“What the hell is that?”
“It’s ‘50’s music, Sha na na.”
“Tell me I didn’t sleep through Hendrix.”
“Nope.” Leona peeled her blanket from the well soaked ground. 712 more words
1967 was one of those milestone years for me. After living in Patcham since the age of 5¾, things were about to change. I’d just turned 18 and was about to leave home, or to be more accurate home was about to leave me, as Mum and Dad were at last to realise their long held dream of retiring to Exmoor, and rather than leave my beloved Brighton I’d opted for the spare bedroom at my great Aunt Dorothy’s rambling house in Hove. 725 more words
Back in the 70’s and early 80’s squatters were dirty hippy/punks that lived in empty hovels that rats would’ve thought twice about moving into.
Those ‘anti social layabouts’ had nothing better to do than protest and waste taxpayers hard earned cash by claiming twenty eight pounds a week in benefits. 727 more words