On a lighter note , it reminds me of the Monty Python Yorkshire men sketch....
"Who would have thought thirty years ago we would all be sitting here drinking Chateau de {Chassiley?} wine, eh?"
"In them days, we were glad to have the price of a cup of tea."
"Aye, a cup of cold tea"
"Without milk or sugar"
"Or tea"
"In a filthy cracked cup."
"We never used to have a cup. We used to have to drink out of a rolled up newspaper."
"The best we could manage was a sock or a piece of damp cloth."
"But ye know, we were happy in those days, though we were poor ..."
"Because we were poor. My old Dad used to say to me 'Money doesn't buy you happiness'."
"He was right. I was happier then and I had nothing! We used to live in this tiny old house with great big holes in the roof."
"House, you lived in a house? We used to live in one room, all twenty-six of us, no furniture, half the floor was missing, and we're all huddled together in one corner for fear of falling."
"You were lucky to have a room! We used to have to live in the corridor!"
"Oooooh, we used to dream of living in a corridor. It would have been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank on a rubbish [heap]. We got woken up every morning to having a load of rotting fish dumped all over us. House? Uh!"
"Oh, when I said house I meant a hole in the ground covered by a piece of twig. It was a house to us."
"We were evicted from our hole in the ground. We had to go and live in the lake!"
"You were lucky to have a lake! There were a hundred and fifty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road."
"Cardboard box?"
"Aye"
"You were lucky. We lived for three months in a brown paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six in the morning, clean the bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down the mill fourteen hours a day, week in, week out, and when we would go home, dad would thrash us to sleep with his belt."
"Look, [sherry?], we used to have to get out of the lake at three o'clock in the morning, clean the lake, eat a handful of hot gravel, go to work for twenty hours at the mill every day for a tuppence a month, come home, and dad would beat us around the head and neck with a broken bottle ... if we were lucky!"
"Well, we had it tough. We used to have to get up out of the shoebox at twelve o'clock at night, and lick the road clean with our tongues. We had one handful of freezing cold gravel, work at the mill for twenty-four hours a day for four bits every six years, and when would get home, our dad would slice into us with a bread knife."
"Right!"
"I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, eat a lump of dry poison, work twenty-nine hours a day down at the mill, and when we got home, our dad would kill us and dance about on our graves singing Hallelujah!"
"You can't tell the young people of the day that. They won't believe you."