I grew up in a Britain coloured grey. During the 1970s, even though memories of the war had faded into the distance and rationing had long ended, scarcity still hung in the air. Clothes were handed down, treats were rare and the country felt smaller and more muted than the one talked about in history books. Geoff Dyer’s memoir, Homework, captures it perfectly, a postwar Britain where Airfix models seemed exciting and front rooms kept “for best” epitomised a place looking inwards, slightly embarrassed about its ambitions and potential.
America existed for me in a weekly burst of Technicolor on TV. When Entertainment USA arrived in the 1980s it brought news of Disneyland, Hollywood, pizzas the size of tabletops, Pelé playing for New York Cosmos, and skies that seemed permanently blue. It appealed to all the appetites of a teenage boy in Grimsby. Later, discovering Jack Kerouac, the lure deepened – open roads and adventure felt a world away, but I had to get there. One afternoon, aged 16 in the local library, I found a book on scholarships, sent out 100 letters, and received 99 rejections. That one positive reply eventually sent me to high school as an exchange student and began a lifetime of transatlantic travel that continues to this day. Over the next three decades I crossed the ocean for work, meeting bosses, pitching to investors and building businesses with an American footprint. I have always admired the optimism, scale and willingness to take a punt that seems hard-wired into the US mindset.
