Every generation thinks it invented sex, drugs and moral outrage but it’s all pure poppycock.
Mr Noel Coward bemoans the slacker generation in one of his witty ditties
What’s going to happen to the children When there aren’t any more grown-ups? It’s bizarre when grandmamma, without getting out of breath Starts to jive at eighty-five and frightens the little ones to death. The police had to send a squad car When daddy got fried on vodka And tied a tweed coat round mummy’s throat In several sailor’s knots. Hushabye, hushabye, hushabye my darlings, Try not to fret and wet your cots. One day you’ll clench your tiny fists And murder your psychiatrists. What’s, what’s, what’s going to happen to the tots?