Born in 1966

Back in 1966, there was this electric hum in the air that you just don't get anymore—a feeling that everything was finally changing for the better. We’d spend our Saturday nights glued to the telly watching *Cathy Come Home*, which broke everyone’s hearts, or hiding behind the sofa from the Cybermen when *Doctor Who* came on. The radio was a constant loop of The Beatles’ ‘Eleanor Rigby,’ and you couldn't walk past a Wimpy bar without smelling those fried onions and hearing ‘Sunny Afternoon’ by The Kinks.

Of course, everyone talks about the World Cup, and I can still see those red shirts blurring across our tiny black-and-white screens, but I remember the summer for that blistering heat as much as the football. My mum would put out a spread of tinned peaches and Carnation milk for tea, while us kids would be out on the pavement for hours, obsessed with our Action Men or trying to master a Slinky without tangling it. There was a bit of worry, mind you, with the big seaman's strike and the talk of the pound being devalued, but when you were queuing for the cinema to see *Alfie*, everything felt brilliant.

It was a world of Brut 33, nylon shirts, and the promise that the future lived right here in London.