Did You Know… There Was a Time When All Fizzy Pop Drinks Came in Glass Bottles with Deposits?

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 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… There Was 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… There Was a Time 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… In the 1960s and 70s, 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…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… Kids In the 1970s 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… People In The UK Used to Phone the Speaking Clock (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… 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…

Did You Know… Flared Trousers Were Once So Wide They Got Caught in Your Bike Chain?

 

So yes, did you know that flared trousers were once so wide they regularly got caught in people’s bike chains? It’s one of those silly things that captures the spirit of 1970s Britain — a time when trousers danced in the wind, and every young cyclist pedalled with a hint of danger.

 

Fashion trends come and go, and then there are some that arrive and take over the entire country. They leave future generations wondering if everyone had collectively lost their minds.

What were we thinking?

Back in the 1960s and 1970s, there was the great flared trousers explosion. If you lived through that era, you’ll remember trousers that weren’t just flared; they were enormous. Trousers so wide at the ankles that simply riding a bicycle became a public safety hazard.

Flares, or, if you were American, bell-bottoms, started off as quite modest things. A gentle widening at the trouser hem, influenced by naval uniforms of the past.

The fashion actually went back a couple of hundred years in history, but then 1960s pop culture caught on. The hippie movement adopted them. Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles, and Cher often wore them. They were not the only ones, as flares became not just a fashion statement but a symbol of self-expression and rebellion.

Like many innocent ideas, they escalated. By the mid-1970s, it seemed the national objective was to create trousers so wide at the ankles that they could double as a tent. As teenagers, we strutted down every street and road in trousers that resisted the slightest breeze. On really windy days, you could get blown away. If the weather forecast was for gale-force winds, it was better to stay indoors.

The width varied from person to person, but there was a competition for the widest.

“Mine are 22-inch bottoms,” someone would boast.

“Oh yeah?” Another would say, “Mine are 26.”

Before long, hems had reached levels that you could make a pair of curtains out of them. Some flares were so big they would cover your shoes, creating a strange gliding illusion, as if you were floating along.

But we wanted them — everyone wore flares — even our parents wore them in the seventies.

Did You Know… Central Heating Wasn't Common in British Homes Until the Late 1970s?

 

So yes, did you know that for most UK households, central heating didn’t become the norm until the late 1970s? Many of us grew up in cold bedrooms and homes where keeping warm in winter was a yearly challenge.

This morning was cold. I looked out of the window and noticed that every roof was covered in ice. Cars and the pavements were iced over as well. And, officially, winter hasn’t begun yet.

At least today, we have central heating to keep out the cold.

If you grew up in a British home before the late 1970s, you’ll know that heating the house — the whole house — was being optimistic. Heating a room, usually a single room, was a more accurate description of family life.

The idea that every room could be warmed at the turn of a thermostat belonged firmly to the future. If you were well-off, or posh, maybe you could afford it, but there was no one like that in my neighbourhood. Futuristic TV adverts and the pages of the Ideal Home magazine promised a better future, but for most of us, central heating was an exotic luxury, like a colour TV or crisps in flavours other than ready salted.

The typical UK home of the 60s and 70s was built around the living room fire. It was king. King Coal, in fact. That single fire was expected to heat the entire family and, if you were lucky, most of the downstairs. Bedrooms? Bathrooms (if you had one)? The landing? Those were places you dashed through at speed, wrapped in a dressing gown, determined to complete your journey before frostbite set in.

Condensation wasn’t a minor annoyance — it ran down single-glazed windows like a miniature waterfall, creating small black mould that everyone pretended not to notice. This was long before the days of double glazing, and insulation in houses was, well, what was insulation? In winter, ice on the inside of windows wasn’t unusual. Your bedroom felt less like a domestic space and more like a poorly insulated Arctic outpost.

An icebox.

What’s in a Name? Forgotten British Names of the Past

 

Ever wonder what happened to names like Hilda, Norman, or Enid? This nostalgic look back explores the once-popular British names that defined generations — and quietly disappeared from everyday life.

 

What's In a Name?

My name is Martin. I’ve no idea who chose it for me — Mam? Dad? A coin toss? I never asked. Apparently, it was a popular name in the early 1960s, so perhaps they simply went with fashion. Not that “fashionable” is the word you’d associate with “Martin” these days. Dependable, perhaps. I might have picked something else.

Names, like hemlines and pop bands, go in and out of fashion. Some have their moment in the sun, then quietly slip away, only to be revived decades later by a new generation of parents who think they’re wonderfully vintage.

Others never quite make a comeback. They seem to be too firmly anchored to another time, another place, another era entirely.

Take a look at the top baby names in the UK in 2024, and it’s a different world altogether.

For boys, the top five last year were Muhammad, Noah, Oliver, Arthur, and Leo.

For girls — Olivia, Amelia, Lily, Isla, and Ivy.

Arthur surprised me, though. A name from the past. I came across quite a few Arthur's in the 1960s and 70s. Not just the historical ones, like King Arthur. There was Arthur Lowe of Dad’s Army fame and Arthur Askey and his ghost train. In tennis, Arthur Ashe won Wimbledon in 1975.

Arthur was the number one boys’ name in Wales in 2024. Not bad for a bloke who once pulled a sword from a stone. Arthur, it seems, never truly goes out of style; it just goes to sleep for a few decades.

But what about the names that have gone quiet? The ones that once filled playgrounds and office chats, pub quiz teams and post office queues. The Hilda's, the Normans, the Enid's of yesteryear.

Where did they all go?

Time for a nostalgic wander through a few of them.

Hilda

Once common across Britain, particularly among the working classes in the early 20th century, Hilda comes from the Old Norse hildr, meaning “battle”. A tough name, and there was probably none tougher than Hilda Ogden from Coronation Street. Jean Alexander played her from 1964 to 1987, with her curlers, her flying ducks, and her famous “muriel” on the wall. Hilda and her long-suffering husband Stan, the Ogden's of the street.

The only other Hilda I recall was Hilda Braid, who played Florence in Citizen Smith. Robert Lindsay’s Wolfie Smith shouted “Power to the people!” from revolutionary Tooting. Braid, as Florence, brought a mix of motherly naivety and comic relief. I doubt there are many Hilda's in Tooting these days.

Enid

Enid is one of those names that seems destined for the world of writing. We have a best-selling author, 600 million worldwide and counting, Enid Blyton. From Noddy to The Famous Five, she was a prolific writer who had the output of an AI writer today.

Her books were sometimes banned for being too old-fashioned, too class-conscious, or too politically incorrect for the time, but they were read all the same. Even today, millions still read them, though probably on a Kindle rather than with a torch in a secret smugglers’ cave as the tide comes in.

The Boy, the Bonfire, and the Man Called Guy – Remembering Bonfire Night

It begins in October, with the sound of a loud bang in the early evening, followed by an occasional whoosh. It tells me Bonfire Night is almost upon us. Come November, the air will smell faintly of smoke and fireworks—it was the same when I was a boy. 

A memory stirs.

I’m back in a 1960s backstreet, clutching a homemade “Guy” and hoping for a penny or two. This is a look back at Bonfire Night, the real story of Guy Fawkes, and the fading sparks of a very British tradition.

Somewhere in Middle England, late 1960s

A small boy stands outside a corner shop with a homemade effigy, whom we call “Guy”. A bundle of old clothes stuffed with newspaper, a hat perched at a slight angle, and a paper face meant to resemble one of the most famous villains in British history: Guy Fawkes.

“Penny for the Guy?” the boy calls, hopefully.

A man passes, uninterested. The boy tries again. “Penny for the Guy, please, sir?”

A young woman looks over, smiles, and rummages through her basket. She pulls out a purse and produces a big copper penny, and then another — pre-decimal coins that felt like real money.

“Be careful with those fireworks,” she says kindly, handing them over.

He grins, pockets the coins, and can already hear the whoosh and bang of rockets in his imagination.

I was that boy, out on dark nights, asking strangers for a few pennies so I could buy fireworks to celebrate a tradition that, at the time, I had little understanding of. Except we were told that Guy Fawkes was a bad man.

The Spark Behind the Celebration

For those unfamiliar with the roots of Bonfire Night, it all goes back to 1605, when a group of English Catholics plotted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. It was called the Gunpowder Plot, and its aim was simple but spectacular—to assassinate King James I and wipe out much of the Protestant ruling class in one fiery blast.

The ringleader was a man named Robert Catesby. He believed that Catholics were persecuted under Protestant rule, and, in fairness, they were. Catesby’s “solution”, however, was not one that would have gone down well in any century.

Enter Guy (or Guido) Fawkes, a soldier and explosives expert who had been fighting for Catholic Spain. He was recruited to handle the dangerous bit, guarding the barrels of gunpowder and, when the time came, lighting the fuse.

As plots go, it was elaborate, daring, and destined to fail. The conspirators were betrayed before they could strike. Fawkes was caught red-handed in the cellars beneath Parliament with enough explosives to change the course of history.

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

Son of My Father - The Funeral Service (an extract)

An extract from my memoir, Son of My Father.      

A very different time.

My Brother wrote the service for mam's funeral. He wrote the following.

“... when she was a young lady, it was the simple things like, helping her mam in the house, learning how to cook, wash and most importantly sew. Equally another happy time for her was her schooling, she was clever and bright and always managed to be in the top stream. It has been said that in other times she may have gone on to be a teacher.”

 It continues.

“From school she went into the factories (Freeman, Hardy and Willis) and later after becoming a mum turned to homeworking. The house always had Sewing Machines in it, Overlocks, Scissors, piles of leather, trim and fabric and things in the process of being put together. She was naturally creative and could turn any idea plucked from your imagination into a fully realised costume in hours.

She was soon promoted to sample machinist because basically she was the best in the trade.”

 

Her schooling was probably typical of that time for someone from her social background. Until her funeral, I was not aware of what she had achieved at school. She would have left school at around fifteen back then.

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.

Five Signs of an English Baby Boomer - Nostalgia is not what it used to be.

 

1) We would often have sugar sandwiches for tea, usually because we had run out of jam — or money to buy jam. White bread, margarine, and sugar. 

It kept the dentist in business.

2) You had an aunt who would cut your hair. 

My aunt Carol cut my hair. 

“What style? Who do you want to look like?” She would ask. ‘David Bowie or David Essex?’ was my reply. They seemed to do well attracting girls; perhaps it would work for me? It didn’t. Well, I don’t think it did.

My First Television. The Big Box in the Corner

The big box in the corner.

That’s what our first television was called.

It's the early 1960s, and I have a memory of a rather big box that stood in the corner of our rented home.

It had a very small screen.

In fact, the screen was so small that at times a pair of binoculars would have been useful. The room was small, but it seemed to be so far away.

But there was an answer to that — we just moved the sofa and chairs closer to the television.

It was mostly a box, but it had to be.

One day the television stopped working. When that happened, the main way of getting it to work again seemed to be to hit the top of the box. Dad tried that, but it did nothing to solve the issue. The picture remained blank.

He then called in the local repairman, who in due course arrived with his handyman bag of tools.

His first job was to take the back off the big box with a screwdriver. It only took a few minutes for him to decide that one of the valves needed to be replaced. While he was doing that, I had a quick look at what was in the back. Considering the actual screen was so small, I was surprised to see all the valves, transistors and a massive tube.

It surprised me that putting all that stuff together only produced such a small picture.

Looking into the back did show me one thing, though. I had been told by my granddad that all the people who appeared on television actually lived in the back of the television set. Of course, being very young and not knowing anything about how that was possible, I just accepted his expertise on the matter. It never occurred to me that while the box may have been big, it wasn’t that big. They must have been very small people.

The handyman, having changed the valve, then turned the television on. There then followed a wait of several minutes for the set to “warm up” and a picture to appear.

It was like magic.