Rolf Harris was lifted – again recently – and it didn’t even trend on twitter. Last December, the yewtree arrests were like an 1970s-themed advent calendar. Each morning, we awoke, bursting with excitement, eager to see who’d been huckled this time.
And a little over six months later, we’re like, “meh…”
We’re not shocked any longer when we hear that somebody from the Radio Times in the olden days is helping the pollice with their euphemism.
Let’s face it – back-in-the-day, celebrities got to fuck kids. Mibby not still in nappies, but teenagers at any rate. And if the terminally uncool (Harris, Saville, Davidson) were at it, then celebrities *with* credibility must’ve been running the sexual equivalent of a burgeoning nursery. The glitter-creche.
During the glam-rock era, the average age of concert-goers halved. So instead of twenty-seven-year-olds getting backstage, it was fourteen-year-olds. And, kids have always dressed up to appear older – particularly when there’s alcohol, soft drugs and/or cooler, bigger kids around.
A week goes by and Harris is completely forgotten. I wonder if even he remembers now.
Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.