By Josh Gardner, who asked his father whether he was Blur or Oasis in the war

The 1990s were the greatest decade in history. For example, I was born in 1996. 

And like all my generation, I pine for those halcyon days. Imagine swigging Two Dogs alcoholic lemonade at the OJ Simpson trial with the Spice Girls, or witnessing Bill Clinton get blown live on CNN. Radical indeed.

Most of all I yearn to party like the 90s. A vanished, romantic age of warehouse raves off the M5 and shoegaze, of snakebite-and-black in the Good Mixer then pissing in a doorway. So much class.

‘You could get enough molly to be off your face for days with just a fiver and a cheeky wink, and still have enough change left over for the 6am bus home,’ my history teacher used to tell us.

So, bored over summer, my friends and I resolved that we would it was 1999 and the preceding eight years. Beginning at home with Noel’s House Party, as was tradition in those times, we donned our garb.

Grace was in Buffalo platform heels and a mini-dress, Gareth wore anorak and bucket hat, I was in Global Hypercolour T-shirt and Tacchini shorts, and Sky wore a glass jar on her head like Thom Yorke. We were any typical 90s foursome.

A Google of ‘illegal 90s warehouse raves near me’ came up short, but there was bound to be a party popping in one of the many dormant units in the nearby industrial estate. After driving slowly in a mad joyride style round an estate, we set off in search.

Did we discover a rave? No. Did we do molly in a nearby field and cheer the sunrise? Yes. Was it good? Yeah, pretty much. By the end of the night I would definitely have elected Blair.

So, all 90sed out, I made my way home in traditional style: walking very carefully so Café del Mar volumen tres didn’t skip on my Discman. What a decade.