Being born in the mid-1960s I was, naturally, brought up in a commune by a collective of long-haired parents who, when not completely spaced out on acid, strummed guitars and sang protest songs against the Vietnam War. Well, actually no. If you remember the 1960s, the old saying goes, you weren't there.

And, though barely three at the time, I am afraid that I do remember it. I lived in a pretty ordinary street where people aspired to a Vauxhall Viva and where, if you were lucky, you got invited round to watch Crackerjack by a neighbour who had splashed out on one of the first colour televisions. Dope and lying down in front of nuclear warheads, no; lashings of macaroni cheese and fretting over the cost of butter, yes.

The wonder is why we ever fooled ourselves into thinking that the 1960s generation were natural rebels. My first reaction to a new book by the Cambridge University don David Fowler, which argues that the real age of rebellion was the 1920s and 1930, was: what's his next tome going to be about? A shock revelation, perhaps, that the Pope has secretly been attending Mass?

If you're looking for a real rebel, you don't start with someone who stripped off at Woodstock. They are taking their gold watches now, after solid careers in accountancy. Rebellious youths evolve naturally into the most conventional people you can imagine. To translate that into a proverb: burn your bra before 20, in a woolly cardigan by 30.

Times Archive, 1968: One day in the students' revolt

Is student power strong enough to change the prevailing structures of modern society?

BACKGROUND

• It wasn't about starting a social revolution

• The 1960s? Radical youth means the 1930s

But neither do I take Dr Fowler's argument that the 1920s produced a better generation of rebels, just because, to judge by the photograph in yesterday's Times, they showed a couple of inches of knickerbocker while dancing the Charleston. No, the natural rebels are those who rebel against youth culture itself and lead youthful lives of quiet normality.

You don't believe me? Just get on to Friendsreunited and see what happened to all your wayward classmates. The skinhead Sid Vicious fan? Now in computing in Finchley. The boy who wore his blazer collar up and broke the classroom windows with a hockey stick - an actuary in Chatham. The boy who sat in the corner and said nothing for five years? Now living the life of Riley after transgender surgery. The slightly posh boy who always did well in exams? Now on his sixth or seventh marriage.

We hear so much about the 1960s precisely because those who were there turned out so dull. Let's face it, the reason so many sixtysomethings groan on, like your grandad lecturing you on the Boer War, about what a great time they had at Woodstock or wherever, is because they have done absolutely nothing of interest in the 40 intervening years.

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