The recent heatwave inspired many people to bring out their stories of the summer of 1976. I have a memory of it which has nothing to do with the temperature, but which I think could be even more relevant to our times.
It happened in the baking, crammed, nicotine-steeped ballroom of a holiday camp. I was eight. The campers were gathered for the night’s fun, provided by the camp’s resident comic. On the dot of 8 p.m. he told the audience it was time for the kiddies to head to bed. We were handed over to the care of a redcoat (about 20, unvetted, just some bloke – there is an entire vanished world in that) and led back en masse to our chalets.
It felt so unfair. I could stay up for hours yet! I wasn’t a baby any more! Why was this happening? Because, I was told, the nature of the jokes was going to change.
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