Born in 1967

Back in 1967, life felt like it was shifting from black-and-white into glorious Technicolor, though most of us were still huddled around a tiny Ferguson telly watching *Cathy Come Home* or laughing at *The Prisoner* in grainy monochrome. It was the year of the "Summer of Love," and while London was swinging to The Beatles’ *Sgt. Pepper*, those of us in the local were probably nursing a lukewarm pint of Watneys Red Barrel and humming along to Procol Harum’s *A Whiter Shade of Pale* on the jukebox.

News of the *Torrey Canyon* oil spill dominated the papers, but the kids didn't care; they were too busy in the garden with their new Action Men or tracing Spirograph patterns until their fingers ached. You’d head to the cinema to see *The Jungle Book* or *You Only Live Twice*, and then pop into a Wimpy for a Shanty Brunch if you were feeling posh. It was a proper scorching July that year, the kind where the tarmac bubbled and the smell of Fray Bentos pies wafted out of kitchen windows.

Everything felt new—from the first North Sea gas arriving in our homes to the launch of Radio 1—yet it still felt like a world of coal fires and corner shops.