Johnny Come Home by Jake Arnott 278pp, Sceptre, £12.99 Ask any sensible person, especially someone who might be too young to remember, and all you'll hear about the 1970s is that they were crap: the ugly clothes, the unspeakable music and the general pointlessness of day-to-day life.
Also, because Lol and Woody have two little kids in this series, their house has crap everywhere, and the kids' clothes, their toys, the things on telly, I can remember all that.
Picture things like "Mean Girls" clothes, Beowulf spears and other crap.
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Ma and Harris picked through their crap, found a suitcase, filled the suitcase with clothes.
Why customise some old clothes when they will inevitably look crap?
As a shy teenager, clothes made me feel better about my crap body; a new shirt still gives me a lift for at least three wears.
So, in recent years, we've endured 60s, 70s and 80s revivals, punters encouraged to wear silly clothes, like silly music, and generally pretend that crap things were great, a dispiriting travesty of irony, meta-irony, disingenuousness and disingenuity.
By all accounts, he took what you might charitably call a unique approach to the business of selling clothes: abusing his customers, informing them the clothes they'd just bought were "crap".
You just can't carry street clothes and backpacking gear in the same pack and expect to not have a million tons of crap.
