Growing Up Analogue: A Nostalgic Journey

Before apps, before scrolls and swipes, there was another kind of childhood. I was born in 1966, and for a long while, everything I knew—at home, at school, in my head—was purely analogue. There was no digital back-up, no smart assistant in your pocket. The tools we used were things you could touch, fix, or break.

THE RHYTHM OF HOME

Appliances were solid and noisy. The washing machine rumbled like a jet engine, with a twin tub setup that meant scooping soapy clothes into a spinner. The iron was heavy enough to flatten your will, and the fridge needed regular defrosting, preferably with a butter knife and a bowl. Nothing beeped. Everything clunked.

In our living room sat a black and white television the size of a suitcase. I was three when the moon landing aired, and though the picture was grainy and flickered like candlelight, the moment felt huge. Monumental. When we finally got our first colour telly, it felt like someone had taken the fog off the world. Even Blue Peter looked thrilling. The test card girl was a star in her own right.

We had a single landline telephone on a hallway table. If you needed to take a private call, you stretched the spiral cord as far as it would go. And if the person wasn’t home, you didn’t leave a message. You simply waited and rang back later. Calls abroad were rare, expensive, and often brief. You spoke quickly, shouted louder than necessary, then ended the call with a nervous glance at the clock.

SCHOOL DAYS AND LIBRARIES

School was no sleeker. You sharpened your pencil by hand, the shavings curling like wood ribbons. We wrote in exercise books with ink pens, correcting mistakes with blotting paper or Tippex if you were fancy. Learning something meant books, libraries, and a lot of legwork. You couldn’t Google it—you had to go get it.

MUSIC MEANT EVERYTHING

Music, though—music was everything. I was a dedicated listener of Piccadilly Radio 261, Manchester’s original commercial station. Their Saturday night love songs show was where I first fell in love with the idea of love itself. That’s where I heard so many of the ballads that would stay with me for decades.

My first single was Puppy Love by Donny Osmond. I still remember holding that paper sleeve, no plastic wrap, just that fragile square of joy. If we were lucky, a glossy cover with photos or lyrics made it even more precious. Albums were a financial and emotional commitment. You didn’t just buy them—you lived with them. Studied every line of the artwork. Memorised every lyric.

THE ART OF THE MIXTAPE

And then came cassettes. First, we recorded songs off the radio. You’d sit for hours on Sunday nights listening to the chart show, finger hovering over the record button, hoping the DJ wouldn’t talk over the intro. Editing a tape was a proper craft. We used pencils to wind the reels, scissors to snip unwanted bits, and Sellotape to splice the good stuff together. We became bedroom producers without even realising it. And those mix tapes—we poured our hearts into them, gifting them to friends and crushes with all the sincerity we could muster.

FAN CLUBS, FIRST GIGS AND QUEUING FOR TICKETS

Fan clubs were by post. You filled in a coupon, sent it off with a postal order, then waited weeks. But the thrill of that first newsletter dropping through the letterbox was worth every minute. Everything was by post. Competitions, letters, concert ticket applications—it all lived and breathed through the Royal Mail.

Speaking of concerts, we queued in the early hours for tickets—real queues, in real weather—outside the Piccadilly box office in Manchester. I saw Madness, Duran Duran, Japan and The Human League at The Apollo in Ardwick Green. It wasn’t just about the music; it was an initiation. Those nights felt like you were brushing shoulders with magic.

THE BETAMAX MISTAKE AND THE RISE OF THE CD

Eventually, video arrived. We went with Betamax. “Better quality,” they said. It probably was—but everyone else had VHS, so our options were always limited. The first of many lessons in life not being fair.

Then came the CD. Shiny, modern, futuristic. My friends and I were part of the live studio audience at The Oxford Road Show—my first ever TV appearance, and what a moment it was. One night, presenter Peter Powell dramatically smeared jam on a CD to prove it couldn’t be scratched. We were amazed. Looking back, that moment now seems gloriously naive. CDs scratched just fine.

ON THE MOVE: MUSIC IN THE CAR AND THE GIANT MOBILE PHONE

My dad had an 8-track player in his car—those cassettes were monstrous. Clunky plastic boxes that slotted in with a satisfying thunk. Later, he installed one of those massive car phones that came in its own carry case, the kind you lugged around like a briefcase.

NO TEXTS, NO UPDATES—JUST TURNING UP

Every part of life involved effort. If you wanted to meet someone, you arranged it in advance and turned up. If they were late, you waited. No texts. No updates. Maybe they’d missed the bus. Maybe the bus just never came. But you stood at the corner, hoping.

THE RITUAL OF SHOPPING

Shopping was done in shops, on foot, up and down the high street. If Argos had it, you were in luck. If they didn’t, you traipsed to the next place. Those laminated catalogues, those tiny blue pens—they felt like a game of chance every time.

A SLOWER KIND OF CARE

Even the doctor’s surgery was different. No ringing at 8am. You walked down, took a seat in a tiny waiting room, and hoped the receptionist knew your name. Behind the counter, patient records sat in neat rows—handwritten, cross-referenced, dog-eared. Everything had a physical presence. Everything left a trace.

LIFE WITH BOTH FEET IN THE MOMENT

That was the world I grew up in. Analogue in every sense. Slower, maybe, but also more deliberate. You couldn’t delete a mistake. You lived with it, or taped over it with something better. And I think that’s what makes those years stick in the memory—not just the music, the fashion, the clunky gadgets—but the way we lived. Fully, messily, and always with both feet in the moment.