Yesterday, after a very long lunch I skulked home and watched back to back three episodes of Andrew Marr's History Of Modern Britain, which I've been enjoying very much.
The Thatcher years one really took me back. I know we're practically tripping over 80s nostalgia these days, but this was different. I was marvelling at the fact this woman in a twinset ran the country and people actually took notice of her. Looking back she seems so old-fashioned it's unbelievable. But run the country she did.
The programme has almost managed to steer clear of the The Wrong Kind Of Nostalgia - they resisted the man in the top hat flicking through military jackets for the 60s, George Best pouring champagne in the 70s and the man on the very large mobile phone for the 80s, though there was the yuppie with the pocket full of cash and the ones discussing their huge bonuses. I wanted to be like that once.
When I first moved to London 20 years ago this July, that's what it was like. Me and my college mate Jim both got jobs in the City. We deliberately set our sights on it. We actually wanted to be yuppies. We bought Filofaxes, sharp suits from Next (which in those days was actually a good shop) and thought we were it. If anyone asked us what we did, we told them we were brokers.
But we weren't. The job was a commission-only rip off, the people were vile City boys whose first piece of advice to the new intake was make sure you socks match your handkerchief. It was style over substance, and with no money style was hard to come by. I left after a month. Most of the others followed suit. My City boy dream was over, thank God. I realised I wasn't that sort of person after all.
But it makes me smile when I think of it. It's a proper 80s thing to do and place to be and I'm glad I did it. But just remember - I'm not a twat.
