It was the 60s, not the 50s.
Several nights of each week the streets of central London echo to the wild cries of a hard-core batty clubbers and other revellers running amok. Fights, arguments, muggings, random petty vandalism, windows of small shops often smashed, and last week a rape not far from The Gap. Look-outs for the dealers lurk in dark side streets. Cars cruise around with booming ghetto-blasters. Anonymous penises direct jets of urine onto locals' kitchen windows and doorsteps. Anyone objecting can be subjected to torrents of threats and abuse. It doesn't feel very safe out there. But does the Met send out a police officer? Rarely seen. After all, it is only ordinary people who suffer, and the revellers shouts are not about the behaviour of big companies or the inequalities of global capitalism. That's Ok then.