There’s so much fuss about ‘back in the day’, about ‘the old days’, about how life was better before the internet, before the contraceptive pill, before the car.

Well, its all bollocks. The old days were there, they were fine at the time, now move on.

We all get nostalgic about Spangles. About actually going into a travel agency to book a flight. About breaking down in the car on the A47 at 2am and having some local farmer come out and mend your broken fanbelt with your wife’s tights. (That particular act of kindness and salvation is now termed ‘sexual abuse and assault’ and any involvement with someone else’s wife’s underwear instantly renders that person ‘a stalker’).

Yet there is always a tendency to reminisce fondly, to become dewey eyed and nostalgic over ‘how it used to be’. Mainly because we tend to remember the good bits and even the bad bits become comedic in retrospect. When Johnny broke his arm trying to artificially inseminate the cow; getting sent home from school early because of the power cuts during the miner’s strike; the hotel in Majorca that actually hadn’t been finished yet (hope it doesn’t rain; we have neither windows nor roof).

But we’re learning the truth about ‘the past’. That it wasn’t all friendly neighbours and drip-dry shirts. That everyone knew the milkman by his first name not because he was such a nice bloke but because he was stealing their stuff.

That for every Cilla Black there were 15 Edward Heaths. For every Morecombe & Wise there were 9 (yes NINE!!!) Jimmy Saviles and Cyril Smiths (he counts as 6).

And the past was littered with child-molesters, paedophiles, perverts, weirdos, deviants and other politicians. The entire houses of Parliament was one big child-porn ring. Protected by the police, controlled by MI5, regulated by the SAS.

Jeremy Corbyn, aspiring new Labour leader (emphatically NOT; NewLabour leader) wants to take us back to the 70s. Just to be contrary to those accusing him of wanting to take us back to the 80s. He liked the land under James Callaghan. With the above mentioned power cuts. With striking refuse collectors resulting in piles of rotting garbage on every street corner. The winter of discontent, it was termed. And that is Corbyn’s dewey-eyed nostalgic moment. Tosser.

The past is the past, it was fun while it lasted but leave it there and move on. Except the bit when Spurs won things. That we can go back to. Any time you’re ready.

Happy wednesday

A xxxx