In the howling darkness of the remote croft in Orkney that was my childhood home the television flickered with enticing images: Levi’s jeans, “roller boots,” bubble gum, Dallas, Burt Reynolds moustaches, purple nylon flares, the Osmonds’ teeth, Champion the Wonder Horse, foot long hotdogs, giant lawn mowers that you sat on, and supersized burgers, at a time when half a pound of mince would feed our family for a fortnight. This was paradise America. Even their chips were exotic, crispy “French fries,” not a mush of lard and yesterday’s …