Talkin' about my Regeneration
Confessions of a Sixties Survivor
It’s been fifty years since the ‘Summer of Love’, 1967’s three-month extravaganza of sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll.
If you can remember the Sixties, they say, you weren’t there. So I guess I wasn’t there because I remember the decade very well. I avoided drugs out of choice while, despite my best efforts, the sex avoided me.
I finished my ‘O’ levels – the equivalent of today’s GCSEs – and walked out of school one unusually warm Friday afternoon to start working at a graphic art studio the following Monday. Life was good, music was in the air, everything was groovy and the last vestiges of my childhood belief in God were fading rapidly. The fledgling ‘Permissive Society’ was in full swing and from what I thought I knew of God, the lifestyle I had in mind for that summer would not have inclined him to be favourable to me. Seeing then that God would cramp my style, I decided it was time I jettisoned him.
