I remember exactly where I was when Elvis died: in picturesque Branscombe, Devon, for the summer holidays. The summer of '77 was a great one, not as long or hot as '76 mind you, but a blinder nevertheless. We slept out on the patio several nights that year.

There was my sister, my two brothers and two friends of my brothers' and my age (we're still friends) staying at my parents cottage, just down the valley from my grandparents. Mostly mucking around in the fields and down the beach - a part of my idyllic middle class childhood which, I might say, has been happily extended to my current middle age.

On the day I remember making an asinine joke about an Alvis motor car in the village.

I thought Elvis was showy crap for died hair grannies, my friend disagreed saying that his fame meant he must be good. The TV clips of a sweaty coiffed crooner left me cold.

This was the seventies, man! We wore faded flared jeans and put flowers in our hair for photos.

She's crazy like a fool
What about it, Daddy Cool? [BoneyM]

On an unrelated note (what did you expect?), here is a 500k, wide picture of Kleinmond Beach