Say what you like about the youth of today, they don’t go in for massed subcultural violence in the manner of previous generations. Mods versus rockers, punks versus skins, everyone versus Goths, it’s a thing of the past. In my own youth, if you liked indie you couldn’t like prog or disco, no way, no how, social death. We might all retrospectively rate Pink Floyd and Donna Summer and Joy Division, but at the time, to love the one was to hate the other two.

Now, though — maybe it’s the loosening of the class structure, maybe it’s a decline in political extremism, maybe it’s music and fashion attaining a measure of maturity, maybe it’s the drugs — young people get along together very well. They’ve still got their gangs, their groups, their look, but they’ll listen to each other’s music, they’ll listen to their parents’ music, hell, they’ll listen to their grandparents’ music, and appreciate it on its merits. And they show no desire to attack each other on the basis of differing musical taste. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.

Dedicated followers ...

This all struck me sitting outside a bar this weekend in my local street, watching the lovely young people taking their leisure. The dressing-up box had been well and truly raided. It was like being at a giant fancy dress party, an open-air Stars in Their Eyes.

Here’s Tony Hadley from Spandau Ballet, three-piece suit and New Romantic Tory aspiration, chatting away to Bob Marley, who rubs shoulders with a young chap working a serious Dave Hill look (Dave Hill being, you will recall, the guitarist in Slade with the uncompromising fringe). Dave appears to be on perfectly friendly terms with a man dressed as Buster Bloodvessel, who seems relaxed about a third acquaintance who’s come as Eugene Terre’Blanche, kneesocks, Eighth Army shorts, shirt and tie, Old Testament beard.

Elsewhere on the street a Slash from Guns N’Roses meets Keith Richards schtick is popular: skull ear-ring, top hat, ratty face, spiky hair. And over there is a Latin type in a cropped leather jacket decorated with a flame motif, mumbling Michael Jackson lyrics and whooping under his breath. And on the corner some Julio Iglesias dude is hanging with the local P. Diddys and 50 Cents in their gigantic puffas pretending they’re in The Wire. It’s a veritable melting pot. These are all young men, remember, alcohol is being taken, and yet not a single soul is even looking like they want to start any trouble. Wonderful.

And yet, every time another Chris Martin out of Coldplay strolls by (scrubby beard, emasculated and yet arrogant expression, Jude Law morphing into Steve Ovett) I sigh and realise that I’m probably the only bloke there having to resist the urge to punch him repeatedly in the face.

The Word made art

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.” I saw the famous words from Psalm 23 on a painting recently, well, as a painting, more accurately, because that’s all the canvas was, raised white letters on white background. If it had cost a bit less than £800 I might have bought it.

In any case, this is my prediction for the next big thing, art-wise: quotations from the Book of Common Prayer, or the Bible, King James version, on paintings, on posters, on T-shirts, on mugs, on tattoos. As the grip of actual religious belief ever loosens, the language of religion, shorn of any meaning beyond the beauty of the words, will flower.

Cycle of dependence

One of the many reasons I ride a bicycle is because you can pretty much predict the duration of a bike journey to the minute, not something you can claim of a car or a bus or a train. I tolerate unpunctuality in others, I cannot tolerate it in myself.

Ironic how we cyclists like to think of ourselves as loose and groovy types, free spirits, urban outlaws spitting in the eye of conformity and convention, etc etc. And yet the truth is many of us are control freaks who choose two wheels because we’re too uptight to bear being even one minute late for anything.

Suits you, sir

Gearing up for a fortnight in Pembrokeshire, the giant sports bag comes down from the high shelf in the garage. It’s the annual Crampton family staycation ceremony known as the Trying on of the Wetsuits. As usual, the solution is for my daughter to get my son’s from last year, my son to get a new one, and my wife to add to her already formidable collection of neoprene. As for my own unforgiving rubber, it fits that little bit more snugly with each passing year.

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