Swinging Sixties

The swinging sixties

Sunday 18th March 2018

Was there a period of time in the history of the British Isles that can justifiably be called ‘The Swinging Sixties‘? Dominic Sandbrook clearly thinks there is; he called his 2006 book White Heat a History of the Britain in the Swinging Sixties. A search on the Internet has also thrown up quite a lot of material that uses this term to refer to a period of time. In this context, I am concerned only with Britain and, moreover, with London. Unlike Sandbrook’s tome, my novel is a work of fiction. Its central characters are imaginary. They all lived in London from 1967 to 1971. That London no longer exists. Any more than the London of Samuel Pepys still exists. My book anchors its central narrators into one city, at one period of time. They never refer to their world as the ‘swinging sixties.’ Had they done so, it would have been an anachronism. Likewise, I doubt that, during 1967, any of them would have realised that they living in the ‘summer of love.’ I am writing this article in 2018 – but I have no idea what this year (or its neighbouring years) will be called in the future. It is historians who name eras of the past.

My novel – The Streets of London – is set in the 1960s; that is where it begins and it ends in the 1970s – the era I call The Beginnings of Change. In America that would be called ‘Generation X’ and in some references it was the ‘Information Age.’ In my novel, the early seventies was a period of change. Not just because 1971 was the milestone year for each of the three leading characters but also because they were seeing changes going on in the world around them. Changes that marked the end of the sixties and beginnings of an entirely new age. I say it is set in London – in reality, it is set in West London. Most of the action takes place in an arc that runs along the Bayswater Road, from Marble Arch to Notting Hill and then down into South Kensington and Earls Court. My characters never go to the East End or South London or even the leafier climbs of the North, Enfield or Barnet. They stuck to the postcodes that began with a ‘W’ and rarely ventured outside of them. They were the aficionados of the West End scene. Bear in mind that the three main characters, in my novel, did not arrive in London until 1967. In that regard, what they encountered was, in sense, a fin-de-siècle version of swinging London. They might have found the swingier parts of West London, but they missed out on the main stream of it all; they were on its fringes and not at its heart. My three young men were too poor to be fashionable.

Inexperienced, lacking qualifications, too young to have got anywhere, they looked on in wonder at the well-heeled icons going past them in their designer clothes and swanky sports cars. They were more likely to buy their shirts at C&A than Lord John. But they do get into some of the smartest and most fashionable restaurants, bars and clubs – simply by being taken there by their older friends and celebrities they have met. London might have been a meritocracy but it awarded its benefits only those who were sponsored by the rich and famous.

How swinging was the sixties?

Swinging. I wonder what that means. I am sure it means different things, to different people. A search for its definition brought up ‘lively, exciting, and fashionable’, ‘sexually liberated or promiscuous’; to some, it was about wife-swapping, to others it was all about music. The era of swing. Of course, all of these things can be thrown into the same soup. Sandbrook has given us a vast cauldron of historic minestrone.

If the mid- to late- sixties could be called ‘The Swinging Sixties’, then what swings were they on? One of my most important research sources is Dominic Sandbrook’s White Heat – a history of Britain in the swinging sixties. More than any other author, Sandbrook has his finger on the pulse of the period. He monitors the beating heart of the era. That book is, for me, about research – the process of verification. What my novel is based on is my own experience; what I wrote about it, at the time. My diaries and my journals articles from 1965 to 1971 still exist. They are the foundation stones of my novel. But, the problem is, they are mine. Some journalists (and diarists) keep detailed notes of the present. They stand and observe everything around them. Just as Pepys did. I was not like that. I was completely entombed in my own little world. During the 1960s my observations of world events – the Cuban missile crisis, the funeral of Sir Winston Churchill, the assassination of President Kennedy, the first moon landing – were mere footnotes. Mere mentions. Alongside my daily scribblings, were my essays – treatises on current affairs in the 1960s. They would have gone down well in the 1860s; in terms of their style. They read like they had been written by a mid-Victorian academic. So, whatever I might have said about the late 1960s, I had little or no idea of what life was all about – even in London. After all, I lived only in west London.

Getting into the swing of it

The decade of the sixties was sandwiched between the end of the post-war era and the conception of the computer age. It was ten years of change. Real change. Fundamental change. Omniscient change. Both in its upsides and its downsides. The baby boomers generation grew up in a world that was different to that in which their parents grew up. Not just somewhat dissimilar. Fundamentally not the same. British society and culture were changing like never before. If the sixties did swing, then they did not swing at the same rate all over the British Isles. In fact, many historians and social commentators argue that it was only London that was swinging. The rest of the country carried on as before, by and large, save for a few odd moments when things happened here and there or when the Beatles began playing in Liverpool. Most of what we now think of as the Swinging Sixties happened in London; and pretty much only in London. OK. There might have been a few small-scale scenes going on in some of the larger English cities, for some of the time. They have largely gone unnoticed.

The Chelsea Drug Store in 1968

It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got swing

Jazz started in the USA; as did the blues. Like a lot of things that took off in America, it crossed the pond and took off in London. And then the rest of the UK. If ‘swinging’ is about music then there is ample evidence that a lot of it went on in London, during the sixties. I don’t know because even when I lived in the capital city, I never got involved in popular music. The only live gigs I went to in those days were orchestral concerts at the Royal Festival Hall or Promenade concerts at the Royal Albert Hall. As jazz or rock gigs; I hardly knew they existed. But that was something that was a consequence of my way of life. In my novel, I rectify that deficiency my forming my three leading characters into a jazz band. The three young men, around whom the plot revolves, discover they are musicians and singers. So, they form a jazz trio. ‘Just for a laugh.’ As they get into the swing of music-making, people respond to their sound very positively. They suddenly find themselves becoming very successful. Not something any of them had expected or planned for. They just happened to have three very well harmonised voices. They happened to be three talented musicians – a guitarist, a bass player and a drummer. After having some jam sessions in a friend’s flat, they are discovered by a man who works in the music industry. From there, they take off. So, that part of the storyline gives me a fair amount of scope to portray the music of London in the 1960s. Happily, for me, a lot has been preserved of the musical vibe of that age, one in which the mass media had started to get going.

Dudley Moore jazz Trio x 600
The Dudley Moore Trio – an inspiration for my band

The Dudley Moore trio offers a model for the jazz group in my novel.

Swinging both ways

Many see the middle to late sixties as being some kind of sexual revolution. Historians can look back and say ‘you ain’t seen nothing yet’ – knowing what the 1970s were to unleash on British society. The other sense – of the swinging sixties – was one dominated by sexuality. In England, homosexuality had been decriminalised in 1967. Even before then, London has a thriving gay scene; pubs, bars and clubs that catered for the vast numbers of gay men (and some women) who were living in London at the time. In fact, very many gay people moved to London to get away from the oppressive, small-mindedness of their home towns and villages. London as a cosmopolitan magnet that attracted people who wanted to escape from the tedium and prudery of English life as it was lived in the shire counties. London was also a boom town at the time: if you wanted a career that could really take off, the chances are you would find it in the capital. Documentaries and magazine articles of the time portrayed London as a kind of sexual utopia. A place where freedom flourished in a way it did not in the urban areas of the rest of the country. The capital offered the promise of an ample supply of jobs, work and sex and its streets were awash with people seeking just that. Not so much a scene, more a state of mind. They wanted it all, and they got it at once.

Harold Wilson

What you loose on the swings…

Not all of the sixties was good; many of us also saw some pretty bad shit. The 1960s did not swing for me – not in any conventional sense – that I have found. Not even musically. But I have it in mind to make my characters swing – in all directions. Even to the extent of making them musicians and forming themselves into a jazz band, as I said earlier. The three teenagers who are the lead characters in my book, move to London and embark on a voyage of self-discovery. They see the glittering and glamorous side of London. But they also catch glimpses of its dark side. It might be a city where the ‘streets are paved with stars’ – as Adrian puts it – but they also encounter some of the seamy underbelly of the capital and meet low-life figures who suckle on its paps. What stood out for me, during my time in London, was that anyone could meet anyone. It was not a classless society; it was just that class was not a barrier when it came to social life. As a teenager, I met many people who were either famous or rich or intellectuals – artists, playwrights, composers, gifted musicians, writers, philosophers, property magnates, millionaires.. people from all kinds of backgrounds and walks of life, from the upper echelons of society down to the low-life creatures who prowled the bars and clubs I went to. You arrive in London – from nowhere, being nobody – and overnight you could become somebody and you knew that you were definitely somewhere. That is how I saw the sixties. What London provided was a launchpad – once you got into the life of the metropolis, you could take off. Michael got a job as a Fleet Street newspaper reporter but left London to take an undergraduate degree at Bristol. Adrian did so well that he was offered a place in New York’s literary society. Only Tom remained in London – and he got a job with the BBC and started a career in broadcasting. Out of this melange of the ‘moronic fringe, the smart alecs and social climbers’ many sixties Londoners made it into the social, political, pop and financial stratosphere.

Guys ‘n’ Dolls restaurant in the Kings Road

Come out swinging

Homosexuals never had it so good. The law changed and they suddenly found they were no longer criminals – just for being gay. What gay the gay population of London found, was a city full of opportunities. Swanky bars, cool clubs, the beginnings of celebrity DJs, actors who everybody knew were gay and achieved notoriety or infamy in the national media. In those days, nobody ‘came out’ as gay – it was a word that did not arrive in this country until the 1970s, when the ideas of the gay liberation movement were imported from the United States, following the Stonewall riots of June 1969. The characters in my novel reflect this pre-liberation era. Even the straight ones. Two of the writers act as ‘ethnographers’ of the gay scene, spending a lot of their evenings in gay haunts simply to observe the natives ‘in their natural habitat.’ Adrian wants to write gay stories into his novels and Michael sees some juicy column inches for his newspaper editor. In my book, I present the sixties as being a period of sexual fluidity (to use modern-day parlance.) Some of the gay men that the boys meet were the died-in-the-wool homos who were friends of Dorothy from the cradle to the grave. Others trod a more winding path. One of the three main characters – Tom – changes sides during the early part of the story; having started out as a typical heterosexual teenager, he meets a gay boy of his own age, they fall in love and become an affaire (a word that today would read ‘partner’.) No, not a bromance. What they get into is full on. Tom goes around telling all his friends that he has become gay. A gay. Newspaperman Michael is ambiguous; you can never really work out which side his bread is buttered on. Adrian remains implacably straight throughout, and wards off several attempted seductions by the gay men he meets. To set a story in the mid to late 1960s and not mention homosexuals and the gay scene, would be like writing about the Tudors and failing to mention the executions and beheadings that were rife at the time. But then, that’s London for you.

Fashions of the 1960s

How to make a book go with a swing

I want my novel to be a success; well I would, wouldn’t I? But I want it to be entertaining and informative. That’s what I do. It’s not a historical novel. It’s, if anything, a coming of age story. But to make it readable, the story has to present entertaining characters who get into entertaining situations. The way I have written it, the book is mainly dialogue. Almost all of it is people talking. If major events happen, they talk about them. The events enter into the storyline only through what the characters say about them. Michael might have been there during the Grosvenor Square demonstrations, outside the American embassy, but he only talks about it. No part of the story narrates him being there, at the time. The big events of the 1960s are props that support the stage play. Things like the first men landing on the moon are talked about and described by characters who watched it on the television. Finding entertaining moments from the so-called ‘swinging sixties’ of London has not been difficult. Moments of fun, humour, frivolity, drama, revelation, self-discovery, pain, darkness, ambition, vision… all human life is there – in some abundance. Me, I have my person recollections to fall back on but I am also actively soaking up stories of other people who were there, at the time. It’s a soup of human experiences that has many ingredients. Even though I am now less than halfway through the first draft, I have not found it difficult to invent situations and happenings for my cast of characters.

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Sunday 4th March 2018

Sunday 11th March 2018

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What is masculinity, anyway?

Sunday 11th March 2018

As I have already explained, one of themes of my novel – The Streets of London – is masculinity. What does it mean to be a man? The second theme is growing up to be an adult. So the plot of the book (if it can be said to have a plot) is how boys grew up to become men, in the twentieth century.

In writing my novel (it is work in progress), I have been doing research. One of my research themes is masculinity. That is predicated upon there being such a thing. An abstract; an idea or attitude. Clearly, masculinity exists, if only because people talk about men being masculine. What I have been trying to figure out is what it means – as an idea, a concept – in the way it is used. Moreover, how did people use the term in the 1960s and 70s? Back then, was there a way in which men were masculine? Were there men who were seen as being not-masculine? Were there varieties of masculinity? How did a boy become a man who was masculine, in his own eyes and in the eyes of others? Were men forced to become masculine or did they choose to be?

There are a lot of questions here; I cannot answer them all in this article. But I have to at least understand them in order to write a novel, in which, those questions provide the thematic content of the story.

Today’s men

The challenge I face (as a novelist) is to be clear about differences – the differences between the world of today and the world as it was some fifty years ago. As I write my novel, I have to make it clear that what the characters are saying is about the world they are living in. Over half a century, the world has changed. We look back at the past through the lens of the present; that lens can easily distort what is seen, presenting an image that is skewed, misshapen, wrinkled. The world has moved on; it continues to move on, day by day. It might be easier to write about the world as it was in Roman times, during the renaissance, the times of the Tudors – those worlds were very different from our own. There seems to be more evidence and an established archaeology. The world of swinging sixties is more difficult to write about because it is too like today’s world. The differences are more nuanced. The evidence is less than it is for the times of the Romans.

Talking about the sixties

My novel describes London in the late 1960s and early 1970s. It does so through dialogue – what the characters say to each other – and through what they do. There are few passages of narrative. The London that is portrayed in the novel is a London seen through the eyes of the characters – in particular, through the eyes of the three main protagonists. The main characters talk about their experiences of being teenagers in London; they talk in pubs, at parties, in cafes and in each other’s bedsits. In this respect the whole book reads like a film script. There is much more talking than there is doing. If there is doing, then it is described and narrated through the dialogue. People doing things is the action – the scenes that portray events and describe activity. I do that through what they say. Instead of a narrator explaining what someone did, I get one of the other characters to tell what was done. So, it is a novel about talking. I might change my mind on this but that is where I am at, for the time being.

What kind of man is he?

I can offer one conclusion: there is no one masculinity. Masculinity is not a singularity; there are several kinds of masculinity. Men are aligned along a continuum – from being not very masculine at all through to being extremely butch. Most men are positioned somewhere in the middle. That there is a middle can only be accepted if there are ends; a middle is a place between two ends. What kind of men were not masculine, in the 1960s? I explore this question through the gay scene. It was on the 1960s gay scene that you could find men who were not masculine. The word used back then was ‘camp.’ Effeminate men were described as ‘queans.’ (I use the odd spelling that other writers have used to distinguish effeminate men from monarchs of the female gender.) As my characters observe, not all men who were effeminate were homosexual, any more than all homosexuals were effeminate, which clearly they were not. This looks as though I am playing around with gender. At some points that is so. But not always.

Gender is not polar it is fluid

Masculinity is not entirely about gender and not always about sexuality. However, often it was and still is.

What my characters do, in the book, is meet all kinds of different men. They try to analyse them. They find ways of describing them. In between the parties, pub sessions and evenings in the cafes, they read. One reads newspapers and magazines; one spends long hours in libraries and the other is always watching the television and going to the cinema. The three teenagers talk about men, who they are like, what they are like, how they behave, what they think and what they do. And if all this sounds a bit macho, there are scenes in which the boys meet girls and women. They each meet a lot of females. Female characters also talk about men. I am not suggesting that masculinity can be understood only by its being compared and contrasted with femininity. Or vice versa. These two ideas need to be explored as though they are free-standing conditions. Having done that, one can then go on to seeing them side by side, one being the reflection of the other.

What are you like?

The plot might, at first glance, seem rather odd. Three teenage boys move to London and start researching masculinity. In fact, the story unfolds rather differently. The main characters are a peer group – all around the same age, all male and all from similar backgrounds. As individuals facing the transition from adolescence to adulthood, they are each struggling to find themselves and confirm their own identities. They form a bond that enables them to do this together. That is what makes the story interesting. Despite their similarities, they are three quite distinct individuals. That is where their chemistry comes in. And, yes, there is a lot of chemistry. Not just within the trio but also between them and their friends and lovers. The three boys did not arrive in London obsessed with masculinity. In fact, it was Adrian (the writer) who picked up the term and ran with it, as a tool for considering the variety of people he met. Adrian then got the others to explore the idea with him. He begins to ask questions about what it is to be a man. He asks his two friends to consider their own manliness and how they grew up to be masculine. The three boys agree to go to gay bars to observe homosexual men in their natural habitat. They did that in the manner of anthropologists. Adrian is adamant that when they talk to the men, they do not make judgements or reveal their own feelings or attitudes about what they hear. They are not going there to judge; they are not going there to implant their own concepts into the scene. They are there to observe, with the least possible intrusion, and with maximum objectivity. They meet men who are not like themselves; men who are camp. Men who are not masculine, who defy the rules of manliness, who transgress social norms with respect to being male. All the boys find this fascinating.

Gender bending image

The three boys also meet men who are aggressively masculine; men who have taken their manliness to extreme lengths. Men who can at times be violent. Some of these men show a different way of being manly than the average bloke. Men who are ultra butch. Some of these are straight guys; some are gay. They find that there is no correlation between masculinity and sexuality. Some of these scenes are comic; they are the points at which the reader is prompted to have a good laugh. Even so, there is a serious side to this. The boys develop this notion of ‘aggressive masculinity’… a form of manliness that is threatening, abusive, confrontational, belligerent, challenging. Rather than just being afraid of such men (or just disliking them) Adrian tries to dig down into them, to see why they behave in the way they do. He craves insights into what he sees. He wants to discover what makes a man aggressively masculine. Some of these types are dark figures; but not all. Some are funny and charming, in an odd sort of way, and Adrian begins to view them as heroes. As a creative artist, Adrian employs the idea of heroism. He begins to admire men who are challenging, strong, truculent, virile, courageous, intrepid. He sees them as being storm troopers leading the assault against the front line of bourgeois vulgarity. He is attracted to the way in which they fearlessly ignore the formalities of polite life and just go for it. At times they appear to be reckless; they can be shocking; they can be brutal. But it takes guts to do that and they have to be smart to pull it off, Adrian concludes.

Is there such a thing as masculinity?

As I work through the theme and work with the characters to explore, with them, what it meant to be a man in the 1960s, I keep colliding with a wall – a conceptual wall in which some writers and talkers insist that masculinity is false-consciousness. In other words, manliness is not about how masculine you are (or not, as the case may be) but is about other aspects of personality, character and behaviour that get wrongly attributed (by society) to gender and its manifestations. In this narrative, masculinity becomes a shibboleth – something that obscures our understanding of people. Even by the 1960s, the concepts of masculinity and femininity were beginning to crumble. Today, they are legacy ideas – concepts we have inherited from a culture that has all but expired, disappeared into the annals of history. We cling to them out of habit. Today, the idea of binary gender is under attack from the cultural storm troopers. They are assaulting the belief that everyone is either male or female. That was not very apparent in the 1960s; the first glimmerings of it were seen in the early 1970s with the emergence of the radical feminists and ‘gender benders’ – not a term that Adrian and his friends would have used.
Gender politics started in the 1960s but it was not until the early 70s that it had become a movement in Britain.

Gender bending through the ages

Adrian and his friends see the rise of people who were leading an assault on gender polarities; their main target was stereotyping. And labelling. Adrian and his friends refer to each other as ‘boys’ and they talk about men and blokes. They do not use the word ‘guys.’ One of them is a ‘northerner’ and sometimes talks about ‘lads.’ Society gives us an armoury of gender and sexual ordnance. Our language is laden with the shrapnel of convention and traditional ideas and attitudes. We fire off rounds of values, about people, without ever thinking about it. Adrian is a writer and his friend Michael is a journalist; they work with words. They have to think about them. They have arguments about the meaning of words and the way that words are used to assert traditional values or to reject them. That was what young thinkers did back in those days.

Actor Glenn Close starred in the film Albert Nobbs in which she played a woman being a man

This might seem all a bit intellectual, somewhat cerebral, but my job is to write a story. After all, I am not a historian, not even an academic. I am just an entertainer.

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Sunday 18th February 2018

Sunday 4th March 2018

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London – past and present

London – past and present

Sunday 4th March 2018

Once upon a time there was a city – a very big city. A metropolis where eight million people lived and worked. That city no longer exists. A new city has grown up in its place, founded on its remains. It has the same name – most of it is in the same place. But the city, as I knew it, has disappeared into the mists of time. All that remains now are the memories.

Stag Square, Victoria in 1965

My third novel – The Streets of London – is set in the capital. The capital of the United Kingdom. Anyone who knows London, will know that it is a very large city. A city of many parts. From the ancient City of London, the area that some call inner London, to the urban expansion that is greater London. In my story, pretty much the whole of the action takes place in west London. Few scenes take place outside of areas of the W post codes. Most of the scenes are set in the area that runs from Fitzrovia – where the Post Office tower stands – through to the neighbourhoods of various Kensingtons up to Paddington. Many of the scenes are set in Notting Hill Gate and in pubs and bars along the Bayswater Road, from Notting Hill tube station down to Marble Arch. The area around Sloan Square, with the Kings Road, also comes into the picture. That is the geographical scope of the story.

The late 1960s and the early 1970s

The story begins in May 1967 and ends in late September 1971. As with my previous two novels, I have set the stories in real places – in Holiday it was the Italian seaside resort of Cattolica in the year 1966. In my second work – The Trench – it was the harbour area of Portsmouth around the mid 1980s. These are all real places. The characters and their lives are the fiction. Like a lot of fiction, however, it is based on real life. When I decided to set my novel in London – during the 1960s and 70s – I wanted to use that period as a stage set, a backcloth, against which and in which the action takes place.

I lived in London from 1967 to 1971. I kept a personal diary that recorded every day of my life from the moment I arrived until the moment I left. The diaries were supplemented by a journal, in which I wrote about what I did, the people I met and the experiences that I had. And much else besides. In my creative fiction work, I aim to present authentic scenarios. The reader will find constant references to the England of that time – to the London of the swinging sixties. Bear in mind, however, that is not a novel about London. Any more than it is a story about the swinging sixties. Those are just stage sets. The novel is about the three central characters around which and through whom the story is told. It a story about them. It is through them that I portray the story of London, it milieu, its culture, its peoples, its art, politics, economy, music and happenings. As I explained in my previous blog post, this is a novel with a theme – growing up, coming of age, the emergence of adulthood and how boys becomes men.


All novels are autobiographical; that was a claim I made recently when talking about the process of writing fiction. Many authors will write a story based on part of their lives, a period they lived through or aspects of their personal experiences. When we say ‘based’ we mean drawing on, using foundations of and reflecting what happened. My book is not in any way a true autobiography. However autobiographical its content might be. For a start, there is no one character in the story who is me. Instead, there are three characters. Each of them is the age I was when I lived in London. They are all male. They are three distinctly different personalities. They do, however, share many elements of their lives in common. Each of them came to London from small towns in England – small towns in the counties of Hampshire, Essex and Shropshire. This method of treatment was entirely intentional and carefully thought out. Indeed, as I work on the book, it continues to be worked out. Each of these three teenage boys tells his story – stories about what life was like in small English towns – and what circumstances motivated them to leave home and move to London in search of a new lives – just as I had done when I was a teenager.

Londons that have disappeared

West Kensington tube station

This article is focused on London. But only on that part of London which I knew best. The London I lived in, during the late sixties and early seventies, no longer exists. Just as the Londinium built by the Romans from AD 43 onwards, no longer exists. As one of the characters – Adrian – explains ‘Many Londons have disappeared; built over by generations of those that no longer saw them as having any value. The London of the middle ages has been trodden into the mud by the march of progress.’ That can also be said of any other of the world’s great cities – Paris, Rome, Tokyo, Delhi, Beijing – they all had periods of time that were stages in their history and development, stages that started, grew and declined and were replaced by later eras. The London that I see today is nothing whatever like the London I lived in fifty years ago. The book has a great deal of detail in it that was taken from the records I kept from 1967 to 1971. From the cost of renting a room to the price of a pint of beer – I kept records, I made notes.

Today’s readers might find such details difficult to believe. But where I give facts you can be sure that they are true and authentic. The dates of events – men landing on the moon for example, or demonstrations in Grosvenor Square – are well attested happenings. The Labour Party winning the general election and Harold Wilson becoming prime minister – is in the history books. If I mention facts or historical events in any of my novels I want to be sure they are accurate and verifiable. Even where I mention places I went to or things that I did (as annotated in my diaries) I still try to check the details in order to verify that my own records, made at the time, are reliable.

Many of the places that were important to me at the time no longer exist. I worked in Fleet Street but it is today a very different thoroughfare than it was back then. I visited the Stock Exchange many times but it was very different building than the one you would now think of. Some of the pubs I went to most often, no longer exist; those that still do have been changed out of all recognition. I frequently walked along Oxford Street – a road that is still there. But the Oxford Street that I saw bears little comparison to that seen today. In 1967 to 1969 I rented bedsits for five pounds a week – something that I had my characters do in my novel. As I was writing this article, I searched for bedsits to rent in West London. In Earls Court (one of the areas where I lived) there were offers of single rooms in excess of £200 a week. Others were considerably more expensive; you wouldn’t see much change out of a grand. We know that the cost of living has gone up. So it comes as no surprise. The mid to late 1960s was a period of full employment. My characters could get jobs easily, even as unqualified teenagers. Just as I did. What has changed most, to my way of thinking, between the sixties and today, is the way of life. The people and how they live – that is what makes London such a different place. Back then we had freedoms that simply no longer exist. Today’s society is much more challenging, much more demanding. The State was a fraction of the size that it is now.

Fiction that portrays reality

That is how I see fiction – the imagined story of fictitious characters and events played out against the backdrop of real history. But the 1960s is not far-removed history. There are plenty of people alive today who lived through those years. Many people will have been in London at that time and can remember places, pubs, restaurants, cafes, theatres, art galleries, newsworthy events; they might even have been there themselves. The novel will appeal to those seeking nostalgia for the days of their youth. My story might appeal to them for that reason alone. But that is not why I am writing it. Some readers might have been alive during the time of the novel and might even have lived in west London. The London of my book must be a city that they would recognise. Having said that, my experience of the city was limited. There were visits I made to neighbourhoods in the north, east or south of the city, but I never really knew them. I never lived in them. My metropolis had the Kings Road, Carnaby Street, Earls Court, Marble Arch, Hyde Park, Notting Hill and the splendours of South Kensington. I never intended to live in the west – it just happened. But, once I got there I stayed there. It was a world that I understood. A milieu that meant something to me.

I spent my childhood in Portsmouth, on the South coast of England. But I grew up in London. When I arrived in London – in 1967 – I was still a child; when I left – in September 1971 – I was a young adult. My story is about that transition. In those days young people came of age at 21. When I left London I was considered to be an adult. I was ‘of full age.’ In fact, by the sixties, our language had acquired specific age-related words – teenager and adolescent. My work uses many of the concepts and theories that were in vogue in the late 60s. My young characters are shown soaking up the intellectual, political and artistic ideas of their time. They talk about them, react to them, are inspired by them and satirise them. If a character comes out with a monologue about some sociological theory he has just read at the library, then it was something I had done myself when I was there. I studied social sciences and literature at the West London College. Whether you understand the era or not, whether you were alive at the time, or not, the story must appear to be real. It must portray a world that is credible and authentic. A novel is a tree of fiction whose roots run deep into the soil of reality.

Marble Arch in 1965

See also

The home page of the blog which lists the articles already published


Sunday 18th February 2018


First weekly post. I decided to write a blog entry each week to account for what I have been doing as a writer. In this, my first of these posts, I will say what I have been doing since the beginning of 2018.

The main work in progress is my third novel. The Streets of London, as I call it, is set in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The story it tells is about the lives of three teenagers who leave home and go to live in England’s capital city. The novel captures some of the flavour of that period of time, beginning with the summer of love, moving through the end of the swinging sixties and concluding with the years of change.

That is the story line. Behind it, there is a theme – what it means to be a man in the twentieth century. This theme explores masculinity – in its variations and how young men become masculine adults – or not, as the case may be. So, in one respect the novel is about growing up and becoming adult; in other respects, it is about individuality and how young people find themselves.

I started work on the book early in January and for several weeks pages flew off the computer on a daily basis. That is the good news. Having got the easy stuff out of the way, I am now finding I need to spend most of my working day doing research. That is the bad news. In the sense that work on actually writing the novel has slowed right down.

All three of my first novels have been set in special (past) periods of time. Holiday was set in 1966. The Trench was set in the mid 1980s. The Streets of London covers a period from 1967 to 1971. When I write about a specific period of the past, I want to get the details right. My works are not historical novels – not like stories set in the long past, stories about Tudor monarchs or Victorian noblemen. Even if they are not about the past, the stories have to be accurate. Works of fiction, in my view, need to get their facts right. Authors should not fictionalise the past. All my novels contain a lot of factual detail – it forms the backdrop and the props around which my characters act their parts. What I hate most, in novels or films, is seeing or reading things that could not have happened at the time. Or worse still, characters saying things that could not have been said at the time. Chronological disasters. Anachronisms. It would be entirely wrong for a character in 1967 to use a phrase that was not ‘invented’ until the early twenty-first century. That is a mistake made by writers who have not bothered to do their job properly. It would be as ridiculous as portraying someone in the sixties using a mobile phone. I like bringing the past alive – to readers who could not have been there at the time. Millennials. Even if you were born long after 1967, I want you to read my book and feel like you ‘were there.’

What else have I been doing?

In order to get my head round some of the issues that will appear in the theme of my novel, I have been writing two large essays. One is about the nature of masculinity. The other is about what I call individuality.

That shows how I work. I do research and a lot of reading. I then write about what I have learned. These two essays act a silos for what I know about the subjects. I will blog about these topics when I have completed my research of them.

Apart from that I have continued to write gig reviews for Music in Leicester magazine. Much of my work for the magazine has been put on the back burner so I can concentrate my mind on my novel.

And now here is next week’s news

Work on my research essays (mentioned above) will continue. I will be reporting on some of the music events I plan to attend. I will try to draft a few more pages of my novel. My guess is that I will be working on it for a long time. I also write pieces in the book I call my Writers Journal. This book is a store for my thinking about whatever it is my pen is doing at the time. I might public extracts from it in this series of posts.