a Bygone Era.

 

Caravans, B&Bs, and seaside towns — before foreign travel became routine.

In the 1960s and 70s, for the majority of ‘Brits’, taking a holiday abroad was still something of a novelty. Far-off lands with exotic names were a dream holiday or not even thought about — they were out of reach. For most families, a summer holiday didn’t involve airports, passports, or sun loungers in exotic places only seen on a world map. Foreign travel happened, of course, but it was far from common, and holidays were shaped by cost, access, and habit. 

The chances were that if you went overseas, you had money.

Instead, a British family holiday meant packing the car, catching a train, or boarding a coach and heading somewhere in Britain. It could be the countryside or more likely, a familiar holiday town that provided everything a family could want.

The big deal was a holiday by the seaside, at one of the country’s many resorts. Britain, with its long coastline and well-established holiday towns and industry, was where the vast majority of people spent their annual break. In many ways, British holiday trends were well set and predictable.

The Rise of the British Seaside Holiday

By the mid-20th century, Britain already had a strong tradition of domestic holidays. Since Victorian times, resorts like Blackpool, Margate, Brighton, Skegness, and Scarborough welcomed holidaymakers. By the 1960s, these towns were at their peak, packed with amusement parks, piers, theatres, arcades, and boarding houses.

Many factories and workplaces closed for set weeks, particularly in industrial towns, creating a shared “holiday season” when entire communities decamped at once. In the north of England, this was known as Wakes Week, which began during the Industrial Revolution.

For working families, the annual holiday was often the only extended break from work all year. Two weeks of summer, traditionally the first two weeks in July. As children, school holidays gave us a long summer holiday taht seemed to go on forever.  I remember that it lasted about eight weeks, but those two weeks away, if we were lucky, were the big event of the summer.

Once I knew that a holiday to the seaside was planned, I would save my pocket money and everything that I had earned for those two weeks away. The call of the arcades, the slot machines, the chance to be a pinball wizard, or a hotshot on one of the gun machines was strong. Even the seaside bingo, much loved by grandparents, had its attraction. I counted the pennies, knowing that back then, a penny went a long way in the arcades.

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 Nine: Did You Know… A Christmas Carol Is the Most Remade Movie of All Time?

 

The many faces of Ebenezer Scrooge and a timeless tale of redemption.

It’s that time of year. Christmas television in the UK would hardly feel complete without at least one version of A Christmas Carol appearing on our screens. For many, it has become as much a part of the festive season as mince pies, tinsel, and repeats of The Great Escape.

Every Christmas, A Christmas Carol will make an appearance.

Written by Charles Dickens in 1843, the story began life as a short novella. Set around Christmastime, it tells the tale of Ebenezer Scrooge, an elderly and bitter miser whose only true love is money. Scrooge is rude, dismissive, and, regardless of whether it is Christmas, joyless. He treats everyone around him with contempt, especially those that he employs, his long-suffering clerk Bob Cratchit. 

Any stranger who dares to wish him a Merry Christmas is greeted with “bah humbug”, while those seeking charity donations are shown the door.

Over time, Scrooge has driven away friends and family alike, and he appears not to care. That is, until one Christmas Eve, when he is visited by three spirits: the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.

Each ghost shows him different aspects of his life, his past, and who he once was, and the man he has become. The final vision is the most chilling of all. The spirit tells him that if he refuses to change, he will face a lonely death, unmourned. No one will miss him when he is gone, and many will cheer. Faced with the consequences of his past choices, he decides to change. The story, at its heart, is about redemption, compassion, and the possibility of change.

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: Sunday evening, on Radio 1, 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) done, and the house settling into that slightly melancholic weekend-almost-over, work-tomorrow vibe. 

Then came the build-up: the Radio 1 jingle and the DJ’s voice of the official chart show would begin. 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 up and down the land. No algorithms, no real-time stats, no leaks. The whole nation found out at the same time who was going up, who was going down, 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 music. 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, it’s hard to convey just how exciting the slow 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 get in 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. No downloads, digital or online listening — just the sale of records — and they were vinyl records — the old 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 making 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 Savalas, with his lollipop and “Who loves ya, baby?” 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.

The Art of the Home Recording

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.

Did You Know…Life in 1960s/70s Britain: The 'Art' of the Comic Advert - The Age of a New Consumerism

 

I wrote yesterday about the advertisements on the back of kids’ comics back in the 1960s and 70s, specifically, X-Ray specs.

The adverts themselves were a masterpiece of salesmanship. They understood their young audience perfectly and created ads that would tempt us to part with our money.

The 1960s and 70s were the age of a new consumerism, and it started early.

As kids, we were curious, mischievous, and just about gullible enough to believe whatever the advertising industry told us. The artwork was exaggerated, and the words tempted us. The promises were outrageous but affordable, more often than not, a few shillings — and that included the postage.

The actual purchase would be made with a postal order from the post office. You would go there, queue with the adults, including the grumpy ones, and get your postal order. While there, you would pop it into an envelope with the order, put a first-class stamp on it, which back then cost about 3 pence, and post it in the letterbox outside. Just like an adult.

Job done, then you waited.

This was a world without instant reviews, YouTube and TikTok influencers telling us what to buy, watchdog programmes, or online forums. No one stood between the child and the dream. We never knew what we were really buying until it actually turned up.

It was only then that you would either be overjoyed or totally disappointed.

While catalogues like Littlewoods, Kays and Freemans showed you what you could have for Christmas months before the actual day, the comics promised something you might have by next Tuesday. Of course, that depended on the reliability of the post.

But we didn’t have to wait too long.

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.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: People Would Phone the Speaking Clock, Known As TIM (and some still do)?

So yes, did you know people really did phone the Speaking Clock — thousands of calls a day — just to set the time? Another wonderfully peculiar detail of everyday British life from a world that didn’t yet run on digital certainty.

 

There are some bits of everyday life from the 1960s and 70s that younger generations struggle to believe. Like how we would phone a number just to find out the exact time. And we would pay to do so as well. But for decades, the Speaking Clock was as essential to British households as the kettle, the teasmade, and the bedside alarm clock.

Phoning the Speaking Clock became a regular part of our lives.

Before smartphones, digital displays, checking the internet, or shouting out to Siri or Alexa, “Hey, what time is it?”, the Speaking Clock was the most reliable way to find out the correct time.

And people used it. A lot. At its peak, it received tens of thousands of calls a day. It even had a human name — of sorts. If you dialled TIM (or later, 123), you were immediately greeted by an unmistakably British voice.

Imagine the scene — I need to know the time.

“Mam, what’s the time? The clock has stopped.” I would shout out.

“I haven’t got my watch on; give TIM a call.”

Of course, you would need to have a landline phone at home, and ours didn’t arrive until the mid-1970s. But when it did, it was a novelty to call the Speaking Clock.

“At the third stroke, the time will be…” TIM spoke, followed by three neat pips.

It was simple, functional, and, in its own way, a tiny bit magical.

Did You Know… Life in 1960s/70s Britain: Until 1987, You Needed a Licence to Own a Dog in The UK?

 

 

So yes, did you know that until 1987, you needed a licence to own a dog — and it cost 7 shillings? Another small detail from a time when the family dog trotted happily beside you, blissfully unaware it was the subject of official government documentation.

 

There are certain quirks of everyday British life that quietly disappear and later resurface in memory with a mix of amusement and mild disbelief. 

One of these is the dog licence. 

There was a time when, if you had a dog, you would need that small piece of paper to prove you were the owner. It was legally required to have one until 1987, and for decades, they cost the princely sum of 7 shillings (35 new pence). 

'Princely' was the right word, though, as my first family dog went by the name of Prince. Despite his royal name, he was a mongrel dog, a happy one, but also an illegal one. I don’t remember us ever having a licence for him, but there again, I was quite young at the time. Such legal matters were not on my mind, and I don’t think it bothered Prince either, as he just went about his business of being a dog. 

In the 1960s or 70s, you might occasionally hear someone say, “Have you got a licence for that dog?” It wasn’t said as a joke but as an entirely sensible question. Although I think the police probably had better and more important things to do with their time.

Like today, back then, dogs were everywhere. We British do like our pet dogs. They become part of the family and like to be treated as such. They don’t ask for much, just to be fed, taken for lots of walks, and shown a little love. In return, they give loyalty. 

When I was very young, my mother would take Prince with us on the morning walk to school. Then, mid-afternoon when I was picked up, after a hard day of ignoring the teachers, there he would be, waiting at the school gate, ready for his next walk. Like all dogs, Prince liked his walks, whether it was to the school, local shop or pub. The pub was where he would snooze under the table, waiting for food scraps to come his way. After a long walk, he was hungry. 

Wherever we took him, I don’t think anyone ever asked us if we had a dog licence. He was never barred from anywhere.

But for the law-abiding, owning a dog meant a trip to the post office to do your duty and buy the licence. It was a simple enough process — you filled in a form, handed over your 7 shillings, and left with your official piece of bureaucracy. 

The dog would not have had to pass any test, no inspection, no check of the owner's ability to control a dog that had ideas above its station. You were not asked any questions about its background or where it came from.

It was, in truth, an exercise in mild government administration. One that had been around for a long time, and no one seemed to question. It was taken seriously enough to make the responsible dog owner feel properly legitimate.

A little like having a radio licence, and a TV licence, and a fishing licence, and…