Andrew Collins (2) (1965–)

The author wrote this book partly as a counterweight to the large number of "misery memoirs" out there, in which people recount awful childhood experiences. Without in any way denigrating those traumatic experiences, this memoir and others like it remind us of the normal, loving childhood that fortunately most of have had. Born in 1965, Andrew Collins is a year or so older than me and had a not dissimilar childhood and upbringing (though I was - and still am - in the suburbs of London/North show more West Kent rather than a provincial town like Northampton). So for me there were many nodding moments of familiarity with the details and grain of growing up as a child throughout the 1970s, and some laugh out loud moments. How different our attitudes were towards food then. As he says, "A balanced meal for us meant something out of a box, something out of a tin and something out of a sachet....We ate this food not because Mum was lazy or unimaginative, but because everybody did. It was the Seventies, the decade of convenience". However, I did think the book was a bit too long, and I thought the chapters detailing extracts from his diaries from 1973 to 1981 were too long (and sometimes appeared in the book ahead of the narrative describing that period, which was a little confusing). Still, worth reading if you're of a similar age and experience to the author (and me!) show less

I have, recently, started to listen to Billy Bragg's music. Billy comes to a similar place to myself, but from a very different direction: Billy was 'Essex lad', I was pseudo intellectual - we would have cast a very jaundiced eye over each other, were we to have met in Billy's early days but, he is a performer whom it is difficult to dislike.

I was wondering as to how it had taken me so long to get around to Billy Bragg and I have come to the conclusion that he was born in my musical blind show more spot: he is two years younger than myself and one tends to have musical heroes who are a few years older so, Bob Dylan, the Stones, ELP and Led Zeppelin all find there way into my affections, but it was only when presented with a considerable body of Mr Bragg's work that I took the time to sit down, listen and decide that here was another hero to my collection.

Billy wears his allegiances upon his sleeve; he is very much a what you see is what you get type of person and this biography hits just the right note. It is not fawning, but it is respectful of a man who is more than simply a musical talent. Billy cares for his fellow man in a genuine way. Andrew Collins is not just a writer who happened to choose to produce a book about Bragg, he knows the man, warts and all. He presents us with a warm biography of a man who has made mistakes, will probably make more, but a man about whom we could all say, were my life to be as valuable to others, I need not fear the words in St Peter's great tome upon the day of judgement.

This is not just a pleasing read, I learned a great deal about Billy which, makes his music speak all the clearer to me. If you are a fan, then you MUST read this: if yo are not, then you MUST read this - and listen to his music - to see what you have been missing. Thank you Andrew Collins! Thank you Billy Bragg! (I am sorry that I took so long to get here). show less

You had to be there, and if this is your era you'll probably enjoy some of this affectionate and witty account of being an absolutely normal schoolboy through the 1970s. Collins uses his journalistic skills to highlight and make relevant what it's like to grow up outside London in a town or city where nothing much happens (which is of course what it was like for most of us). The bit that was missing for me was the whole teenybopper bit, but I am a girl. Boy's concerns were slightly show more different. An enjoyable nostalgia trip. show less

Amusing autobiography, supplemented by diary entries, of a lower? middle class boy (born 1965) growing up normal in Northampton, where/when nothing very extraordinary happened. Good, but publishing a second volume (Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now) is probably milking the idea too much.

It's interesting to compare this with two other memoir-ish books by relatively normal male Brits of the same generation:

David Mitchell's Black Swan Green
and
best of the three, Nigel Slater's Toast