Born in 1972

Back in 1972, if you stepped out of your front door, the world felt a bit more textured, a bit louder, and certainly a lot more orange. The telly was a three-channel affair, and you didn't dare miss *The Generation Game* with Brucie, or else you’d have nothing to talk about over a pint of Watneys the next day. It was the year of the glam rock revolution; you couldn't walk past a record shop without hearing T.

Rex’s ‘Metal Guru’ or seeing kids trying to mimic Alice Cooper’s eyeliner. I remember the oddness of the power cuts during the miners' strike—lighting candles in the kitchen and eating cold Fray Bentos pies while the coal fire flickered. But it wasn't all gloom; we had the Munich Olympics on the box, and if you were lucky enough to have a few bob, you were taking the kids to see *The Poseidon Adventure* at the cinema.

The summer felt endless, with everyone smelling of Ambre Solaire and eating Angel Delight for pudding. Kids were obsessed with Clackers—that deafening *crack-crack-crack* echoing down every street until they eventually got banned for bruising everyone’s knuckles. It was a proper, mucky, vibrant time to be alive, before everything went digital and quiet.