Saturday, 2 June 2012


  A Royal knees up, 1977 style 

We've been invited to a street party on Monday; not living on the street in question we shall probably feel like interlopers. I hope that by taking along a bottle of something nice and a loaf of Medd's Bread, the natives will give us their blessing.

Thirty five years ago the residents of Rushcliffe Road closed off their street and laid out the pasting tables and bunting. Living at number 17, my credentials were not in question; they even put me on the wheels of steel - in charge of the decks all afternoon.

Working out of a horsebox and swigging Top Deck, I proceeded to inflict my record collection on an unsuspecting street full of flag waving Royalists. I don't remember too much (though we were all given a shiny commemorative coin) but I can recall, vividly, that, despite it being the summer of punk, this class of '77 weren't digging The Sex Pistols (it was late in the day, I couldn't resist): any accusations that she ain't no human being were denied vigorously by the locals.

So, I quickly flipped it over and banged on the B-side.

I was relieved of my duties shortly thereafter.


  1. I'm doing the playlist for our street do tomorrow, John. The Pistols is nestling in there, somewhere. It's got to be done. I haven't got much truck with royalty, but the idea of all our neighbours getting together for cake, fizzy pop (of alcoholic and no-alcoholic variety) and good old chat appeals to me. Admittedly, it might appeal less if there's a downpour...

    1. drop um a bit of this shit...

  2. Frankly I'm not aware of anything in our local area actually! How living with a fervent republican good job too - she'd be out pulling down the bunting in a rant about democracy :-)

  3. Brilliant. Thing is, nowadays a street party would probably demand a bit of the Pistols, irrespective of their beliefs.