As the eldest son of seven children born to a working-class Irish-Italian family in Southend-on-Sea, 20th Century Essex Boy was destined either for the priesthood or Neeta’s tubular furniture factory. Instead, growing up in Southend in the second half of the 20th Century afforded this ordinary boy access to extraordinary experiences from an early age.
On his morning paper round Greeting music hall star, Arthur Askey, witnessing the dramas of neighbour, Prince Roy of Sealand who ran a pirate radio station, burning his dad’s census form in the middle of Southend High Street, watching a young Bowie perform at Eastwood free festival, meeting London hippies at the Golden Egg cafe, freaking out to Funkadelic at the Kursaal…
20th CENTURY ESSEX BOY, Extract 1: TOO MUCH
Welcome to the low-tide mudflats of the Thames Estuary with unnamed sandbanks, fog horns, cockle boats and rainbow oil slicks. Tread the shallow beaches where strangers emerge out of psychedelic green-grey waters at dawn, making kiss-me-quick’s last for an age on the Golden Mile, penny shuffle machine of dreams.
Where does it begin? It always begins or ends with the midnight bell. A turning point, a sigh, an overview of a city or down the length of a pier. As the old century of wars, revolutions, ecstatic dreaming and moon landings holds its last firework display, he inhales the first breeze of a new millennium. At the periphery of his vision, he squints at a seaside illumination, a neon sign spelling out a question. Perhaps you also heard that midnight bell and, “you might ask yourself,” that same Talking Heads question when 20th Century Essex Boy asks, “Well…how did I get here? .
It’s a classic situation. Mum and Dad and the younger kids go on holiday leaving teenagers at home because they are big enough and mature enough to look after themselves. I suppose we may have used our Saturday jobs, the fact that we were working, in order to excuse ourselves from the family holiday. This also coincides with my friend, a self-styled Che, having a party while his parents are also away. The Bedford van, low-loaded with suitcases, children, Tupperware and tents finally exits our street. This clear runway is just the space I have been waiting for. But am I ready for take-off?
I get to the party. The coast is clear. This is going to be my chance to get into something new. I remember arriving and I remember a blue pill in a twist of tinfoil, probably acquired at a Palace Theatre, Uriah Heep gig.
Time slips. Am I asleep or maybe I have passed out? I am in a hospital bed and my shocked, angry family, Mum, Dad, brothers and sisters are sitting round the bed having discovered that I have taken a heinous, mind-bending drug and that I am in a trance or coma. How did they hear? How did they get back so soon?
Blink of an eye and I’m relieved to discover that it is still Saturday night and I am not in a hospital bed- I am still on the sofa at Che’s party, meandering through an inner world of corridors, constantly shifting surfaces and magnifying lenses where a trickle of beer down a glass looks like a torrential waterfall.
Time slips. I walk along the seafront with a group of friends and strangers. I sense that they are looking after me. I seem to remember at the party someone saying, “I think he needs to go for a walk”. I do, I do, I do. It’s my first. It’s totally immersive and out of control. Can’t stop this flight. The volume and intensity of the hallucinations is exhausting and overwhelming. At least on a fairground ride at the Kursaal, you know that the Big Dipper is going to rumble to a halt fairly soon. I’m on the beach and it’s probably after midnight. The cool, fresh air, clear, neon-ghosted night sky and white noise of Estuary waves seem to calm everything down. Surrounded by people discussing stars and pointing at constellations, I sit on the shingle beach against a barnacled breakwater. A cartoon couple, young lovers walk out of the dark sea hand in hand. He is wearing what might have been a very well pressed suit, white shirt and tie but now there is seaweed around his darkening knees and his trousers are drenched in the salty soup. The girlfriend, mascara stained, dissolving face and wearing a sequinned party dress is equally drenched but appears delightfully unconcerned. In Southend daytrip tradition they have missed the last train on the Fenchurch Street line and are simply wandering around on and off land ‘till the morning comes.
As the tide rises and the beach narrows, I navigate my way home with a small group of astronomer allies. As I enter the big mouth door of my family home, I notice that strange patterns have started to appear all over the floor. This is a worry because, who knows what time Mum and Dad may be returning from camping? An iridescent album goes on the deck and it takes us on a ferry ride, a gambler tips his hat, there’s a girl on a swing and nothing brings you down. As the party breaks up and my cosmic carers stumble down the terrace, I become quite agitated about the trail they have left behind. These annoying patterns and pulsing atoms etching their way into the fabric of the house and along the hallway. Very early morning I carry a large basin of warm, soapy water out of the kitchen. Soon the floor is flooded by homemade waves. It will take a lot of water and washing up liquid to scrub away these geometric, uninvited patterns that keep on changing the appearance and shape of the undulating lino.
Whilst engaged in this infinite act of erasure, I hear a knock on the front door. Visitors? Now? On my knees, I nervously peer past the hem of the curtains and it is our lovely Irish Nanna, Kathleen standing in the porch. Panic sets in. I can see cabbage leaves poking out of her bag. She is carrying the ingredients to make a Sunday roast for me! This is a surprise shopping basket that I have not bargained for. I hide behind the curtains until her silhouette fades from view. All clear.
The next week, Nanna comes back to the house and is wearing her church-stern face. She has a lot to say. She has heard from neighbours that I was actually in the house when she came bearing cabbage, spuds and chicken, “…and there were other people there too including a girl”.
He wondered if the neighbours had been kept awake by Neil Young, an endless cycle of After the Goldrush on repeat all night? There were also reports that, “the girl” had been witnessed playing on the swing in the back garden at five in the morning. He cannot remember any parental reprisals from these reports. 20th Century Essex Boy suspects that they let it be. Mum and Dad liked to avoid conflict. On their return with suitcases and camping gear they inhale the perfumed aura of the house and are impressed by the sparkling lino of the hallway.
© Simon Persighetti, 2026
Too Much is an extract from 20th Century Essex Boy – a rollercoaster ride through the 20th Century’s most significant cultural and political movements in Britain and beyond, from pirate radio and hippy counterculture, to feminism, to punk to the miners’ strike, anti-apartheid and avant-garde theatre.
Currently in development, this project by Simon Persighetti and Small Acts explores how our early experiences of place can influence the direction of our lives. To find out more: www.small-acts.co.uk
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