Peter Green of Fleetwood Mac and me.

In the 1960's I had a flat on Fulham Road just before Stanley Bridge. Two doors away was a pub called The Black Bull, and opposite was a teacher training college run by Franciscan Friars, called The College of St Mark and St John.  Above the Black Bull was a large room that bands used as a rehearsal room. One such band was Fleetwood Mack. Each evening in the Bull I spent time playing darts and trying very hard to like London Beer. When bands were rehearsing we could hear the boom of the bass and the time set by the drummer. A bass player called Bob Brunning was training at the college and also playing in Fleetwood Mac until John Mcvee joined from John Mayall. Pubs being pubs we became friends and stayed so until his death. However, as Fleetwood Mac became more famous Bob turned to teaching and as headmaster played his bass at school assembly.  He eventually  set up home with Elspeth his first wife in Battersea. The street was called Bullen Street. So far so ordinary. But he hadn't given up playing the blues. With pianist Bob Hall he formed a band called The Sunflower Blues Band. One recording session at Phillips Recording Studios at Marble Arch he asked me along to take some photos. He had a guest playing lead guitar on some tracks. I took photos and this guitarist, disguised as a hobo played some stunning blues. I asked who he was, "His name is Peter Blue." said Bob. "He's a gravedigger."
The record was released as Bullen Street Blues. Only Bob could get Peter Green out of hiding at that time. I am reminded of this because Peter Green has just died, a great loss to music. Some say Clapton is Britain's greatest guitarist, he might be now that Peter Green has died.

Chris Kenningly clarinet and unconvicted

Okay Chris as you asked, a blog mentioning you. Chris kenningley come to Leeds College of Art as a callow youth, with dark good looks and one talent. Not his drawing skills, we all had them, nor the fact that he had escaped the mining village of South Emsal, with his lungs still intact, but that he could play the clarinet. As Martin Fox, the best trad jazz clarinet player in the whole of the North of England, had been nearly wiped out at the FForde Grene traffic lights in Harehills by a drunk lorry driver, Chris was dragged reluctantly into the The Ed O'Donnel jazz band. Ed gave him some King Oliver records to listen to and expected him to learn all the licks in a week to play at the Friday night rave at Woodhouse Moor working men's club. I was there selling condoms at 3 shillings for 3, to pay my way through the week. Much to everybody's surprise Chris got through 6 numbers, and became a regular fixture. After that he was enrolled in the Leeds Jazz society and deped in all the jazz bands in the area. One night coming going to a gig in Sheffield the car passed through Hoyland Common, and Chris after 10 pint of Tetley's was in need of a piss. So rather than stop the bus he peed out of the window, or that was what Herbert Hooley of high Hoyland reported to the police. In actual fact the lads were larking about with water pistols playing at Candid Camera stunts and Herbert claimed the pee had ruined his new tie. At Barnsley Magistrates Court Chris protested his innocence and was let off much to the chagrin of the rest of the band who were fined. The press got hold of the story and it became front page news in all the tabloids. He went on to playing the sax and trying to make a name for himself in London, but the Leeds Music Mafia kept him at bay for full stardom. However not that many players can say they were complimented by Rose Hayes, Tubby's wife, in the Meridian Hotel in Nice, for their playing. As Tubby is one of my hero's this alone puts Chris in my hall of fame.
We were in Nice for the Nice Jazz Festival, we had both managed to get hold of press passes and spent most of our time between the murguez stall and back stage, or in the well in front of the stage reserved for  press photographers. Stan Getz did a 2 hour set with just a piano player and Chris and I stood in the wings two arms lengths away in such awe of his talent that we didn't take a photo of the performance although we both had cameras. We just forgot. Such is the power of the master of the West Coast Scene. Rose Hayes knew Getz from Tubbie's friendship with him, and introduced me to him, I was tongue tied but managed to quiz him on his set up. I could see he had a Selmer mark VI tenor and a rubber mouth piece. He said as he was getting old and had cancer so he preferred a set up that was an easy blow. Here it is.
An Otto Link 5* rubber with a 2.5 reed.  Now you know.

MIKE OSBORN BOOK DESIGNER

I came down to London from Leeds a freshly minted Graphic Designer in 1964. I had £50 in my pocket and an ambition to set the town alight with my talent. The aim was to eak out this sum until I had only the bus fare back to Yorkshire remaining and rethink my ambition, not to help run Bill Cropper's transport business. It took 2 weeks to go through the money and I was down to my last pound plus the bus ticket back. So I did what any other self respecting budding genius would I do. I walked into my favourite pub in the west end and bought a pint. The Dover Castle in Weymouth Mews near Harley Street was run by an ex debutant who had a terribly disfigured face from a car crash as a young thing. I had with me my large black portfolio containing my work. The guy behind the bar was my age and friendly and we got chatting. He asked me what was in the folio and was I an art student. I revealed to him my story and why I was in London. He said, "Let's have a look at the work, come into the back bar and open it up on the table." He silently turned the pages looking intently. He asked when I was returning to Yorkshire. "Well I've just spent my bus fare so I will be hitching a ride when I leave here." 'Tell you what." he said, "stay at my place tonight and tomorrow come into work with me." "What here in the pub?' "No to Waterlows the printers, we need another designer, I'll introduce you to my boss, and then you will work next to me, you can cast off* can't you?" I nodded.
"Ok that's settled I finish in a minute, and then we can have a drink. My names, Mike by the way."
Mike Osborn lived in Harley Mews above a garage, with his parents and two sisters and another stray designer who he had befriended and was courting his elder sister. They all squeezed into an area no bigger than the garage itself. Now me. His Mum and Dad, Gene and Stan, sisters Carol and Mary, Gary Brocklehurst and Mary's boyfriend John Daws and me stayed in the Dover Castle until closing time then we all went back to Harley Mews for sandwiches and pickles. I slept on the floor between the wall and the bunk beds which Mike and Gary were in. I had found a London family, it was like evacuation in reverse. I got the job by the way. £9 per week. I was reminded of all this yesterday when a belated Christmas card arrived from him and Eve. I had to laugh, Mike was notoriously forgetful and always tardy and lax with deadlines, waiting until the eleventh hour to present his work. If you are a paperback thriller fan you have probably handled one of his book covers. Thanks Mike I owe you.
* CASTING OFF. Choosing a type face and point size, for a piece of copy, typed or otherwise, and make it fit into a specific area.

Nick Ewart RIP

It was not on the cards that I would outlive my oldest friend with my dicky ticker. At the age of 17 Nick lived on peanut butter sarnies laced with marmalade, and when he could afford it, Tetley's mild ale. He smoked Woodbines but craved Sobrani No. 6. He lived with his Mother a, sales person at Scofields in Leeds, at the top of North Lane in Roundhay., in a private 2 bedroomed flat, just a ten minute walk from my council house. Of an evening he would turn up to raid the sack of potatoes that stood in our porch, having spent the money his mother had given him for the purchase of the same, for cigs. In those days he was as thin as a lat and perfected the Pink Panther walk that all tall boys assumed before filling out. His wit was infectious and pulled the birds. Included in his conquest were Marilyn George, a stunning long legged blond, my sister Denise, Fiona Tidswell, and Teresa Tyrell, probably all at the same time. Nick myself Denise and Fiona made up a foursome for evenings of laughter and no sex. I don't want to delve into his finances, as he still owes me money from those days, yet he managed to buy a Vespa scooter, and then a Morris Minor convertible. I don't know what he had in his trousers but he still creates rage at the mention of his name, from two of his ex girlfriends partners.
Nick was 6 ft something and I was 5'4", 5'6" in cowboy boots. Because we were art students and dressed differently and had longish hair, we were always the intended victims of the local student bashers. but we had a plan. I would climb onto Nicks shoulders and he would run us out of the  room with me bashing anyone in our way from a great height. I think the surprise element rather than my flailing limbs got us home safe with only minor injuries. One of the venues in which this tactic was used was The Kirkstall Arms,  the venue of Martin Bollands jazz band. To get there we had to drive down Kirstall Hill in my Austin 7 Ruby, which was painted bright yellow. As most of the cars in those days came in black only, it stood out like a pork sausage in a bakery. The wags in the back Nick, Brian Herbert and Jammy Douglas, found out that they could steer it by leaning to the left or to the right, because their weight lifted the front wheels off the road. Rick Brown in the passenger seat would be leaning too, but in his perverse way, in the other direction. So the journey to Kirkstall was a fight in itself. I meanwhile was praying that the lights at the bottom would be green, because it was impossible to stop with the weight of 5 bodies in the car and only cable brakes. As we careered across Kirkstall Road I would be frantically shouting left, then right to avoid a collision, with smoke coming from the brake pads and the smell of burning oil,  we somehow survived.
Alas Nick and Brian are dead, and Jammy who became dancing Dave, might be still with us. As for Rick, he's probably morphed into Darth Varder

Nick Ewart and the sport of gas pipe clay shooting

I first met Nick Ewart, when he turned up at my house to courte my sister. I was still in the 6th form at school, but worked for my father as a driver as well. This of course affected my school work, and I was desperate to change tack from the daily grind of maths physics and chemistry. I had opted out from games and used to sit on the school flat roof, above Leeds, drawing. Nick was already at Leeds College of Art, and said why didn't I just come to the college and join in. They could only throw me out. I became Steve Crow, The real Steve Crow spent all his time in the snooker club behind Leeds City Varieties, and was at the point of being thrown out of college. So I became him. I amassed a great volume of work, Leeds College of Art "black drawings," pottery, lettering. I could use the lathe which I had mastered at school, so I was really happy there.
 Obviously my school attendance was light. I couldn't opt out of anything else. Assembly was off as I already didn't go, I said I was Jewish, and refused to sing hymns. Eventually I was called into the headmasters office, and given a lecture on how I was only fit to be a fitter in an Engine works, and I should get my hair cut. My mother never made me get my hair cut and accompanied me to the interview. At the end of his advice my  mother, all 5 foot of her, stood over him and said, "Headmaster my son is made for better things than a fitter, and as for the hair you are as bald as a coot, why not let him enjoy his whilst he has it?' So I applied for Art College under my own name. Term time had already started but they granted me an interview, as they were short on numbers. During the interview, it was stated that I looked familiar, I said yes you will have seen me as I go the the school next door and have friends at the college, so I am sometimes in the building. I applied to be a product designer, and with my Science O Levels was accepted to do that. Once in, I was free to choose any course. I chose graphics but with hind site I would probably have made a better product designer.
I'm sure the Principal realised who I was, or in fact wasn't, He had suspended me from the College, a month before, for participating in blowing clay* from a first floor windows at the Architectural students, using half inch gas pipes. Me Nick and Trevor Varley were the culprits, but as I wasn't a student, I took the blame, they couldn't suspend me as I shouldn't have been there anyway, but I was barred from the building. Fortunately for the interview I had grown my hair and started a moustache, but I'm sure he knew. The reason could be, as I found out later, that every one in the College disliked the Architects, as they were all from monied backgrounds and had flash cars, as opposed to most in the C.of A who lived on crusts and a penny worth of jam from the canteen in order to afford a pint.
Nick was 2 years above me, and had joined at 16 straight from school. However he was 2 years younger than me, so it seemed to work and we became best mates. He left, with no qualifications, for London, and became a top packaging designer. Talent will out, proving that if you are good enough you don't need any letters behind your name.
* For those who wish to take up the sport, this is how it is done.
Take 3ft of 1/2inch metal gas piping. Run water through it to make the inside slippery.
Put a wad of very wet modelling clay in to the mouth end of the pipe. lean out of the window and blow, like using a blow pipe. It is remarkable how far it goes, and it ends with a very satisfying splot.

PIZZA EXPESS FULHAM ROAD

In 1968 A Pizza Express opened on the Fulham Road. The walls were an Op Art extravaganza painted by  Enzo Apicella. On the Saturday of the opening week a party of us decided to give it a try. Sandy, Michael Abrahams, (my cousin) Rick Browne and myself, were in the vanguard. Our first pizzas arrived at 12.30pm. During the course of the day most of our friends and trendies from the Kings Road, came, ate, and went.  A lot of photographers with models in tow were amongst them.  All the girl models were dressed to kill and braless. By 10pm we were into our 3rd pizza and 8th bottle of red biddy. Sandy eventually got fed up with our commenting on the braless girls, stood up removed her bra, threw it across the room and never wore one again until she was 50.So the pizza not only started a food revolution, but a breast revolution as well.

Jammy Douglas, alias Dancing Dave

LEEDS CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL, my Alma Mata, was situated on Gt. George Street, next to Leeds College of Art. The Mecca Locano Dance Hall in Leeds was in the County Arcade, now part of The Victorian Quarter and a stones throw from school. It had a lunch time disco session, entrance a sixpence, the price of a bag of chips with a fishcake. Me and Jammy Douglas, would bunk out of school and jive the hour away. School cap and tie removed and hair duck tailed with Brylcream. Jammy was a superb dancer, taught by his big sister, a Ballroom Competitor. I took my steps from him, and became an expert in the 'Jive.' The trick was to step in on two girls dancing together. When the girl taking the girl part twirled around Jammy would catch her out held hand and I would step in and take her place. if we were lucky these two girls would be our partners for the whole session. No words were exchanged just dance steps. When the session was over we would return to school sweaty but ready for double Maths. Jammy eventually became known as Dancing Dave, among our set. Incidentally Jammy got his name, not from being lucky, although after his naming luck came his way, but from an English lesson in 2A. We were reading Prester John by John Buchan, and someone, was asked to read aloud a passage from it. In this passage was a character named Jamie Douglas, which he mis pronounced as Jammy. Henceforth Dave became Jammy.

Ed O'Donnel and Brian Herbert

When I was a student at Leeds C of A, I made my beer money by driving Ed O'Donnel's band to gigs. I have just learned that he has died. Through him and the band I had a wonderful time as a student making many life long friends. One, Brian Herbert, has also just died, he had the Banjo chair nailed to his arse. When at school we rode the tram, and with him went his banjo. He discovered that if he hit a certain note, a fellow traveller on his way to work in Leeds would twitch. The poor mans ride was never the same after that. However back to Ed. Not only was he the leader of the band, but he was also the Male Model for the college. His wife Anne, taught jewellery at Leeds, in fact she made Sandy's wedding ring, and Ed was learning the craft to eventually teach it himself. One day I was working late on a graphics project, when Ed came into the studio, and asked if I had anything he could practice his engraving on. I had made a plain silver ring for myself and handed it to him. "What initials do you want on it" 'Oh put anything on it I replied" The ring came back with BALLS engraved on it in beautiful script. This ring became my pride and joy. I lost it some years later, and Sandy had him make me a replica, as a surprise. God knows where it is now. Brian eventually took up the guitar and if Eric Clapton had ever heard him on it he would have hung his up for life and taken up golf.

Trevor Winkfield

At one time Sandy and I had a flat each in Mentone Mansions. How this came about is another story. She took over a room in flat 9 which was at one time used by Trevor Winkfield, who was at the Royal College studying painting. When he left for pastures new and fame and fortune in New York, Sandy moved in. Winkfield was an existentialist into Duchamp. One of his works he left behind in the flat which consisted of three pieces of hardboard painted green of increasing size, entitled, drawing for a green field, sketch for a green field and "A Green Field" pretty cool uh?
He was giving a lecture once at a Midlands college. John Cage, the composer was supposed to be giving a recital in the evening but could make it due to illness. Winkfield said he knew Cage and could do the recital for him. This he duly did to a standing ovation. However Winkfield could not play a note and just played anything for half an hour including long pauses. He had cheek or chutzpa if you're a New Yorker or speak Yiddish. Anyway when I finally moved upstairs to live in sin with Sandy, we would find that occasionally someone had been in the flat cooked, a meal and left the washing up. This continued for several years until I changed the lock. I t turned out the it was Winkfield who was the culprit, as he had kept the keys to the flat when he left. His cheek knew no bounds as he complained at the lock change. Look him up on the web.bombsite.com/issues/999/articles/3285
 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZaMjcElpfK4
Trevor if you ever read this. Hi

Chelsea Part II

The landlord of the studio also owned a 3 story house in Munro Terrace off Chelsea Embankment by the houseboats. It had recently become vacant and asked if we would like to rent it. It was too much for me and Johnny, but we formed a syndicate. Myrtle Healy would take the ground floor, Johnny Clamp the middle floor and me the attic. It was very handy for me as I could use the photographic facilities of Myrtle and Johnny and I recruited Clive Tunnycliffe another designer to share the attic. Quite a creative enclave. Eventually Johnny Clamp who was always short of money, halved his outgoings by involving another photographer to share his studio. Eventually, Jerry Mason took over the whole of Johnny Clamps part as he departed to Worthing to become a tutor at the art college. Jerry Mason and I formed an art director / photographer partnership that lasted 20 years.

60's part the III Sandy's Boots

It was winter and Sandy my then girl friend (now my wife) needed some boots for the snow. As we crossed the crossing by the Worlds End, Peter Sellers and his latest squeeze Brit Eckland crossed before us. They were window shopping for boots too. In the store the boots Sandy wanted were a knee length suede with crossed lacing all the way from the ankle to the top and fur lined. A beautiful boot. Sandy tried several sizes on and settled for the 5 1/2. As I got out my cash to pay, the assistant came over and said that we couldn't have the boots after all, as Brit Eckland wanted them. The assistant pleaded with us, but the more the plea the more we refused. Eventually Brit herself came over to plead here case. Wrong move. Sandy, as beautiful as any starlet, refused to part with them. I knew Miss Eckland vaguely as she lived in Billing Place behind our mansion block, but she always blanked me in the Fox and Pheasant and in Mr B's who cut her hair and mine. She turned to me to ask Sandy to give her them. Another wrong move. I don't answer for Sandy, she is her own woman. Eventually they left disappointed. Those boots were admired everywhere, and still to this day give us both the pleasure of remembrance.

Me in Chelsea in the 60's pt1

My first studio was above a hardware shop on the Kings Road, it is now a Starbucks Coffee Shop, and is attached to the Chelsea Potter Pub. I shared this studio with a photographer called Johny Clamp. We both did freelance work for the Record Companies. Mainly Philips Records, which included Fontana. The entrance to our studio was round the corner in Shawfield Street. It is amazing how life turns full circle sometimes. In the late seventies my Design Group, Design Machine, was still involved in designing for the Music Business, but we had added the Rag trade to our portfolio. By now Design Machine had moved to Sedley Place an alleyway off Oxford Street, down the side of HMV. We got a call from a start up Jeans wear company called FUS Jeans. They needed a Jean labels posters etc. The address they gave had a familiar ring to it. Yes they were based in my old studio. Anyway I digress. The fact that we were based practically in the middle of the Kings Road, equi-distant from Sloan Square and The Worlds End, had us slap bang in the middle of the action. From our vantage point overlooking the road we missed nothing. How we ever turned around the work is a mystery. Yet we both made a good living. A sleeve design could be invoiced for £500 that is probably £1500 in todays money. The funny thing is with the advent of computers you would be lucky to get £500 for a CD insert today. So I only had to design one sleeve a month to be comfortably off. Of course it was all spent too quickly. Clothes, Booze, fancy restaurants all ate into it. I think the rental on the two rooms was £10 a month or something silly. The clients being clients wanted to be shown a good time in Chelsea once a week, and the bills could run into the £100's, therefore the price for a sleeve could only go up. Eventually for big rock bands the sky became the limit.

THE COCK INN

My mother keeps reminding me that she is 96 this year, only 3 years to go until she beats the age of her great aunt Kate, who kept The Cock Inn at Birdwell nr. Barnsley. ( Honestly). You can see the Inn from the M1 as you drive towards Sheffield from Barnsley.The Cock Inn is at the bottom of a deep slope that ended in a turkey farm, owned by her father a butcher and landowner. The first such farm in England. Unfortunate he was a gambler and it all went to the bookies.
At the age of 99 Kate Carr fell down the cellar steps and died of her injuries. She was a big woman and had her dresses made in Sheffield with a secret pocket in which she kept her brandy flask. On Sundays my mother and her siblings had to go to the Inn for Sunday Tea. My mother, Annie, a mere slip of a girl and not inclined to walk anywhere, refused to walk up the hill on the way back, reasoning that Aunt Kate had a big car that could drive them home.
A compromised was reached by little Annie being given brandy from this flask mixed with port. She was only four years old but it was not unusual in those days for children to be given spirits. It can't have done her any harm as she now takes sherry in the afternoon followed by gin and tonic. The time of this tipple slowly edging forward to mid day.
So sup up Annie, and good health, you'll get the telegram yet.

EVA BAIRD and JIMMY SAVILE

Last week I went to Eva Baird's funeral. She was for sometime Ken Mackintosh's other half. She lived with Ken at Edenvale Road until his death. As all readers of this blog know Ken was a strong personality with set ideas of how the world should be. The world according to Ken was black and white, no grey areas just his opinion. But he had met his match in Eva. She was just as strong willed as he was adamant. Their arguments were over trivia, including her chain smoking and her bingo habit.
Eva was very generous host. Nobody called without getting a cup of tea, maybe some toast or a bacon sandwich. On one occasion I had bought some kippers and instead of accepting the bacon I asked if I could grill a kipper. It was a very hot day in June and Ken was in the garden. I duly cooked the kipper, and took it outside. Eva went berserk, calling me all the sorts of names about the smell. Unreasonably I thought as I had asked if it was OK. But the worse thing was that I got a bone stuck in my throat. No amount of tea or coughing would dislodge it. Ken matter of factly suggested a trip to the hospital. Eva just shrugged lit up a cigarette and gave me a look that said ' Serve you right'. Her being an ex consultants PA, I thought would have more sympathy. Eventually after eating masses of dry bread. the bone dislodged and calm, for me at least, was restored.
Ken invested in a PC computer and ink jet printer. He never mastered it beyond the odd email. Eva though went to classes to learn to use it, but in the end most of her time was spent on it playing bingo or patience. She had luck though and won regularly on the bingo at Tooting. Incidentally the bingo hall at Tooting is well worth a visit, it is monument to the old age of Picture Palaces.
 After Ken's death she moved to Wimbledon in to a block of flats called Jimmy Savile House. Just before her death when the Jimmy Savile debacle was at it's height, the residents of the block asked Eva to sign a petition to have the name changed, she refused, because Jimmy Savile had been very good to her and Ken, lending them his caravan, for weekends away. Maybe she didn't believe all the accusations, however her pen remained in her pocket.

3 Day Week

Design Machine in the early Seventies had a studio in the basement of a house in Park Street W1. It was there because of Park Street's proximity to all the record companies. PYE in ATV house, Philips at Marble Arch, HMV Manchester Sq, CBS in Soho Sq. etc. The room was small approx. 12' x 12' into which we crammed 3 Designers and a finished artist. plus any student on work placement. The Grant Enlarger, an essential piece of equipment for any design group stood in the hall next to the toilets under the pavement.  Come the 3 day week we were knackered because, we were only allowed the lights on for 3 days, suggesting that we could only work 3 days in 7. Only the Conservatives could come up with such a stupid plan. It would have been cheeper to give the power workers the money. However the wartime spirit lived on through us. Deadlines were deadlines and we prided ourselves on delivering. It is a strange thing that when money is in short supply people spend more on records, so we were doubly busy. I took out my Jones hand cranked sewing machine and ran up some blackout curtains. Behind these we beavered away producing sleeve after sleeve and adverts for all the breaking records to go into the music press. Some weeks over 50 ads of different sizes were art worked ready for the Friday lunchtime deadline of the likes of NME, Music Week, Record Mirror, Sounds, Billboard etc.
At first we used candles and tilly lamps, but eventually we thought, sod it, and turned on the lights.
They couldn't shoot us.  Could they?

Philps records

My interview with Mike Stamford at Philips Records, lasted about 5 minutes. He gave me a proof of a sleeve that must have given him some grief in the production. He asked me how I would produce the art work. I gave him 3 ways one in the photograph stage, one in the art work stage and one that I wouldn'd have done it anyway as it was crap. In those days I had discarded socks as a waste of space. I had on my best Burtons suit,  a white T shirt a large floral tie Sandy had made for me' suede shoes and no socks. he couldn't take his eyes off my ankles. He said thank you he would be in touch. 'Blown it again', I thought, but much to my surprise and delight, a letter arrived the next day, saying that I had to report to the studio in 3 weeks.
3 WEEKS LATER.
I sat in reception waiting for a call from Mr. Stamford to ask me up to the studio. Eventually I got bored and found my own way. There were 3 large double elephant size desk with high stools. loud music was blaring out from a stereo in the corner. At one desk sat a long legged blond, and at the other a big muscley figure with thick black curly hair and a gap toothed smile.
'Who are you?' he asked. 'The new designer', I said. Mike Stamford had omitted to tell them that he had hired me, and he was on holiday.
'Do you drink?' he said
'I have been known to have one or two', I said.
He looked at his watch. 11.30 'They are open'. So we repaired to the King and Queen on Edgeware Road where we had one or two. I was too pissed to see by 3 pm so I went home to start work the next day.
His name was Robin 'Nick' Nicol, and the blond Linda Glover, eventually his wife. They formed a company named Nicol Glover Ltd. which became Design Machine, with me as it's Creative Director as, Linda, a brilliant designer in her own right retired to the country to do the books and have babies.
By the way Philips bean counters made me redundant after 3 weeks, so I went freelance and made ten times the money out of the company per month than my salary was.
What do they know?

Phil Everly

It was Easter, and I got a call from Pye Records that Phil Everly was in town for a few days and they needed a photo of him for a sleeve. Easter in the 70's was singularly Holy time. Nothing stirred but church services. The next day, being Good Friday was treated like a Sunday, and it made London like a ghost town. However being the true pro that I was, I used this to my advantage. I picked Phil up in my yellow mini traveller from his hotel. The car was as far from a Boss Mustang as it could be. It had a mini front end and a van like back end with wooden surrounds. (See picture), but it flew like shit of a shovel. I drove down to Shepherds Bush market, Marble Arch to the Bush in 5 mins flat. All the lights were green and not a soul about. I stopped in front of a shuttered shop front. It was painted red and hadn't seen a paint brush in years. Just the arty farty background I needed for the shot.

I wanted to use him as a small figure with this shutter behind him, but alas the marketing men got at it and and it ended up cropped to head and shoulders. It may as well have been a passport photo, it had as much charisma. Phil asked me what was there to do in this one horse town.
'Not much at Easter but pray. But he could come to my flat on Sunday for a traditional Sunday roast dinner.' And I could show him the delights of the Kings Road on Saturday, just a spit from my place on the Fulham Road.
All through this time he kept saying that we have met before in L.A. and that he knew my face. As at that time I had a bright red moustache that covered most of the bottom half of my face, and hair down to my shoulders, I probably resembled half the hippies in California. We finished the shoot in about an hour and I dropped him off at the hotel soon after as he had to be in the studio that afternoon. I gave him my contact details, and he promised to turn up at the flat when he was done.
Sandy, my wife, was quite a fan of the Everly Bothers and started planning the meal, who would come, who would sit where.
We always had quite a few to lunch on a Sunday. I told her not to go to much trouble as he would probably not turn up. Of course I was right, but he did call and ask me to visit him in L.A.
I never did make that trip.

Sharon Osborne

In the 1970's Sharon was running the fan club for  WIZARD the Roy Wood extravaganza. One of my drinking friends in the Fox and Pheasant in Billing Street. was Tommy the chip. His wife was a pretty girl with masses of black curls, and an almost completely round figure. Sharon looked exactly the same. Together they resembled two bookends fashioned as female Humpty Dumptys. She worked for Sharon's father,  Don Arden (another story). and it was through her that Sharon asked me to design stuff for Wizard.
All went well until it was time to pay for the work. Don Arden had a reputation for not paying his bills and my partner at Design Machine, Nick Nicol, warned me not to do the work as the cheque would not be forthcoming. He reckoned , with out Sharon in the mix. Although I had to wait until Arden was in the buiding, Sharon would bowl into his office and demand the money calling him a tight c***. Occasionally the cheque would not be honoured, so she would raid his safe for the cash, which was stuffed with notes. The lads from the Fox & Pheasant all tradesmen, did work for Don Arden on his house on Wimbledon Common. They had the same experience. His reputation of carrying a gun and being prepared to use it held no truck with them. Come Friday the cash was paid or else. Sharon the go between made sure no violence took place.
Rumour had it that when she finally fell out with her father, she flew to California and sold his house there and kept the money. He may have owed her the cash for all I know, and he may have asked her to sell it for him, but I never saw her again after that, except on the television, a shadow of her former self, but still showing that nothing fazed her.

Bradwell on Sea Gig 2012 & Ken Mack in Blackpool
The Mack Big Band played in the village hall in Bradwell on Sea on the 15th September. We had them rocking in the aisles. This has become a regular annual gig. The locals love us, as they should. Look Bradwell up on the map and you will see that it is nearer Holland than London. So a professional big band playing in the Village Hall is a treat for them. No travel, no congestion charge. The West End came to Bradwell. One of our regular Saxes couldn't make it so we booked in a top player as a dep. Unfortunately he became emotionally tired and fell asleep on the stand, and occasionally woke up to honk a few random notes. Fortunately the rest of us were playing so well that no one in the audience noticed. The encore New York New York, finally woke him up to ask, 'how do I get home?
Stranger than truth!
Which reminds me of a Ken Mackintosh anecdote.
The ken Mackintosh band were playing a season at the Tower Ballroom Blackpool. One night the drummer didn't turn up and it was too late to book a dep. so the band when on the stand minus drums.
At the interval, Ken was in the bar and a guy came over to speak to him. Ken thought he was going to complain, but no he was full of praise for the band. Ken asked him what he thought of the drummer.
The man said, marvelous. Ken pushed his luck and asked him if the tempo was right.
'Spot on ', said the man.
No This is not a drummer joke, but the truth.

The Van

Ken was trained as an engineer before the war and so was never fazed by buying a wreck and doing it up.
The Van was an old Ford Transit diesel that he converted to petrol. This meant that it was under powered, so all the weight of the equipment plus 3 up front and as many as 4 in the back sitting on garden chairs, slowed it down to a maximum of 45 mph. At the time of owning this van in the twilight of the big band era Ken never drank alcohol. His driving was erratic never the less, and because of loose king pins on the steering the van weaved from side to side. It was considered unusual if he didn't get stopped by the police.
'Have you been drinking Sir?'
'Never touch the stuff'
'Mind if we take a look in the back'
Ken always opened the back doors. From there with the amps and speakers, music stands, etc., the police couldn't see the passengers behind all that stuff.
'I'm Ken mackintosh you know?' said Ken invariably.
Sniggers from the back.
'Are you smuggling illegals?'
'Only from fucking Yorkshire' Then added, 'Just musicians'
As we had all had a drink we were beside ourselves with laughter. 'Fair cop, officer'
'Lock him up'
The police eventually got to recognise the van and stopped it, but just for a chat, and to say that their Grandmother used to dance to him at the Palais.