I woke up, all bingly bing, at 5.30am here on the chilly, windy and cloudy British south coast. The cloud is intensely grey and low enough to produce rain which the gardens and fields desperately need. The temperature (with my windows wide open) is 19 degrees centigrade (approx 68 Fahrenheit) which is quite amusing given the H-U-G-E fearmongering, glaring red weather charts and hysterical advice from our dopey BBC presenters last week.
As it turned out, we Brits experienced TWO WHOLE DAYS of normal summer heat which, granted, hit us like a ton of bricks because we are so unused to seeing the sun at all this decade. However, the impact of those brief hours of toasting in the sunshine were so short-lived that I am merely a faint shade of beige rather than the glowing dark and dusky hues I formerly achieved by the end of July, when I was working on the beach in my youth.
Ah, the 70s, such glorious memories of being fitter than a butcher’s dog, a young mum in my 20s who could pull any bloke just by walking past him. I say this, not in vanity, because it was not always such a bonus…. it did result in a lot of unwanted attention from rapists and impactful heart-breaking jealousy from my female ‘friends’.
Thinking back to that time, I can honestly say that I had only one female friend and that was because she was a tall nordic amazon type with natural blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes who did not consider my gypsy looks any kind of competition. We went everywhere together and we were poor as church mice. We regularly starved (you younguns call it fasting these days!) and we spent all our spare cash on fabric to make new dresses. We were both very good at dressmaking. We never wore shoes (saving ourselves a bomb on footwear) but we loved to dress up and spend hours doing our hair and makeup to attend free festivals and gigs in our home town on the Essex coast.
In 1975 we attracted the attention of a young entrepreneur who was setting up a small burger bar restaurant in a large garrison town nearby. He needed two waitresses to work from 8pm until 1am on Friday and Saturday nights only. He was offering good pay, cash in hand and provision of “a uniform”. We thought that this might be cool.
Oh boy, were we ever wrong about THAT!
On our first night of work he picked us up from my nordic mate’s flat at 6pm so we had time to change into the aforementioned “uniform”. We were both stunned into silence when we saw it. This was very difficult to do because we were both full on chatterboxes! The impact of the “uniform” upon our psyche was profound. It consisted of (and I kid you NOT) thigh high black leather boots, extremely high cut denim shorts and a tight white t-shirt with the logo of the restaurant emblazoned on our titties!
We looked like a pair of racy tarts in those outfits, I can assure you. We complained bitterly that this would encourage abuse from the squaddies who were likely to be our main customers but our new boss was adamant. This was the image he wanted for his novel American style burger bar.
Already committed, we felt obliged to go along with this plan but even our wildest imaginings could not match the effect we had on that garrison town. From the very start, the restaurant was heaving with all male customers, thanks to an effective advertising campaign in the local papers.
We spent our shifts slapping hands off our bums and refusing incredible offers of cash for sexual favours. My friend once chased a guy out of the door and down the street, I had no idea that she was such a hell-fired runner! She was screaming something about him insulting me. I don’t remember what he had said but it was pretty lewd.
Mind you, we got super tips and we desperately needed the money so we played the game for about a month but that was all we could stand.
My boyfriend at the time went ballistic over that job. He would be at my flat, waiting and glowering when I got home around 2am. Every time he saw the outfit he would scowl that I was taking my life in my hands. He was an ex squaddie himself and had spent time at that garrison in the brig, or military prison. He spent so much time in the brig for fighting that the army decided he was too psychotic for them (this always amused me!) and discharged him for disorderly conduct. He was happy to go. He hated the army, they would not let him fight in the street style he had perfected during his teenage days in Glasgow.
I adored this guy. He was the light of my life at the time and we spent every night rolling around my bedroom and listening to The Boss, Bruce Springfield, singing every track of his wonderful album. Born to Run.
That wonderful specimen of British brawn taught me everything I needed to know about geo-politics too. We would argue until the small hours because I had been educated at a good girls’ school and he said I wore rose-coloured glasses. Everything I believed to be true about British history was “shite” he said.
The neighbours were not impressed with all the noise. Whoops.
In May of 1976 we were looking forward to another summer on the beach and what a season it turned out to be! We had 11 solid weeks of sunshine, soft breezes and night storms. I have never known weather so fabulous, not even when I later lived in Spain.
My nordic friend and I swam, sunbathed and partied the entire summer away. We had no sense that this would ever end. It was bliss.
From 1977 to 1979 I had a summer job working on the beach selling ice-cream from a heavy freezer box which was suspended from my shoulders. The deal was terrific. Every day from 10am to 4pm I pocketed 12% of everything I sold, and I sold LOADS(!) while my lovely tanned five year old son spent his summer holidays eating fat burgers and chips, playing with new holiday makers every day.
Yeah…. the 70s were my heydays when I squandered my youth on hedonistic joyful exuberance. I would not have missed them for the world.
Thanks for that, Universe, it was a BLAST.
I was an American airman in the USAF stationed in Thailand in 1976 when the students there “inspired” their government to throw us out. I was sent to RAF Bentwaters in East Anglia and for nearly three months it was hot and clear with reports of Brits dying due to excessive heat. Being a clueless kid, I though the weather was marvelous and had amazingly good times living with my gal in a thatched roof duplex built in 1779. The locals liked us and even let me join a local golf club and allowed me to down pints in my town’s pub after hours. Except for the war exercises we occasionally had to play on base - with no ammo or actual filters for our gas masks. the time I spent in England was the best.
Hey Frances, you were hot...and not bothered ! I remember the seventies well; where have those days of summer fun gone? Are we all turning into no fun nation? Sure looks that way...but I refuse to give in. I am looking forward to ageing ever more disgracefully over here in staid, communist Canada.