In the summer of 1987, as life in Britain was being steadily reshaped by Margaret Thatcher, I landed a temporary job as an electrician’s mate in a steel-drum factory. I was a truly useless assistant, and justified my existence by singing songs to entertain my boss as he worked. As I recall, by the time I left Stuart had come round to quite liking Bob Dylan, but still had no time for the gothic gloominess of the early Cure.
While I handed him tools he didn’t need, and failed to locate the ones he did, we occasionally talked about politics. Stuart was a gentle man in his mid-20s, already married and hoping to buy a house. He was also, it turned out, a cautious believer in Thatcher’s promise of a “people’s capitalism” in which working people would get a piece of the action. Prior to my coming to “help” him, he was one of the millions who had responded to the previous year’s Tell Sid ad campaign and bought shares in newly privatised British Gas.
