Alwyn Turner’s histories of 20th-century Britain occupy a distinct niche. They are richly anecdotal surveys focused on popular culture. Thus, in his introduction to A Shellshocked Nation, on the 1920s and 30s, he warns readers that they will find a bias towards Agatha Christie rather than Virginia Woolf, or the bandleader Henry Hall rather than Benjamin Britten. He is as good as his word.

Those two decades were filled with momentous events – universal suffrage, a postwar slump, the first Labour government, the General Strike, the Great Depression, the abdication and the Munich crisis – some of which are touched on in this book. But one senses that Turner is not especially drawn by such complexities, preferring instead to focus on what was going on in the homes and lives of the British public. He relies heavily on secondary sources, particularly local newspapers of varying degrees of obscurity. This approach ensures that his view of things is countrywide and provides a steady stream of fresh anecdotes. However, much of the overall story will be familiar to those interested in the period, and the hardcore history is sketchy. Anyone wanting a serious account of the politics of the months between February 1938 and September 1939 would not find it here. 

The odd story – the odder the better – sticks in the mind, such as the woman who infiltrated the auditorium of the Trocadero cinema at Elephant and Castle, offering personal services to male customers and charging them on a scale according to the price of their seat. Turner also