Sooty And The XYLOPHONE
Harry Corbett's glove puppet, bought on Blackpool pier, who became one of the longest-running acts in British television.
The 1960s
Colour, pop, and the sense that someone had finally opened a window.
Pirate radio, Formica kitchens going psychedelic, sweets by the quarter and a toy cupboard full of things that would never pass safety testing now. The decade the high street got loud.
How the decade went
Harry Corbett's glove puppet, bought on Blackpool pier, who became one of the longest-running acts in British television.
Jars on a shelf, brass scales, and a quarter of whatever you pointed at, twisted shut at the corners.
Wartime shelters that outlived the war by decades and quietly became garden sheds all over Britain.
Issigonis turned the engine sideways, put the wheels at the corners, and changed small car design permanently.
Polystyrene model kits sold in polythene bags on a card, cheap enough to buy with pocket money.
Pocket sized, leather cased, powered by a PP3 battery, and held against one ear at low volume after lights out.
British 45s came with a removable centre for jukeboxes, and everyone had a drawer full of the little plastic bits.
Cigarette vending machines bolted to shop fronts, with a drawer that clattered out and change taped inside the packet.
Send in something good enough and a shield-shaped badge arrived in the post. Nothing else at that age came close.
Launched by Pedigree as the girl next door: flat shoes, duffle coat, and outfits your gran could knit.
A conductor upstairs and down with a leather satchel and a Setright machine that punched your ticket with a clunk.
A ship anchored in international waters playing records all day, listened to under the bedclothes on a transistor radio.
The chart show that decided what was in your ears for the following seven days, whether you liked it or not.
A Danish woodcutter carved one for his daughter, and within five years they were on every school desk in Britain.
Daily doorstep delivery in glass pints, with a note in the empty for tomorrow's order.
Raleigh's answer to the Moulton: a shopper bike with 16-inch wheels and balloon tyres that rode like a sofa.
Toothed plastic wheels, a biro and a lot of pins, producing patterns that looked far more impressive than the effort involved.
Palitoy's licensed version of GI Joe, sold in Britain with a straight face and an enormous range of kit.
Steak and kidney in a shallow tin, oven-baked with the pastry rising over the rim. Nobody has ever opened one safely.
Goblin's bedside contraption: clock, kettle, teapot and lamp, all in one slightly alarming unit.
Public information films that terrified and instructed a generation in roughly equal measure.
Watney's Party Seven: a giant can of beer opened with a screwdriver and a great deal of optimism.
Grattan, Kays, Littlewoods: a doorstop catalogue delivered in autumn, with the toy section thumbed to destruction by November.
Britain stayed up for Apollo 11, most of it in front of a set that had been rented specially for the occasion.
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