Hello Dogwood here Settle Down When I were a young buck, strutting my C&A suit down Preston Precinct sidestepping the suedeheads, bootboys and northern soul patrol, I would sometimes stumble upon another sect. This lot went round in Army surplus great coats, flared jeans and turtle neck sweaters. They would be reading Carlos Castaneda or Tolkien and under their arm would be a selection of long-players bearing bewildering names such as Hatfield and The North, Blodwyn Pig, Barclay James Harvest and Argent.