Born in 1956

Back in 1956, Britain was a funny old mix of the grey post-war grind and a sudden, sharp burst of Technicolor. If you’d walked down to the local back then, you’d have found us all nursing a lukewarm pint of mild, squinting through a permanent haze of Woodbines. It was a cracking summer, actually—properly scorched grass in the parks—but the news was a bit grim, what with the Suez Crisis and everyone worrying about petrol coupons again.

We’d all huddle around the wireless or the new-fangled telly to see *The Grove Family*, though the real talk of the street was that new fellow Elvis Presley. You couldn't pop into the milk bar for a frothy coffee without *Heartbreak Hotel* blaring out and the Teds causing a stir in their drainpipes. The kids were all obsessed with Davy Crockett hats—bless them, sweating away in those faux-fur tails—and if you went to the cinema, you were humming the tunes from *The King and I* for weeks.

Sunday tea was still a simple affair, maybe a tin of salmon if you were lucky, but things were looking up. We finally felt like we were shaking off the shadows, one rock ’n’ roll record at a time.