Memory’s great, isn’t it? I remember this, I’ve forgotten that, this used to be here, that was over there.

Memories, remembrances, come from the past, mainly. But whose past and whose memories? God, I don’t know. Wish I’d stop asking stupid questions.

Mooching around the flat the other day listening to the radio. Hit songs from yesteryear, back in the day, the days of yore.

Otis, Jimi, Beach Boys, Doors, Beatle bones n smokin stones. Great songs, memorable ones, classic tunes, legendary music, all from the past, those formative years, sixty six, sixty seven, sixty eight.

Them must have been the days. Post-war economic settlement in its prime. Welfare state, full employment, national health, council housing, public services, nationalised industries, trade unions, counter culture, civil rights, anti-war, black power, better music, better drugs, more sex.

And what a football team we had back then too, the most charismatic side in Europe, revered across the continent for their genius manager and the verve and skill of the players.

At last, a past you can believe in.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember it.