Vietnam

Vietnam

March 1st. St David’s Day. Inevitably thoughts go with my family. My long gone parents. My granddaughter Polly in Sweden who’s 6 today. My brother Jim who’s 84. One end of the scale altogether. The Welsh don’t go overboard with the celebration of their patron saint, not like the hysterics that accompany the Irish and St Patrick’s Day but when it comes around I always think of my folk. 

Ive landed in Hanoi, 17 hours after leaving Heathrow for this Vietnam adventure. Its half eleven in the morning, the heat is more than welcome after the cold of the winter at home. The Trailfinders guide Zing, not the correct spelling but near enough, is standing in the Arrivals lounge of the airport. Emerging from the exit of the customs a throng of people stand holding placards with names on. They look like a herd of manic football fans. Seeking some form of recognition there amongst them was Zing. Holding a placard with my name on it. Like magic. A welcome sight. Its a funny sort of feeling, similar to waiting for your suitcase to emerge from the dark tunnel of the baggage hall. Don’t know why I always feel surprised when it turns up after a long haul flight with a break and connection in between. ‘Your baggage will go straight through sir’ I was assured at Heathrow. I had a two hour break at Dubai to contemplate, rest and recharge for the second 7 hour leg of the journey. Tiresome but if you want to visit far off places there’s no other way, and Ive long come to terms with it. Zing takes me to the taxi and off we go. On the way Zing outlines the agenda and itinerary for the next couple of days, starting tomorrow. I’m weary but listening. Can’t wait to get started but thankfully the afternoon is time for me to catch up with some zzzz, settle in at the Silk Path Hotel, situated in the ‘old quarter’ Zing informs me. 

Zing

I estimated I’d been up for 36 hours at this point, I was exhausted. An early night was on the cards, a nap, a shower, some fresh clothes and I decided on a stroll around the immediate vicinity of the Silk Path to get some sort of bearing and also some food. My first impression of Hanoi, like so many others I guess, was the mayhem that ensued on the streets. ‘There’s over 6 million scooters in Hanoi’ Zing had informed me. Unbelievable! Thus the quality of air was far from acceptable. Pollution hung like a cloud over the city. Crossing the road i discovered was taking your life in your hands. No control, no right of way, take your chance. Like trying to make your way through a swarm of bees, car and hooter horns blaring incessantly, scooters cutting everyone up, from all angles. I would become amazed at the mania and the fact that all the time i was going to spend in Vietnam over the next two weeks, I wouldn’t witness one outbreak of road rage! Back on the roads in Britain there’d be carnage, murder. Something to admire I figured.

One thing I was looking forward to on this holiday was the food. Vietnamese food. The flavours are something to behold. So after walking around for an hour I found a restaurant/ cafe not far from the hotel. A local beer, ‘Hydra’ and a meal of stewed chicken and ginger was ordered. I have to admit, I wasn’t sure what to order, couldn’t figure the menu out, I was too knackered to concentrate. But, I was confident the Vietnamese cuisine wouldn’t let me down. It did. The chicken was awful. ‘Must have been a pensioner of a chicken’ I thought to myself. Tough as old boots. I struggled through it, enjoyed the accompanying salad, drank my beer up and went off to my bed. I went out like a light.

Zing and his driver Hung turned up prompt. The humidity was high, not helped by the fumes emanating from the million scooters which permeated the air. You can understand the use of face masks around here. What was amazing, amusing, bewildering, was the way that everyone over here sees the scooter as a mode of transport akin to a van. Every second or third  scooter had three, four people on board. Children clinging on as they skirted their way through the chaos of the road. Scooters with sacks, bags, boxes, trees, even a full blown fridge freezer tied on the back! Anything was strapped on one way or another. Amidst the maelstrom was the occasional rickshaw, women carrying their wares over their shoulders, cars and taxis tooting their horns, scooters responding likewise. Standing looking out of the foyer while I awaited for Zing and Hung, I thought ‘this place is mad’. A Scottish couple Billy and Rachel from ‘near Loch Lomond’ swapped tales and their thoughts with me. They too thought the place was crazy.

Off we headed for the first port of call, the mausoleum of Ho Chi Minh, the father of Vietnam. Ho, referred to as Uncle Ho rather than Dad in these parts is revered everywhere you go. The leader of the North Vietnamese who enlisted the Chinese and the Russians to help in the cause for reunification of the north and south, to fight against the colonisation of the French and then America, is deified. Ho lies in state in the mausoleum at Hanoi. “Do you know’ Zing enlightened me, ‘there are only three leaders in the world who have had their bodies embalmed and lie in state?’ Well I didn’t and couldn’t have told him but apparently its Ho Chi Minh, Lenin and Chairman Mao. ‘All communist leaders’. When we arrived there was already a queue three blocks long. We joined the queue. ‘This is the best time to come’ Zing informed me. ‘The queues in the afternoon can stretch for over three kilometres’. Well, it must be worth it I figured. The queue moved slowly, police and guards with their armoury ushering everyone in line, stone faced. Eventually we were there, an ordinary looking square building. Filing through, past the prostate figure of Ho we moved, never stopping, you’re not allowed to dwell, take photographs. Exiting the hall, the queue still stretched beyond as far as the naked eye could see. Makes you wonder. People come and stand in line to pay homage, stand in the heat, which was 37o this day, as the procession gently continues. And being a westerner, I couldn’t help but think, ‘why?’ Vietnam is a Buddhist country, religion is high on the list of priorities, you have to respect that. 

Outside after visiting Uncle Ho

Moving on, next stop was a wooden stilted house where Ho lived. He preferred to live an ordinary lifestyle rather than inhabit huge grandiose palaces. You can view his bedroom, living room, kitchen, library. Set in an impressive garden with lakes it is modest but impressive. Ho saw his days out here, passing away in 1969 aged 79. ‘Remarkable’ says Zing, ‘he smoked all his life, yet still lived till 79’. When the average lifespan for the Vietnamese was ten or more years less. 

Visits to a temple or two followed, I couldn’t keep up, marvellous buildings that they are, impressive artefacts belonging to various emperors and Zing, and Hung, full of admiration and keen to show me more were somewhat surprised when I asked politely if, instead of visiting another temple, could I visit the Hanoi Prison? 

We had strolled around the Trúc Bạch Lake in Hanoi, which is a bit of a misnomer, it’s more like a sea, but no, Zing assured me it was a lake. ‘It’s where the American pilot and future senator, John McCain was recovered from after bailing out of his doomed jet, shot down by a missile in 1967’.

‘McCain fractured both arms and a leg when he ejected from the aircraft and nearly drowned after he parachuted into the Lake. Some North Vietnamese pulled him ashore, then others crushed his shoulder with a rifle butt and bayoneted him. He was then transported to Hanoi's main Hỏa Lò Prison, nicknamed the Hanoi Hilton.

Although seriously wounded and injured, his captors refused to treat him. They beat and interrogated him to get information, and he was given medical care only when the North Vietnamese discovered that his father was an admiral. His status as a prisoner of war made the front pages of major American newspapers.

McCain spent six weeks in the hospital, where he received marginal care. He had lost 50 pounds, was in a chest cast, and his gray hair had turned white. McCain was sent to a different camp on the outskirts of Hanoi In December 1967, placed in a cell with two other Americans who did not expect him to live more than a week. In March 1968, McCain was placed into solitary confinement, where he remained for two years.’ - Wikipedia

The facade of the Hilton remains intact, the grounds at the rear of the jail have been redeveloped but the cells and dormitories, for want of a better description, remain. For authenticity life-size figurines chained and locked together in rows give an indication of the hell it once was. Built to accomodate French prisoners during the Indo China war it is a harrowing sight. And the guillotine in a separate room is a reminder of the fate beholden of those who didn’t oblige by the rules. For all the macabre resonance of the place, it is still nonetheless fascinating. But, by all accounts, during the Vietnam War, Americans were treated with civility, which still doesn’t give the impression it was a place of leisure, a two star hotel. Definitely not a great experience. And not one John McCain would agree with either I suspect.

Finishing proceedings off today, Zing and Hung took me to a theatre, all this was the agenda, to watch a ‘Water Puppet Show’. Have to confess I wasn’t that bothered, I was feeling knackered but nonetheless I persevered. Not my cup of tea, the show lasted around half hour, the puppets emerging from behind a curtain telling the story of ‘national history’, dancing and swishing around in water while a combo provided background music and song, which was more to my liking. 

Now that the official itinerary stuff had ended I had time to roam around and discover how the Hanoians lived, the conditions, the poverty. Claustrophobic, the ‘old quarter’ is as far removed from the civilised world we live in back home in Blighty. 


I came across a railway station where people walked aimlessly along the tracks, no barriers or health and safety here. If a train comes along, you take a step back while it goes through. The station was nearby an imposing gate, entrance, to an official looking building, which turned out to be the Ministry of Defence. Two soldiers were on guard. Taking the opportunity to take a picture, they chased me away. Not before I got a snap though. 

I meandered around the oppressive streets looking for a clue for a direction to my hotel. Disorientated though not flustered, I always figure you’ll get there eventually, I moreorless stumbled across the Silk Path and headed for the bar. A nice meal and a couple of beers, ‘Hydra’, some cabaret from a couple of young girls playing interesting instruments and to my surprise a rendition of Elvis’ ‘Its Now Or Never’, I retired to catch up with some much needed rest. Jet Leg was kicking in.

How Long Bay? Or Halong Bay!

Next leg of the tour takes us to Halong Bay situated in the Gulf of Tonkin. Which is where the American destroyer USS Maddox was reputedly attacked by North Vietnamese Navy Torpedo  Boats. True or not, it gave President Johnson the excuse to step up America’s involvement in South East Asia in 1964. This was going to be one of the highlights of my trip which included an overnight stay on the cruise ship Victory Star. 

Fairly early start was called for and up early I awaited Zing and Hung whilst taking in the mayhem again on the road outside. It’s really funny. You wait wondering what is going to turn up next. Hung arrives and away we go. I’m settled in the back seat of the taxi and five hundred yards or so down the road, Hung pulls up. ‘Oh, he must have forgotten something’ I ponder. A conversation, slightly agitated, ensues between Hung and Zing and next thing, Hung is opening up the boot, getting my case and bag out, depositing them on the side of the road, uttering something that sounded apologetic as he opened my door, gets back in and drives off! Confused and Zing looking as bewildered as me, Zing explains he said something that Hung took umbrage to. Hung apparently told him he doesn’t need the money, get someone else and he’s got more things to worry about..etc. Well, there’s nothing I can do. Zing apologised, told me he’d book another taxi, not to worry, ‘let’s go and get a coffee’ and promised we’d make the departure time for the cruise I was booked on at Halong Bay which was around 12.30. Well I wasn’t worried, take these things in your stride as you do. Nowt you can do about these blips! We did seem to await an age for another taxi to arrive so meantime I took advantage and snapped a few more scenes of the bedlam occurring on the road. And even better, a train coming through across the road alongside a row of terraced houses where just five minutes previously I’d checked out and found people walking along the railway line, sitting on the track, women hanging washing out, barely two feet from the railway. You just can’t help but smile, laugh and imagine how this would go down back home! As someone said; ‘Health and Safety would shut the whole country down!’

After a delay of getting on for 45 minutes, the second taxi duly arrives and the driver introduces himself, ‘Good morning’ he said with a huge smile, that’s one thing I’ve noticed, everyone appears to be happy over here. “I’m Hub’. Well, again, that tickles me. Love the names! 

The drive takes over three hours, a good opportunity to take in the views of the countryside, the rice fields, various trees and plants which are indigenous of South East Asia and particularly what most people associate with in Vietnam. Images of ‘Apocalypse Now’ and ‘The Deer Hunter’ are conjured up.

Deposited on the quayside, Zing and Hub disappear for the night and I sign in for a short boat ride to the ‘mother’ boat, the Victory Star out in the bay. I was looking forward to this, the boat was quite large, my room more than adequate, dining room and bar sufficient, tidy. So, it was time to chill, a nice cold beer and relax on the upper deck to enjoy the cruise. The photographs you see in the brochures must have been taken around here I surmised, huge rocks jutting out of the sea, all around. Reminded me of the James Bond film, ‘Man With the Golden Gun’ think it was. Magical. Lunch was being served around 5pm giving you time to acquaint yourself with the boat, other guests. One I met was a lady from Birmingham, on her own, she’d even been to Corby which was amazing. ‘I appeared in an athletics meeting there’ she said. There you go, always someone you come across isn’t there? We shared a few conversations which was pleasant. She was finishing off her holiday in Cambodia it happens.

Lunch was mainly a concoction of fish, shrimps, squid, catfish. Lovely, if you like fish. If you don’t you’re stumped! I do.  

We headed on out into the Gulf, a fish farm was our destination. Now I remember an episode with one of these in Thailand. Trying to climb a ladder from a makeshift raft, which was made of oil drums strung together on a few pallets. I ended up clinging for my life, feet on the raft and my arms outstretched hanging onto the ladder steadfast. No way was I going to let go! Panic from above and somehow with the help of my family I scrambled up to safety. Shaken and stirred! To paraphrase Mr Bond.

This fish farm was reached by a rowing boat, six in a boat and a young lady with one of those funny hats on, can’t remember what you call them, rowing for all her might. The water was calm and we were out for around an hour as the lady rowed us around villages of fisheries, in the middle of nowhere, sort of sight you don’t see at home thats for sure. Unless there’s something similar I don’t know about off the coast of Hunstanton.

Twilight was coming in as we made our way back to ‘mother’. Dinner was served at half seven so that gave us time to freshen up, read, change. Sea Bass was on the menu, salads, bean sprouts, and of course, the staple diet of rice. As the evening wore on, many went up on the top deck, drinking bottles of Tiger, quietly speaking amongst themselves in groups. I had a nice chat with Miss Birmingham before heading back to the bar. Surprisingly, everyone seemed to be heading for their bunks, they did mostly look older than me but I can’t say I saw any cups of Ovaltine doing the rounds. I perched myself on a barstool, had a great chat with the barman and polished the night off with a large Grand Marnier. Perfect.

Next morning it was a slow cruise back to base where Zing and Hub were waiting to take me on a four drive to Hanoi Airport for the flight to Hue. On the way we stopped a couple of times, once for a wander around what Zing described as ‘Vegetable Fields’. I soon gathered he meant what we call Allotments. It was interesting to see different plants and the rice and lemongrass being grown in rows that on first sight just looked like overgrown grass. The smell gave it away though. Love the smell of lemongrass. Farmers and villagers rely on their products produced in these fields. When you consider the lowest paid workers in Vietnam are on £180 a month, you can see why. 

We also stopped at an oyster farm to see how the workers, young girls, extract pearls from the shells and how necklaces, rings and whatever are made. Never seen that before, quite amazing really. Delicate. 

One more stop to the airport was at an outlet where you could buy anything from a dress, mug, pen, picture to a cup of coffee. Could have spent a fortune in here and I did buy some more gifts. I was still trying to get used to the money and exchange rate. When you are charged a million Dong for a picture you stop and think about it. Then realise it’s only about £28!

Travelling around you soon realise everyone is always trying to sell you something. And I’m a sucker. Three days in and I’d already filled my suitcase up with presents for the kids!

The flight to Hue was only an hour. I’d bade farewell to my companions Zing and Hub. Had a photograph taken with both, one which was amusing with Hub clinging on to me as if he didn’t want me to go. At Hue I was meeting up with Ying and his driver Long. Lovely guys, lovely welcome you get over here. The flight gave time to reflect on the way it was going so far. Although temples, pagodas and tombs were on the list once more at Hue, I was more interested in the war museums and history of the Vietnam War, and informed Ying so. Hue was a prime target for the Americans and they did their best to destroy it. I was wanting to see some evidence but of course the war ended in 1975 and chances are that over 40 years later, much has been restored, rebuilt. 

My hotel, The Alba Spa, was down a back alley of a street, thats the best I can describe it. Leading up to the main thoroughfare, a good quarter of a mile away, you walked past an array of houses, shops? The locals sitting around smoking, selling fruit, vegetables, meat, coffee, perched on tiny chairs and tables, inviting you in to their shack or to purchase a pineapple or a bunch of bananas. And of course, the street was like a highway with the scooters, cycles and cars tearing up and down. My thoughts were interrupted when a scooter pulled alongside and the chap, a young guy, asked me if I was looking for a lady. ‘No’ I told him, ‘I’m looking for something to eat’. “I can get you a nice young lady for two dollars’. ‘Really?’ I replied without breaking step. ‘Yes, I can bring her to your hotel’. ‘No thanks” I replied again. ‘What about a ladyboy?’ Christ almighty. Do I look like a prick or something? Desperate? ‘Bog off’ I said, ‘I’m going for something to eat’. Well, funny episode it was, it reminded me of Bangkok and I guess its alright if that’s what your after. I was more interested in a plate of soup! As they would say back home. Must be an age thing. The bars were crowded, music blasting your eardrums, rubbish music at that. Same everywhere, drum and bass monotony, youngsters screaming, having fun I suppose. Coupled with the humidity, it was knackering. I settled for a meal in a bar which was quiet, enjoyed my noodle soup and headed back to the Alba Spa Hotel for a beer and a Grand Marnier to finish off. 

Tomorrow was going to be busy again. I was looking forward to visiting the war museum and Citadel. Less so, another temple but I was prepared to go with the flow!

Argentine bound

February 14th 2017

Found it hard to sleep too well with the thought of being roused at 3am by the alarm clock. I had a long day ahead of me, three flight changes to encounter in a 15 hour journey. Jeff had kindly offered to take me to Cape Town Airport at this ungodly hour and I was surprised to find Jeff downstairs before me, reading his laptop. I’d had a fantastic time during my two week stay in South Africa, Jeff and Naomi had looked after me unbelievably, as had the boys Dillon and Rufus, who had also very kindly given up his room for me. Now it was time to continue my trek across the southern hemisphere to South America. 

The roads were empty, as you would expect in the middle of the night but we made the airport in plenty of time. I bade Jeff farewell, thanked him for everything and hoped we ‘d catch up later in the year back home. 

The first leg was a flight to Johannesburg for a connecting flight to Sao Paulo, Brazil. Problems weren’t anticipated.  But you can never assume anything….at 4am in the morning you don’t need any perturbation. Checking in, the girl behind the desk didn’t recognise my flight number! Explanations that I had booked everything through the international company Trailfinders and that all should be straightforward fell on deaf ears. Growing a tad anxious, it was eventually discovered that South African Airlines had changed the flight number and that I could proceed! Well, thank you! That was a good start, just as I was beginning to think I might have to call Jeff back!

The nine and a half hour flight to Brazil was good. The plane was half empty which enabled me to sprawl out over two seats and pass the time reading, listening to my iPod, watching a film, eating etc. My mindset, having spent nine hours on a train from Memphis to New Orleans six months previously was that this flight wouldn’t be a problem at all. The flight was smooth and it was interesting when we reached the southern continent of America and flying over Sao Paulo, my first glimpse of Brazil from a few thousand feet, it looked very enticing and I made a mental note for the future. Rio and Paulo could be an idea for a holiday sometime.

If I was daydreaming and thinking how wonderful life was, reality brought me back to the present when I disembarked and sought out my connection to Buenos Aires. Turned into very near a nightmare!

Sao Paulo is a huge airport on three levels, and I visited each one, two or three times, getting nowhere fast. Nobody it appeared, spoke English. Nobody could understand what I was asking for even when I showed them documents stating I was looking for the Argentine Airlines Check-Out. 

‘Up the elevator’ I was told, in Spanish, ‘no, wrong area, down the elevator’ the woman at the enquiries desk informed me. Trailing my suitcase behind me, I walked back and for, up and down stairs, up and down lifts, to all three levels, getting more frustrated by the minute. Eyes peeled, there was never a sign anywhere indicating where the Argentine Airline was situated. I began to wonder if I was in the right airport! Or was it a conspiracy, i know Brazil and Argentina are great rivals in virtually everything but had relations dropped to such a level that they didn’t want to acknowledge each other at all?

Exasperated, tired and bothered walking around like a headless chicken, and time passing by, relief came unexpectedly when I spied an official looking young bloke leaning against a wall. He looked as if he was wanting something useful to do, had a handful of documents in his hand, I approached him with some weariness. Showing him my flight docs and asking if he could point me in the right direction I was pleasantly surprised when he answered me in my native tongue. 

‘Yes, you’re on the wrong floor’, then, ‘come, I’ll take you there’. Well that was a very nice gesture, what a nice young chap this guy was. I had the feeling, as we made our way about two miles away from where I had been hanging about, it did seem two miles! This guy had seen me wandering back and for aimlessly for the last half hour or so. He took me directly to the Argentine Check out, even jumped the queue to explain to the desk girl, which drew some dodgy glances from others in line but what the hell. I was past caring about minor things like that. Boarding pass in hand, this young chap even took me to my departure gate and wished me well. Sometimes you do think, people can be so nice. I wished I could have thanked him more for his help, bought him a drink or something, but he walked on and left me feeling humble. Whoever you were kind fellow, you restored some faith in humanity for me!

The final leg of my journey was a two and a half hour flight on what I could only describe as Argentina’s answer to Ryanair. Aerolineas Airlines don’t have a great track record, I was later to learn. The plane was rather decrepit, like a crate compared to what I’d flown on to get this far, crammed. People coming on board with suitcases that were ridiculous, stretching credibility to the limit. Surely they should have gone in the hold? So bad, the flight was delayed while these cretins jostled and farted around trying to store these things in the overhead compartments. Didn’t need this. 

The flight was bumpy, turbulence quite bad but by now I was past caring. Never bothered me much anyway. I’ve long accepted that if the plane goes down there’s sod all you can do about it, so why worry and get stressed about it?

We arrived at the airport Buenos Aires has delegated for ‘internal’ flights, that is from neighbouring South American countries. Made little difference to me, I was too knackered to take this snippet of useless information in. 

Finally passed through Passport Control and retrieving my luggage I took a minute to take in the fact that at long last I had arrived and was actually standing in a place way on the other side of the world. Seemed like a million miles away from Corby, but very exciting. A taxi to my destination, the Hotel Crillon was another half hour passed and first impression was, that it didn’t look that brilliant!

Looks can be deceiving though and in fact it was very comfortable, people very nice, welcoming. 

Settled in, the heat was quite intense, humidity was high, I dragged myself across to a bar on the corner opposite the Crillon. Busy, the bartender was very polite and smiling, obviously enjoyed his job I figured, I sat outside on a table to relax and watch the bustle that was all around me. I was in the centre of the city, right next to a park, on one of the main streets apparently. 

Enjoyed the time chilling with a very acceptable pint of cool Patagonia beer and it was time to get some zzzz. And to look forward to the week ahead of me, discovering the delights of Buenos Aires and a three day trip to Montevideo, Uruguay to boot. Very satisfying. I slept well.

HIGHWAY 61 REVISITED

HIGHWAY 61 REVISITED

Echo Arena, Liverpool May 8th 2017

Bob Dylan, walked on stage, played his set, walked off, nearly two laters later, and never uttered a word. Now, Dylanologists will know that since the 1960s this is par for the course. Bob never went into the show-biz baloney of ‘Hello Wembley..’ Everybody havin’ a good time?’ etc etc

Part of the mystique surrounding Dylan is his embracement of non conformity. It’s been a long time since Greenwich Village, Newport, Isle of Wight in which Bob has morphed and crossed musical borders many times.

1981

Last time I saw him was 1981 in Birmingham, touring on the back of his spiritual albums ‘Slow train Coming’, ‘Shot Of Love and ‘Saved’. Some of the material may have been a surprise but the band and his performance was still up there. At the Echo Arena, it could be that many in the packed audience may have been disappointed. The show started well with ‘Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright’ from ‘Freewheelin’, the crowd responding with all the enthusiasm of old. “We love you Bob!” a voice rang out which was almost an intentional reminisce of the cry of “Judas’ at the Manchester Free Trade Hall in ’66. It brought loud cheers and laughter. Bob remained unmoved. Tonight’s set was a ramble through some of his 2000s albums which many, if they would admit, had never heard of. ‘Duquesne Whistle’, ‘Scarlet Town’, ‘Early Roman Kings’ from 2012’s ‘Tempest were well received. Interspersed was the rapturously received ‘Highway 61’ and ‘Desolation Row’, bemusing arrangements of ‘Tangled Up In Blue’ from 1974’s ‘Blood On The Tracks’ and the anthem for Civil Rights ‘Blowin’ In The Wind’. It was obvious that the crowd were restless, many came expecting to see the Dylan of old, guitar and harmonica strung around his neck, speaking pearls of wisdom, songs of protest… frequent trips to the bar was witnessed all night, irritating it was as rows of people were constantly asked to let some ignoramus by, carrying a tray full of pints. Dylan is now in his middle 70’s, been 60 years on the road, stockpiled a massive catalogue of songs. He sits down for most of the night behind his piano, the electric five piece band driving him along, until he steps out from behind the shadows, takes a stance like Gene Vincent of old, right leg straight and stiff behind him…and sings a selection from a recent album release called ‘Triplicate’ - his take on the Great American Songbook. And to be honest..it was crap. No Bob, you’re not Sinatra or Bennett, leave it out. Nobody wants to hear it. They want to hear the stuff that you’re known for, not only the 60s and 70s albums but from ‘Infidels’ ‘Modern Times’ ‘No Mercy’ ‘Slow Train Coming’. Wouldn’t be Dylan though if he conformed, or did the expected. I mean, can you imagine Dylan entering the stage and yelling out Tina Turner style ‘Hi everybody!! I said HYYYY Everybody!!!”

As if to remind everybody that he was still the Dylan of old and not drifting off into middle age or indeed old age cabaret, he came back for the encore and brought everybody to their feet with ‘Ballad Of A Thin Man’, arguably the highlight of the night. Whatever you think of Dylan, he still has a presence of the icon we all know, one of the greatest 20th century poets and artists. Who knows if he will return. If he leaves it another five years or so, Zimmerman might just be walking on stage with a Zimmer frame! Don’t think I would like to see that.

1961 The Year Telstar Launched The Tornados

1961 The Year Telstar Launched The Tornados 

The world was tense as the so called 'cold war' continued to worsen with the Soviet Union exploding a Hydrogen bomb during testing in the Arctic Ocean north of Russia, and then masterminding the building of the Berlin Wall, the 'Iron Curtain', separating East from West Berlin. America responded by sending a battle group to Germany and Americans and Russians glared at each other across the border. The escalation of the threat of nuclear war was very real; many Americans built backyard fallout shelters. Many in Britain followed suit. Gerry Breen of Corby even went so far as to write a letter to the Home Secretary Rab Butler to enquire about the possibility of a grant to build a shelter in his back garden in Kingsthorpe Avenue. 

The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament went into overdrive with marches on U.S. air bases and a march from Studfall Green to the Town Centre in Corby.

America also caused anxiety when financing anti-Castro Cubans for an invasion at the Bay of Pigs in April which was an unmitigated disaster, less than three months after John F. Kennedy assumed the presidency in the United States. The CIA-trained forces of Cuban exiles invaded southern Cuba in an attempt to overthrow the Cuban government of Fidel Castro but were defeated by Eastern Bloc trained and equipped Cuban armed forces.

The same month Russia took a giant step into space by launching Yuri Gagarin, aboard the Vostok spacecraft into the stratosphere, the first man to go into the unknown. America reacted by getting their first astronaut off the launch pad, Alan Shepard. Whilst the Soviets rejoiced in their success, Gargarin completing an orbit of the Earth, Shepards’ efforts were mocked as he returned after just 15 minutes in his ship Freedom 7.

The space race was now off and running in earnest, capturing the imagination of people in the music industry. The first British instrumental record to top America’s Billboard charts was Telstar by The Tornados, a catchy instrumental named after the newly launched communications satellite. A group in Sweden called The Spotniks, which I guess is Swedish for Sputnik, (Russia's satellite), had a minor hit with Have Nagila. A group in Corby called themselves The Astronauts, but unfortunately, never took off.

The music industry was in a state of comatose with the rock 'n' roll fever now long since dissipated and a jazz boom re-emerging. We were all awaiting the next big thing, whatever that was going to be. Nobody would have known that a band making its debut in a dank and dirty cellar in Liverpool called The Beatles would become the music industry's saviour. But that was still two years away.

The Melody Maker were optimistic when claiming that the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, Elvis Presley was at long last getting ready to come over to Britain for a long awaited show, even committing their front page to an exclusive. Its Now Or Never some pessimists opined. Well they were right. Elvis never did make it to Britain, even if some people did claim to see him in a chip shop in Chelmsford. 

Meantime, the 'package tour' continued to provide entertainment and a rare opportunity for pop fans to see their heroes in the flesh. A traveling conglomerate of acts traveled around the country and called in at various Granada cinemas, including Kettering. Topping the bill on November 7th was Billy Fury, a regular visitor to the charts with a string of hits such as Halfway to Paradise and A Thousand Stars. The supporting acts included Eden Kane, Joe Brown and the Bruvvers, Tommy Bruce, The Allisons, The Viscounts, The Karl Denver Trio, Georgie Fame and Peter Jay and the Jaywalkers. Tickets were 7/6 5/6 3/6.

The following night’s edition of the Evening Telegraph had the reporter asking; 'Were the girls in your office or factory complaining of sore throats this morning? Did they sound a little hoarse? If so they were probably among the 1500 teenage girls at the Granada. They nearly raised the roof off.' The ET hack then gave his own personal reflection by stating; 'Fury turned in a far more polished performance than the last time he was at the Granada, but he has a long way to go before he catches up with Adam Faith, Cliff Richard or Tommy Steele. I can’t visualise him topping the bill at the London Palladium. Eden Kane’s the same. Seems to lack personality that would make him a great entertainer. The Viscounts did better on the scream zone, equally as did Tommy Bruce. Though you’d have to ask the teenagers why. Sex appeal alone seems to be the answer. It can’t be his voice or personality. Joe Brown was a lot better though he does appear to have stolen some of his act off of Tommy Steele. Best voice of the night was undoubtedly that of Karl Denver. The Allisons were disappointing; their act was mediocre in both content and presentation.'

It’s easy to say with hindsight but it was no surprise that The Beatles would cause such a sensation when they finally arrived in 1963.

Billy Fury backed by the Tornados

Tottenham Hotspur made history by becoming the first team of the century to win the elusive 'double', the league championship and F.A.Cup. Stepping out at Wembley in the Leicester City team to face the Spurs was Corby born full back Len Chalmers. Playing out their dreams on Studfall Green on Cup Final morning, the ten-a-side group of youngsters were having a 'half time' break and discussing the afternoon's prospects for Leicester when Ian 'Bomber' Wilson told of a premonition he had. For a number of years the Cup Final had been jinxed with a serious injury to one of the participants, broken legs, a broken neck. Ian said that Chalmers would be this years' victim. Bip 'Billy Whizz' Wetherell, Stan 'Snowball' Watkinson, John 'Crutch' Crawley and the rest of the boys laughed. "I'm telling you" said the clairvoyant Bomber. And sure enough, Len suffered a bad injury following a clash with Spurs' winger Terry Dyson as early as the 15th minute. In the days before substitutes, poor Len became the unwelcome 'passenger on the wing'. Spurs took advantage and won the Cup, and the Double, by defeating Leicester 2-1. 

Other highlights from 1961 was the abolition of the farthing coin after eight centuries. With it ceasing to be legal tender, you could no longer go into a sweet shop and ask for eight blackjacks or bellboys! The First electric toothbrush was produced by a company called Squibb and George Blake, a 'super spy' was imprisoned for 42 years after being exposed as a Double Agent, working for MI6 and the Soviet Union.

Out of Time - 1966 Part One

                                                           

One of the saddest occasions in Corby's history occurred in the Spring, the axe finally falling on the town's Railway Station to bring an end to nearly one hundred years of rail transport. Last ditch efforts by the local MP, Sir Geoffrey De Freitas to convince his companions in the House of Commons that Corby should retain its’ connections with Thomas the Tank were all in vain. The closure assumed almost bereavement proportions with train buffs who had remained ever hopeful that Dr. Beeching’s verdict in 1963 that the station wasn’t a viable proposition would be proved wrong and overturned. Alas, it wasn’t to be and the old village would never again hear the lonesome whistle of the midnight express whizzing past the steelworks to Edinburgh Waverly, or the clattering of the ‘Gretton Grannie’ as it chugged along from Kettering to Oakham every afternoon. Never again would it bear witness to hundreds of screaming school kids being shunted off to the East Coast on a ‘Seaside Special’. Posters promising sunny times at ‘Scintillating Skegness’, ‘Marvellous Mablethorpe’ and ‘Captivating Cromer’ were consigned to the dustbin along with dusty old timetables and red fire buckets. The lingering stench of burnt and damp wood engraved into the walls of the platform waiting rooms, that clung to the nostrils as an eternal memory of the ‘steam age’, was all that enthusiasts would retain as a souvenir. It was the end of the line. Train spotter John Sandy spoke for all as he watched the last Multiple Unit pull out of Corby Station from the Cottingham Road bridge, “It’s enough to make a glass eye weep.”   

Catching the Last Train To San Fernando out of Corby this year was Carl Shirley, manager of the Strathclyde Hotel, doubtless having had enough of ‘a pint of heavy pal!’ during his tenure between February and December, Joe Nuttridge, Entertainment’s Manager of the Civic Centre, whose enthusiasm must have been stretched to the limit with the apathy received for his efforts, and Harold Sturgess, manager of the Town Centre Record Rendezvous shop and erstwhile local entrepreneur to boot. Harold, who combined his business interests with his dabble into pop management, guiding the Size Seven, Ray and Ann Brett and lately, new solo singer Gidian, into the heady world of show biz, insisted he would be able to continue to mastermind the careers of the said artists from his new home of Teignmouth in Devon, despite his intention of concentrating on his new venture of sea fishing. “I don’t foresee any problems, it’s only a few hours down the road” he said, counting his worms in preparation for an attack on the shark population of Torbay.

Also embarking on a new adventure was schoolteacher and jazzmaster Keith Diggle of Corby Grammar School. Keith had come to prominence with the inauguration of the Grammar School Jazz Club and attracting such eminent performers as Ronnie Scott, Tubby Hayes and Stan Tracey to the town. His latest promotion was the return of American singer Mark Murphy for the much maligned Civic Centre in March. Keith had decided to take up an offer to become full time director and business manager of the Midland Sinfonia Orchestra, which was based in Nottingham, teaming up again with old friend Neville Dilkes who had trodden the same path to become the Sinfonia’s conductor back in 62’.

Last but not least of the celebrities departing for pastures new was athletics ace, Olympic runner Bill McKim, moving to Stafford with a scathing attack on the lack of facilities he was leaving behind. Few could argue. For years the only tracks athletes had for their use was the West Glebe Park and the old ‘dusty’, a cycle path which ran parallel with the railway line at the bottom of Pen Green Lane and was a shortcut to the Gretton Brook Road. These were both used by the Corby Boy’s School as Cross Country circuits and had plenty of scope for the less interested to dodge behind bushes and scrubland for a quick fag.

Not heading for San Fernando but whom many wished he would, was the manager of the Corby Bowl, Norman Littlehales. Norman extracted the wrath of many when he announced in January that a charge of 3/6d was to be introduced in an effort to deter the non playing public from using the bowl’s facilities solely as a venue for a ‘coffee, smoke and a chat’. “This is essentially a Ten Pin Bowling Centre - not a snack bar!” he whined.

John Sandy, keen bowler and member of the crack Railroaders team agreed with the entrance fee as a deterrent against the tea and coffee brigade, “You get your money back if you’re playing for starters, so there’s no problem there, and these people with nothing else better to do than mingling with the balls and spilling their Nescafe and fag ash everywhere, have been getting a nuisance, Norman had the balls to do it and good show, I say.”

The 'Football Special' heading for Plymouth

Ten Pin Bowling had really taken off in the town, dozens of teams competed against each other every week, the results and leagues becoming essential reading in the weekly newspaper. The ‘Steelmen’ of Corby Town F.C. were hogging the back pages in January though when they were tackling the might of the ‘Pilgrims’ of Plymouth Argyll in the F.A. Cup Third Round in Devon. The tie caught the imagination of the town and thousands trekked south for the weekend, by car, bus, plane and even a ‘Football Special’, which gave many the last opportunity to sample the delights of an excursion from the Corby Railway Station. The weekend turned out to be exceptional, despite the scoreline of 6-0 to the hosts which was almost expected. Supporters were intent on enjoying themselves whatever the scoreline was going to be. There was a carnival atmosphere as the train left Corby at half six on the Saturday morning, ‘Party Sevens’ were being pierced before the train reached  Kettering, which was ritualised with the usual Corby agricultural fanfare. Daily Express football cards, postcards with a picture of the triumphant  Steelmen team who had dispensed of Luton Town in the previous round were gaily flung out of the windows at each passing station. It wasn’t all merriment however, Clive Smith became an innocent victim when an old chap, arguing with a crowd about opening and closing a window, ‘Who’s train is it anyway?  Do you own the train? etc etc’, finally snapped and belted him right on his coupon, "all I was doing was laughing" Clive pleaded. It was that kind of day. Another Corby fan was head butted by a sailor for unwise remarks about his persuasion as his gang marched across a Plymouth park before the game. Night time was equally chaotic, revelry became too enthusiastic and van loads of baton waving sailors appeared from nowhere to persuade the invaders to behave themselves. The train for home left Plymouth at 9.30 pm and eventually hauled itself back into Corby at 6 am the following morning, a scene of carnage. Celebrations had gone on all through the night, carriages were strewn with rubbish, pee and bodies in the most inconceivable places. Toilets had become unusable as they swilled with bottles, stale beer and spew, not to mention the odd body lolling around in the mixture, and  A Steelman For Me was still being aired as the human flotsam spilled out of the train on platform one. 

‘A braw time was had by all!’, by all accounts. Shame about the score. 

                                                                       

As fate would have it, the day of the F.A. Cup tie, January 21st, coincided with the closure of the Bessemer Steelmaking Plant in the ‘Works’, which was a landmark of sorts in the town’s history, the end of an era apparently. Though why there was an air of solemnity about the closure mystified me. The place was my idea of hell, a cacophony of noise, smell, heat and dust. Hot molten metal spilled from ladles, red hot clouds of smoke engulfed the place when one of the gigantic converters was having a ‘blow’, a siren giving a one minute warning for everyone to get out of the way, or be incinerated. You would have thought the men would be jumping for joy, not weeping!   

Those less interested in the demise of the Bessemer, or the football team, might have been waiting with keen anticipation for the release of the latest record from one of the town’s leading rock and roll groups, the Size Seven. Released on the 21st, In Time, perversely, proved to be something of an anachronism, as the timing couldn’t have been worse! It was unfortunate for the Size Seven that the public’s attention should be focused on the ‘last blow’ of the Bessemer Converters, and the football team’s history making trip to Devon, as publicity had been stepped up, and their new disc gained a very favourable review in the local press.

‘The Seven pull no punches, it’s all systems go.’ music critic Alex Gordon promised, ‘The record kicks off with the voice of Brian Dowell and a strumming guitar and soon develops into a rave up when the rest of the group comes in. The hefty bass and drums sound gives it a real meaty flavour and it is right in the current vogue with some intriguing harmony and  key changes, and Jack Stewart really flips his lid with a clever guitar technique in the middle eight. The song  was written by Gidian and some of his earthy and edgy talent seems to have rubbed off in his material. We  hear a more natural big Seven sound on the flip, Walking Proud which is a happy little belter from the Goffin / King songwriting team’.

Sadly, the Size Seven’s fourth attempt at breaking into the big time stumbled again, despite an appearance on the BBC Midlands Radio ‘One Night Stand’ show on March 2nd. A dejected Harold Sturgess, talking from his Teignmouth home, surmised that if the record company wasn’t willing to put some beef behind the promotion, the record had little chance. And so it seemed.

Size Seven bid farewell to Ian Murray

The band was in turmoil again when drummer Ian Murray resigned his seat to take up residence with a  Northampton based rhythm and blues outfit called Big Bob’s Rock and Roll Circus, with a tour of Germany already lined up. “It’s an opportunity to fulfil my ambition” Ian argued as a somewhat despondent Alan Black spoke of the news, “We’re right in the middle of preparing our next number, possibly our next record, so it’s a big blow.” Cascade Bobby Mathieson eventually took over the ‘hot seat’ in September to become the Size Seven’s fourth drummer in nine years.       

                                                                   

Harold Sturgess, plainly disillusioned with the repeated failure of the Size Seven to progress, appeared to switch more of his attentions to his latest recruit, Gidian, alias Jim Pollock, who since going solo from the Freemen had been receiving accolades from all kinds of sources, including the comedian Ken Dodd.

Gidian’s career was on an upward spiral and Harold signed him up with the top London Agent Tito Burns who was responsible for Cliff Richard, Dusty Springfield and the Searchers amongst many others. Being based in London also enabled Gidian to gain bookings at clubs like the Marquee in Wardour Street. His self penned debut single, There Isn’t Anything was released on February 4th and given a massive boost with a ‘plug’ on the BBC’s prestigious ‘Juke Box Jury’ TV show. When the panel of celebrities voted the song to be a ‘Hit’, which compere David Jacobs endorsed by clanging his bell, the watching Alex Gordon went into overdrive again.

‘Gidian looks like hitting the big time with an almighty thump, he rockets onto the scene with his first disc, which positively sizzles. It opens with a snarling horn before the rest of the brass section blazes in with a big hammering crescendo of sound. Gidian makes his entrance bending the listener’s ears back with a stylish and carefully controlled forceful full vocal, reminiscent of Tom Jones and Frankie Vaughan’.

Listening in on Radio Luxembourg one night and ‘knocked out’ when There Isn’t Anything was given an airing  between the Keynasham and Tiffin commercials, was the Squire of Knotty Ash himself, the Right Honourable Ken Dodd. Gidian was fortunate to meet the King of the Diddymen, and left a very warm impression on him as Ken was later to say ; “Gidian isn’t only an excellent singer, but an extremely intelligent young chap, with just the right sort of personality to do well.”

Though reputedly selling over 2,000 copies, There Isn’t Anything failed to puncture a hit parade still dominated by the Beatles and all the other established artists. With no disrespect to Gidian or the Size Seven intended, or the Formula Five for that matter, it had to be something special or even gimmicky to break down the barriers for a new artist to get in, which was no better illustrated this year than with three of the biggest selling singles all came from newcomers. Whistling Jack Smith’s I Was Kaiser Bill’s Batman, the absurdly named Engelbert Humperdinck who had previously failed time and again as plain Gerry Dorsey, with Release Me, and then the most ludicrously named of them all, Napoleon XIV with They’re Coming To Take Me Away Ha Ha. It’s hard to imagine that any of these records would have made an impact if they had been tagged with a handle of Joe Jones or Bob Box or something, but there you have it, it was the old thing about image again.  

                                                                        

The B and Threes

While Gidian was serenading in the capitol, his old band, the Freemen, were re-emerging as the B and Three’s under the direction of Basil Barnard. Bobby Leroy, Pete Galloway, Brian Stanners and John Fenton were introduced to the public in January by  BJ, as he preferred to be known, and optimism was high with Basil enthusing about the prospects of a ‘new group with a big sound’, once he tied up a trumpeter and a sax player to the band. “It will have the punch of Tom Jones’s Squires, and the gutty sounds of Georgie Fame’s Blue Flames and the Alan Price Set” he trumpeted. When Bobby Leroy, the former Elvis of Scotland then decided to quit to concentrate on songwriting only a month into the venture, “I’ve written some songs which I reckon could perhaps be very commercial if placed in the right hands”, Basil had to redraw his blueprint. 

Bobby Leroy’s shock decision sent the local scene into a spin again, his replacement Ricky Loak leaving the highly rated Cascades to succeed him and leaving Dennis Priddy who had built the group up to a huge following across the Midlands, in such a state of disillusionment, that he disbanded the Cascades less than a month later. “The biggest shock in years” is how Alex Gordon greeted the news.

The Cascades

Dennis would come back into the scene later when he was asked to back a singing duo called Tony and Valda Cheetham at a gig organised by local businessman, Colin Goodman. If nothing else, it did instigate Dennis to form his own duo with friend and fellow ex Cascade, Geoff Williams, and together  as Alias Smith and Jones, they became hugely popular all around the country, playing the cabaret circuits for the next sixteen years, finally calling it a day after their ‘final gig at the Lancaster Club in Yaxley’ in December 1983. Dennis : “We got into country rock which was gaining a lot of airplay thanks to the work of the Byrds and Crosby, Stills and Nash. We were also the first to use a drum machine which apart from anything else, enabled us to make even more money! I made more in one year with Geoff than I did in all the time I was in the Size Seven.” 

The B and Three’s meantime had the advantage of taking over the Freemen’s ‘snob value’ bookings at high class hotels and clubs, which as Basil Barnard assured, “were barred but to a few select groups.”

With the immediate future looking promising, they were then dealt a blow when guitarist Pete Galloway departed in August to take the university trail. It was enough to scuttle the band who had struggled to get off the ground despite all the hard work of manager Basil Barnard. In a tone of resignation, Alex Gordon reported the news with the simple statement, ‘B and Three’s bite the dust’.

Basil was undeterred in his quest to continue on the entrepreneurial bandwagon and duly announced his latest acquisition, five young lads calling themselves The Bent Society. Bip Wetherell, Bob Grimley, Damien Tracey, Jack Murphy and Jim O’Brien were soon on the treadmill of gigs taking them to venues including the Nuneaton Co-op Hall, The Boston Glyderdrome, Ramsey and Grantham. Basil had them playing on average around three nights a week, paying them £3 a week each. “He was the first con man I ever knew” Bip Wetherell recalled in fits of laughter, “He taught me everything!”  It was possibly this early insight into the entrepreneurial world, ‘according to Basil’, that set Bip on his path to become a Band leader, Disc Jockey, pub landlord, nightclub owner, helicopter pilot, Tornado (as in Telstar) and then latterly, an author. 

Bip, then plain Billy or when he was on the football field, Billy Whizz, began his ‘pop’ career with Weldon group the Pacifics. Comprising of four Corby Boys School lads, Colin Waddops, Graham Henderson, David Fellows and John  Woodward, they asked him to have a go at the vocals as none of them had the balls to do it. The audition was held in the village hall and Bip impressed them all with his lung bursting rendition of Mustang Sally.

Rehearsals entailed the Corby section of the band, having to lug their equipment with the aid of ‘pushbikes’, all the way past the steelworks to Weldon. Colin Waddops later suggested that Bip could play an organ, in the Alan Price mode, on the strength that he could partly play the piano, and it would enhance the band’s sound. Mastering it sufficiently to pass the critical St. Columba Church Hall crowd, the well worn path of church hall gigs and fetes was then taken. The Columba Hall, under the guidance of Youth Leader Fred Jelly became a regular gig for the younger bands, ideal as a step on the ladder to bigger venues. Fred, who had contacted Nellie Connaughty to sound her out for her opinion on a rival dance to her ‘Bin’, was given her blessing to go ahead, “this town is big enough for the two of us” she informed Fred. A highlight of Fred’s dances would be a competition to draw the punters in. Most popular, though considered a tad risqué' by the vicar was the mini-skirt contest where the skirts were measured from the knee up by the organisers. Fred recalls Jenny Reynolds, the first winner of the contest, receiving free admission to the next dance as her prize.

The Pacifics

The Pacifics, regular performers at the Columba, played the usual repertoire of chart records and they lasted a couple of years, giving the members a good grounding for future adventures. One of their ‘most memorable’ gigs was backing a girl group calling themselves the Veltones at the Civic Centre. The trio of local girls, Marilyn Watt, Sheila Allen and Jeanette Whiteley modelled themselves in the mould of the Supremes and Cathy and the Crystaltones, and performed admiral renditions of the Crystals hits, Da Do Ron Ron and Then He Kisssed Me, receiving rapturous applause for their efforts. 

Bip Wetherell was ready to move on however and his place in the Pacifics was taken by Jimmy Cave, a ‘Geordie’ who moved to the town in 65’. 

Jim would later move on to the cabaret circuit where he played for years in various bands, including a collaboration with Gretton’s Zeros, Ginger Smith and Geoff Stanger in a folk influenced combo called the Kirbys. Graham Henderson and John Woodward would both team up again with Bip in the Rhubarb Tree before they both decided to sail on to greener pastures on the other side of the globe, Graham to the land of Oz and ‘Woody’ to South Africa, where they remain to this day.

Before this though guitarist Bob Grimley and bassist Jack Murphy ‘knocked on Bip’s door’ to ask him to join a band they were putting together to be the called Bent Society. 

The Pacifics and the Bent Society  were part of the ‘new wave’ of bands emerging from the undergrowth of Corby’s rich scrubland of talent. Some struggled to get past the Church Hall or even the West Glebe Hut while  most of them vanished after a good publicity shot in the local press had sent them on their way. The year had kicked off in fact with the manager of yet another outfit called the Chi-Rhos, Tommy Cox, boldly predicting; ‘These boys are going all the way to the top’.

Formed by members of the Beanfield Youth Club, Tommy Borland, Ian Eccles, Jim O’Brien and Damien Tracey, the line up soon went into transitional mode with O’Brien and Tracey teaming up with Bob Grimley and Jack Murphy in the Bent Society, and being replaced at various times by aspiring ‘musos’ Dave Sheldon, Andy Brown and Dougie Wilson. Rehearsals were often conducted in chaos and even the boys would have admitted that Tommy Cox’s prediction was blind optimism by any standard, the road to the top was a long way off. 

Dave Sheldon, arguably the most volatile and competent guitarist on show regularly blew his top as the others strived to get the right chords and beat. Their story would be typical of many aspiring young bands then and now. The Chi-Rhos were destined to follow the Contrasts, Hangmen, Triple X and Astronauts amongst others who tried and failed to launch a career. Many would put the experience to good effect and try again. Ian Eccles had a fine voice and persevered to perform for a number of years in bands before concentrating his efforts on the burgeoning new ‘Disco’ scene. Dougie Wilson followed Ian’s example, changed his name to Dougie Martell and his career took off in extraordinary style. Competing in a Disc jockey contest while on holiday in Bournemouth he won the first prize which was a month long engagement in the United States. He then returned to take his own Discotheque into Europe where he ended up meeting his wife Jonna in Denmark, and remained there for a number of years. Dougie’s close friend, Ian Eccles, worked for a number of years as manager of nightclubs around the country and is still in the business in downtown Milton Keynes.

Following the aborted attempt of the Chi-Rhos, Ian, Dave Sheldon and Andy Brown formed the appropriately named Sensitive Set along with Sean Cummings, Terry Dunn and Bobby Williamson to take another stab at the business. Their zenith was reached when appearing in an open air concert at the town’s Civic Centre in August, performing to a crowd estimated to be over 500, along with the Rising Sons, Bent Society and the Pacifics. 

The Rising Sons

The Rising Sons, by far the pick of the bunch, left a considerable  impression on those who witnessed the event. Bip Wetherell recalled the event on Corby Radio in 1998; ‘they were brilliant’ adding ‘they peed me off!’  The Sons were a harmony based group and covered Beatles and Beach Boys stuff with astounding ease. Excelling with the ‘pop’ stuff did tend to overshadow their preference of soul music and to their dismay, their covers of Impressions and Curtis Mayfield material often went over the heads of the Corby audience, prompting an outburst of ‘don’t describe us a pop group!’ during an Alex Gordon interview.  They were probably better received and appreciated when they played out of town at the air bases and in the provinces. Their biggest thrill had to be when they supported the immortal Otis Redding at Boston Glyderdrome, all the more poignant because of the megastar’s fatal air crash less than a year later. Drummer Pete Buckby purred when recalling those heady days supporting icons like Otis and Chris Farlowe at Boston, the Yardbirds at Peterborough Corn Exchange, the Kinks at Grantham. “The Glyderdrome was a fantastic venue, the revolving stage, the sky high ceiling with thousands of fairy lights, and all the big names that played there, Otis Redding was brilliant, just magic, so was Jeff Beck with the Yardbirds. I was only sixteen or seventeen at the time and playing with these people who I was a big fan of was unbelievable.” 

Lead guitarist John Hemmings caused a dilemma in September when he departed to go to university, but the band played on with Eddie Dobbins an able replacement. As time would tell though, the differing ambitions of band members would ultimately simmer to a head and eventually cause their demise. All of them were academically minded apart from Pete Buckby who’s lifetime ambition had solely been to be a full time professional musician. “I remember a schoolmaster asking me what I wanted to do when I left school, ‘I want to be a drummer’ I said to which he replied in that most patronising tone that school teachers have, ‘you can’t be a drummer, there’s no jobs like that’, intimating that I should consider a career in the steelworks or something, like everyone else.”  

As 66’ rolled on, the Rising Sons were fast becoming the benchmark for new local bands to aspire to if they wanted to make any sort of progress. Only the Size Seven, the Formula and the Invaders were left from the early bands and they were all in varying degrees of transition or dilemmas.

The Bent Society were probably the best of the newcomers, covering rousing material from The Who’s debut album, the Stones and Tamla Motown. The Who’s A Legal Matter, Substitute and The Kids Are Alright were big favourites with their fans. The Temptations’ My Girl and Lee Dorsey’s Holy Cow also. The vocals department was enhanced when Bob Grimley’s sister Lillian joined up, having had a taste of the footlights with Bob and Jack Murphy in the Contrasts, a school band who had made their bow at Corby’s Odeon Cinema.

Blast From the Past - NME September 1958

A piece I wrote for a programme for one of Bip's gigs at the Core.

The NME September 26th 1958. 

Here's a quiz question to get you all thinking; what was the number one record on September 26th 1958? Now alright you would need to be a genius or a mastermind on pop music to answer this, but it was in fact, Stupid Cupid by Connie Francis. 

It was quite coincidental that looking through a pile of old newspapers I’ve hoarded, there is a New Musical Express issue 611 from this very day 56 years ago. Costing sixpence, the front cover displays photographs of Connie Francis, Tommy Steele, Elvis Presley, Johnny Mathis and a group photograph of the Mudlarks and the Kalin Twins backstage at the Prince of Wales Theatre, London. Connie has just reached number one in the charts with Stupid Cupid /Carolina Moon. The elevation obviously helped by my mother buying the single from Curtis Balin's Electrical shop on Studfall Avenue. (Where the new Tesco is for those trying to figure that one out). Elvis was apparently; 'On the high seas in the U.S transport ship 'General Randall' en route to Germany and on course for a career as an 'all round entertainer' in a series of films which would send his street cred plummeting. Let's be honest, they might have been not bad at the time but they haven't dated very well.

Advertised at the bottom of the page was The Cossor Automatic Record Player boasting a 4 speed change and able to load ten records for the princely sum of 21 guineas. For the less affluent, The Fidelity Record Player was 'sensational value at only 10 guineas'. Maybe it was but when you could only play one record at a time it was probably fair to say it was a pain in the backside!

This week's Top Ten had Volare by Dean Martin trailing Connie in second place. The Kalin Twins with When at number three. At 4 was Dean Martin with Return to Me. 5 was Peggy Lee and Fever. 6 saw Ricky Nelson and Poor Little Fool consolidating its place from the week before. Climbing from 11 to 7 was Bernard Bresslaw's Mad Passionate Love, no doubt helped by the actor starring in BBC television's Army Game. Bird Dog by the Everly Brothers was at 8 followed by another comedian, Charlie Drake and Splish Splash at 9. Making up the ten was Marty Wilde and Endless Sleep.

The Letters Page was always good reading and this week's issue included a disgruntled John Waterfield from Devon complaining about our own local hero Jim Dale who was compering the BBC Saturday Night 6. 5. Special Show.

'What has happened to Jim Dale? This business of forgetting artist’s names is a badly used gimmick. Or is it that Jim Dale really has a bad memory and as compere can't remember the names? The first programme in the new series left a lot to be desired. I mean, its all very well giving us new faces, but I wonder how many of these artists have had any real stage experience?'

Jack Reid of Ayrshire writes 'I read with disgust that Elvis is recording an album of hymns in memory of his mother. Why doesn't he leave hymns to people who can sing them? I have heard his Peace in the Valley EP and if ever a record showed how not to sing religious songs, then this is it.'

Of course it s all a matter of opinions and if I had been around I would have argued the case on that one. Peace in the Valley showed everyone that Elvis could turn his hand to any kind of genre, religious included. The album he was referring to was His Hand in Mine, a remarkable collection of gospel songs if ever there was one. In my opinion.

What else was happening at this time? Well it was announced that 87 Corby men were unemployed. They obviously didn't fancy shift work at the steelworks and with very little alternative decided they would have a break. Or they were just bone idle!

A Hula Hoop craze was sweeping the nation which brought an early indication as to the way this country was heading down the path to a nanny state. Following reports from Japan that that the Hoop was 'bad for your health' and a German chap keeling over mid swivel with a heart attack, authorities were moved to pass warnings about the danger, particularly to the neck. Nonetheless down every street there would be a crowd swiveling themselves away, hips swaying, head bobbing, not caring if they didn't have an aspirin in the house.

There was a shortage of 'single shillings' - believe it or not. Banks were running out of bobs. Now that wouldn't make much sense to many nowadays, but the bob was an intricate part of our lives back then. You needed one to put in the electric meter! If the bob ran out, you were up the creek unless you had one in your pocket.

On the local music scene, skiffle was still the main source of entertainment for the youth not being called up for National Service with The Hepcats and The Size Seven at the forefront providing the music of Lonnie Donegan and the Vipers for punters at the Welfare, Raven and Nellie's Bin. 

Globally, nuclear tests were being carried out throughout the year by the USSR, USA and Great Britain. America's and Britain’s on the Pacific islands of Bikini and Christmas. Which couldn't have been much joy for the locals. The tests stoked up the fires and protesters in Britain marched on to the U.S. Aldermaston Air base to vent their fears and disgust.

Richard Nixon, Vice President to Eisenhower was sorry he left home for a short tour of South America; Tricky Dicky was booed, shoved and spat on in Peru, attacked by rioters in Venezuela. One wonders what he said to old Dwight D. when he returned; 'thanks a million, next time you can bloody go!' Well maybe not but you can visualise it.

Eisenhower also claimed the first radio speech from space with his broadcast over Christmas; 'To all mankind, America's wish is for peace on Earth and Good Will to men everywhere.' What about the women then Ike? What about the poor souls on Bikini Island?

As Tommy Edwards sang on his number one record at the time' It's all In the Game.

The Road to Bangkok.

The Road to Bangkok.

Looking for a more adventurous holiday? Something different to just sitting on your backside on a sun drenched beach with a book and a glass of Sangria? Thailand could be your answer. Programmes on the Sky TV channels might put some off visiting this little corner of the Far East, the drug dens, prostitution, overcrowding. Not an entirely enticing advert but if you look beyond the sleaze one can have a truly memorable holiday, as Clive Smith and his family discovered. 

'Everyone has heard of the infamous Bangkok Hilton but there are far and away more preferable places to stay in. Our destination was the small island of Khoh Samet, situated in the south of Thailand, initiating an overnight stop in Bangkok. The flight from Manchester Ringway with Etihad Airways, voted the world's best airline in 2010 and 2011 took in total a cool 14 hours. Long haul isn't everyone's bag but if you're well prepared, i.e. Ipod, books, magazines, plus the in-flight TV entertainment, the time soon flies by. 

The Ramada Hotel was our abode on the first night, surprisingly quiet, small but quaint with a private garden and swimming pool area. Hard to believe it was right in the middle of the bustling city of Bangkok where just around the corner a railway line cut through the heart of the city with people living in dwellings literally just feet away from the tracks! No fences or barriers. Bangkok can be claustrophobic. Bustling, congested, the population stands at 12 million people and a glance around the back streets away from the hotels reveals a plethora of shanty like dwellings where the local inhabitants live. There’s no fear of being harassed by drug dealers - as is the perception - unless you're looking for some! You get more harassment off the Tuc Tuc Taxi drivers looking for fares. Though it has to be said, the three wheel glorified tricycles are ideal for nipping through the gridlocked City streets.

The Ramada proved to be an ideal respite before a four hour journey by taxi to Khoh Samet. Daunting at the outset the positive side of the taxi ride, a minibus by comparison to the Tuc Tuc, was the opportunity to see more of the country, the outer suburbs of Bangkok, the various villages en route. Somewhat alarmingly, to reach the island, the taxi dropped us off by a marina where a speedboat was hired to finish the trip. Just enough room for six passengers and luggage, the speed boat took around 15 minutes to reach the island and then dispatched all of us into the sea where we had to wade through the surf and onto the beach. Bizarre to say the least. I half expected to see Jeremy Beadle waiting for us! It was patently obvious that the Health and Safety merchants haven't reached this part of Asia yet.

Khoh Samet is a secluded small island with modern luxury holiday chalets and wonderful white sandy beaches. Hospitality was first class, as was the food. A range of Thai Curries and chicken meals cooked in the spicy flavours of the East washed down with wine or the local beer called Chang who are the sponsors for Everton F.C as it happens, satisfied even the most hardened traveller, and my scouser son-law Nick!

Evening meals on the beach with the aromatic smell of barbecued fish or steak wafting around was something else you don't often see back home.

The most surprising thing about Thailand is how cheap everything appears to be. Ten days on the island and two nights in two of the best hotels in Bangkok cost just £450. Meals and drinks are ridiculously cheap.  

The obligatory day trip was indulged and a trip to a fish farm ensued which was an alarming experience. There are no roads on the island and a 'taxi' which turned out to be a pick-up truck drove six of us over a landscape that would have proved arduous for a lunar module. Bumps and dips all along the three mile trek which took around half an hour was just the start. Dropped off by the side of the road, what was considered a ferry to transfer our party over turned out to be a wooden pallet tied on top of a couple of oil drums! Unbelievable. Hairy as well! A rope attached from the fish farm built on stilts a few hundred yards into the ocean was tied to a tree next to the 'taxi rank' and the ferry driver levered everybody over. To enter the farm meant clambering up a ten foot steel ladder attached to the side. Not as easy as it sounds with the pallet wobbling all over the place as each member climbed off. Second last to leave the pallet, clinging for my life with both hands on the ladder, I nearly came a cropper as the pallet went one way and I the other leaving me literally horizontal and staring down into the murky sea! Not exactly known for my prowess on the breast stroke, well not as regards my swimming anyway, I was faced with a dilemma. Let go with my hands - or my feet. There was no way I was going for a swim so I dragged my feet off the pallet, and my legs crashed into the side of the ladder leaving me with cuts and bruises as a memento. Panic over. The girls' cries and tension exchanged for convulsions of laughter, I shakily climbed the steep ladder to sanctuary and a rest on the wooden floor. To view the various exhibits, turtles, sharks etc planks a foot wide were provided to straddle along in between the tanks. One look at the sharks eyeing you up as the next meal if you fell in was sobering, leaving me pondering 'who's great idea was this?' 

Back on dry land, beach entertainment included a squad of youngsters doing the rounds every night throwing and twirling flaming batons around, catching and eating them whilst you got tucked into your evening meal. Highly entertaining but after three or four nights, tedious. Especially when they came round with the buckets for payment! 

Thai Kick Boxing in a ring assembled on the beach was something else you don't see everyday and reminded one of how far away from home you were. Kids aged as young as eight or nine, kicking and punching lumps out of each other for the amusement of the baying locals as well as the holidaymakers was not to everyone's taste. However if this is their culture who are we to criticise?

For those who enjoy a massage, there is ample opportunity to stretch out on the sun lounger and think of England as a pretty Thai girl tenderises your feet and aching muscles. Very satisfying and what better way to chill out at the end of the day, than under a clear starlit sky, squatting on the rocks with a Bacardi and Coke, listening to the sounds of Bob Marley and Aretha Franklin emanating from the beach bars? Sublime. 

It all added up to a very different type of holiday from that in a resort in the Mediterranean or a week on the balmy North Sea coastline of Ingoldmells. And not a Bingo stall in sight! 

Returning to Bangkok for a day and one final night, spent in the Baiyoke Hotel which boasts to be the tallest building in Thailand was perfect. 84 floors up offers a spectacular panoramic view of the city. For those with a nervous disposition it is weird to be ascending in an elevator and clocking each floor as it rises. Doesn't do to let the imagination run wild. 

The reception area, twelve floors up was less endearing, resembling Piccadilly Tube Station during rush hour. Frenetic and noisy. Chaotic. For golf bores, a driving range is situated on the 23rd floor with a dining area alongside offering a wide variety of bar meals and drink. Very relaxing. 

Bangkok is a city that never goes to sleep, densely overcrowded and at night looking down from our room on the 35th floor you realised why so many people ride and walk around with masks covering their faces. The smog lies over the city like a cloud. 

Whilst in Bangkok a river trip is essential where the views of the ancient palaces, monuments and temples are splendid. Another eye opener is the canoes with local women sidling up alongside the barges to sell their wares of fruit, drink and vegetables. A tourist attraction described as a floating market. You don't get that on the Thames. Unique. 

All in all, Thailand is well recommended for those looking for something just a little bit more offbeat and different!