John Pidgeon, Rock's Backpages, 5 June 2009
IT'S THURSDAY, 6th July 1972. The Guardian lies on the doormat, its front page torn, as usual. I've questioned the paperboy. He says the slot's too narrow, but the flap has a fierce spring, and I reckon he's frightened of getting his fingers caught. Whatever the reason, I leave the paper where it is, and walk to the newsagent's on North Street. Evidently anticipating an unusual demand for this week's New Musical Express, he has kept a copy for me under the counter.
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