Authors: Mike Read
M
Y FIRST ROADSHOW
week was in 1980. My debut was at South Shields, followed by Scarborough, Bridlington, Cleethorpes and Skegness. I know DLT must have been with us on one of the dates as the schoolboy in me came to the fore and the first of the infamous pranks was unleashed on him. Not for me that well-worn and overused cling-film-over-the-loo gag. That would have been childish and unworthy, disgusting and rightly frowned upon. I considered my wheeze a step up. Classier. It was the stink-bomb-under-the-loo-seat gag. Well, more than one stink bomb. Several actually. One has to make an impact or be found wanting. I subtly purloined the key to DLT’s room, sneaked in with the dexterity of Raffles, lifted the loo seat and gently laid three or four of the vile vials on the porcelain. With rock-steady hands worthy of a horologist I delicately rested the seat on top of them so they didn’t crack immediately. However, once subjected to the full weight of a large man with a beard they most certainly cracked. DLT’s bathroom must have been like the Black Hole of Calcutta before Suraj-ud-Daulah’s gang of rotters let out the remaining few survivors.
Was the subject amused, you may wonder? He was not. Far from it. In fact he was livid. One might have imagined him being in the
Black Hole himself and trying to break down the door to kill the sleeping Daulah, only it was me he was trying to kill. I really thought the door to my room was going to smash into a thousand pieces. I sensibly kept out of his way for the rest of the evening. What a lack of appreciation for a lost and underrated art form.
My 1981 roadshow week took in Morecambe, Blackpool, Southport, Rhyl and Colwyn Bay. In Southport I was reminded of another near-death experience there years earlier, when my father and godfather rather bravely pulled me out of deceptive quicksand as I sank up to my chest. My clothes were thrown away, new ones were purchased and I was chucked into a bath at a nearby hotel. Actually, that sounds uncannily like a roadshow stunt. If my father had known then that he would cross the street to avoid me in my later teenage years he might well have left me to struggle in the mud. I like to think that it was because of my attire more than my attitude. If I couldn’t locate the World War One knee-length cavalry boots and milkman’s cap that I preferred to sport in those days, I only had to look in the dustbin. I lost count of the times I retrieved them.
Morecambe too was memorable. It was there I had a phone call telling me that our current
Guinness Book of British Hit Singles
had hit the number one spot in the bestsellers. Of course, as soon as you’re able to look at the
Times
bestseller list, your eyes drop below that dizzy height to see which serious authors are running to keep up. The news gave me a decided boost for that afternoon’s game of rounders on the beach.
My 1983 holiday, sorry, roadshow week, took in Devon and Cornwall. What a treat: Torquay, Plymouth, St Austell, Falmouth and St Ives. Of course there were practical jokes galore, but let me single out St Austell for special mention. After a leisurely breakfast with my producer, Paul Williams, I sauntered back to my room to slip into something a little more Radio One, whatever that was, and to collect my guitar. But there was no guitar. The window was wide open and my pride and joy was no longer present. A footprint on the
window ledge confirmed my suspicions. Half an hour later, accompanied by a concerned producer, I’m giving details of my loss to officers of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary.
‘Could you draw the guitar for me?’
I could.
‘And from the side?’
Yes, even easier.
‘The back?’
I had to admire their dedication to detail.
‘Strings?’
‘Six when it left here. I couldn’t vouch for the number now.’
‘Do you know anyone who might have had a grudge against you and your guitar?’
‘Only the 15,000 roadshow audience, my producer, the controller of Radio One, the entire road crew, Smiley Miley and ten million people listening on the radio. Apart from that, no one.’
They were thorough to say the least, but how could I find a replacement at the eleventh hour? Paul Williams came to the rescue. ‘Kid Creole and the Coconuts are in town and they’ve offered to lend you an acoustic.’
‘How lovely. We’d better play “Stool Pigeon” a few times then.’
Now my guitar spot on the show, where I’d lead the children of St Austell, or wherever, into the musical wilderness, was normally an uphill battle, but Paul was actively encouraging me to play near the top of the show. Had he had a change of heart? Had there been a gradual realisation that my talents were worthy after all? Whatever the reason, I gave forth with my own personal battle-cry,
carpe diem
, and seized the day. With hindsight it should have been
cave ne cadas
, as I was about to be knocked off my musical pedestal. I was cantering along in full flow, making a decent fist of it, when the guitar exploded in my hands. Not only exploded and splintered, but showered me with that distinctive orange dye reserved for bank robbers. I was stunned. No, hang on, shocked and stunned. For a good two
minutes the radio was filled with the cheering, howling, applauding and whooping of the multitudes assembled on the beach. What the hell had happened? I knew not. Only the appearance of Smiley Miley told me that all was not as it should be. There had been no robbery. It was an inside job. My guitar was safe. Even the members of the force making me draw the guitar from every conceivable angle were in on it. The guitar wasn’t from Kid Creole, it was one specially doctored by Smiles. It contained a small amount of explosive and a very large amount of orange dye and had been detonated by him from a safe distance. Right! His future wasn’t bright, but mine, for the moment, was definitely orange.
I had reverted to my normal colour and guitar when playing a duet with Justin Hayward at Falmouth and had gone with the full whites for St Ives. Wham! had just released the wonderful ‘Club Tropicana’ and were my guests on the last day of the week. We entertained the crowds by playing kazoos all in white shorts and shirts, which seemed like the cool outfit of the summer. I normally dreaded the final day as it signalled the end of the festivities, but Andrew Ridgeley and I decided to stay on for an extra day, not that I remember much about it. I do recall Andrew playing tennis against himself for half an hour. I didn’t ask why. Maybe I was meant to be on the other side of the court. George Michael flew back from St Ives, while I drove Andrew back in my Mercedes with the roof down and ‘Club Tropicana’ pumping out of the radio every hour. What posers … but what fun.
I was due to be at a twenty-first birthday party that day, so I called ahead to ask if I could bring a friend. ‘Sure.’ Birthday girl Penny was surprised to say the least when Andrew Ridgeley walked in with me, but her girlfriends were open mouthed. Wham! were about the hottest thing around at that time and Andrew had that heart-throb Mediterranean look that seemed to make the girls melt.
The summer of the following year, 1984, saw my group, the Rock-olas, undertaking our most extensive tour to date, performing in Hastings, Portsmouth, Southampton, Bournemouth, Plymouth,
Exeter, St Austell, Newquay and Hendra Tourist camp. Then it was off to another roadshow at Gateshead with Midge Ure, before my own roadshow week took me back to the east coast, calling in at Scarborough, Bridlington, Cleethorpes, Skegness and Great Yarmouth. In 1985 I was once more in the West Country, taking in Torquay, Plymouth, Carlyon Bay, Falmouth and Marazion. We spent one night at the Carlyon Bay Hotel, former hideaway of Edward VIII and Mrs Simpson. Mind you, they seemed to have bolt-holes everywhere. My abiding memory of that evening is sitting completely alone outside the hotel writing, as the sun hit the top of the Scots pines and the sea was flat calm. The twelve lines of ‘Carlyon Bay’ made it to my first book of poetry: ‘But the days are growing shorter | From Black to Gribben Head.’ It was one of those tranquil English evenings that I wanted to last for a week or so, but I was also acutely aware that the twilight was approaching and it would soon be over. So would the week. And the years would fly. They have. The era of Edward and Mrs Simpson seemed a world away, but they would have watched the gathering dusk there less than fifty years before that evening in 1985. Now it’s 2014 and the evening I sat there is itself almost thirty years away.
My first action on any roadshow day was to tentatively draw back the curtains praying for sun. A sunny day and a blue sky put a different spin on everything. Hurricane Charley put paid to that at Exmouth in 1986: the wind howled, flags flapped crazily, the rain swept in from the sea and yet some 20,000 souls braved the elements. Those at the back were virtually enveloped in a thick, wet, mist. If Smiley wasn’t in a mist he was certainly a laughing stock.
En route I’d spotted a character making gates and benches. I persuaded him to set aside these menial tasks and offered him far too much money to knock up some stocks.
‘Stocks?’
‘Yes, stocks.’
‘You mean like … stocks?’
‘You’ve seized upon my meaning
instanter
.’
‘You from the local council?’
Two hours later I was on my way, roof down and stocks on board. You’re ahead of me. Smiley, stocks. It would be a marriage made in Devon. Of course he wasn’t a willing participant, but there were enough burly blokes who rigged the roadshow to convince him otherwise. In he went and there he stayed. There was a heck of a lot of rain but I did treat him to an ice-cream. Tragically, his hand wasn’t able to reach his mouth, but being a good neighbour I fed him myself. Almost as tragically, my aim was terrible that day. The ice-cream went everywhere, the remains turning a rather ghastly amalgam of tartrazine E102 and sunset yellow E110. Maybe his face was already yellow. In truth I can’t remember. The rotten tomatoes may or may not have been thrown by me, but it would have been a shame to waste them.
Having taken Barry, Keith and Paul, my fellow Rock-olas, for the week, we couldn’t play on that first day. Horizontal rain, a stage that resembled Victoria Falls and a ton of electronic equipment just didn’t seem to be ideal soul-mates. Weymouth was also hit by the weather, but I managed to scrape up a few tarantulas and the like to keep the party going for Smiley. By Swanage it had perked up a little and by Bournemouth we were rocking. The group were in full swing and we were joined by the Real Thing, Bobby Ball and Stu Francis. I coerced some burly lifeguards to enlist Smiley to help with their drill. For demonstration purposes, they were forced to throw him in the drink. Then came the payback and ignominy of the final day at Southsea, when I was challenged to get all the answers correct to a special ‘Bits and Pieces’ competition or face a spell in my own stocks. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t. I got them all right. What? I missed one? Impossible. The last track turned out to be the dog whistle from the inner groove of
Sgt. Pepper
, which was inaudible to the human ear. Now if I’d been a Jack Russell … but then getting the other questions right may have been a little tricky.
Smiley was racing off on holiday at the end of the programme, so thank goodness I’d had the foresight to pay four bricklayers to build
an 8-foot wall around his Range Rover while he was busy with the roadshow. Did I pay them? No. I told them that Smiley would pay them … to knock it down. He had no alternative. Know your enemy.
As well as the conventional, if that word applies, seaside roadshows, there were weeks away, where we all charged off to Leeds, Edinburgh, Bristol or somewhere and were sent into the market place, often literally, to impose ourselves on the inhabitants. We were also woven into the local fabric, as when my producer got me to fire the famous one o’clock gun at Edinburgh Castle. This six-day-a-week ritual had been in place since 1861, when it gave ships in the Firth of Forth an audible time signal. I was marched up through the Portcullis Gate and, at the far end of the Argyll Battery, given the relevant instructions. The idea had sounded terrific over a drink in the hotel bar the night before, for here was history. Mary, Queen of Scots had given birth to James VI here and Bonnie Prince Charlie attempted to take the castle during the Jacobite Rising, and here we were adding our minuscule contribution, by letting the rest of the country hear the one o’clock gun. The gun I fired was the 25-pound Howitzer which had been in place since 1952, although they’ve since replaced it. My instructor was Staff Sergeant Thomas McKay (later MBE), who went by the wonderfully scary nickname of ‘Tam the Gun’. The force and the noise at close range were extraordinary. I felt as though I’d been simultaneously punched by half a dozen chaps from the 105th Regiment Royal Artillery after a night on the town. You know that feeling. The castle was built atop a 350-million-year-old volcano, so I wouldn’t have considered it the ideal place to let off a jolly big gun on a daily basis.
If Radio One failed to kill you with conventional weaponry they tried to drown you. Come with me to the Plymouth of the mid ’80s and let me introduce you to a man attempting to emulate Sir Francis Drake. I will refer to him only as ‘Peter Powell’. An unlikely name, I know, but it will have to suffice. PP, proud possessor of a splendid-looking speedboat, brought it with him on the week away. Would we like a trip round the bay? Of course we would. With five of us on
board, including Paul Williams, off we went, ‘sailing on a summer breeze’ and ‘skipping over the ocean like a stone’ without having to engage in any ‘banking off of the North East winds.’ Perfect, really. No, not really. Not wishing to sound like a landlubber who squeals like an especially savvy pig on its way to market when just 5 yards offshore, I waited until the water was around my ankles before I spoke.
‘That’s normal, matey,’ came the reply. OK, Peter was the captain. Five minutes passed before I passed further comment on the increasing depth of the water.
‘Oh shit!’ came the not-so-nonchalant response.
Somewhere we’d hit an underwater rock. We were about half a mile out to sea and
Pop One Up
, as the ailing craft was called, was close to popping five pairs of clogs. Baling with our shoes proved useless. With five of us on board and nothing to bale with, the weight was increasing by the minute as the sea washed around our knees. Step forward M. D. K. Read with a master plan. It occurred to me that the boat contained one lifebelt and one non-swimmer. Would it not make sense to put the two together? I donned the lifebelt, jumped overboard and tried to pull the boat towards
terra firma
. The Highwaymen had a number one back in the day about Michael rowing the boat ashore, but I don’t recall anyone on our craft using the US group’s tagline of ‘Hallelujah’. Over the side I went, rope in hand and lifebelt around my chest. I might not be able to actually swim, but I reasoned that if the lifebelt kept me afloat, I could do something through sheer strength. Gradually, gradually the boat nosed towards the shore. After what seemed like hours (they always use that line in books, but in this case it was no exaggeration) I felt sand and rocks beneath my feet, enabling me to get some purchase at least. The boat and four crew were getting heavier and heavier and I could feel the rope cutting into me. Peter also helpfully pointed out that there was hardly an ideal place to land anyway on this section of coast, even if we made it. It was true. Jagged rocks dotted the shoreline. Then he spotted what appeared to be a tiny sliver of beach. I’m not certain my sense of direction was up
to much by then. I felt like Geoff Capes pulling one of those 20-ton trucks with his teeth. This was strength-sapping stuff.