I’d discovered early on that the most time-consuming, ball-aching bit about being a writer was selling your work. With books, the norm was to present your publisher with a completed manuscript at which point you might see some money. I’d been horrendously lucky in that for Rock: Day By Day I’d been paid a weekly retainer to write it, and for Bits And Pieces, I had persuaded Penguin to pay me an advance on the strength of the idea.

Now though, I had been earning my beer money at the garage and doing nothing with my writing. I had to switch things around. I left the garage and wrote an article on Nick Lowe which I sent to Spiral Scratch, a Record Collector wannabe based in Cambridge. They agreed to publish it (though it would be months before I saw the money – the alarm bells should have rung wildly) but more than that, the publisher, Lee Wood, asked to meet me.

So I drove to Cambridge, probably in my sister’s car, and came home with a job as sub-editor on a monthly music magazine. It would be in Cambridge which presented one or two problems as my drinking was pretty bad at this point. This was solved in the beginning by me catching the train to Cambridge every day and not having to worry about driving.

At first it went well. Within a couple of issues I was made editor, not only of Spiral Scratch but of a new title we were working on called Music Collector. (In fact for pedants, Spiral Scratch was renamed Music Collector and we relaunched Spiral Scratch in a closer format to its original style)

I know some will mock the magazines but I think we did amazingly well given the lack of experience we had. Lee pretty much kept clear of editorial matters and I was supported by Alex – initially a volunteer who came in after his day job at Anglian Water – and a small staff of about three who mostly dealt with selling and typing up adverts.

In due course, Alex came on board full-time and we got an in-house designer (Shaun) which saved us a small fortune in design fees. This though was still the days of cut and paste. Although we can lay out the text on some posh Apple Mac it still had to be printed off and stuck to pasteboard with spray-mount.

There were some expensive lessons along the way. We dealt with a photo agency and I enquired about the use of a Motorhead photo. £65 said they, so I ran it ten times in the article to fill some space. Got a bill for £650. After that we learnt to blag free photos from record company promo departments. We would even base our issue contents around what we could get hold of.

I remember one issue we had been promised a Sham 69 article by one of our fan/writers. All our articles came from fans and we paid peanuts. We had got hold of a free Sham 69 colour slide for the front cover and as we got within a few hours of the boards being picked up to go the printers in Bristol, there was still no Sham article. I had to grab a pile of NMEs and produce a Sham 69 piece from thin air inside an hour. I got some really nice feedback on that feature.

The best feedback I got was on my Sweet article. Brian Connolly actually phoned me up to thank me. At first the conversation was going well, he seemed genuinely pleased with what I had written. Then, the voice seemed to slur more and he started asking things like “Did you speak to my ex-wife?”, “Who told you that then?” I brought the conversation to a rapid halt. Brian died soon after. He had already featured in the Lancet for surviving seven drug/alcohol induced heart-attacks. He didn’t survive number eight.

Brian’s paranoia wasn’t the most worrying moment I had when I worked on Spiral Scratch. I remember one day having to walk past a man with a baseball bat to get into the office. Thankfully he wasn’t interested in me only in my boss who apparently owed him a bit of money. He never came to work that day – must have been tipped off – and I never saw the men again. They weren’t the only ones who were after him. In the mid-70s Lee had a record label called Raw. It released a number of great punk records. He also did some work with the Troggs. Apparently they never got paid and were on his back.

I saw this first hand. I remember one day chasing Lee for some money to pay our writers. We were months behind. Eventually he signed a load of cheques for me and I spent the afternoon writing them out. £30 here, £40 there. As I said we relied on our writers being fans and only paid them a token amount. I guess the whole lot that afternoon came to about £800. I popped them all in enveloped with a covering note and took them down to the post room. Just before I went home I dropped another letter in the post room and saw, ripped to pieces in the bin, all the cheques I had written out that afternoon. That was probably the beginning of the end for me.

Let’s go back a bit. When I first started at Spiral Scratch we worked in a unit on an industrial estate near the Beehive Centre in Cambridge. After a few months we rented a large house in Chesterton that backed on to the pub. Literally backed onto the pub; we even shared their car park. In fact, the house had at one time been the regional office for Tolly Cobbold as we found out when we uncovered stacks of beer mats and other ephemera in the cellar.

So the Haymakers became our extra office where Alex, Shaun and I would go to discuss the latest immoral, money-making scheme our publisher was dabbling in (Let’s not mention Madonna Monthly). It wasn’t a particularly great solution for me. Rather than risk drink-driving I took to sleeping in the office although this just meant I spent the evening as well as lunchtime round the Haymakers.

Like most parts of my life my eighteen months at Spiral Scratch were Punch’s proverbial Parson’s Egg i.e. good in parts. In the end, working for a man like that gets to you and Alex, Shaun and I quit. The titles folded within three months and yes, I’m sorry this meant some other people lost their jobs, but I’m not sorry it stopped that man from trading. He went on to sell second-hand washing machines from a shop in Cambridge and the last I heard he has set himself up as an Internet Private Eye. I think the Troggs still want to kill him; them that’s left anyway.

My acting years were behind me. After advancing through the ranks of Shepherds and Angels to be Joseph (Goffs JMI c. 1970), I spend three years at Junior School in a variety of roles. My next door neighbour always remembers me as the chubbiest skeleton ever seen in the Wizard of Oz. I prefer my dramatic costume change after Daverell Curson kissed me and I ripped my green stockings, mask and top off to reveal the Prince I was below. Although that is just vanity for in acting terms I think my Griffon was really the pinnacle of my career.

 “That’s the reason they’re called lessons,” the Gryphon remarked: “because they lessen from day to day.”

Badoom. Thank you, I’m here all week.

At Secondary school I lost my nerve and opted to go back stage, dressing in black and shifting props about on stage. Maybe a curtain opening or two but that and lighting was reserved for the upper school. My interest waned. I don’t even remember which productions I assisted with. The Italian Straw Hat? I may have even been front of house for that.

And that was that, until once gain the Youth Club intervened. Let’s do a pantomime says Richard. So do a pantomime we did.

I was backstage again but then all the parts were taken by our young people. That first panto in December 1988 (I think) would be Dick Whittington. We bought the script from one of the London houses. I couldn’t believe how expensive it was. About £400 as I recall. It’s no wonder we went on to write our own.

At least I knew the story. This was one of those I saw at the Palladium when I was younger. Tommy Steele was supposed to play Dick but I believe he was ill the night we went. We saw the understudy who we didn’t know from Adam. Found out later it was a young actor by the name of David Essex. Alice was played my Mary Hopkins. I remember her. I had a crush on Mary.

Our rehearsals took place on a Sunday. The old gym was converted into a drama room eventually getting its own stage and lighting. We had such a laugh.

Northaw Village Hall was booked and we began preparing back drops and props. It was a big learning curve for us all but we were driven as usual by Richard. He didn’t know the meaning of the word can’t. So faced with the impossible we just got on and did it.

Mick was in charge of back drops, basically because the man can paint. I don’t remember where Richard blagged the cloth from but soon all our scenes were painted by Mick onto the back cloths and nailed to huge lumps of timber to hang them by. Costumes came together thanks to Francis and Jackie. It’s amazing what you can achieve when everyone pulls together. That was a very special time for me as I didn’t feel I was achieving much else in my life.

And so, to the show. Me, Mick and Gary were up ladders switching back drops in record time. We had everything timed to perfection. We even had time to get down to the Two Brewers for a pint during the interval and be back waiting when the lights came on for the second half.

It was tremendous. I was so proud of all our young people taking the acting and singing to heart. Sadly we didn’t get Dick Whittington on video; it was the only one we didn’t film and inevitably it was the best. Isn’t the first one of every ‘sequence’ the best.

The highlight had to be the Saturday night when our ‘pussycat’ got stage fright and wouldn’t go on. Richard plucked a young lady from the audience and convinced her to play the cat for the rest of the evening. She did; and she did it purrfectly.

There were many other shows after that. Some I was involved in others I wasn’t. For the next – Cinderella – I ended up as prompt. Not the most interesting job but I took something with m to keep me occupied. I can now reveal, almost 30 years on, that Amanda wasn’t terrible at remembering her lines. Every time she dived off stage in my direction, it was not to get a prompt but rather to have a swig out of my vodka bottle!

I’m no Royalist and I often wonder what I’d do if offered a gong. On the one hand I want to reject all that old-fashioned, empirical, class-preserving nonsense. On the other hand it looks good on the C.V. However, at least I know what I’d do if invited to meet the Queen at her place. I’d go like sycophantic toady I am. Well, it was Bucket List stuff really. How could I refuse the opportunity to tick that box?

It was 2005 and the Year of the Volunteer. Toc H put my name forward as one of two representatives of the organisation at a Reception at Buckingham Palace in November to celebrate volunteering. I would also be taking Laura Simms, the daughter of an old friend of mine who had grown up volunteering with Toc H.

I think the thing that most excited me was that we had permission to drive into the Palace and park there. You know what London parking is like and I hate public transport. So having collected Laura from Kent we drove into the heart of our capital and joined the short queue to get through the gates. A few soldiers had a quick look under the car with the giant dental mirror but all-in-all I have had considerably more thorough inspections going through customs at Dover and we pulled up to park right in the centre quadrangle. It was lightly raining but there was no flunkey waiting for us with an umbrella. British hospitality is not what it used to be.

We went inside and followed the signs to the Long Gallery where the Reception was being held. It was suitably formal occasion and amongst the crowd of volunteers and related peoples were the odd celebrity. The Revd. Ian Paisley was the first I spotted. He was sat under a 20 foot high portrait of some or other royal. He looked a little red-faced and I wondered if he had been preaching fire and brimstone already. Then I figured he had just come up the stairs to the gallery and was still catching his breath. The nation’s favourite agony aunt Denise Robertson was also there. I could just imagine the Queen sidling up to her and asking to talk about her dysfunctional family. “One’s eldest son is particularly troublesome…..”

Anyway, celebrity spotting aside, Laura and I explored the gallery. Lots of old paintings, not really my cup of tea. No entertainment. Surely HM could have coughed up a few bob for some street entertainers. A little close-up magic? Fire-eaters on the grand staircase?

There were little tubs of food set about the place. However as Laura scooped a handful of nuts or some other delicacy in to her mouth I casually asked her if she was enjoying the Corgi treats the Queen left around. That was some of the most discrete sicking up in a napkin I have ever seen Laura!
Eventually we got to the formal part of the afternoon. We were all herded into a long line snaking up and down the Long Gallery and the Royals were paraded in. The Queen and Philip were the main course and I think Ann may have been floating about. I truly don’t remember. How terribly Republican of me.

The Royal Party is then taken up and down the line for their obligatory 2.2 seconds with every guest. Inevitably, at some point they are talking to the people in the next line over to you and have their backs to you. It was at this point that Prince Phillip elbowed me in the ribs. I kid you not. A short little jab with the elbow, direct to the sternum. Well it may be how you get the peasants out of the way on the Christmas morning rush to the sherry in Sandringham church, or maybe you were taught this tactic at Carriage Diving lessons but it cuts no mustard with me. Apologise you cad!

Well he did actually. Turned around and looked at me and muttered “so sorry” or something similar under his breathe. Good job he did or their might have been another interregnum whilst I installed a new Commonwealth.

Soon after they got to the end of the row and came down our side. We talked briefly about Toc H when she got to me. Her mum was Patron for many years and Tubby was her personal Chaplain. Phillip didn’t mention the earlier incident. I decided not to bring it up.

And that was pretty much that. I had to stop and grab some photos of Laura with some bloke out of Coronation Street who I had never heard of. I’d like also to say that Liz popped out for a relaxed set of photos with me before I left but that was just me playing with Photoshop.

There’s a standing invitation out for Liz and Phil to pop round ours at Christmas. After all they are only 40 minutes away (Well depends who’s driving I suppose) but I won’t hold my breath. You reach a certain time in life when you’d rather be tucked up in front of a roaring fire than out visiting your subjects – especial the irreverent ones like me!

It was pre 9/11 of course but I still thought it was a bit of a breach of security. Our dear friend Neil Sturrock was in 29 Commando at the time and they had been given block leave. Most of his colleagues had gone away. Somehow Neil wangled it so we – that is he, me, Steve Knaggs and Mark Pyatt – could stay in his barracks for a few days. The barracks being the Royal Citadel in Plymouth; this was a pretty cool, free hotel.

I can be quite accurate with dates and facts too as for some reason I decided to keep a diary. Well either I did or the Big Brown Bear who accompanied us did. You know about the Big Brown Bear don’t you? No, well you soon will.

So at 5.40am on Tuesday 5^th August 1986, Neil arrives home from some trip to far flung parts only to depart within the hour leaving his poor mum a quick note saying “Gone to Plymouth”. Fifty minutes later the others arrive in Mark’s blue metro and pick me up. The party is complete and we can head in a South Westerly direction. The first part of the journey is uneventful and we eventually stop for breakfast at a Little Chef around 9am. Unfortunately this particular restaurant appears to be having some menu difficulties i.e. they haven’t got much. This leads to the chain being renamed the Shit All Left, pretty much for the rest of eternity.

My own disappointment is short-lived when at 9.30 precisely (Damned good idea to keep a diary) Steve and I crack open a couple of Red Stripes. For some reason this was our canned beer of choice for a while in the mid-80s. And thus, with a stop or two for further refreshments, we advanced westwards and arrived at the Citadel at around 4pm. We toured the battlements of this 17^th century fortress before heading down to the Hoe for the first round in the traditional holiday golf (Pitch‘n’Putt) tournament. The diary records the fact that Smudger ‘creamed’ the opposition. Bear in mind that I (Smudger) wrote the diary so whilst the facts are indubitably true, the telling of them may be spun with beautifying embellishments.

I note we included the tournament rules within the diary and particularly liked Rule 3.

In the event of one person running away with the tournament, it is legitimate for the other players to join forces in trying to stop the leader by blocking his path with their balls etc.

Double entendre aside, I liked the fact we were not only prepared to cheat but were happy to enshrine the willingness to cheat into the rulebook.

And so, to the 19^th hole. On this first evening we decided to sojourn in the rather civil and pleasant environ of the Barbican at a pub called the Three Crowns where blow me down we just happened to bump into Marion Root, a Goffs Oak girl of our acquaintance. Small world innit?

Anyway, we later moved on to the Abbey, a pub quite typical of any English county that contained its own English looney who I managed to attract. We made our excuses and headed to the Noah’s Ark (Empty but a video Jukebox containing Joy Division lifted its score considerably) and then to the Two Trees. This pub would soon become an integral part of our stay in Plymouth as it was generally the first pub on ‘the circuit’. The circuit being a carefully conceived crawl of Union Street. Oh wait, regular readers are screaming; Union Street, that wicked place that Auntie Joyce warned us to go nowhere near? Why yes, dear readers, that Union Street indeed.

The principle of the circuit was simple enough. Buy your drink in cans or be fearless about stealing glasses. For when the leader of the party calls upon you to move on, you immediately depart the pub you are in and head for the next one on the circuit. I can assure you that the idea of buying Taunton Special VAT in cans received no objection from me. This cider was to become my chosen poison for the next few days (and indeed some years after when I could get it).

It was at the Two Trees that night that we met Sumo. A colleague of Neil’s who had also forgone leave, we would spend a lot of time in Sumo’s company over the next few days. A formidable fellow he was too.

Now the diary is thick and gushing so I think we can get a couple of decent posts out of it. This first one then will be concluded with the rest of Day One’s activities. And the next bit is a little embarrassing but we were only young and foolish. For my part, alcohol was an integral part of everyday life. And though I liked to keep a tally of what I was drinking, it was more in the way of measuring my disease than some machismo boasting. I tried hard not to be a boorish, lad who liked booze, football and fighting. The latter was quite easy to avoid as I had no interest in violence at all. Football was a tribal dance I liked to tango, and as I have said beer was just part and parcel of my life. Since Lady Alcohol dominated my whole life (Love-life included) I could at least stay out of the final sport of the holiday. The burning of witches or being rude to the local females.

Basically, adopted from classic Month Python, the local female population were addressed by us as witches and nightly my friends descended on Plymouth’s nightclubs to ‘burn some witches’. It was a gross and vulgar sport and I am glad I can state I took no part in it. In my friends’ defence, all I can say is those West Country ladies gave as good as they got and Mark, Steve and Neil ended up with a few slaps over the next few days.

I though, whilst they all went clubbing, slipped back to the Citadel around midnight. I smuggled a small bottle of vodka in with me to carry on my own party. I woke in the morning to find my pit surrounded with shoes and other small objects. These were things thrown at me in the night when my snoring had been so intense the metal fireguard had apparently vibrated in sympathy.

Irrespective of whose snoring had been the worse, one thing was clear. The Big Brown Bear had been to visit us all. You still don’t know about the Big Brown Bear of whom I speak do you? I mean the one that visits you in the night after you have been drinking. It rips your clothes off you and throws them about the room; it steals all your money; and shits in your mouth! Yes, that Big Brown Bear.

This story will definitely be continued.

Recuperating from a short hospital visit to have my pseudocyst stented, inevitably helps my mind flow back to previous hospital stays. The most interesting of these was doubtless when I spent some time on Welwyn ward at the QEII hospital in Welwyn Garden City. Those with an encyclopaedia like recall of ward nomenclature might immediately start pointing a bony finger at me and screaming “But that’s a psych ward. Are you a nutter?” And, I with piffling disregard for their limited vocabulary rather than their Political Incorrectness, will stare them in the eye and say, “Yes, I have had moments where my mental health was in poor condition. What of it?”

Well actually, as well as being one of several turning points in my battle against alcohol, it was one of the most eye-opening times of my life. I had very early on passed on the opportunity to get into rehab on the NHS’s ticket. At the time it was offered to me, I was not ready to out myself as an alcoholic and so turned down what I would only later find out was an exceedingly rare offer.

Roll forward half a dozen years and my fight was fairly one-sided with the bottle ahead by several rounds. My wonderful GP – Susan Wakefield – was far from defeated and she suggested a spell in the psychiatric unit. To those around me i.e. my parents, we didn’t have to say anything else other than I was suffering from extreme stress. After all I was! Whatever the precise circumstances, I was, in 1994 admitted to Welwyn ward. Welwyn is the secure unit and it standard procedure to put anyone who little is known about on there. Although I was locked in, I was there voluntarily and free to leave at any-time. However, I would find that I quickly became highly dependent on the unit and hated leaving it.

On my first night I went through the usual admittance procedures and was met with tea for the first time. 25 years later is still amuses me that tea on the psych ward was sandwiches and soup. I mean sandwiches yes but watching a couple of dozen people withdrawing or suffering from a range of other conditions that affect the nervous system, trying to eat soup is frankly hilarious. I should have kept my tea-shirts and then I could have told you what I had for tea every night.

The drug regime for alcoholics was simple. Temazepam liquid, slopped into a plastic pot with a hand almost as unsteady as mine. Precise measurement did not appear to be compulsory in those days. So I was lying in a fairly relaxed state when the noises of the night descended on me. At first it was just unintelligible screaming, the rattling of chains (Yes really), and the occasional breakage. Gradually though my mind began to put the jigsaw together and the following day I filled the gaps. Every couple of weeks this chap we’ll call John, from the local travelling community, liked to go large on the stout. It always ended up with him being sectioned for 24 hours and dragged literally kicking and screaming to Welwyn ward. I met a subdued John the next day and apart from having the most piercing blue-eyes that must have 2000 year old roots in the Romani community, and being built like a brick shithouse, he was a truly nice guy. The same could be said of all my fellow travellers on Welwyn ward; at least the ones I was able to communicate with.

These included a young lad of 17 who, if what I was told was true, had taken one single ecstasy tablet and fried half his brain for ever. A girl next to me had post-natal depression. Oh my, those words disguise a malaise so ingrained in her psyche it was heart-wrenching. You might as well call a fractured skull, a slightly cracked head. Another girl, possibly the first person with an eating disorder I had knowingly met, looked like she might blow away if I sneezed. They weighed her several times a day; they weighed everything she ate; they weighed everything she defecated. They may have been force-feeding her, the screaming at meal-times certainly wasn’t pleasant. Some of the others, I couldn’t tell you much about. I understood what a “1000 yard stare” was for the first time. I learnt much that first spell on Welwyn and yet, had a million more questions when I left than when I went in.

One question was, “What year is this?” At one end of the corridor that ran along the spine of the ward was a room that was literally chained and padlocked. It said ECT on the outside. I guessed the sign was old. I peered in through the smoked glass and saw a scene from the Marathon Man. The sign wasn’t old at all.

However it was just across the corridor in the last room on the outside wall of the building where I had my moment. This was the smoking room. A tiny little room not quite ten feet long and barely 4 feet wide. Smoking was restricted to this room, not in any early implementation of the 2007 Smoke Free places Act but rather to reduce the risk of us ‘inmates’ burning the place down. A few of my peers joined me in the room for short-whiles but most of the people on that floor were so spaced out by either their illness or their cure that even smoking was beyond them. I spent a lot of time in that room. The fug of Marlboro Red was sucked from the room by a tiny little fan built into the end window!

I can’t remember how long I had been sitting in that room when I first heard them. Voices. Not random sounds but distinct voices. Singing not talking. Wait. These are songs. I listened hard. They were definitely there. Very quiet but quite distinct. I leaned over and looked out of the window for a builder’s van but could see nothing. Anyway, they seemed to come from within the room.

I slept on it. The next day I returned to the smoke room and listened hard. There they were again. There was a pattern too. The same few songs being repeated on a cycle. What message were the aliens sending me?

Over a couple of days I began to work out what some of the songs were. That was Gordon Giltrap’s Sundown for sure. Maybe Eric Clapton. The aliens like AOR then. Do I need to tell someone? Think about it Steve. You are drying out on a secure psychiatric unit. So far your behaviour is good. Do you want to get sectioned? That ECT room didn’t look fun. Would they have a straitjacket in your size? Just keep listening. Eventually……something will make it sense.

And boom, it did. First I worked out WHAT I was listening too. It was a pre-launch tape for a new radio station (Possibly Heart in Hertfordshire). The same few songs being broadcast on a loop with the odd station ident in between.

More intriguing was the HOW. I should have guessed. We had been on similar territory before. Once on holiday at my Great Aunt’s in Gorleston we had returned from the beach to find her sitting down having a cup of tea, still in a state of shock. Apparently her vacuum cleaner had started talking to her. On investigation it seems a loose wire in said suction device meant she was picking up the trawler men. Now twenty years later, a straining fan built into the window of the smoking room on Welwyn Ward was doing a similar thing. It was receiving the test broadcast from Heart. Not that I was going to mention it to anyone anyway. People would think I was…..oh well, never mind.

I explained recently how I got my start at Cuffley Youth Centre and how voluntary work proceeded to get under my skin. I mentioned Toc H, an organisation with whom first the Youth Club then I would build an intensely deep relationship. Let me tell you a bit more about how this developed.

To be fair, Toc H had already been working with Cuffley Youth Centre before Richard came along. The previous manager, Pat Cheetham had worked with local Toc H stalwart Ron Barnard to allow a number of playschemes to take place in the summer holidays. After Pat retired though this went quiet for a while. Then on 2^nd November 1988, a little over a year after Richard had taken over the running of CYC, he met up with John Burgess the Regional Development Officer for Toc H in the South East.

Before too long all manner of cooperation was taking place between the two organisations but I want to focus on one aspect only today. To do this I need to quickly explain what Toc H is.

During WWI, a padre named Tubby Clayton was charged with setting up a soldier’s club in Poperinge, Belgium. There was no shortage of soldier’s clubs already but they were churchy or segregated in some fashion (By regiment or by officers and other ranks). This new club was to be more open. And so Tubby duly set up the club in a merchant’s house in the centre of town and named in Talbot House in memory of his friend Gilbert Talbot, killed at Hooge in 1915. It was, to all intents and purposes, open to officers and other ranks alike.

 It was a great success and after the war Tubby and others wanted to continue the ‘experiment’ and it was formed as a charity. Since soldiers had mostly referred to Talbot House in signallers’ shorthand and to avoid confusion with the Talbot House Settlement in London, the charity was known as Toc H. For the next century it would do a great many things which included playschemes and assorted misdemeanours at Cuffley Youth Centre. The greatest idea of all though would be when Richard and John decided it would be a spiffingly good idea to take a group of our young people out to where it all began; to Talbot House. On the 26^th July 1990 we went. And I was one of the grown-ups!

I didn’t really know where Belgium was. Hell, I didn’t really know what Belgium was. I was also deep in the depths of my drinking (I know I bang on a lot about my drinking but you have to understand, it was pretty much my life in those days) and I didn’t like to venture far from known off-licences. Richard though is a very persuasive man and on that Thursday shortly after I had turned 27, I climbed into the Toc H minibus with assorted others. Such is the importance of that first trip I feel a roll call is necessary. Heaven forfend I have missed anyone off but I think it I complete.

Steve Smith, Richard Gentle, John Burgess, Gary Noctor, Jayne, Trevor, Nina Raymont, Amanda Coster, Dominic Cain, Kelly Brady and I believe Marolyn and Damien Burgess.

We drove to Dover and got on the ferry. I reached the conclusion that Belgium was abroad! And spent a pleasant 2 or 3 hours rocking our way across the English Channel. Thankfully beer was freely available so I stayed calm and in control. On arrival at Calais we drove to Poperinge. It’s really strange now that the so familiar journey which takes about an hour in a car seems to happen in a flash. That first time, albeit in a minibus, it seemed to take forever and we even stopped at the services less than 15 minutes from Poperinge for a last wee break.

We arrived at Talbot House for the first time and checked-in. Forgive me for not then spending 2 hours exploring this most magnificent place, instead Gary and I felt it better use of our time to explore the bars of the city. Indeed, we hit the very first bar you come to when turning left out of Talbot House. It’s not one we used very often over the years. I don’t even remember its name (The Greyhound?) It was a locals’ sports bar. I remember the football leagues were plastered all over the walls for some sort of gambling game. I also remember – and my heart sank – that they sold beer in tiny glasses! I wondered if I could get a return ferry that night.

We soon got in the swing of things and after a couple of introductory beers re-joined the gang for the evening’s reveries. The first part of which was eating. On this first holiday it was thought a good idea to eat out and our meal that night was booked in at (Was it then De Ranke next to La Poupee?) The soup was served with a good dollop of cream in it! This did not escape lewd comments which meant no-one eat the bloody stuff. It was no wonder we ended up going self-catering in future years.

We soon got in the Poperinge swing though. It was really pleasant sitting outside the bars into the early hours enjoying beers of all flavours including Cherry and Raspberry! We even found the local gay club – well apparently it was the Kei Club but for many years we thought it was the gay club.

For the next ten years with the Youth Club and a further 20 since, I have many, many Poperinge stories to tell and I will release them slowly. You will learn how we discovered Japan on the Flemish coast; how we decided to take theatre to the Belgians; how men sit in lines cutting a stick every time their neighbour’s bird sings; how Mad Cows, Teletubbies, Harry Potter and Book Worms probably led to Brexit; and how some of my best friends in all the world come from sweet little Belgium and like Eddie Wally. How lucky I am.

I have already managed one stripper story in this short run of incidents from my life. To put in a second so soon is surely saying something about my character. But no, I promise this will practically exhaust my stock of stripper stories before we have barely (Pun intended) begun. And anyway, this is Hazel’s stripper story.

When trying to think of something a little different to treat Hazel for her 30^th birthday, I figured a trip to a lap-dancing club might go down well. Of course, it had to be suitable. A sweaty club stuffed to the gills with machismo and testosterone would suit neither of us. After much research I found a place in Marylebone called SophistiCats which appeared to fit the bill. I called them up and explained what I wanted in detail and they seemed ready and willing to meet our needs. And so I booked.

I was Chief Technology Officer at Fitzpatrick in those days and was earning a decent whack so I pushed the boat out. We had a limousine collect us from the Mill flat in Essex and drive us into town and we booked supper at the adjoining Italian restaurant before-hand. All went very well, both service and food were first class, and around 11pm we were led down private stairs to the club below.

It felt tasteful. There were a few small groups of men in but not heaving stag parties. There were one or two other women too although they appeared to be hanging around with the chaps rather than there on their own account. No doubt this is what most people assumed about Hazel too which is why her presence didn’t raise any eyebrows.

So we took a table in the main area in front of the pole and ordered drinks (Lemonades all round – we know how to rock and roll). The girls were mostly quite young but a pleasing mix of body shapes. They weren’t afraid of curves at SophistiCats. I knew Hazel would appreciate that.

So in due course the girls came over to see if I wanted a lap dance. Yes, they were jumping to conclusions! Their demeanour was pleasant but definitely professional. Until I explained that I wasn’t here for myself but to ensure my partner Hazel had an enjoyable evening out. We were celebrating her birthday and I would be grateful if they could help. With that, I purchased her first dance which the girl delivered with panache.

Now I’m sure Hazel couldn’t have been the first lesbian or bisexual woman to visit the club but it created a stir amongst the girls. A very positive stir though. Before we knew it the girls were coming over to us between dances or spells on the pole. Coming over to chat.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to paint a picture where all the dancers were drooling over Hazel or any such thing. I would say 95% of them were straight. They just really liked the idea of dancing for a woman for a change. Rightly or wrongly it created a different relationship between the dancers and their clients (and happily I was included). Yes, Hazel had her sexy little dances and I even had one or two for myself but in between times we talked to the girls. We found out why they were dancing (Most were from the continent and were dancing to get through college). We shared their dreams with them.

I will admit that my ego, which I try to keep under control, was slightly inflamed by the awareness I was sitting in the middle of a lap dancing club with my gorgeous partner next to me and half a dozen dancers and strippers surrounding us at any one time.

I love people and I love people who in any way strike out from the norm so learning about how and why someone gets into a non-standard industry fascinated me. I know Hazel enjoyed her evening too for both the obvious and less obvious reasons.

It was a very special night and perhaps one that deserves repeating at some future date. It’s such a pity that we are both drooling into our Hot Chocolate come 7pm these days. Perhaps we can catch a matinee somewhere. I suppose there’s always that pub in Kentish Town where we could get the lunchtime rehearsal.

 

1981 will forever be a year of mixed emotions. It was the year of my first proper relationship; it was the year I left school; the year my career plans went through the blender; the year I started working in Rock’n’roll – well, just off to the side a little, out on the fringes. It was also a year that new friendships were forged. Up until then, most everyone I met was through school and my friends were pretty much all school friends. Then as we drifted into the world of colleges and work, new blood came in to our lives.

I’m not sure how Steve Pillar came to become such a close friend so quickly. Obviously I knew him from school but he was several years above me. It was he though who brought Mark Pyatt into our fold, through college. Almost 40 years on and Mark is still here. Steve is out there but we are not in touch. A shame, I miss him so. And for a while the three of us were very close. On the occasion I am about to recount, probably far too close.

Someone thought it would probably be a good idea if we had a holiday. I mean, it was a stressful time for us. Having left school in June, we had been to Hemsby for a week in the summer but it must be time for a break. Well Steve and Mark agreed with that and we bundled our sleeping bags into – I think Steve’s orange Avenger – and pootled west. Nothing booked, we just planned to show up at the YMCA and demand sanctuary.

Good job we stopped to phone ahead and check. Seems you had to book YMCA in advance and those quilted sleeping bags we had were strictly verboten! Now we were stymied. Halfway to the West Country (I think we were at Mere) with no-place to go. Then Steve had a brainwave. He remembered that his father was at Lee Abbey near Lynton for a conference and thought perhaps he might get us a room there. Now Lee Abbey, for those of you who don’t know and until 30 seconds earlier that included me, is a Christian Retreat and Conference Centre in an old mansion amongst fields that roll down to the cliff edge. A very special place for the Pillars.

Unsurprisingly, with a conference in full swing, there was almost no room at the inn. Almost! Our stable turned out to be Tinkerbell, the honeymoon cottage that nestled amongst the trees at the very edge of the property. Grateful for anything we reset our satnav – me – and headed for Lee Abbey. On arrival we were fed at the main house then I believe we went down the pub with Steve’s dad. At this point he was still Vicar at Waltham Abbey but would soon become Bishop of Hertford. I enjoyed testing my atheism in conversations over a drink or two with Ken. I’m sure theologically he mauled me, but he always did it so nicely.

On returning from the pub we set out with directions and torches across a huge field full of cows until we reached the path into the woods. Shortly we came across this cute and very fairy-tale like cottage in the middle of nowhere. I can’t remember if it had electricity but it certainly had an outdoor loo. The bed was also very small even for a honeymooning couple. For the three of us it was very much a case of “and the little one said, roll-over” all night long. I told you we were close.

Emerging at first light for a fag, I discovered precisely how close we were to an unfenced path overlooking the cliffs. Seriously, I sometimes wonder how we survived our misspent youth.

So we stayed a further day in the area before Steve got on the phone to another relative, his auntie Joyce in Plymouth. I think she had a guest house – certainly it was a large property – and she was happy to put us up for a couple of days. All you need to remember is that after having a bite to eat with auntie Joyce we put on our coats to head out into the city for a drink. As we left she said, “Whatever you do stay away from Union Street” You can imagine where our first port of call was! However, Union Street, Plymouth features heavily in another story so I won’t dwell on it this time.

I think the only other event of note on this trip was our Saturday afternoon visit to Exeter for the football. We arrived about two hours prior to kick-off as we did at Spurs. This wasn’t White Hart Lane though and I think we probably beat the man with the keys to the ground. Certainly, an hour before kick-off we were sitting in the ground surrounded by all of 10 other fans. A policeman approached us and stated “You’re not from round here then lads” No, we weren’t, we certainly weren’t.

 

 

I’ve mentioned before that I began my working life with Tim Rice in a garret in Wardour Street above his agent’s office. I was only there a few months when Tim brought all his various London based businesses under one roof and we moved to 196 Shaftesbury Avenue

 

It was the publisher Leo Cooper’s old office and I met him most mornings as I was opening up and he came along to check for post. For six months our small talk revolved around what post there was for him and how lovely a morning it was. And yes Mail Forwarding was an option even back then.

Anyway, the bulk of the office was taken over by Pavilion Books, Tim’s publishing impress undertaken with Terry Jones, Michael Parkinson, and a splendid chap called Colin Webb. With one or two staff they had several offices. GRRR Books (Me) had one room on the top floor which I shared for some while with Tim’s new PA (See below) and Tim eventually had a small suite of offices for himself on the first floor. There was a plush reception on ground floor and then, you went downstairs to the bar and snooker room. I didn’t use them much, I tended to drink away from the oversight of my colleagues!

So first let’s talk about Tim’s PA. She turned out somewhat out of the blue having until recently been Stage Manager at Cats. She was to be Tim’s new personal assistant and was sharing my office until their suite was ready downstairs.

My immediate fears were a) She would soon see how long I was taking for my lunch hours, and b) I wouldn’t like her. It didn’t take long for both fears to be allayed.
Firstly, she was out the office more than I was and secondly, she was bloody lovely. A bit showbizzy round the edges, but bloody lovely nonetheless. Good job really because I think we shared the office for more than a few months. I loved that girl and I was so happy to see her go on to greater things. Oh, I didn’t mention her name did I? It was Craymer, Judy Craymer!

Amongst her Cats’ friends was a young singer known as Sarah Brightman. She popped round one afternoon to see Judy who was out. I ended up spending an hour or two chewing the fat with Sarah. She was lovely too. A third lovely was Fay Rawlinson, also been working on Cats I think but I was more impressed that her husband played Bass for the Climax Blues Band, or was the Average White Band? Fay joined Tim Rice as some sort of production assistant and she and Judy were soon plotting against me. I was a whisker away from a blind date at one point, with a certain Bonnie Langford. My word, if they had gone through with that I would have “scweamed and scweamed until I was sick”

We had some good times in those offices and I remember one Christmas Party in particular. I volunteered to run the bar which was a small but perfectly formed mini-bar in the snooker room. I obviously had ensured myself a constant supply of alcohol for the duration although I hadn’t reckoned on Michael Parkinson setting himself up on the other side of the bar and entertaining me all afternoon with his explanation of why without Yorkshire, cricket would be a mere shadow of itself. Well, he started out like that, I switched off pretty quickly.

I managed to escape to the little kitchenette where Paul Jones was holding court in a much more interesting fashion. I don’t remember the topic but whatever it was he delivered with charm and politeness.

Terry Jones never came to these bashes. I seldom saw him. Occasionally we would pass on the stairs as he was on his way to a meeting. I would nod hello, he would probably blush. I don’t think I have ever met such a shy man. Less shy was Paul Gambaccini who when managing to get a date with Limahl, paraded him around the office like a trophy. I’m not easily embarrassed but there are moments!

It’s an old friend’s birthday today. I don’t know if he is reading this and if he is, whether or not I ever spoke to him about the incident it recalls. However, the face that ends up with the egg on it is really mine, so I’ll proceed afoot.

Tony was gay. The first person we knew who was gay I guess. Except at this point only a few people knew officially as Tony wasn’t out. This was about 1980 or early 1981. We were still at school but were already enjoying Saturday nights out at the very least. Tony was exceeding useful on these outings as he was one of the first in our crowd to pass his driving test and own a car. Being designated driver in those days meant you swam in a very small pool.

By chance we found out that Tony had been ‘using us’. Telling his parents he was out with us on a Saturday night when in fact he wasn’t. Something strange was going on and our immediate reaction was “He’s gay. He’s out at gay clubs when he says he’s with us”. I hope I don’t have to add that we didn’t say this to his parents. In fact we told them he was with us.

Now Tony wasn’t obviously gay. Certainly not camp. There were probably three or four blokes in our year above Tony in the campness stakes who ended up getting married, having reams of kids, and generally exhibiting the Melvyn Hayes Camp is not Equal to Gay Syndrome. But Tony denied that he was gay to me and many of the other blokes. We told him there was no reason too and do you know, I genuinely believe there wasn’t. We may have lived in a WASPish community in Hertfordshire, but we have just come through the punk era. We couldn’t care less who you were, only what you did mattered!

Nonetheless Tony wasn’t having any of it. He repudiated being gay with ferocity. This is not an appropriate analogy but he denied it a darn sight more than three times before the cock crowed! Eventually we believed him and started looking for alternate explanations. And by now our teenage curiosity was piqued. What could Tony be doing that kept him from our bosom on a Saturday night? Why did he need to lie to his parents about what he was doing?

We had many weird and wonderful theories but the favourite was he had been recruited by MI5 or similar. Tony was after all an academic genius.

And one Saturday night we found the evidence. On this occasion Tony was actually coming out with us and I was with him in his car (A little Austin that had to have its suspension pumped up every few weeks – not at all relevant but funny how you remember these little things). I think Neil was with us too. For some reason we had to go back to Tony’s so he could pick something up and we are sat outside waiting for him. There was a disco tape playing (oh how did we miss such an obvious clue) and I wanted to find something different to put on so I rummaged through his glove-box for more tapes. I found one that just had some undecipherable scribble on it and slotted that in instead of Michael Jackson or whatever else the disco tape contained.

What came out of the speakers was a monotonous girl’s voice repeatedly intoning the word Peter. Over and over again, “Peter, Peter, Peter….” Was this some Secret Service training tool; a mystery Tony was trying to solve to stop the country being obliterated in a nuclear attack. We didn’t think to ask, instead we stuffed the weird tape back in the glove-box and stuck Blondie on. A mutually acceptable choice.

And so that was that. A few weeks later Tony finally came out to all of us and was instantly accepted. His boyfriends started to join us on our nights on. They were mostly lovely but that American guy Billy had a bit of mouth on him, Tony. I went to Camden with Tony to the Old Mother Red Cap or was it the Mother Black Cap and another place in Euston. Life just rolled along. The tape, I hear you cry. What about the tape? Oh yeah, that was Tony’s sister. Turns out they had been teaching the budgie to speak its name.

Happy birthday Tony.