I burn the candle at both ends
It will not last the night; 
But ah my foes,
And oh my friends,
It gives a lovely light! – Anon

Got your candles ready for Earth Hour tonight? Exciting, isn’t it, having an excuse to light them. Not that you probably need one.

It’s just that we tend to be a little careful with ours. We buy them from Oz Candles in Newstead, which is a bit of hike when it comes to buying more. So we save them for power outages… or for whenever we need to cast our dust bunnies in a low light.

When I was a young person, living in a squat in Swiss Cottage in London, we burnt candles every night. We had to, because the house wasn’t connected to the electricity grid.

My clothes were always attracting drips of wax, the worst of which I’d remove by placing a piece of brown paper over the glob and ironing it with a flat iron heated on the kitchen stove. At least two of the squat’s residents worked as gas plumbers so our gas supply was never in doubt. It heated our water and powered fridges and stoves.

In its former life the house had been a residential hotel, with bathrooms and kitchens on all three floors. Located in Fitzjohns Avenue, ‘The Fitz Ritz’, as we called it, had a pay-phone in a converted linen cupboard on the landing.

If we used the phone at night, we’d have to make sure we remembered our candle or risk tripping over Boz Cat, the giant ginger tom who prowled the stairs and lay around threatening life and limb.

There was a floating population of at least a dozen people in The Fitz Ritz – most of them from somewhere other than Britain – and a core group of six permanent residents. They were musicians, actors and artists and some of them were highly skilled renovators on a shoe-string budget.

Our star turn, although not particularly handy with a hammer, was Andy ‘Thunderclap’ Newman who lived in the basement. If you’re old enough, you might remember his band’s hit from the 1960s: Something in the Air. 

Andy appeared on the same bill as Angie Bowie at an establishment called The Rat Club and he’d regale us with stories of the antics of his show-biz colleagues, in particular Throbbing Gristle and Genesis P-Orridge.

It was the Summer of 1977 when punk was at its peak and any band with any cred was named something shocking, horrible or at the very least amusing.

Except for Australia’s The Saints, that is, who didn’t quite fit the restrictive image prescribed by the UK music press but who nevertheless impressed audiences with their relentless, high energy wall of sound.

Back in my room at the Fitz Ritz, after working in an office all day, followed by hours in pubs and clubs listening to bands play extremely loud music, I’d tap out stories on my Olivetti portable to send to a newspaper back home in Sydney. My ears buzzing from the assault of far too many decibels I’d work into the night, writing and re-writing as I squinted into the candlelight. 

Amazingly, Andy’s still gigging. He’s playing tonight, with yet another incarnation of Thunderclap Newman, at The Running Horse in Leatherhead, Surrey. The band will hit the stage at 8.30pm, the exact time when most of Britain will switch off the lights for Earth Hour.

Remembering my time at The Fitz Ritz I recall great parties, interesting conversations, good music and lots of laughter, all set against the soft glow of candlelight and I think: it’s a wonder I’m not blind as well as partially deaf.

But isn’t that what youth’s all about: burning the candle at both ends?