The 1970's: Part One - The Decade That Style Forgot

It's become something of a cliché to dub the 1970's as The Decade That Style Forgot, but the truth is, it was.

For some reason, there are people who look back at the 1970's as some sort of Golden Age in England. But for all that the 1970's produced some great music, it was a decade that style forgot when it came to fashion, and it was a decade probably best remembered for the Winter of Discontent, rampant inflation, unparalleled industrial strife, IRA atrocities, and Britain being dubbed 'The Sick Man of Europe.' It was the decade of my teenage years, and although there is much to look back on with fondness, there was much about the 1970's that was a struggle and not all that pleasant.

The 1970's - Guilty of crimes against good taste

 

In 1970 I was twelve years old and at secondary school. I had passed my Eleven Plus and went to North Romford Comprehensive School, in Lodge Lane, Collier Row. During my time there it changed name to Forest Lodge School; it is long since closed. Academically I leaned heavily towards the humanities; English, geography, and history were my strengths, I was less adept at maths and the sciences. When it came to practical subjects like woodwork, metalwork and technical drawing then frankly I was a waste of space. I didn't excel at sports either, although I was adequate at most. Football was my passion - whether watching my beloved Romford FC or playing - and although my enthusiasm was greater than my talent, I did manage to get into my House and school teams a few times. I was realistic about my ability, realising from an early age that I would never be good enough to play professionally. Fortunately, this realisation came sometime before my Mother broke it to me that she didn't think I was good enough either - thanks Mum!

My school badge. Picture: Chris Pat Ellis via Facebook

School was something I enjoyed and dreaded in equal parts. I enjoyed lessons for the most part, but despite having a number of very good friends, there were some of my peers with whom I had an uneasy relationship to say the least. I will say no more; no doubt you get the gist. In 1974 I took eight O-levels, I passed seven but failed abysmally at French. This was no great surprise as I had no aptitude for nor interest in the subject and figured that even if I revised for nothing else I would be lucky to scrape a pass, therefore I didn't bother, concentrating on the subjects I could get a pass in. Unlike today when A* grades at GCSE are all that people are interested in (grades are now 9 down to 1 rather than A* to G), passing four O-levels was considered a decent achievement in 1974 (well, it was at my school), so long as two of them were Maths and English. The majority of my year group left school at sixteen, and four O-level passes were then sufficient to get any number of jobs, even though the recession of 1973-75 meant that unemployment rates were rising. I stayed on in the Sixth Form, despite some misgivings from my Mother, who would really have liked another wage coming into the household, and studied English Literature, Geography, and Economics. While English was my favourite subject, Geography was my strongest, something my younger daughter seems to have inherited from me, while Economics made up the numbers (no pun intended). I had wanted to take History instead, but if my memory is correct, it clashed with Geography on the timetable. In hindsight, the two subjects would probably have been too heavy a workload in any case.

North Romford Comprehensive School. Picture: Michael Hall via Facebook

The school did have a decent swimming pool. Picture: Gary Nott via Facebook

As with GCSE's, today's A-level students seem expected to pass all of their exams with top grades, but the 1970's student was considered a success just passing them. Passing three A-levels (regardless of grade) was cause for celebration; even passing one out of three was pretty damned good. My years in the Sixth Form were my most enjoyable at school. We were generally treated as adults by our teachers, we no longer had to wear a uniform, and we had a separate Sixth Form block where some (but not all) lessons took place and where we ate, our lunches being wheeled over from the main buildings. In 1975 I went on a joint Geography/Biology field trip to Cornwall. It was the first time I had ever been away with without my parents, and although there was a good deal of work involved, it was quite a decent social occasion too.

Geography/Biology Field Trip to Cornwall, 1975. I'm at the back on the right, looking left, in a fetching orange fleece. Picture: Mary Redbourn via Facebook

Some of my pictures from Cornwall.

By early 1976, however our thoughts were as much on what we would do after the exams as on the exams themselves. I well remember sitting, with four others, at lunch one day when one of the Sixth Form tutors, Mr Davis (known to one and all as Basil, even though his given name was Brian), approached us; "Job, job, job, job, job" was all he said, pointing to us each in turn. Clearly it was time to start applying for jobs. The idea of going to university only ever briefly entered my head; to be honest I don't think that my parents would have entertained the notion, and from my point of view, moving away from home study would have meant not being able to go to football. That in itself was enough to make the idea a non-starter. Applying for jobs meant the prospect of interviews, which meant having to have the clothes to look the part. Clothes were not something that particularly interested me then. Up to the age of fourteen I'd been in school uniform during the week, and at weekends it was a pair of casual trousers and a small number of t-shirts and jumpers. My mother bought my clothes for me, and like many teenagers at the time, what I wore was very similar to what my Dad wore.

I had a very similar shirt and tie combo, but in shades of blue.

I had two jackets for school that I wore in rotation; one in blue Crimplene, the other brown, which I paired with blue checked and brown checked trousers respectively. Since neither of these outfits would be suitable for interviews or work, I bought a suit from Burtons (well, my Mum bought it actually). It was a two-button grey check suit, with lapels the size of an aircraft carrier's flight deck, and trousers with flares so wide that the colour of my shoes would have been a mystery to anyone looking at me while I stood still.[1] With it, I wore a tie so wide that only the collar of my shirt was visible. If it sounds terrible now, there was worse. For my birthday one year I received a matching shirt and tie set. Both garments were Bri-Nylon monstrosities; the shirt had enormous collars and the tie was yards wide. Both were pale blue with a royal blue paisley pattern. Looking back, they were hideous, but then they were all the rage. Paired with the Burton suit and a pair of black and burgundy slip-on shoes, this outfit would be laughable now; then it was completely unexceptional.

My interview outfit was by no means the worst of the atrocities committed against good taste during the 1970's - you ought to have seen my 'casual' attire - but since everyone was wearing similar, the materials, the designs, and the styles were totally unremarkable.

The next part of this 1970's retrospective will consider strikes, shortages and substitutes.

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[1] The earliest outing for the suit is recounted in my blog https://rulesfoolsandwisemen.blogspot.com/2016/03/a-midland-odyssey-part-seven-interview.html