As we all deal with austerity and Broken Britain, we take a look back on the things we remember and ask “Where are they now?”
The Great British Wino: Once a stalwart of every city centre, the Wino is now an endangered species. Where once a trip into town was not complete without an encounter with an elderly chap, dressed in tattered and frayed Great Coat, tweed trousers and scruffy beard shouting random incomprehensible insults at passers-by, the sight of a Great British Wino is becoming increasingly rare. This group of men, soaked in cheap alcohol and their own urine have been forced out of their natural habitat by the now thriving "Junkie”. Alcohol prohibition orders have forced the Wino’s into out of town locations, much like Next and Halfords.
Porno Mags in Shrubbery: Once a frequently spotted piece of litter, the torn out pages of top-shelf magazines such as; Fiesta, Escort and Razzle could be found in amongst hedges, bushes and other shrubbery up and down the country. Often seen in public parks, the porn in shrub was killed off by the advent of internet pornography, and sadly looks to be beyond revival. Anne Summers are said to be thinking of marketing a range of damp paper copies of Readers Wives with some stuck together paper on the good bits to bring some spark into the bedroom of worn out men of a certain age.
Snake Belts: Much favoured by mothers of the 70s, this elasticated belt had two 's' shaped clasps, which interlocked to hold up too big trousers and skirts, to accessories jumps-suits, and to prevent accidental hangings from the climbing frame. The snake belt was usurped by the 'Mod Belt" which was a length of webbing with a metal tab at one end and a buckle similar in principle to the locking mechanism of a seat-belt at the other. Worn with the 'tail' of the belt hanging down, these became useful weapons when wrapped around a teenage knuckle. Seemingly this was surpassed by glassing, stabbing and shooting.
Imminent Nuclear Attack Drills: No home in the 80s was complete without a stock of plain, light coloured sheets, tins of whitewash and a larder full of tinned and dried foods. Many households went a step further and held regular drills to prepare the family for action in the event of a nuclear attack by the Russians, and upon hearing 'The Four Minute Warning', believed that by draping sheets over the kitchen table, painting over all windows and doors with whitewash and hiding under their sheet-draped table, they could survive for up to a year, in which time it was hoped that by continuously tuning into their AM radio, they would hear that the all clear had been given, and that they could leave the cover of their table. That's if their home hadn't been ransacked by nuke-deformed mutant zombies of course. This lives on in forty something parents who always have to keep a torch, spare batteries, a Swiss Army Knife and a radio to hand. On the plus side, it is a form of PTSD that works well for festivals.
An expert in care of the elderly has commented that it is vital for the younger generation to be aware of these things because “Once these people get Alzheimer’s, it’s pretty much all they will talk about.”
A joint JeniB and Quaz production