Bird's Custard Powder
The yellow tin that made proper custard out of cornflour, and has barely changed its packaging since.
The 1950s
Rationing ends, the telly arrives, and everything is suddenly in colour. Except the telly.
Britain came off the ration book and straight into a decade of Formica, Bakelite and the first television set on the street. Coffee bars, Meccano, the Festival of Britain hangover and a milkman who knew your name.
How the decade went
The yellow tin that made proper custard out of cornflour, and has barely changed its packaging since.
A comic founded by a vicar, printed to a standard nothing else matched, and read by close to a million children a week.
Fifteen minutes of stories and nursery rhymes on the Home Service at quarter to two, aimed at under-fives and the mothers who needed a sit down.
Perforated steel strips, brass nuts and a tiny spanner. Meccano built engineers, and quite a lot of frustration.
The GPO 332 sat in the hall on a special table, weighed about the same as a brick, and had a drawer for the numbers you actually rang.
Alec Issigonis' small car: cheap, honest, endlessly repairable, and still on the road seventy years later.
A marble shelf, a mesh-fronted meat safe and a fly-proof gauze window. Refrigeration for people who did not have refrigeration.
A man on a tricycle with a cold box on the front, ringing a bell along the seafront and through the estates.
Tinned meat in batter. A school dinner staple that divides every family gathering to this day.
A coupon collected from the door each week, filled in with a biro, and checked against the teleprinter on Saturday teatime.
More than two million television sets were bought or rented for the 1953 Coronation, and most of them had twenty people sitting in front of them.
Buses that ran on overhead wires: quiet, fast off the mark, and prone to coming off the poles at junctions.
Meat was the last thing to come off ration in July 1954, ending a system that had outlasted the war by nine years.
A lorry, a crate of glass bottles in colours that do not exist in nature, and threepence back for every empty you returned.
Four counters, one die, and a rule about sixes that every family interpreted differently.
Scrap metal and old clothes collected door to door, in exchange for a few coppers or a goldfish in a bag.
Gaggia machines arrived from Italy and gave British teenagers the first indoor space that was theirs.
Portable, two-tone, with an autochanger that stacked eight singles and dropped them one at a time onto the turntable.
Broadcasting stopped. An announcer said goodnight, the anthem played, and the screen went to a dot.
Two drums, one on wheels, and a Monday morning that took the whole morning.
You swung them until they clacked top and bottom. Then they shattered, and that was the end of clackers.
Britain's first mass loyalty scheme: stamps at the petrol pump and the grocer, pasted into books and redeemed against a catalogue of things you d
The Teddy Boy shoe: exaggerated points, worn with drainpipes and a drape jacket, hated by every parent in the country.
Dehydrated curry, rehydrated on the hob, served with rice that came in the same packet and noodles you fried yourself.
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