Tony Curtis in twin-set and pearls appears like the shop owner and spins O towards puckish Vinny, who loves the Beatles and writes teenage fan letters to Audrey Hepburn; keen to form a band, but can't play
[ ... ]
Remember Dickie Bird and the Sparrows, and summer with Monica, and a wispy-bearded hippie man with a faraway fairytale voice in curly-toed sandals and zig-zag knitted cap and bells plays Mongolian flutes at the Queen Elizabeth Hall; it's cold and black and Tuesday on Winter Hill, and O strides all scholarly above a tiny twinkling town, wrapped in dad's old black, white and gold; and Michael teeters in black and white patent leather winkle pickers and raging electric blue much-too-tight mail-order mod-suit, as we wind our way past squadrons of scooters bedecked with Flash Gordon mirrors and fish-tail parkas to a moorland tent, big plastic beers in small hands, and three tiny, silver men make new waves from old souls [ ... ]
Long summer afternoons with Vinny, the grammar school boys wholly in awe of the older brother's postman pals; boozy afternoons of cribbage with the pampered proletariat on Crab Lane [ ... ]
And going round to Mark's on Sunday afternoon to dutifully kiss Jacqui's cousin, the pale too young Irish girl with curly wire wool hair and out there accent, he realises she can't kiss; proud that he can, after illicit lessons with posh, dark, and dangerously sexy Anna, devastating in lemon sherbet [ ... ]
