“Gizza job!” 1970

 

“Gizza job!” 1970

'Major' thinking 'you here again?'

I was working in the C.W. Mills, been there for getting on four years. It was six months since me and Sue had finished and I was feeling in a rut. I was twenty years old feeling like I was going nowhere. One of my pals, Robert ‘Ralph’ Ralston had left the C.W. the previous October and gone to Liverpool to start life anew. He too had grown tired of life in the Tubeworks and decided to bite the bullet and move on. Though I didn’t fancy going that far, as the weeks went by in the New Year I was feeling more and more desperate to get out and move on too.

With the dawning of spring thoughts turned to working on a building site. Out in the fresh air, shirt off in the sun. Away from the claustrophobia of the Mills. Construction of the Crown Building in the Town Centre might have been near completion but I enquired if they wanted any labourers all the same. 'No' was the answer.  'Bollocks to you then' I thought. 

Talking about this to Ted Foster, my buddy at work, he was of the same mind and a couple of weeks later, the two of us handed in our notice after being told we could start work on a Wimpey building site on the Earlstrees industrial estate. Elation was immense. 

I had taken a lot of stick off my parents about jacking in the 'Works' but holy shit, did they expect me to stay there for the rest of my days? Writing myself off at 20? I needed to get out and see what was happening around the world - and what a rude awakening it was! 

First of all the job with Wimpey went down the pan. Turning up full of anticipation about what we would be doing, driving dumper trucks, helping brickies, digging holes or whatever else they did on a building site, the Irish ganger who had given us the green light a week before, looked at us as if we were aliens! Didn't remember us! Dismissed us with a wave of his hand; "those jobs have gone!" Well is this what it was like in the building industry?

It was the beginning of a merry-go-round of jobs. Shanks and McEwan was next. There was an article in the Evening Telegraph telling of Shanks getting the contract to dismantle the overhead iron ore buckets that went to the steelworks from quarries as far a field as Desborough and Rothwell. Why we thought we would be given a job on this or one of their building sites I don't know. Instead we were plummeted right back into the steelworks doing shit jobs; tarmacking an area next to the BOS plant, which had replaced the defunct Bessemer Plant. Next day inside the BOS plant concreting a platform. You couldn't imagine worse conditions. Thick dust and acrid yellow smoke belching everywhere was the norm! On the third day of this adventure we were in the Rolling Mills, resplendent in grubby overalls, wearing waders and a helmet to shovel shite from a gully way underneath the massive rolls into a bucket which was hauled up by your mate by a piece of rope. 'What the fuck am I doing here?' did cross my mind. When an Irish, yes another one, ganger brought us all together at the end of the day to inform us; 'more good news' I awaited with baited breath. "We're working 12 hour nights next week in the Blast Furnaces, knocking out bricks!" Irish said excitedly. That was it. Off I went to see Shanks' labour officer to ask for a transfer. He looked at me astonished, laughed and told me I had no chance. 'OK’ I said, ‘if that’s the case you can keep your job, I’m off” and I went home.

Mam gave me more stick. "What are you going to do now?" she said with a hint of exasperation. My brother Alan who was landlord of the Open Hearth pub came to the rescue by telling me to work more hours part-time behind the bar. Which led to me getting a start as a chippies' mate on a water tower that was being built on the Corby to Kettering road. A regular in the bar, Neil McNab, a carpenter, fixed me up. Great stuff, until I discovered I was working at around 40 feet in the air, prancing about on scaffolding and hanging over the side of the central section with one arm whilst Neil pushed bolts through shuttering to which I was supposed to screw nuts onto. My legs turned to jelly just thinking about it. Health and Safety? Neil sensed I wasn't comfortable or ecstatic and we switched jobs in the afternoon. The ironic thing about this was, having spent all day crapping myself pissing about on planks up in the sky, when I came down at the end of the day, I slipped on the dregs of a bloody teapot that had been thrown out of the hut and fell over, catching my hip on a sodding oil drum! I wasn't happy.

Traipsing home I passed another building site by the Phoenix pub and on a whim, nipped in to see if there were anything going. To my delight I was told I could start next day so I returned back to the Water Tower to tell the gaffer, a miserable cockney bloke with a bad attitude, I was finishing. He wasn't happy. He paid me, grudgingly out of his wallet, a fiver. Thank you I said, and walked off. 

Firman's were the contractors on the Phoenix site, a Peterborough company made up of guys from surrounding small towns and villages, all lacking the 'Corby' sense of style and humour. Another miserable shower in other words, led by a ganger called Charlie Harper. This guy was legendary as a bad ass! He took an instant dislike to me. Thought I was a reprobate I reckon. Then again he probably thought the same about all the Corby guys on the site. Never talked without scowling, face like a smacked arse, Harper was always sneaking around looking for layabouts resting behind piles of bricks or down a trench. 

I was put to work with a couple of pipe layers, right funny characters they were too. One was an old Irish feller called Hughie who once the Phoenix opened its' doors at half ten, was away. 'Tell Harper if he's looking for me, I've gone to the shops to get some fag papers'. I wouldn't see Hughie again until half two when the pub closed! I'd be hiding down the trenches, peeping up now and again to keep an eye open for Harper. I'd go home for dinner and come back, still no sign of Hughie. When he did return, stinking of ale, he'd spend most of the time rolling his fags and cracking jokes, Harper couldn't stand him. Hughie cracked me up. How the hell we managed to lay pipes I'll never know. We didn't lay many, I remember that. Harper did manage to get Hughie moved to another site near the Welfare Club in Occupation Road. Within days I heard he'd been given the boot. They couldn't keep him out of the Club!

The highlight of my time with Firman's came when I was gazing mesmerised watching two bricklayers building a wall. I felt I had to congratulate them on doing a great job for some reason. Then I stepped over it, and knocked the bloody thing down with my knee! I couldn't believe it, and neither could the brickies. Called me all the useless pricks, you name it, under the sun. I did feel a prick I have to admit. 

The crunch on the 'Phoenix' job came when I was assigned by Harper to help a Geordie lorry driver unload a stack of gable ends. The Geordie had me in stitches as he argued and took the piss out of Harper. I thought it was hilarious, brilliant. He was intent on taking his time, it was a lovely sunny afternoon and he took advantage to do some sun bathing, shirt off and lying down on the back of his lorry. Well there wasn't much else I could do, so I joined him. This was the life I thought. Harper was grimacing and growling under his breath. "Tell him to fuck off Clive" the Geordie shouted to me. I laughed out loud. What a hoot. Harper didn't know how to handle guys like this. Probably thought he would end up with a sore face if he wasn't careful. I was willing Geordie to stiffen him.

Next day, Harper came prowling, looking for prey. Somehow I knew he was looking for me. When he did, he sacked me. I didn't care. 'Fuck you!'

Around this time on another site, the Lincoln estate, news filtered through that a Kettering bloke had been sacked and took a dumper truck to get home. Sheer class. Well, being only ten minutes from home instead of eight miles, I didn't need a dumper.

Mam was by the sink when I came home; "What you doing here?" she asked with a disbelieving look on her face. "I've had the sack..." Cue more earache. I'm convinced she was thinking I was a waste of time!I was quite pleased actually. I was planning on hitching it to Liverpool next day with my mate Wilf to see a European Fairs Cup game against Ferencvaros of Hungary. Until Alan showed his face again. Alan called in every day at mam's looking for a bite to eat and a cuppa. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"He's had the sack" mam fired in before I could open my mouth.

"What? Now what are you going to do?"

"Well I'm off to Liverpool tomorrow for starters" I said, "I'll look for another job when I get back".

He looked at me just like mam had, not quite with despair but disbelief. "Right" he said, and went into the hall where the phone was. I heard him rabbiting away. This sounded ominous.

"I've just had a word with the manager at the Lancs (Lancashire Steel Plant in the steelworks); you've to go down this afternoon for an interview. And if he asks when you can start, you say tomorrow!"

Fucking hell. Alan had spent 15 years in the Lancs before going into the pub trade in 1967. He had a good name down there it seems. I was dreading being asked the fateful question, I even had the feeling that Alan had already told him I would start tomorrow!

Why I didn't tell Alan to fuck off I don't know. Well I do really. He'd have battered me!

So the trip to Liverpool went up the spout, the Reds got beat 1-0 anyway as it happens and I trudged miserably down to the Lancashire Steel plant next morning.

I was welcomed almost as if I was an escaped prisoner. The boss, who's name was Braybrook, had a gleam in his eye. "Ah, so you're Alan's brother" He looked at me with relish, as if he was going to give me some goddamed boring job that would do my head in. And he did. Bottom of the rung I was passed around for the next few weeks working with all sorts of characters, doing nothing in particular. Another boss, Harry James, his name sticks in my head because he shared a name with an old band leader from the 30s or something, asked me every week if I would mind doing a backshift or nightshift the following week. Christ, that's the last thing I wanted to do. I had told them at the outset and repeated it all the time that what I wanted was a constant day job. Think I was getting on their tits in the end. I wasn't quite living up to Alan's reputation. That's all I heard; 'How's Alan?' 'Alan was a good worker'.. I couldn't escape him! Everybody wanted to know about Alan! 

Eventually my luck held out. Harry James asked me if I was still after a day job. "You know I am” I said. "Right, come with me". Relief at having the weekly routine of 'what job I would be on next week' over and done with came with a mixed feeling when I was told the guy who's job I was taking had just had a heart attack and had been doing the dirtiest and smelliest job in the whole plant! 

What a title too. Bog Ore Assistant! What the fuck was that. Well it was a job of cleaning gas tanks out. One a day. Two levels in a big 20 foot square tank, each covered with six inches of peat, which had to be shovelled into the back of a lorry and then fresh peat spread around to replace it. Thing was, you only had an hour and a half to do it as apparently the peat would eventually ignite after being exposed to the air. To do the job I was given a fireman's jacket and hat! No overalls. Had to supply them myself. Which was a joke. As if I was going to spend money on buying overalls. It soon became a cause of debate and argument. 

The charge hand Nobby Clark came and told us each day which tank we were cleaning. One particular morning I was hungover, had a headache and I was wearing a pair of white jeans. Hadn't really bothered to change from the night before. Clark came by, never much of a conversationalist, told us; 'number 12 today'. Sipping my coffee, I stopped him in his tracks; "got any overalls Nobby?" He turned around, amazement on his face with me sitting there looking as if I was going to a disco. 

"You supply your own overalls" he said with a look as if I'd asked him for a fiver.

"You should supply the overalls" I countered.

"What have you been wearing since you've been doing this job?"

"That's besides the point, would you do this crap job wearing white jeans?"

This was obviously beyond his comprehension. 

"That's your problem. Number 12 tank is the one to be done today" he said abruptly and went to walk off.

Cocky bastard I thought; "It's not my problem, it's your job to find me overalls!" I shouted at him.

This really fired him up. "You'll have to manage without overalls then!"

"No" I said, "if that's the case, you'll have to get someone else to do the job, I'm not doing that manky bloody job dressed like this!"  

Just then, with Clark looking totally exasperated, the foreman Ron Sismey came by, looking perplexed. "What's the matter?"

"I told him, I wasn't going to do the job today without any overalls".

Sismey looked at me, puzzlement written all over his face. Don't think he could believe my white jeans either. To be honest I've no idea why I was wearing them in this filthy hole either if truth be told. My head was still banging and I'm thinking; 'Don't need this bullshit'.

Sismey turned to Clark and told him; "find him some overalls"

Clark looked defeated. Fuck me, is that it? End of story? All this arguing with the charge hand and the foreman comes along, and sorts the problem out just like that. Sismey commanded my respect after that, nice bloke, no fuss, spoke pleasantly. Clark didn't have a clue.

I was working with a Scottish feller called Toner who sounded as if he'd just got off the bus from Glasgow. Couldn't resist taking the piss and talking broad Jock back to him. He looked at me one day and said; 'you're aff yer fuckin' heed'. 

It was a day job and I was happy, to a certain extent. The stench from the tanks when you took the lids off was unbearable. What a pong. It permeated everything you were wearing, embarrassing at first. We started at seven and sat on a wooden plank perched on a couple of bricks against a wall drinking tea and reading the papers until around half nine when we would make a start. The job took us up to eleven o'clock and that was it. Leaving four hours to kill! At first I walked around looking for people to have a chat with but invariably they would shy away, 'fuck me' they'd say holding their nose. It was that bad. I grew bored rapidly. One day I was walking around the perimeter of the plant, which was surrounded by a big steel slatted fence. This did feel like a prison camp! Suddenly, my eyes lit up. There was a slat missing in the fence. 'I'm sure I could slip through there' I thought, 'I'll give it a go tomorrow'.

This was brilliant and for the next few months I disappeared out of the Lancs and walked through the steelworks which took about half hour and then into the White Horse for a couple of pints and a game of darts! Magic. Splendid way to take your lunch. Until a manager stopped me one day...

"Can I have a word?" Oh no, I had a gut feeling what this was all about.

"You were seen going through that hole in the fence yesterday". Bollocks, some bastard has shopped me. Trying to stay composed, I asked him; "What hole?" all innocently.

"You know what hole!"

"No I don't" Bollocks again as I could see my pint in the White Horse being knocked on the head. You couldn't get out of the Lancs except past the Patrolman on the front gate. Realising I was going to admit fuck all, he let the matter drop with just a warning. And I went round the back of the building to check the fence. Bastard! They had filled the gap in.

Feeling downcast, news came that the Lancashire Steel plant was going to close in two months. That didn't bother me in the slightest but the next bit of news did. We were all getting transferred over to the Tubeworks! That meant three shifts again! God almighty, can't I escape from this place?

When the time came, in February 71’, I went along and started on dayshift in the EWSR. A month later, I was off again. Couldn’t stand it, pissing about putting tubes through a paint machine. Jesus H. Next stop was with the Fusiliers at McAlpines in Kettering. 

That’s another story.

My love life at this time was at a standstill until out of the blue my old mate Ralph got in touch to ask me if I fancied another blind date. He was beating Cilla Black by about 30 years at this game! It was Ralph who had fixed me and Sue up with a blind date in 1968. He had endured a pretty rough time since he had moved to Liverpool. Kicked out of his digs on Christmas Day because the landlady claimed he hadn't paid his rent. He was constantly shifting from digs to digs. He failed to get any work for months but vowed to prove everybody wrong and stuck at it. Then he met Colette. No doubt Col saved his life. Maybe she was thinking of doing the same for me! Colette's best friend Barbara was set up for me when I went to stay with Ralph in his latest digs in Sunbury Road. What a date and weekend it proved to be. 

I hitch-hiked it to Liverpool on  the Friday before the football season kicked off and planned to hitch it to Burnley next day for Liverpool's first game. Ralph's digs was just round the corner from Anfield. He was staying with a lovely couple, Gordon and Brenda. They had two little girls and welcomed me with great warmth. 

After getting settled in Ralph and I met his girl Colette and her friend Barbara in the Old Campfield pub just after seven. The place was heaving, an old guy was clanking away on an upright piano, smoke filled the air, and the chatter was relentless. The pub resembled something out of a cowboy movie. We joined the girls, was introduced and straight off, Barbara looked at Colette and screetched, laughing out loud; "Don't e' talk funny!" Fucking hell, thanks a mill, never made me feel a divvy!

We were sitting alongside each other on a bench seat so conversation was going to be hard enough, never mind about the din.

Every time I opened my mouth, Barbara yelled, "don't e talk funny!" pissing herself. It didn't help that Ralph and Colette thought it was hilarious too, creasing up every time! I began to feel inhibited and I could see that this was going to be a waste of time and resigned myself to seeing the night out.

After a while we headed off to the city, had a couple of drinks in a den called the Mona and then, best of all, to the Cavern. This was what I'd been excited about all day. Going to the Cavern. Where the Beatles and all the other Mersey bands played and started.

By this time, things had calmed down, it was obvious me and Barbara were not hitting it off and we made our way down into the basement cellar to see a band from Manchester on stage. It was just as I'd seen it in the music mags and papers. I felt as if I had arrived in a place of worship. Rows of wooden benches. Wow. The smell of sweat and stale atmosphere added something too.

Taking a pew, my joy evaporated. My arse was wet! What the hell? I stood up to inspect, and saw that some dirty get had spewed up all over the seat! And I had just sat in it. That completed a miserable night! Deflated I told Ralph I was going. 

"Where?" he asked astonished.

"Back to the digs" and I left the three of them there to carry on enjoying themselves. I wasn't that bothered, it was about half one by this time and I was up early next morning to head off up the East Lancs Road to Burnley, then making my way after the game to Nottingham by train for my niece Fiona's christening on the Sunday, before hitching it to Blackpool for the Monday night game with Liverpool. An interesting weekend it was. 

And an interesting year really!

Eric Haydock…views and memories of a Hollie

 

Clem is a great drummer, there was an elite back then, class drummers. Clem, Brian Bennett, Phil Seaman, Tony Meehan, Ginger Baker. They did sessions as well as play with bands. Not because they were cheap. The studios would call the guys in to get the job done quicker. The managements were signing everybody up at the time. All the bands were going down for a session and you had to get it done in the time that was allowed. They’d say there’s three bands in today, you’ve got to 1.30. The Hollies recorded in Studio 2 at EMI and I remember them saying to us ‘come on lads, the Beatles are in at two and they’ve got priority!’ Thing was, the bands wouldn’t be used to playing in a studio or recording. The singer might get it after a couple of takes, the bass and guitar might too but the drummer, that was a different thing. They couldn’t keep time, they would have to speed up and the producers would say, ‘we can’t have this, get Clem in, or Tony Meehan’, or whoever. That’s what happened with our first drummer Don Rathbone. It was the management who decided he should be replaced and Don went into that side of the business. Clem would come in and ask ‘what have you got?’ They’d say, ‘here, look at this, listen to this, the demo, and Clem would say, ‘right that looks ok’ and he’d get it done. Piece of piss! Then pick up his £12! Here, sign here, you had to sign everything at EMI. Clem would take his £12 and he’d be off, probably to another session at another studio. 

The Hollies never used session men after Bobby Elliott came in. Bob was a great drummer, bit flash, he’d swing his arms, crash the cymbals from below, twiddle the sticks, it was all show but Bob was great. It was all in his wrists. You never saw his arms move, unless he was putting on a show! Brian Bennett was the same, and Tony Meehan. Technicians.

I left school and didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do. I never learnt anything. I only learnt about stuff when I left! That was the secondary school education. If you failed the Eleven Plus you were fodder, thats’ all. I went
to a factory, got a job, I asked, ‘what do I do?’ they showed me, and that was it. No skills or anything. If you were on piece work you could earn a bit more. The turning point for me was when I went along with a mate to see The Shadows who were playing a gig at a theatre that’s long gone now in Stockport. As soon as the curtains opened, there they were. Meehan’s kit looked brilliant. And the three Strats of Jet, Hank and Bruce pointed up in the air, Fantastic! ‘That’s what I want to do!’ I said. ‘That’s the job I want!’ I couldn’t play the guitar, there was no musical knowledge in my family but I got a guitar and formed a band with some mates. Then a proper guitarist joined and I was relegated to the bass. That’s what happened back then. I’ve since asked loads of bass players over the years and they all say the same. ‘I was relegated to the bass too’. We are all failed guitarists! You were told, ‘just go boom boom’ thats all they wanted to hear, boom boom’. And you did.

I had a Fender Precision Bass to start with but preferred a Jazz bass guitar. I got Vox to make me a 2 x15 amp. Bass gear was so poor back then. Playing through an AC30 amp, by the end of the night the speakers were hanging out.

Jet Harris had an expensive six string bass, cost £199 which was a lot of money back then, you could buy a terrace house for £250. But Jet couldn’t cope with it and he switched to a Jaguar Bass and tuned it down. I bought a six string, it took six months to get here from California. They didn’t fly them here then, came by boat around the Cape Horn. When it arrived it didn’t have a case! I carried it around in a cardboard box for six months! Then I discovered that the new strings would cost £30 too, a hell of a lot of money back then. They weren’t mass produced and like many of us did, I boiled the strings in a pan to clean them up when they were getting dirty. You’d get another 100 miles out of them then.

First band I played with was Kirk Daniels and the Carpenters. I was getting fed up playing the usual stuff and said I like these harmony singers, two part harmonies. Thats why the Everly Brothers were unique. I was walking around an area of Manchester with my mate, we were Teddy Boys. He called himself Honey Bunny and I called myself Crash Craddock! We walked past this club and could hear this singing coming from the basement. I said ‘Who’s that?’ My mate said ‘its a record’. No it’s not I said. Then they finished singing, perfectly, together, in harmony. Not this crash bang wallop that bands did at the end of a song. We went to look and it was Graham Nash and Allan Clarke. I asked them if they fancied joining our band. ‘What do you play?’ they asked. I said well its the usual stuff, bit show band type of thing but we've got this singer who does Billy Fury, Elvis. But he doesn’t hit that high note, that magic top C. That falsetto that Nash had. Thats why you never get any Hollies tribute bands, they can’t get that top C note. You drop the keys and its not the same. Its nothing. They asked how much we were getting. I said a few bob but there’s plenty of work. 

Eric, Bip and Fido

First time we met the Stones was at the first Top of The Pops show. They had a barney with the Blue Jeans but it was more tongue in cheek. They were cocky, had a bit of an attitude but the lads from up here, up north, didn’t get too bothered about it. ‘They’re alright.. ’ they said, ‘they’re just pussycats’. It was an image Andrew Loog Oldham was trying to cultivate for them. He knew that musically they weren't that good. Bill Wyman recalled in his book, the first time the Stones played up north, at the Top Rank in Middlesbrough. They were making their mark, playing in London, ‘we were the new sensations’ Bill said, ‘then we played this gig in Middlesbrough. We had our gear all set up, guitars, AC30 amps, drums, mics, and this band came in. A Manchester band. One of the guitarists brought a sideboard in. ‘Whats that?” Bill asked. ‘Thats my amp’ he said. I asked ‘what do you mean?’ He opened the cabinets and there were two 8” speakers in them! Then he opened a drawer and there’s a little Linear amp in there! Then another guy came in with a Tea Chest. ‘Ive got a 15” in there he said to Bill. Toe rags they were Bill said! They went on before the Stones and tore the place up. Story goes that later, when they were back in London, Oldham told Mick Jagger ‘Mick, I was at the gig with the Manchester band and I tell you what, I’m not being funny but, Mick, you better to learn to dance! Quite frankly, for the rest of your life, you've got to dance your fucking arse off! Because you’ll never be able to sing like those lads! Never in your natural’ Brian Jones was a good leader but he had too many daggers in his back.

We did a tour with The Outlaws which featured Ritchie Blackmore. What a guitarist. Absolutely brilliant player. The Outlaws were backing Heinz. The tour with the Dave Clark Five was fun. They were everything I hated about the business. A manufactured band, put together because they were good looking, a good size and Dave Clark couldn’t play drums to save his life. I loathed them. it was a 18 week tour with them and The Kinks who had been booked on the bottom of the bill. The Dave Clark Five were the headliners. Within a couple of weeks ‘You Really Got Me’ was released and powered its way to the top of the charts. And the Kinks were getting bigger receptions and it became a resentment. We had been playing for years before the DC5, had more hits and they were going around like the BIG stars, aloof. Dave Davies hated them as much as I did. Dave was a wild man, different to his brother. Ray was more studious and serious. It came to a head at a theatre in Norwich when me and Dave decided we’d had enough of the DC5. ‘I’ll put an end to this lot” I said. We got some bolt cutters and cut their power cable, killing their act stone dead! As Graham Nash said in his book ‘Wild Tales’, ‘served the f——-s right!’ They never mixed with anyone on that tour, never joined in. They thought they were the fucking Beatles! The Kinks were great. They weren’t last on the bill for long. Mick Avory was a lovely guy, got on great with him, like brothers! During that tour they acquired a manager who for some reason decided they should have an image and told them to do a Shadows like goose step on stage! Well, when we saw them doing that we all fell about laughing! ‘Fuck me Ray’. ‘I know’ he said. “Fuck that manager off, get your red hunting jackets and stand up and rock!’ We were pissing ourselves. 

The songwriting in the Hollies was covered with the front three, Nash, Clarke and Tony Hicks. As you know, the bass player and drummer are always at the back. We never got any of the credits. Bobby Elliott said to me ‘you know Eric, we could have wrote fucking ‘My Way’ and it still it wouldn’t have made a B side!’

And it was me that started the band, which was finally acknowledged by Graham Nash during an interview we did in America. That was the first time we’d gone over to the States and when we arrived we discovered that our agent hadn’t sorted out visas for us! So we couldn’t work. It was frustrating to say the least and we were interviewed on the tele. ‘Who started the group’ the guy asked Graham. ‘That guy at the end of the line with the cowboy hat on his head’ pointing at me. ‘If it wasn’t for Eric we wouldn’t be here, we’d be working some other job’. 

We’d had a number of top ten hits, million sellers, toured incessantly, Europe, America, constantly on the road and yet we were skint! I couldn’t see how this was. We came back from a six week tour of the States and I went to see our management about getting some money for a house I wanted to buy in Hazelgrove. I had a mini at the time. When I went to the office in Tottenham, I saw a bright yellow E-Type Jaguar outside. This isn’t right I thought. ‘How much is the house’ he asked. ‘Two and a half grand” I said, three bedroomed house’. ’You’ll have to get a mortgage’ he said. ‘Where’s all the money we’ve been making?’ I asked him. ‘There isn’t any money’ he said, ‘There’s bills to pay, and don’t forget there’s five of you in the band’. I walked out. ‘Ive had enough’ I told the others. They thought I’d cool down  and get on with it but I couldn’t. They would work for nothing. I wouldn’t. Its a familiar and typical story of the music business though. One big fucking rip-off! There were some gigs and recording sessions to fulfill and they asked Jack Bruce to replace me but he turned it down. They got Bernie Calvert eventually. Lovely lad is Bernie but meantime I had a phone call from the Kinks management. It was a Friday night and they asked me if I would be interested in joining them to replace Pete Quaife who had his own issues. Must be something with us bass players! The Kinks had a gig in Southport. Anyway, I told them I had one gig to complete with the Hollies and I’d have to turn them down. As soon as I put the phone down, I thought to myself, ‘what the fuck have I done?’ I should have joined them. I got on great with them all, Mick, Ray and Dave. Their manager told me that for some reason I had a calming effect on the brothers who were always fighting and I’d be great for the band. Biggest regret of my life that was!

Allan Clarke was a funny individual, always seemed to have a chip on his shoulder. He never mixed with the fans, sign any autographs afterwards or anything. He’d be straight out after show. He had his problems. And he was in and out of the Hollies all the time later. When his mate Graham Nash quit the band, he took it very badly. He was devastated. They’d been friends since school. Clarkie’s wife then became very ill which obviously didn’t help. They went to America to live for a while, a care home type of environment in South Carolina. Plenty of sun, heat, but there was nothing to do but look out of the window all day long. They came back, Allan was drinking heavy, smoking. That’s what knackered his voice up in the end. His voice was shot and he had to pack in. Doesn’t keep in touch with anyone anymore. He was a great singer, it was a great shame.

When Nash left the Hollies, which was a year after I left, they were at the crossroads really. The songwriting which was shared between the front three had dried up. You get to the stage like in the studio, you’d be looking at each other for ideas, what can we do next? Graham was a prolific writer though and coming out with stuff like ‘Marakesh Express’, ‘Our House’. Which he later recorded with Crosby, Stills and Nash and achieved great success. When he took these songs to the boys in the Hollies they said ‘we don’t want to play all that hippy shit’. That’s what caused the split. We had become friends with the Mamas and the Papas when in the States and Graham had seen the way ahead for him. He took up with the fat girl, Mama Case…you had to be a brave man to take that on!..but that was Graham. If he could get a toe in, he’d do it! I still believe that if the Hollies had recorded Graham’s stuff it would have been them as the superstars, not Crosby, Stills and Nash but there you go. 

After I left the Hollies I put together another group, an eight-piece, Haydock’s Rockhouse, playing heavier rock stuff. We had a Hammond Organ, a horn section. I loved it, thought it was great but trouble was, it was too big. Too unwieldy, getting around gigs was a lot of hard work and the money was spread around eight of us, it was untenable really. The other thing was that when we played, people would be shouting for us to play the Hollies stuff! We couldn’t get away from it. Because they saw the name Haydock they thought they were going to get a Hollies show. Hank Marvin and Bruce Welch of the Shadows had a similar experience when they formed a trio with John Farrar to go in a new direction as a harmony group. You can’t get away from your past, the fans won’t accept it. Rockhouse was a great band though - we recorded a few things which are collectors items now! 

I spent four years in the High Courts battling over the rights to the name The Hollies. I put a group together and went out as Eric Haydock’s Hollies which attracted attention from the lawyers. Clarkie, Hicksy and the boys tried to stop me from using the name Hollies. We had toured Australia three times when they suddenly insisted we should be called Eric Haydock Ex Hollies. It caused a few arguments with promoters and what have you and in the end it went to court. Cost a fortune! We were going down really well in Australia, and the thing was, The Hollies didn’t go there, it was too far for them then, they couldn’t be bothered. Anyway, the only winners in these disputes are the lawyers. They love it. ‘Hey there’s someone down the road using your name! I’ll issue a writ against them.’ That’s another grand! It was finally settled and I won but the case cost me thousands. I remember the judge saying ‘I’m going on my holidays now, six weeks, can I say something? It amazes me, do you know something? I have to be frank about this. I love your music, think it’s great but you could have all settled this argument about the name over a pint of bitter in the pub across the road. See you boys!’ In other words, the lawyers are taking your trousers down and shafting you, just like the agents, making thousands out of you, you’re exploited right up to the hilt. That’s what they do.

Playing the Cavern, Liverpool was an experience I have to admit. It was a shit hole. It was always packed, crammed with youngsters, a great atmosphere. There was a vegetable market in Mathew Street above the Cavern and the walls would drip with sweat and the smell from above! Stank! Dressing room was tiny. Stage wasn’t much bigger. When you were packing your gear away at the end or next morning, there was urine and sick on the floor. Awful.

Ready Steady Go was a great gig. Every Friday night it was on. It was like having an afternoon off. Do your spot, miming. You didn’t get any satisfaction out of it though, it wasn’t like playing a ‘live’ gig. It was a good time though.

Meeting Kinks legend Mick Avory

Mick Avory was the drummer with the Kinks from 1964 - 1984. His self deprecating humour and laconic wit shone through during an interview at the Core Theatre, Corby in 2017.

‘First time I met Clem was at the Pye Studios when I was there with the Kinks. The producer Shel Talmy was using Clem and Bobby Graham in the studios. Later on I got to know him better when we used to play golf at the South Herts Golf Club.

It was only by accident I started playing drums. If my dad hadn’t bought me a drum kit I wouldn’t have thought of it. I used to go to senior scout meetings where they had a dart board and small snooker table there. They also played all the traditional jazz records and stuff there as well. I was told by older blokes that I shouldn’t have been there; ‘you’re supposed to be fifteen’, I was only thirteen but I lived in the same road as the bloke in the scouts who was forming a band. 

He had said to me, ‘come along if you want. The guy on the drums doesn’t want to play, it was only a drum on a chair and a scrubbing brush and stick or something, it was pretty crude. He also had a really good washboard player. So I did and quickly thought this is fun. We did the Lonnie Donegan and skiffle stuff. We didn’t have any transport and our gigs were local like at Cigarette Island in East Molesey and at Eel Pie Island. 

I had a job delivering stuff in a home maintenance store which lasted for over five years. Later, in 1962, I was working with a kid who’s dad was a chimney sweep, a drummer and also an accordion player. He came round my house one day to sweep the chimney, saw my drums and said to my mum; ‘ah, you’ve got a drummer in your house’. She said ‘yeah, my son’. He said; ‘well I can get him some gigs at functions and stuff if he’s interested.  So I played with him for a while. 

Then one day the father rang me and said he’d seen an advertisement in the Melody Maker about a some guys forming a rhythm and blues band and were seeking a drummer. ‘Why don't you go along’ he said, ‘they’ve got a gig at the Marquee and the bloke you want to speak to is Mick Jagger.’  So I said I’d go round and see what it was all about. ‘They’re all youngsters’ ‘dad’ said. ‘there’s no good me going round, I’m 62.’ So I went, and met Jagger and them at the Bricklayers Arms in Wardour Street. First of all, they wanted a drummer to do the gig but really they were looking for a permanent drummer.  

I said; ‘well I’ll do the gig but I’ve got a day job and I have to travel right across London so it was a bit of a drag for me. I told them I didn’t want to waste their time so go and get somebody else.’  And I never heard another dickey bird from them! But who knows what would have happened if I’d have took it on?

I was still living in Moseley Hill when I joined the Kinks. They were another rhythm and blues band back then. That was the fad around London, bands like the Yardbirds, Downliners Sect, Gary Farr and the T-Bones, Pretty Things. The Kinks suited my style, which was a jazzy blues sort of rhythm. The day after I joined the Kinks I was on Ready Steady Go! Then we got managers and I thought ‘this won’t last long’ but decided I’d go along with it. Ray and Dave Davies, and Pete Quaife were always playing around, acting gay, and I used to think regularly, ‘Ive had enough of this lot and I’ll be glad to get back to my girlfriend’. 

The infamous fight at Cardiff’s Capitol Theatre followed on from a fracas the night before; ‘I had a fight with Dave after an argument about something, can’t remember what it was but Dave was worse for wear on drink or drugs. He had a fiery nature, used to blow hot and cold and we quickly got into a scrap. It got broken up. I’d got him down and then as I let him up, he ran his tooth right across my face. He was so off his head he wanted more. I thought, fuck that, and a couple of the boys held him down, and I ran off down the stairs. Anyway, next night, as I counted a number in, he turned round and booted my drum kit, scattering them across the stage, I don't know how he didn’t break his leg. I only had the hi-hat left, and I picked it up and whacked him right over his head with it. He went down and I thought..I’ve got to get out of here.. so I  ran out of the theatre, went down the road and found a cafe where one of the Kinks roadies found me. I was all upset and worried. I asked him if Dave was alright. He said… ‘unfortunately..yes’.

I went home for awhile, I thought I’d killed Dave and the police were looking me and Clem played on the Kink Kontroversy album which was due for recording shortly after the Cardiff gig. We had to patch things up in the band though because we had an American tour coming up. The managers got me and Dave together and we talked about  the problem and if we wanted to carry on. So, we put our sensible heads on and we did go to America. Which was a disaster…but that’s another story!

Clem also stood in for me to play gigs with the Kinks periodically in the early days when I first joined the band. They all thought how loud he was. Even Dave, who was a loud guitarist at the time, complained; ‘Gor, ain’t he loud!’ 

My problem, to begin with was, I was a bit jazzy and as things got louder and louder, and with the drums not mic’d up, I couldn’t play loud enough. It was fucking ridiculous. My hands used to bleed!

The Kast Off Kinks, myself, John Dalton, Dave Clarke and Ian Gibbons have been going for 23 years. My favourite number is probably Victoria, not my favourite to play, its just a nice song. I do a comedy routine singing Dedicated Follower of Fashion. I come out from behind my drums carrying a bag like Roy Cropper in Coronation Street, with a fancy jacket in. Its part of the act, an idea Chip Hawkes of the Tremeloes came up with when we were working with them in Germany.  He said ‘do you think you can sing Dedicated Follower of Fashion? I said ‘well I’m not a fucking singer but I’ll give it a go. I haven’t got a high range but I don’t think there’s too much in that song’. I had the words written down and went through it, made a few bollockses here and there, but after a while I told them… yea I could do that. It seems to go down well with audiences for some reason.’

‘Last time I saw Clem was when we went to Belgium in 2014. I was with this lot, the Kast Off Kinks, playing with the Swinging Blue Jeans. We met Clem at the airport and had a great chat. He loves meeting the old guys, Pete Oakman, Alan Lovell and all them. We were also at the funeral of singer Danny Rivers when we said; ’who’s next to climb in the box?’ 

Mick; ‘I’m still enjoying playing, wouldn’t want to do it every week. We decided to cap the gigs at around 70 a year which is about a gig and a half a week. They are usually in blocks. if one comes up during the middle of time off its a pain. I prefer gigs around my home in Moseley Hill, Richmond, Barnes. And I usually play the 60s All Stars shows as well when they come up.’

‘I’ve done some interviews which have been sent to me through the post. I type them out, and always fuck them up! The computer never sends it or something else happens and I have to start all over again.’

‘I’ve had a lot of influences as I’ve gone along. In the Rock world in the 60s, Clem was an influence, as was Bobby Graham. I never took much off them though, you think well that’s quite a nice thing and you try to emulate them. 

Bobby Elliott of the Hollies is another one. He used to tell me off for nicking his licks. I said to him ‘I’m green to this business, I’ve got to start somewhere.’ We occasionally have a get together to play golf. Micky Burt who was with Cliff Bennett, and Chas and Dave is another who joins us, It’s like a drummer re-union. 

Brian Bennett was another influence. Brian’s done well writing film scores and jingles for television. He wrote the theme tune to the Golf show on television.He also co-wrote Cliff Richard’s hit Summer Holiday, adding an extra string to his bow.  It’s a good job he wasn’t in the Kinks though, he wouldn’t have got a look in even if he could write! 

It was great to be part of all the Kinks hits but when you look back you think some of it could have been better recorded, but it wasn’t the  best recording facilities at the time. Some of it was a bit flat, there wasn’t enough time to spend on it. Thats why they used session musicians though, ain’t it?  So they could get the job done quick time.’

Growing up in the 60s...and the Tubeworks..

 So, it was June 1st 1966, and time to start work in earnest, in the C.W.Mills. With some apprehension I turned up for the 7-3 dayshift wondering what was in store for me. To my surprise, who was there but my mate Robert Nicol. It was great to see a familiar face. First memory I have though is of entering the C.W. (Continuous Weld) Mills and nearly crapping myself. The noise, steam, rancid air, dirt, overhead cranes flying back and forth with two and a half ton loads of tubes swinging back and forth like a hammock. Christ what is this place! The noise was deafening. I felt like running back home.

The first week was spent under the beady eye of foreman Jack Lynch, another crusty Jock, what did I expect? His sidekick Martin, forget his first name, was even worse. He treated us like we were reprobates on basic training in the army. Forever lurking around trying to catch us drinking tea or reading the paper instead of sawing the end off mountains of rejected tubes. Designed to bore us rigid! Martin proved to be a right miserable prick. Probably suffering a complex because he wasn’t smart enough to be a foreman. 

Alongside the saws was the ‘frazing' machine. Never did understand what the ‘frazing’ bit was supposed to mean. Basically it was a set of chains that you rolled tubes onto when they emerged out of the steam and mist of the cooling racks. The ‘frazing’ I suppose was a term describing the cutters tidying up each end of the tube. Easy enough if interminably boring. Jesus it was mind numbing. But. Silver lining to every cloud.. you shared the duty with your pals and worked an hour on and an hour off. The ‘Number One’ mill produced tubes of a quarter an inch and three eighths of an inch diameter, of varying weight. Took a bit of getting used to, and getting your hands burnt on the hot tubes was a regular hazard. As was the shrapnel flying out of the cutters and into the top of your glove. What a bastard that was!! God forbid if a piece fired into your eye.

Promotion in the mills was working your way along the frazing machines of the four mills which were alongside the railway wagons which were used for scrap metal running parallel to the Central Roadway. This separated the mills from the C.W. Detail department. Moving on to the cooling racks was the next step up and then jobs at the back end of the furnaces followed. On cold days, or nights, when the doors of the C.W. were open, the onrushing air would freeze your balls off.

My time on the frazing machines are memorable for a number of reasons. Not all great. First of all was nearly getting my head knocked off by a slinger on the number one mill. His job was to tie steel slings around a skip of tubes for the crane driver to take away, using sign language and signals. ‘Our’ slinger was a big guy called Tom Smith, a 50 odd year old Glaswegian. He had the misnomer of a nickname, ‘Dainty’. Sitting on a plank of wood set on a couple of bricks, with four other lads adjacent to where Dainty was going about his work, two decided to take the piss, Bobby Milne and Gavin Vint, or Squint as he was called. 

Sitting alongside these as Dainty was signalling to the crane driver, Taff Roberts, Bobby and Squint started heckling and when the crane took the tubes away, Dainty turned round and asked who the fuck was doing the shouting. He looked serious. Nobody answered. I made the mistake of shifting my ass from one cheek to the other, which with hindsight wasn't the brightest thing to do. He obviously thought I was going to confront him, and next thing, his fist slammed right into my face, right on the nose. My head was knocked back against the wall, blood pouring from my splattered nose, stars were circling. The lads took me off to the wash house to get cleaned up. Talk about a rude awakening to the ‘big outside world’ as our old schoolmaster Syd Owen had warned us about! Dainty did later apologise but word apparently went around the mills and he was probably fearing I would report him and he’d get the sack. Guys from the back end of the mills came to see if I was ok and to tell me it was out of character for big Dainty. He needn’t have worried. There was no way I was going to go crying to the foreman or manager that the big oaf had flattened me. Someone later asked me why I didn’t hit him back. I was 16, nine stone or something dripping wet, my nose had been splattered, I was seeing stars, and truth was, I didn’t feel like getting another belt on the nose! An early lesson it was. You’re not at school now.

Another lasting memory was when I was on the number two mill frazing machine, working with two inch tubes. Easier to handle but the shrapnel spitting out were even bigger! 

I was on nightshift when the slinger on this mill, a Welshman, Ernie Leaker, asked me as I was heading off to the canteen for my hour’s break, to get him some cigarettes out of the vending machine. When I entered the canteen, a group of lads were playing cards and I joined in. The hour flew by and of course, Ernie’s cigarettes had gone completely out of my mind. He was waiting for me on my return, gasping for a fag and was raging when I told him I’d forgot! When he calmed down he gave me another job to do, telling me to nip down to the Detail where the tea urns were, to fill up his billy can. And he gave me money for milk from the vending machines alongside. As luck would have it, I got talking with a pal down there, filled Ernie’s can up with hot water and then my mind went blank. What was it Ernie wanted? I stood there looking at the vending machines trying to remember, and bought him a packet of biscuits! Handing over his billy can he asked me where the milk was. ‘Milk?’ I said. I gave him the biscuits. Ernie went off his head, called me every effin’ thing, you name it. And stormed off to do the job himself, leaving me feeling gormless and.. well hopeless! I was never that bright on nightshift!

Conquering Snowdon

 

2014

“Got everything?” I asked Danny. I had been looking forward to this trip ever since my old Post Office buddy had sorted it and informed me whilst I was walking over that bridge in Teignmouth a month or so back. Taking my car, I picked him up and he came out of his house with four bags, plus a bag full of food. “Marie has packed us a load of sandwiches, biscuits, chocolate bars and a flask of coffee” Dan said. We were only going for two nights but this didn't really surprise me. Danny likes to be organised! Or to be more precise, Marie likes Dan to be organised! I’d sussed that out after we'd been on a couple of bike rides earlier in the summer. Puncture outfit, rain mac, bottles of water, sweets, pump, an ordnance survey map! We were only going to Stanion three miles away. And I have to say, we had one of our famous arguments, over which way to go whilst studying the said map over a pint in the Green Dragon at Brigstock. We ended up carrying our bikes over a ploughed field! Anyway, much to Danny’s surprise, or he would say, not, all I've got for the trip to North Wales is a couple of bottles of Lucozade and a change of clothes. Travel light that's me.

Danny is one of those blokes you often find yourself shaking your head at. We’d set off and half an hour later as we are belting along the A14 he exclaims; “Oh no! I've forgotten my shoes!”
Unbelievable. “Well it's too late to turn back now”, he tells me he's got a pair of sandals and a pair of trainers - and 'they'll have to do'. Too true.

Thing is, ever since we planned this trip to climb up Mount Snowdon he's been advising and warning me; “You've got to get yourself a proper pair of walking boots”. Which I did. Mind you this is normal for Dan. Having known him for so long, worked with him for years at the Post Office and been drinking buddies for years, I'm well aware of his idiosyncrasies. The guy cracks me up.

With all day to get to Llanberis which is the town at the bottom of Snowdon we took our time, had a short stop at a roadside cafe on the M54 where we had our picnic and then rolled into Llangollen for a longer break and to take the opportunity to explore this idyllic town just over the border from England. I called in here once a few years ago and was telling Dan what I remembered about it, the river, steam railway, beautiful little place and saying that it would be a good place for him and Marie to visit. He agreed. They like traipsing around the countryside and walking over hills and discovering new towns.

The River Dee flows right through Llangollen and this stretch is perfect for rafting, rocks and rapids making it a terrific course for enthusiasts. As luck would have it, we were having a pint overlooking the river from a pub balcony when two rafts came bobbling down. First one with about eight people on board made light work of it, weaving through with great style. The second raft was having problems, became stuck on some rocks just up stream. “This looks interesting” I said to Dan.

They managed to free themselves and then lo and behold, became wedged between two big boulders right below us as we stood over them enjoying our beer. They struggled to get free and then next second, they were off again and the raft tipped right over, dumping all the occupants into the fast flowing river. Before we could do or say anything, the rafters bobbed up from under the water and were swept along in the current right under the road bridge and away. Amazing. Great fun! We really thought they were up the creek for a moment! It did look a scary moment though and I have to admit, there was no way I was going to dive in to help. Can’t bloody swim anyway so I wouldn't have been much cop.

After the excitement and drama we set off for our next pit stop which was Betsy Co-ed, just a short distance from our destination. My cellphone had gone tits up, the screen was blank and I couldn't open the damn thing. Taking the opportunity for another coffee out of Dan's flask, another cheese roll and a biscuit I asked the girls at the reception desk of the hotel we had parked in, if they had the wit to open up a mobile phone. It was subsequently passed around the boys in the kitchen and then with the help of a knife we managed to prise the thing open so I could re-set my sim card. What a performance though.

We finally arrived at the Glyn Afon Hotel in Llanberis just before tea time, sorted our rooms out and then went for something to eat and a pint and to discuss the plan for the next day’s adventure on climbing up this mountain that was dominating the skyline. And the more I looked at it, the more I thought, Jesus, bollocks to this! These thoughts weren't helped by a number of people casting doubt over our intentions. Nobody appeared to believe we could make it to the top and back again! Ye of little faith I thought whilst thinking they could be right!

Now I'm not one of these people that think 'right, I'll bloody show you'. Couldn't give a toss what people think actually. Doubts had been sewn and I was trying to figure an alternative way of dealing with this!
Get the train up! Yes, that would be easier and settle for walking down. Trouble was, we couldn't be sure of getting a ticket for the train. We would have to wait and see.

We then went in search of a pub or hotel to see if we could find one with Sky Sports; we were hoping they might have the England v Uruguay World Cup match on. The Royal Victoria Hotel looked a very grand place, was busy, there was a television on the wall, but no football match. Weighing things up, Danny took the bull by the horns and to the astonishment of the locals surrounding the bar, asked the barman loudly; “Excuse me, you not putting the England game on?” The response was probably expected up here in North Wales!

“What? England?” Many stopped drinking and looked at the two of us. The barman then made Dan’s jaw drop; “Get out! your barred!”
Well I could see the twinkle in his eye, he was only taking the piss. Danny looked at me in disbelief. “You must know what the Welsh are like Dan” I said, trying not to laugh. He wouldn’t forget it.

The television station was duly switched on and we sat down in front of the television to enjoy the match best we could. The only ones in there that wanted England to win!

Next door a Welsh choir was rehearsing which was distracting, good as they were. But to our dismay, during a break in their warbling, most of the choir came through to the bar, carrying their beer with them. The door was right by where we were sitting watching the football.

They saw us sitting there, eyes glued to the match, glanced up at the television, saw that Uruguay were beating England, and promptly all started laughing and smiling like Cheshire Cats!
Danny looked at them dumbfounded; “Twisted bloody lot the Welsh, what’s the matter with them?” he moaned. I loved it. Funny as hell I thought! 

After the game, which England lost 2-1 to the delight of our hosts, we retreated to our own hotel for a more peaceful drink. A quiet Guest House on the road out of Llanberris, the Glyn Afon was ideally situated for sightseeing and very comfortable. Danny had picked a good one, and surprisingly, the people here were very nice, even if they did appear to ignore us and talk in Welsh. Danny thought they were ignorant. I told him that as far as I was aware, everyone up here in North Wales talked in their native tongue, particularly around these parts. He was having none of it. “They hear us speaking in English and deliberately communicate in Welsh so we don’t have a clue what they are saying. They’re probably talking about us!”

Didn’t bother me in the slightest but Dan was wound up about it!

One thing that was pleasant was the congeniality of the two young barmaids. Polite, efficient, friendly, everything that the barmaid in our local, The Rock, back home in Corby wasn’t! I’ll spare her name but she was slow, unattractive, disinterested, bottom line, she was a waste of space! Thankfully the Landlord, Big Gordon realised this too and soon jettisoned her! Well, to be served by two young attractive women who really enjoy their work, talk to you in English, laugh at Danny’s jokes...the contrast couldn’t have been any more different!

We made an early start to tackle Snowdon, still unsure whether to walk up the mountain and get the train back or the other way round. I had a great view of Snowdon from my room and the more I looked at it the more doubtful I felt about achieving our goal! 

Discussing this as we set off we had only gone around fifty yards before we started moaning. A road we were crossing suddenly assumed rush hour proportions! Four, five, six cars..seven...“Christ Almighty! were these cars waiting for us to come out of the hotel? Where the hell have they come from!” It was only a small village yet suddenly it looked like it was on a major thoroughfare through the heart of Wales! Must have stood there for over five minutes.

“You couldn’t make it up!” I said to Dan. He agreed.
To be honest, as soon as we realised we’d only just left our hotel and we were moaning like hell, we both started laughing!

We made our way to the station at the base of the mountain, the train was warming up to make the ascent and we looked at each other and said “bollocks to it”. The ticket cost £27 which seemed a bit much but as the train took an hour to to get to the top of Snowdon it did appear to be the right option, £27 or not. Surprising too. A single coach, single track. At times I wondered if it was going to make it as it groaned away. This was the best way to discover Snowdon I figured! Great scenery, breathtaking. Had to be the best option and surely easier to walk down rather than up and there was no way I could have managed doing both. We were lucky that it was a lovely warm day as well, heaven knows what it must be like if the weather was grim.

The train eventually arrived at the summit, and we were pleasantly surprised to find a cafe and a shop here as well. We both bought a couple of souvenirs, a mug, postcard, cup of coffee, had a photo taken. There was still a short way to go and it looked a bit hairy, having to climb around twenty steps on the side of the mountain to get to the pinnacle. You don’t realise how high you are till you reach this point. The valleys below seemed miles away. We asked a girl who appeared from nowhere to take a couple of photos of us having a breather. Felt real good.

The walk back down was harder than expected, a good five and half mile trek. If we were feeling the heat we were to be constantly amazed by hikers coming the other way. Younger than us Ok but to be carrying a baby on their back? Older people marching up the mountain past us? They must be on steroids was all we could conclude! Even someone striding past walking their dog! There was me and Dan stumbling down, having to sit and rest our legs, have a swig of water. We were knackered!
It was fun though following the train track as best we could. At least by doing that we knew we were going in the right direction! Three hours it took us!

The weather was kind all the same, too hot to be truthful and we took regular pitstops. One at an enterprising cafe around half way up which again, was somewhat surprising. I mean how do they get their wares up here? Obviously by the train I assumed. There wasn't much on offer, you couldn’t get steak and chips for instance, or a chicken curry. A ham sandwich was arguably the best snack along with a Mars Bar. Plus a cup of tea which was welcome.

A rest at the hotel to recuperate was required after our trek before going out to celebrate our achievement. This last night was also spent admiring the landscape of Llanberis. Really is a lovely little place with lakes and mountains all around.

Heading back home next day it was agreed that while we were in North Wales we might as well go and take in the village with the longest name in Great Britain, if not the world,Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. There’s a knack in learning how to say this and I’ve tried a couple of times but its too much of a tongue twister for me!

Situated on the Menai Straits, Anglesey it was only a twenty minute drive or thereabouts from Llanberis. Most definitely a tourist attraction and if for no other reason it’s well worth a visit just to have your photograph taken alongside the ridiculously long name. That accomplished we headed for home through the Welsh countryside and back to Corby, sidetracking briefly for a beer somewhere near Telford. Memorable also for Dan buying a crap CD by an apparently local country and western singer off a market stall. Which he insisted on playing in the car. Bloody rubbish it was, and Dan did admit ‘it a waste of a fiver!’

The Boys Are Back In Town.

 

The 1966 Rising Sons

The Boys Are Back In Town

No, not Thin Lizzy, but the Rising Sons, back after 56 years. Pete Buckby, Jim Gaffney, John Hemmings and Dewi Toleman will be rolling back the years and strutting their stuff this coming Saturday at The Corby Cons Club on April 23rd. Also appearing will be Dewi’s sister Ros, who nowadays resides in Swindon, as guest vocalist. Dewi returned to these shores last week from Australia where he has been for over 50 years. John lives Bedford way and Jim in Wimbledon. Pete, after a career touring the world latterly with the famed Canned Rock, returned to his roots in Corby some 30 years ago and can often be found, along with his wife Sue, sharing a Coca Cola in The Cons lounge. Dewi’s return to Blighty was the inspiration for the band, who in their prime, supported Otis Redding no less, to get together for probably one final swan song. Promises to be a great night full of nostalgia and the chance to meet old friends. A limited amount of tickets are still available at £5 each with the proceeds going to Lakelands Hospice and the ‘Charity Pot’, an organisation raising money to provide defibrillators for every club and pub in the town. Make sure you ‘Baby Boomers’ don’t miss out on this one off treat as The Sons recall their halcyon days playing many numbers from their set list from way back which included hits from The Hollies, Beatles, Beach Boys, Impressions, Dusty Springfield. And to cap it all, the Cons have a wide range and great selection of ales and wine. What more could you ask for? Apart from chicken or scampi in the basket, which went out of vogue when I was still a smile in my old man’s wotsits.. no, not really, but you get my drift.

See you all there!

Rising Sons

September 1966, The Rising Sons share the bill with Memphis legend Otis.

A night of nostalgia is beckoning with the long anticipated reunion of The Rising Sons at the Corby Cons Club on April 23rd. Not the Ry Cooder, Taj Mahal California based version of the band, but the Corby based quartet of Pete Buckby, Dewi Toleman, John Hemmings and Jim Gaffney along with special guest Ros Menham.  As it happens, both versions of the Sons operated around the same period of the mid 1960s and, ironically enough, both are having reunions in 2022. Ry and Taj getting together for the first time in 57 years to record an album, ‘Get On Board: The Songs Of Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee’, and Pete and the boys reuniting after the same time span to relive and revive their memories from when they were a regular support act around the country to such stars of the day like Otis Redding, The Yardbirds and The Hollies. 

Whilst Ry Cooders’ Rising Sons were a blues based outfit as reflected by their tribute to Brownie McGhee and Sonny Terry, Corby’s Rising Sons were a harmony and soul group, one of the best, their career only cut short when members left to go to university. Belonging to the second wave of Corby Rock, they had followed the successful careers of the likes of the Size Seven, The Crusaders and The Midnighters, leaving an indelible mark on the local scene and far afield. 

For those who thronged to the dances and venues back in those halcyon days of the 1960s, the Festival Hall, Crow’s Nest, Nellie’s Bin, The Welfare, this night at the Cons Club in Cottingham Road on April 23rd will be one of pure unadulterated nostalgia. Tickets are priced at £5 with all proceeds going to the fund of the Lakelands Hospice and also the ‘Charity Pot’, an organisation raising money to provide defibrillators for every club and pub in the town.