George East's Portsmouth-born ancestors fought at the battles of Trafalgar, Sebastapol and in both World Wars. Our hero fought most of his teenage battles on the streets of his beloved city. This tale of angst, love, rock'n'roll music and the ceaseless pursuit of sex is a revealing, amusing and above all honest account of what it was like to be young at this unique time.

'Because of the vast quantities of beer, acid (LSD), upper and downer pills, scrumpy cider and whacky baccy ingested at the time, my memories of the Sixties are understandably patchy in parts. To fill in the blanks, I'm grateful for the help of surviving contemporaries, old friends, foes and lovers and, when available, police and court records and the recollections of arresting officers. My escapades were perhaps extreme, but I think my experiences and adventures in the so-called Swinging Sixties were broadly similar to millions of young men and women at a time when society changed dramatically from the grey post-war years to what seemed to many a new and exciting world.

'Whether you believe it was a change for the better or worse will I think depend on your age, attitude and how much fun you had in those far-off days.'

Extract:

Alongside a long, wide and mostly untroubled road on the outskirts of the city, Bert's specialised in fry-ups, bacon sandwiches and doorstep-sized slices of dripping toast. The mugs were man-sized and the tea strong, and Bert's was the in place for local bikers to gather to show off their bikes, tell tall tales and indulge in regular 'burn-ups.' A particular speciality at Bert's was the round-the-roundabout challenge. This involved the contestant sitting astride his bike with the engine running while someone put a specified record on the juke box. The challenge was for him to race towards the city, past the Smith's Crisps and Johnsons baby powder factory, round the roundabout there and then back to Bert's before the record ended. In those days, most pop songs lasted less than three minutes, so it was rare that the deadline was beaten.

I was half-jestingly challenged once, and to the surprise of the regulars picked up the metaphorical gauntlet. This was not because I fancied risking my neck, but fancied a greasy biker's long-legged and big-breasted pillion passenger. Ever the dramatist, I chose Tell Laura I Love Her as my record. The theme of doom-laden Ritchie Valens song was of a love-lorn teenager who dies in a car crash, and had been briefly barred by the BBC for fear it might encourage listeners to commit suicide. With a soulful look at the curvaceous bikerette, I squared my shoulders, turned up the collar of my jacket and left.

Although I thought about pretending to do the full journey, I decided to have a real go at beating the time challenge. Though limited to sixty-five mph top speed, my bike was no slouch at acceleration. Accordingly, I roared off and took what I thought were near-insane risks overtaking and cutting-up other road users. Back at Bert's, I dropped my bike on its side when I arrived and rushed in to hear the dying strains of Tell Laura I Love Her.

The balloon of my elation was pricked when the referee told me I had taken so long he had put the record on twice.