Remembering Margaret

Laura Ashley patterned sofas and armchairs up the twisting winding narrow stairways of scraped knuckles and blackened fingernails past the long-legged hot panted blondes smoking cocktail cigarettes and emblazoned in make up so thick an instant allergy attack was expected. But it was a job and in Thatcher’s Britain it was better than surviving the weekend on five pence, a can of Sainsbury’s baked beans, two potatoes and a half a bag of hard American rice.

Twenty quid went a way in those days or at least for a weekend. A bottle of Nightrain or Thundy following a few pints of cheapest student piss gave access to a student party, and then me and my harpies would proceed to denude the place of any alcohol and other stuff we could get out hands on just for our enjoyment. A couple of packs of EU tobacco mountain cigarettes complete with skull and cross-bones logo and a share in an eighth with a modicum of Chinese takeaway and doner kebab equalled good weekend. Even better if it ended in a drunken grope in an ill covered bed in a freezing squat or on the floor of a student party house squeezed in between the usual menagerie of leftover drunks, wasters, alcys and druggies.

Those were good times


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