The First Artist-Designed Christmas: A Look Back at 1966

Christmas traditions are often defined by the familiar: the smell of pine, the crinkle of wrapping paper, and the arrival of cards from distant friends. But in 1966, the Royal Mail (then the GPO) added a new splash of color to the season with a set of stamps that would change British philately forever.

A Royal First

The 1966 Issued Christmas Stamps were a landmark moment because they were the very first British stamps to feature designs by children. After a nationwide competition launched by the Postmaster General, Tony Benn, two young artists saw their work immortalized in the nation's mailbags.

• The 3d Stamp (King): Designed by 6-year-old Tasveer Shemza, this vibrant red, blue, and yellow stamp features a charmingly stylized King with a bold crown. It perfectly captures that wonderful, uninhibited childhood perspective we remember from our own days of drawing at the kitchen table.
• The 1/6 Stamp (Snowman): Designed by 9-year-old James Berry, this taller blue stamp showcases a classic snowman complete with a pink top hat and a jaunty red scarf. It’s a scene that feels like it was plucked straight from the window of a shop like Setchfields or a festive page in The Beano Book.

A Window to a Creative Childhood

Looking at these stamps today evokes the same tactile nostalgia as opening a fresh box of Meccano or carefully applying the final decals to an Airfix SR.N4 Hovercraft. They remind us of a time when "interactive" meant picking up a paintbrush or a felt-tip pen.

In 1966, these stamps would have been affixed to millions of envelopes. Perhaps they were stuck onto a card containing a Panini sticker for a friend, or an invitation to a Saturday night party fueled by a Watneys Party Seven and a Huntley & Palmers Family Circle tin.

The Gold Silhouette

One of the most striking features of these designs is the gold-embossed silhouette of Queen Elizabeth II in the corner. It provides a sophisticated contrast to the bright, hand-drawn art of the children, bridging the gap between national tradition and youthful creativity. This silhouette was the same one we’d see on the cover of our favorite magazines like Look-in, where we’d track the latest adventures of the Thunderbirds or the Jackson 5.

A Legacy of Joy

These stamps weren't just for collectors; they were for everyone. They were part of a world that celebrated the quirky and the handmade, much like the knitted charm of The Clangers or the hand-cranked excitement of a Give-A-Show Projector.

Whether you were a lad on Priors Rd warming your toes by the gas fire or a teenager splashing on some Brut for a Boxing Day dance, seeing these stamps on your mail meant Christmas had truly arrived. They remain a colorful reminder that sometimes, the best way to capture the spirit of the season is through the eyes—and pens—of a child.

Glam Rock and Teen Idols: The Soundtrack of a 70s Youth

There was a time when the world seemed to shift from black-and-white to technicolor practically overnight. For those of us navigating our teens in the 1970s, that transformation was led by the music. Between the high-octane stomp of Glam Rock and the clean-cut smiles of the era's biggest teen idols, the pop groups of the day didn't just provide background noise—they defined our entire aesthetic.

The Glam Rock Revolution

If you walked into any living room on a Thursday evening during Top of the Pops, you’d likely find us gathered around the gas fire, eyes glued to the screen as the giants of Glam took the stage.

• The Sweet: With their shimmering outfits and heavy guitar riffs, they brought a theatrical edge to the High Street.
• T-Rex: Marc Bolan was the undisputed king of glitter, mixing poetic lyrics with a boogie beat that felt both futuristic and ancient.
• Slade: Nobody could get a crowd going like Noddy Holder and the boys. Their anthems were the soundtrack to every youth club disco, often punctuated by the sound of heavy boots and joyful shouting.

The Reign of the Teen Idol

While the rockers were busy wearing platform boots and sequins, a different kind of pop star was conquering our bedroom walls. Donny Osmond, with his perfect dark hair and toothy grin, represented the wholesome side of the decade.

The fashion influence was undeniable. We’d head to shops like Setchfields to find the latest records, perhaps wearing a wide-collared shirt with a bold leaf pattern, mimicking the "smart-casual" look popularized by stars like Donny. Before a night out, a heavy splash of Brut aftershave was the final, essential touch of "character".

More Than Just Music

These groups affected us in ways that went beyond the charts. They were integrated into every part of our childhood and adolescence:

• The Magazines: We’d devour every issue of Look-in, the "Junior TVTimes," looking for pin-ups of the Jackson 5 or news on when the next Thunderbirds episode was airing.
• The Hobbies: Between listening to LPs, we were still kids at heart, spending hours with our Meccano sets or updating the Football League Tables cardboard ladders as the Saturday results came in.
• The Treats: A Saturday night spent listening to the radio usually involved a shared Huntley & Palmers Family Circle tin and maybe a few Black Jacks from the corner shop.

A Lasting Legacy

Whether you were a "Slayer" fan or an Osmond devotee, the pop music of the 70s gave us a sense of belonging. It was a time of transition—from the simple joys of the Give-A-Show Projector and the Beano Book to the more complex world of fashion, fragrance, and fandom.

Looking back at those bands today, we don’t just hear the songs; we feel the warmth of the living room fire and remember the excitement of a new record in its sleeve. They were the architects of our youth, one glittery chord at a time.

The Essence of the Seventies: A Splash of Brut

If you were a young man coming of age in the 1960s or 70s, your grooming routine likely culminated in a very specific, ritualistic splash of green liquid. We didn't just "apply" aftershave; we used Brut. With its distinct glass bottle and that unapologetically bold scent, Brut wasn't just a fragrance—it was a statement of character.

The "Parfum de Caractère"

The Brut bottle was a mainstay on bathroom shelves across the country. Whether it was the classic tall bottle with the silver medallion or the squat, curved Après-Rasage glass flacon, the deep green color promised a "Parfum de Caractère" that was impossible to mistake for anything else.

• The Scent: It was a heavy, aromatic punch of moss, spice, and confidence.
• The Ritual: You’d splash it on after a close shave, usually right before heading out for a Saturday night.
• The Marketing: We all remember the commercials featuring sports stars like Henry Cooper or Kevin Keegan, urging us to "splash it all over." It made us feel like we were part of an elite club of masculinity.

A Saturday Night Preparation

The use of Brut was often the final piece of a much larger puzzle. Before the splash, there was the careful selection of a wide-collared shirt—perhaps something with a bold pattern like the one Donny Osmond might wear—and a sharp blazer.

As you checked your reflection, you might see your Look-in magazine on the dresser, featuring the Jackson 5, or your latest Beano Book tucked under the bed. The air in the room would be thick with the scent of Brut, mixing with the warmth coming from the gas fire in the living room downstairs.

More Than Just a Smell

For many of us, Brut represents a bridge between childhood and adulthood. It was the scent of our first dates, our first jobs, and our first attempts at being "men of the world." It belonged to the same era of tactile icons as the Meccano sets we built as lads or the Airfix models of the SR.N4 Hovercraft we meticulously painted.

Even the local High Street felt like it smelled of Brut on a Friday evening, as people popped into shops like Setchfields to pick up last-minute supplies or records. It was a time of Watneys Party Seven and Huntley & Palmers family tins—a time of social gatherings where the bold scent of green aftershave was the unofficial uniform of the night.

An Enduring Memory

While fragrance trends have moved toward lighter, more subtle notes, the image of that green bottle still carries an incredible nostalgic weight. It evokes the "Adventure in Space and Time" that was our youth, from watching the very first Doctor Who to dreaming of flying in a Thunderbird.

Brut was the smell of an era—one defined by bold choices, high hopes, and the simple belief that if you "splashed it all over," you were ready for anything.

Showtime in the Spare Room: The Magic of the Give-A-Show Projector

Before the era of tablets and on-demand streaming, if you wanted to see your favorite cartoon characters "on the big screen," you didn't head to the cinema—you waited for the sun to go down, pinned a white sheet to the living room wall, and reached for your Kenner Give-A-Show Projector. This bright red, battery-operated marvel was more than just a toy; it was a home theater system for the junior generation, and for those of us lucky enough to own one, it provided hours of flickering, wide-eyed entertainment.

A Cinema in a Box

The Give-A-Show Projector set was a masterpiece of colorful packaging that promised a world of adventure.

• The Library: A standard set came with a staggering 112 color slides, divided into 16 separate shows.
• The Stars: The roster was a "who's who" of animation royalty, featuring Huckleberry Hound, Yogi Bear, The Flintstones, and Quick Draw McGraw.
• The Mechanism: Each show was contained on a long, green-bordered card strip featuring seven individual 35mm color slides. You would slide the strip into the side of the projector and manually advance it to tell the story.

"Projecting Pictures Up to 5 Feet Square"

The technical simplicity was part of the charm. There was no sound, so the "projectionist" (usually the oldest sibling) would have to read the captions aloud, often putting on dramatic voices for Fred Flintstone or Barney Rubble as their stone-age antics appeared on the wall.

The box boasted that it could project images "up to 5 feet square," which, in the context of a small bedroom, felt like an absolute IMAX experience. You learned early on about the importance of focus, twisting the blue-rimmed lens at the front to get the sharpest possible image of Yogi Bear swiping a picnic basket.

The Saturday Night Feature

The projector was a staple of indoor play, sitting on the shelf alongside our Meccano sets and Airfix models. It was the perfect activity for a rainy afternoon or a sleepover. We’d gather around the warm glow of the gas fire, open a fresh Huntley & Palmers Family Circle tin, and settle in for a "double feature" of Hanna-Barbera classics.

There was a certain tactile joy in organizing the slides, keeping them neatly in their white cardboard slots within the box. It gave us a sense of ownership over our entertainment, long before we were reading Look-in to find out when our favorite shows were on the "real" TV.

A Lasting Impression

Looking back at that red plastic projector today, it’s a reminder of a time when "interactive" meant physically moving a slide and using your own voice to tell a story. It belonged to an era of creative play that included building entire worlds from Meccano or getting lost in the pages of a Beano Book.

The Give-A-Show Projector didn't just show us pictures; it taught us the magic of the dark and the thrill of the "reveal". It turned every living room into a theater and every child into a storyteller.

The Heart of the Home: Remembering the Gas Fire on Priors Rd

Every house has a heartbeat, and for many of us growing up in places like Priors Rd, that heartbeat was found in the living room, specifically within the glowing orange embers of a classic gas fire. Before the era of sleek, invisible central heating, the gas fire was the undisputed center of gravity for the family—a reliable, humming source of warmth that greeted us after long walks home from school.

A Masterpiece of 70s Design

The unit we had at Priors Rd was a design icon of its time. Encased in a sturdy wooden-effect frame with a muted green front panel, it looked less like an appliance and more like a piece of high-tech furniture.

• The Radiant Core: Behind the safety grille were the white ceramic radiants that would slowly turn a deep, pulsing orange as the heat climbed.
• The Ignition Ritual: There was a specific sound—the click-click-whoosh—as the pilot light caught and the flames spread across the ceramic.
• The Hearth: It sat on a raised tiled hearth, providing the perfect platform for drying damp socks or warming up a pair of slippers.

The Center of the Living Room

The gas fire did more than just heat the room; it dictated the layout of our lives. On a cold Saturday evening, the sofa would be pulled just a little closer to the hearth. We’d sit there with the Football League Tables spread out on the carpet, meticulously updating the division ladders as the final scores came in.

It was the backdrop to every major childhood event. We read our Beano Books and Look-in magazines by its light, and it provided the "campsite" warmth for when we’d spend hours on the floor building complex cranes with our Meccano sets. When the "Junior TVTimes" promised a special feature on the Thunderbirds or the latest Doctor Who adventure, the best seat in the house was always the one directly in front of those glowing ceramic bars.

Comfort in a Cup

Of course, the ritual of the fire was never complete without a snack. The Huntley & Palmers biscuit tin would be brought out from the kitchen, and if it was a particularly chilly night, a Thermos flask of tea might be kept nearby to save us from having to leave the "heat zone" for a refill. There was a profound sense of safety in that warmth, a feeling of being shielded from the world outside.

A Vanishing Piece of History

While many of the houses on Priors Rd have long since replaced these units with modern radiators, the image of that green-and-wood-grain heater remains a powerful anchor to the past. It reminds us of a time when "staying warm" was a conscious, cozy activity. It wasn't just about the temperature; it was about the glow.

The gas fire was the silent witness to our growing up—the place where stories were told, models were built, and the simple comforts of home were most deeply felt.

The Soup Dragon and Beyond: The Knitted Magic of The Clangers

Long before high-definition CGI, we had the wonderful world of The Clangers, a masterpiece of stop-motion animation that proved you only needed a bit of wool, some imagination, and a few slide-whistle "swanee" notes to create a universe.

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A Lunar Family Like No Other

The Clangers weren't just aliens; they were a family. Living inside their hollow, cratered moon, they spent their days eating blue string pudding and green soup provided by the legendary Soup Dragon.

• The Look: Each character was meticulously knitted from pink wool, giving them a tactile, cozy appearance that made them feel like living toys.
• The Language: They didn't speak in words, but in a series of musical whistles. It was a testament to the show's brilliance that we always knew exactly what they were saying, whether they were excited about a passing space-probe or worried about a falling star.
• The World: Their moon was a place of recycling and kindness, where metal lids protected their homes from space debris and everyone looked out for one another.

The Era of "Slow TV"

Growing up with The Clangers meant embracing a slower pace of storytelling. It belonged to the same era of childhood wonder as waiting for the weekly arrival of Look-in magazine or the Christmas morning reveal of a new Beano Book. There was something meditative about watching these small creatures navigate their world, much like the hours we spent patiently assembling an Airfix model or a complex Meccano crane.

A Shared Cultural Fabric

Just as the Moomins captured the hearts of those who loved Nordic whimsy, The Clangers represented a very British kind of surrealism. They shared the screen—and our imaginations—with other iconic characters of the time, from the high-tech heroism of the Thunderbirds to the time-traveling adventures of the Doctor.

They were part of the fabric of our daily lives, as familiar as the Huntley & Palmers biscuit tin in the kitchen or the Watneys Party Seven waiting for a weekend gathering.

The Legacy of the Pink Moon

Looking at the Clangers today, it’s impossible not to feel a surge of nostalgia for that pink-knitted world. They remind us that the best stories don't need fancy effects; they just need heart, a little bit of wool, and a friendly Soup Dragon to keep things moving. They represent a time of simple joys—like finding a rare Panini sticker or winning a Raleigh Chopper in a magazine competition.

Whether you were a fan of the Moomins or a devotee of the Clanger moon, these characters stay with us, reminding us of the magic that happens when we let our imaginations take flight.

The Ceremonial Huntley & Palmers: A Guide to the Biscuit Tin Ritual

In the modern world of plastic-wrapped multi-packs and supermarket "own brands," it is easy to forget that there was once a time when biscuits weren't just a snack—they were an event. Seeing this battered, orange-toned Huntley & Palmers Family Circle tin is like catching a scent of a 1970s Sunday afternoon, where the kettle was always on and the lid of the "big tin" was about to be pried open.

A 3½lb Treasure Trove

The Huntley & Palmers "Family Circle" was the undisputed king of the kitchen cupboard. Holding a substantial 3½lbs (roughly 1.6kg) of assorted treats, this wasn't just a container; it was a curated gallery of British baking.

The iconic lid featured a circular display of the bounty within, a visual menu that we all knew by heart:

• The Classics: The rectangular Nice biscuit with its sugar-dusted surface and the round, dimpled Digestive were the reliable foundations.
• The Textures: The corrugated Pink Wafer offered a delicate crunch, while the Shortcake provided a buttery, crumbly contrast.
• The "Premium" Choices: Then there were the chocolate-coated rounds—the absolute prizes of the tin—which were always the first to disappear once the lid was lifted.

The Ritual of the Tin

Opening a tin like this required a certain technique. It usually involved a dull kitchen knife or a strong thumbnail to break the vacuum seal of the tight-fitting metal lid. The reward for this effort was a rush of sweet, malty air—the unmistakable "biscuit tin smell."

This tin was a staple for when "company" came over. It would be brought out alongside the best china, sitting proudly on the table as a sign of true hospitality. Much like the Watneys Party Seven was the centerpiece of a Saturday night bash, the Family Circle tin was the heart of the Sunday tea.

A Second Life in the Shed

One of the most enduring legacies of the Huntley & Palmers tin was what happened after the last chocolate digestive was eaten. These metal containers were far too good to throw away.

Once empty and wiped clean of crumbs, they took on a second, perhaps even more important life:

• The Sewing Box: Countless tins were filled with wooden spools of thread, spare buttons, and half-finished knitting projects.
• The Workshop Organizer: In sheds across the country, these tins became the permanent home for an assorted collection of nuts, bolts, and washers—often sitting on the shelf right next to a well-used Meccano set.
• The Memory Box: They were the perfect size for keeping old postcards, faded photographs, and the occasional Beano Book safe from the damp.

The Taste of Connection

Looking at that slightly dented, orange lid today reminds us of a time when the "good biscuits" were a treat to be savored and shared. It evokes a world of steaming mugs of tea, quiet conversations, and the simple, tactile pleasure of metal on metal.

The Family Circle tin wasn't just about what was inside; it was about the ritual of the gathering. It was the "special" touch that turned a regular afternoon into a memory.