The Auntie Doris Years: 1964

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Harold Wilson. What a lovely man. And in 1964, he became our first Labour Prime Minister since Clement Atlee got beaten by Winston Churchill in the 1951 election. I liked Harold Wilson. Everyone did. Everyone with any sense, any road. He was my age an’all. Actually he was a bit younger. He was a good looking bloke with his gabardine mac and his pipe in his mouth. And he had kindly eyes. In my book kindly eyes should be compulsory for Prime Ministers. If you weren’t allowed to stand for Prime Minister unless you had kindly eyes, then we would never have had to suffer with Margaret Thatcher for all those years, would we? Mind you. These days they would be able to either train people to develop kindly eyes or give them kindly eye surgery to trick us. That Cameron can turn on the kindly eyes when he wants. The thing is, when you get to know him, you realise that they are only pretend kindly eyes, an inch or so in front of a cold, calculating and greedy brain.
Any road, Harold Wilson’s kindly eyes were real. If things had turned out differently, maybe I could have been his wife and lived at 10 Downing Street instead of his Mary. She could have had my Raymond. And good luck to her with him an’all. I would have helped Harold to make the big decisions, and run the country even better than he did. For a start, I would have suggested that he introduce free beef dripping sandwiches at school to go alongside the free milk. It would have brought the young ones up big and strong, that would, and made their hair curl into the bargain. It would have probably reduced the amount of men who went bald an’all, Arthur Knaggs had a full head of hair right into his eighties and he swore by beef dripping. Imagine, with less bald men there would have been more barbers in employment. Don’t forget that barbers have to pay tax an’all, just like the rest of us do. So the measure would eventually pay for itself. Aye, that Wilson could have done with someone like me giving him the benefit of my experience.
But he didn’t do bad. In the tradition of Labour, he stood up for the less well off, and made sensible changes to the law, like allowing grown men to get up to whatever they liked with each other in their own homes as long as nobody got hurt, and making racialist discrimination illegal. Of course, he kept up the Labour tradition of taxing people as well, which allowed the ruddy greedy Tories to make out as though they were going to help poor people by cutting tax, when in truth the only people they were after helping were themselves and their rich cronies. But he did alright in my book while he lasted. Thank God for Harry! England and Saint George! That’s what I used to say. Before the racialists decided to clam exclusive rights over the English flag and St George as symbols of their own narrow mindedness.
Auntie Doris’s Top Pop Pick of 1964; “Hev you got a loight boy” (Have you got a light, boy?) by the Singing Postman. Bless him. We were all still smoking, even the Prime Minister. We still didn’t see any real harm in it, And we still found smokers attractive. The singing postman found it attractive in Mollie Lindley, his little nicotine girl, any road.

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