They started talking about clothes even before I left. They were discussing shirt makers. “Jermyn Street,” was the consensus. “They will make silk up for you there.” Paul Weller was already wearing blood-red shoes with winkle-picker toes. His feet looked enormous, and he and Rick Buckler had short Mod haircuts, which made their ears look big, their faces knobbly. One thing none of the Jam was looking forward to in America was the dreadful absence of teenage visual flair.

In Britain, we are living through the fag-end of a Mod revival. Strange scenes in the dance hall: parka gangs with fur hoods and sewn-on flags (no scooters, though), boys in suits and girls in miniskirts. A brief Mod moment which has more to do with commercial attempts to fill the post-punk vacuum (and to promote Quadrophenia) than with real suburban fantasy. These Mods line up in the toilets as if they’re waiting for someone to come and give them marks for accuracy.