Growing up slowly

I was (briefly) a member of the Labour Party Young Socialists, and even though that was in the mid-1970s, in the final days of Old Labour, Rebecca Mead’s memories of a Thatcher adolescence still ring a bell with me:

Our branch of the Young Socialists was a small group—sometimes there were a dozen of us, sometimes half that—but a dedicated one. Among the hardcore was Tony, who styled himself after Che Guevara, with army jacket, black beret, long hair, and moustache, and gave a presentation about Cuban history at one of the first meetings I attended. There was James, who, in the New Romantic style of the time, wore floppy blonde hair and flouncy shirts, and was the mastermind behind the short-lived pop-political fanzine we produced, Pravda-A-Go-Go.

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