Thanks, Jamie Oliver – you’ve stolen my childhood

Whenever I want to travel back in time to my 1970s childhood, all I need is a glass of Lucozade. One sip of the electric orange nectar and there I am in the magical era of Chopper bikes, space hoppers and clackers (which they banned because they were dangerous, apparently), of the Clangers, Animal Magic and John Craven’s Newsround, of Wagon Wheels, Alphabetti spaghetti and chewy chocolate peanut bars still known in those days by their correct name, Marathon. (See also: Jif, Oil of Ulay, Opal Fruits.)

Bliss was it in that loon-panted dawn to be alive. But to be young was very heaven. Every now and then some awful piece of horror from the outside world would filter briefly into our consciousness — the Jonestown massacre, the Killing Fields, the IRA pub bombings — but not for long. There were all manner of distractions to make the bad things go away: Haliborange, Silly Putty, yo-yos, slime, Dougal and the Blue Cat, David Bowie’s ‘The Laughing Gnome’, The Tomorrow People and yes, maybe best of all, Lucozade.