Our centre forward, just before the game,

Downed quantities which put us all to shame.

The dressing room was strewn with girlie mags

And at half-time we puffed on full-strength fags.

 

A few jars at the club then down the town,

Towards steak joints and strip clubs of renown.

Back then you could stagger to your motor

And fiddle overtime on the rota.

 

Those were the days, that’s what we remember:

Cold in May and freezing in November.

Men in string vests drove a Vauxhall Viva

And bright boys got jobs with Unilever.

 

TV screens were filled with blacked-up faces,

Women’s butts were patted at the races;

Streakers emerged at all the sporting grounds

And sequined trousers changed hands for five pounds.

 

Children unwrapped smoker’s sets as presents;

One and all rejoiced at blasting pheasants.

Everyone loathed the decimal money

And found ‘On the Buses’ rather funny.

 

Men in West End farces dropped their trousers;

Pensioners raked coals in chilly houses.

Politicians grovelled to dictators;

Hotel owners taunted Spanish waiters.

 

 

We chuckled our way through the three-day week,

Venting our anger at the oil sheikh.

In those days the colonies knew their place

And same-sex couples never dared embrace.

 

Our heroes cavorted in platform shoes;

Our football team seemed pre-destined to lose.

Through war films and the workplace Romeo,

We celebrated in nostalgia’s glow.