Are You Ready, Steve?

By Steve Priest

In Memory
My mother, Margaret Amy Priest
Our manager, Edward Leffler
Mick Tucker’s wife, Pauline Tucker
Our first road manager, “Little” Ray Ward
Our road manager, Terry Price
Petra Stracke

Acknowledgments
To Maureen and Danielle, for putting up with my mood swings during the writing of this book.

To David Paschen, for setting up this book and making the whole thing economically viable.

To Suezy House, for all the work on her fan club in America – “Give Us a Wink.”

For more information, write to:

GIVE US A WINK
819 S. Grant
Olathe, Kansas 66061
U.S.A.

To Ralph Grimm, for his work on the German fan club – “Action.”

For more information, write to:

ACTION
Seehof Str. 18
60594, Frankfurt
Germany

eBook transfer by: Stewart Roney - www.thesweet.com/hsh

This eBook PDF has been exclusively produced for the purchaser and it’s
content may not be copied, edited, sold or given to any other 3rd party without
specific written authorisation of the copyright holder - Steve Priest.
All contents © 2009.

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 TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter Page

Chapter One - COUNT IN............................................................................................................6

Chapter Two - I’M IN THE ARMY NOW!................................................................................14
Chapter Three - A SWEET DREAM..........................................................................................18
Chapter Four - MAGIC BUSES..................................................................................................23
Chapter Five - THE PAPER WHO?...........................................................................................25
Chapter Six - A TALE OF TWO BOTTLES..............................................................................29
Chapter Seven - THE TREK TO ROME....................................................................................31
Chapter Eight - M.S.....................................................................................................................38
Chapter Nine - TRAGEDY, THEN FUN IN THE SUN.............................................................40
Chapter Ten - BATMAN AND ROBIN.....................................................................................42
Chapter Eleven - NOT SO EASY...............................................................................................46
Chapter Twelve - DEUTSCHLAND, DEUTSCHLAND...........................................................48
Chapter Thirteen - THE BELGIAN WAFFLE...........................................................................56
Chapter Fourteen - MAN FROM MECCA.................................................................................59
Chapter Fifteen - WIG WAM HAM AND EGGS......................................................................61
Chapter Sixteen - TRANSVESTITES IN TIGHTS....................................................................65
Chapter Seventeen - HOUSE #1.................................................................................................67
Chapter Eighteen - HELLROOM BLITZ...................................................................................69
Chapter Nineteen - DESOLATION AND FRUSTRATION......................................................77
Chapter Twenty - GIVE US A COKE PLEASE.........................................................................82
Chapter Twenty-One - THE “EYE” DOESN’T HAVE IT.........................................................84
Chapter Twenty-Two - GOING DOWN, UNDER.....................................................................85
Chapter Twenty-Three - MAI TAI HAVE THE NEXT ARGUMENT......................................89
Chapter Twenty-Four - L.A. AND THE CIVIC.........................................................................90
Chapter Twenty-Five - CHEWED IN CHATTANOOGA.........................................................94
Chapter Twenty-Six - NYC AND MO........................................................................................96
Chapter Twenty-Seven - AND DON’T MENTION PEARL HARBOUR.................................99
Chapter Twenty-Eight - PEA SHOOTERS...............................................................................101
Chapter Twenty-Nine - STING IN THE TAIL.........................................................................104
Chapter Thirty - THE WEST COUNTRY................................................................................106
Chapter Thirty-One - LETTERE’S DE WHAT?......................................................................112
Chapter Thirty-Two - AMERICA THE BIG AND BEAUTIFUL...........................................115
Chapter Thirty-Three - THE MELISSA AFFAIR....................................................................118
Chapter Thirty-Four - ALL FOR ONE AND THREE FOR ALL............................................123
Chapter Thirty-Five - A TRAGEDY.........................................................................................127
Chapter Thirty-Six - YESTERDAY’S ARSEHOLES..............................................................129
Chapter Thirty-Seven - THE TOP OF THE WORLD..............................................................132
Chapter Thirty-Eight - DANIELLE..........................................................................................137
Chapter Thirty-Nine - AND SO TO BED.................................................................................142

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 INTRODUCTION

This is a self-penned story about show business from a different perspective. I have tried to be as
honest as possible and stick to the truth. There have been numerous articles released over the years regarding
The Sweet. Many of these contain half-truths and, in some cases, downright lies. One UNAUTHORIZED
publication, which has the title that is a play on the title of Strung Up, is full of complete nonsense. I mean to
clear up the grey areas.

I hope to convey what it was like to be a young boy watching his idols on television. I also hope to
possibly change some skeptics’ minds as to how talented we really were as a band. There are many pitfalls
into which one can stumble on the way to stardom. I hope this book will give some idea of how to avoid them.

This is not a Girl Scout manual. There are some very steamy accounts of some close encounters of the
sexual kind, so keep this away from young kids. Obviously, sex is part of the territory in rock and roll, and I
thought I should include some of my experiences. It will also convince some readers of my real sexual
orientation.

So come with me on a riveting roller-coaster ride through Rock-Land. I’ll meet you again at the end.

4
5
 CHAPTER ONE -COUNT IN
If you think that life in the rock band Sweet was all sex and drugs and rock and roll, you would
probably be very close to the truth.

It wasn’t as easy as it looked. It took a long time and a great deal of hard work before appearing on
“Top Of The Pops” and having our first hit. My first time in front of any sort of audience was when I was about
ten years of age. Some of my school friends and I decided that we should put on a small show for our fellow
classmates. We didn’t really have any instruments, although I did have a sort of untunable mandolin. Our
rendition of Lonnie Donnegan’s “Does Your Chewing-Gum Lose Its Flavour On The Bed-Post Over Night”
must have been well worth recording, but I’m glad no one did. This was my first taste of Show Biz, and I
really enjoyed it and thirsted for more. I realized that the girls were, maybe, looking at me and I enjoyed that
sensation even then. Little did I know what was in store in later years, but I’ll get to that.

My only musical training then was at school and at church, where I sang in the choir and I eventually
became head-boy. The church in which I sang was called St. Mary’s. The choir was my only source of
income, which may sound a bit strange, but we were paid to do weddings. It cost the bride and groom the sum
of one pound sterling to hire eight angelic little boys to warble on the biggest day of their lives. On a good
day, it was possible to earn up to a whole pound if we had eight weddings.

It was good for my elder brother David too because he was an Altar boy and was also paid for the
privilege. I did find it ironic a few years later while I worked in a Solicitor’s office. I saw many “blushing
brides” I had seen, so blissful on their wedding day, come into the office to end a big mistake. It’s a shame I
didn’t heed the warning myself!

One Christmas, my Mum an Dad bought for me a little yellow ukulele. It was just like heaven. I could
make music. Well, sort of. We had a family book of “popular” songs. I am not too sure in what century these
songs were from, but it had chords illustrated and I soon learned to play such hits as “Little Brown Jug” and
“Drifting and Dreaming.” I really loved my “Uke,” but I thought it was time to move on to better things.

I have found that, throughout my life, a sound or song can affect me greatly and I’m sure you have had
the same feeling. One of these particular instances was when I heard “Apache” played by the Shadows. The
ukulele was immediately history and I had to own a real guitar. It took a few weeks and many weddings, but
eventually I had the money. I went to my local music shop in beautiful downtown Hayes, Middlesex where
I was born. The name of the store escapes me, but it had all sorts of stuff, including records and a variety of
musical instruments. It didn’t take long to pick my very first guitar. It cost the impressive sum of four pounds,
two shillings and six pence. I think you can buy a small round of drinks for that nowadays.

I was not very well up with the current trends in popular music because my parents didn’t let me watch
Godless shows like “Oh Boy” and “Six Five Special,” so I tried to keep up by listening to my school friends.
They told tales of all these stars of whom I had never heard—people like Eddie Cochran and Buddy Holly.
The first song from Buddy I ever heard was when I went to summer camp at a place called Avon Tyrrell. My
friend Malcolm Slim and I decided to explore the place. We managed to find some “78s” and something to
play them on. Unfortunately, there were no needles in the stylus. As necessity is the Mother of Invention, we
went outside and pulled some thorns off a bush and used them. It did work, but the term “scratchy” took on
a new meaning.

That summer, a newcomer called Cliff Richard at last got his own T.V. show. Mum and Dad let me
watch it for once. I must admit that I was awestruck. There were these tough-looking musicians behind this
sinister-looking singer, all playing raunchy-sounding songs. I loved every minute. Cliff’s band had recently
changed their name from The Drifters to The Shadows for legal reasons a I, for one, thought it was a much
better title.

They were allowed to do one of their own instrumentals on each show (Cliff was supposed to be the
star) and, when they did, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the man in the middle. His name was Jet Harris and he
played a strange-looking guitar that only had four fat strings. I wanted one just like Jet’s, although I didn’t

6
really know what it was. It didn’t take long to find out through another good friend of mine at school,
Raymond Meacock. His brother was in a band and played a bass guitar through a little Watkins Westminster
Amp. I went to his house and watched him play and was very impressed.

Well, of course I had to own one as my acoustic guitar paled in the presence of electronic superiority.
The bass was also different enough that no one else wanted to learn to play it and bass players were very rare.
My biggest problem was, of course, I didn’t have the cash to buy a new bass guitar as they were very
expensive by anyone’s standards. I tried to convert my old acoustic to a bass. WRONG! The strings flapped
around like washing lines and made no sound that one could distinguish. Although it was a good try, I had to
think of something else. I used to look in that same old music shop every week at the variety of lovely,
solid-bodied guitars hanging there. The price tags were well out of my range as I was still at school and only
had my weekly wedding money.

I decided to seek employment delivering papers, and after answering an advert in the local paper, I got
a job. Of course, it was virtual slave labour, but I did make the outstanding sum of fourteen shillings a week
including one day off. The one good thing that did come out of this situation was that I met a very good friend
named Richard Herring who had just purchased a red Futurama guitar that looked just like a Fender Stratocaster.

We became very close friends and realized that we had exactly the same taste in music. He also had a
record player and I did not, unless you call an old seventy-eight monstrosity that I had slowed down to play
forty-fives a record player. He bought records to listen to. He had a friend who hadn’t quite decided if he
wanted to be a guitarist or a drummer.

Little Eddie Richards may have been short in stature, but coming from a good working-class family,
he was street wise. He could see that it would be better sitting behind drums than standing out front with the
taller lads. Being only five feet three inches, I soared over him by a huge three inches. Richard was about
five feet ten and Gerald Lee was about the same.

Richard and I went to many gigs together and one week stands out in my mind as most memorable.
After seeing a picture of the Rolling Stones in a magazine, I had really wanted to see them. Unfortunately,
they had only been playing at a club near Hampton Court called Eel Pie Island. It had a terrible reputation (it
was a shit house) and was also very difficult to get to without a car. It was 1963 and I was too young to drive.

The Stones were scheduled at last to make a tour of the whole of Great Britain. Their first night was
going to be at the “Botwell House Club” in Hayes the following Sunday Night. They were supposed to start
at eight p.m. and, although we got there at five minutes to, they had already started. This is very much unlike
some bands I could name today. We managed to get right down the front and I have never been mesmerized
so much by anything. They were pure magic and had a great influence in my musical direction from then on.
Mick Jagger and Keith Richards had great chemistry. Being very naïve then, I thought that Brian Jones could
do with some sleep. He could have packed for a holiday with those bags under his eyes.

The following Wednesday, someone told us to go to the Blue Moon Club, also in Hayes. We squeezed
into this tiny little place and saw a band playing real blues. They were The Yardbirds with all the original
members, including Eric (Slowhand) Clapton. They played superbly and I went out the next day and bought
Sonny Boy Williamson and other great blues players’ albums.

I fell in love with the blues. I also became an ardent fan of Mr. Chuck Berry. Many other people did
too. Mainly, I think it had to do with his very basic technique, if you could call it that. Many novice guitarists
could play any of his riffs (they were all the same) in five minutes after they picked up their first guitar.

Ed’s dad bought him a Premier drum kit, so all we needed now was a second guitarist. Luckily, one
church choir and junior school friend, Gerald Lee, had just bought a Futurama. He wanted very much to be
in a band. The only thing missing now was the bass. As I was still financially embarrassed, the only thing I
could do was to make a bass myself.

My father was buying our house then, so with the mortgage and family of three growing boys, there
wasn’ that much money going round. All the other members’ families lived in Government subsidized
7
housing, so they were more able to buy their own equipment. Being very handy at building model planes and
ships in the past, and having been taught woodwork at school, making a guitar didn’t seem impossible. So I
did it. I modeled it on a popular make of bass and, with my dad’s help, succeeded in coming up with what
looked and sounded like the real thing.

We started rehearsing at our drummer’s house with some pretty weird amplification. Rick was plugged
through a tape recorder to get some distortion. He also had a Watkins Copycat echo chamber. Purchasing a
Linear 30 watt amp, he built a cabinet and put two twelve inch speakers in it, finished off with some black
padded stuff, and it looked professional. Again with Dad’s help, I managed to put together my own amplifier
and speakers. We didn’t have a lead singer (they were hard to find then too), so all we could do were
instrumentals. When at last the great day came for our debut, we opened the show with “Apache” but the
roll-up curtain got stuck, so all the audience saw were our knees. Not a very good way to start in show
business. This wonderful occasion took place at St. Mary’s Parish Hall one Sunday night in 1964.

I at last decided to ask one of my school friends if he would like to have a go at being a vocalist. His
name was Brian Walton and he very reluctantly agreed to have a go. We all came round to my house as my
dad had a crystal mike, which was better than nothing. He sounded and looked very much like Elvis and his
confidence grew quickly—so quickly that he went out and joined another band, The Phantoms. He eventually
became the head of the Screen Writers Guild here in Los Angeles, where I now live.

It took another month or two, but at last we found our man. He was a friend of our drummer and he
sounded just like Cliff Richard. We called ourselves The Countdowns and started playing regularly at a club
called Wistow House every alternate Wednesday evening and begin getting quite a following.

The other band that played there featured Ian Gillan on lead vocals and called themselves The
Vampires. This was my first meeting with Ian. Later, because of that meeting, I was asked to join Episode
Six, but declined the offer. Roger Glover took the job and, eventually, became partners with Ian Gillan in
Deep Purple part two.

When we entered a band contest in Hayes Town Hall Park, our brave front man was so nervous that he
turned his mike on and off all the way through The Beatles’ “From Me To You.” When the contest went to a
second round, a band called Wainwright’s Gentlemen managed to win.

I only remember them vaguely the first night, but I assume they did appear. We found out later that
the whole thing was one big fiddle, as the band’s manager and his wife were the two organizers. The funny
thing was that Jan Frewer, the manager’s son, would later become my personal road manager! Not long after
this, Bernard was ordered to leave the band by an over-bearing girlfriend.

Enter Malcolm Sergeant (not the famous conductor). This one was nick-named “Sadge,” and he lived
in a Council house. He informed us that he had some very good connections. He was doing some singing
sessions for a young producer named Joe Meek. This man had already had several huge international chart
toppers including “Telstar,” “Johnny Remember Me,” “Have I the Right?” and other huge hits. The studio in
which he had produced these hits was absolutely tiny. Located in Holloway near the notorious women’s
prison of the same name, it was a little upstairs over a shop that sold suitcases and other leather goods.

He had equipment there that he had “acquired” while he was working for E.M.I. As he had been fired
a little while earlier by that company, I think that his equipment probably came free. He got some amazing
sounds out of such a small space. Gene Pitney’s “Lips Are Redder On You” was recorded there with a small
orchestra. I would have loved to have seen the expression on Mr. Pitney’s face when he arrived at the studio.
I’m sure it must have been a classic!

Joe was a very mild-mannered and soft-spoken man who, as it turned out, had a violent and dangerous
temper. He seemed to like us though and it didn’t take me too long to find out why. One song we recorded
for him was also written by him and called “You Stole My Heart Today.” The demo that he had given us was
hilarious. It sounded like he was singing in the bathtub. I wish I still had a copy of it, as it would be worth a

8
 fortune. We had to change it, of course, and we turned it into a blues song, making the title “You Stole My
Heart Away.”

I had the bright idea of putting a harmonica solo in it, and Joe had the great idea of getting me into the
studio on my own to do it. I was too young to drive at the time, so my mum and dad drove me to this very
seedy area and dropped me off. “I’ll see you in half an hour,” said I and went upstairs. The solo went well,
even though it was done during a thunderstorm, and Joe assured me that it was good luck. While we were
listening to the playback, Joe remarked on the fact that my jeans were very tight. “Did you sit in the bath and
make them shrink?” he asked. I told him that was how they came, but he went on to point out the fact that I
had a nice bump and I was sticking out well. It didn’t take much to figure out what he wanted and why I was
there. I had to keep the desk between myself and him until my parents picked me up.

It was very difficult finding the right material to launch us into stardom. Even a song called “Little
Girl Dressed In Blue” didn’t quite happen. The lead singer and I sang it in harmony and were meant to sound
like The Beach Boys. We didn’t, of course. It sounded more like two castrated cats. The same evening we
recorded this unusual ditty, we made a guest appearance in the North London suburb called Walthamstow.
We did perform the song live and survived it, much to our amazement. There was another band on the same
bill that night called Steve Marriott’s Moments. They blew us off the stage they were so good. The only real
highlight for me was when I had a harmonica duel with Steve Marriott. He won. He went on to become a
founding member of The Small Faces, of course. We became very good friends after that and met in many
sleazy night clubs and bars all over Europe. I was very upset to hear of his recent death. He was very talented
and I’m sure he is now in very good company.

By now, we were playing around all the little clubs in Hayes and soon had people wanting to manage
us. One of these idiots got us an audition for a two-week stint in a club in Germany. We had to play for an
hour at “The Two Eyes” coffee bar in Soho, made famous by Cliff and The Shadows in their first feature film,
“Serious Charge.” The club was run, if not owned, by the notorious Kray twins and its reputation preceded it.
I have never been more terrified in my life. I was still only sweet sixteen.

We carried all our gear downstairs into what I thought was the dressing room, but turned out to be the
club. It was a harrowing experience for us all, but far more so for our singer. A tall black man stood right in
front of him about a foot away from his face for the whole set. Sadge was great. He just acted as though he
wasn’t there and went on singing. We played great, I think, but what the owner of the club had failed to tell
our soon-to-be ex-manager was that we all had to be sixteen to get work permits for Germany, and Gerald Lee
was still fifteen.

Eddie, by this time, had a part-time job at a little shop that sold musical instruments called Jim
Marshall’s. At this time, they were starting to build their own equipment. They moved their premises across
the street into a larger shop and really started to take off. We needed an amp for our vocalist and bought the
third fifty-watt unit Marshall’s had ever produced. I immediately took it apart and my dad copied the circuitry,
and I built my own for a fraction of the real price. In fact, I built about six.

I met many would-be stars at Marshall’s, including Adam Faith, who was purchasing a ten-stringed
guitar, of all things. He was surprisingly little. He was even smaller than me. Ronnie Wood would come in
a lot. His band was called The Birds (not to be confused with The Byrds from America). They were a good
band playing solid R n’ B. I am really surprised that they didn’t make it big. Ron didn’t do too bad in his own
right, however.

Their other guitarist was later to supply me with my first speed, but that all comes later. I also met a
drummer called Phil Wainman, who would shortly release a song called “Hear Me A Drummer Man” that I
thought was great. Of course, our paths would cross not too many year down the road when he became
Sweet’s producer.

I was sitting in Marshall’s one day talking to Eddie when this loud and sweaty bunch of yahoos came
in with as much subtlety as a brick. The drummer was obviously speeding at a hundred miles an hour. It was
the ‘orrible Who from Shepherd’s Bush, and they had been playing at a festival in Hayes where Eddie, Rick

9
and I had just been. They were a really crazy lot, and Keith was ludicrous both on and off stage. I have seen
a great deal of them throughout my career, and they have also influenced me greatly.

It was around this time that we ran across a D.J. called Phil Jay. He was managing some nowhere
singer called Steve Francis and wanted to manage us too. He had the use of a big, red brand new Commer
mini-bus, while we had some old relic that used more oil than fuel.

We went to gigs in our Austin J4 that we had bought very used from a band called Cyrano and the
Bergeracs. The singer had a long nose! Other drivers stayed a hundred yards behind us because of the smoke
pouring out of the exhaust pipe. The thing was so decrepit that, one time, miles from home, one of the
hydraulic lines broke. As the clutch and brakes were on the same system, neither of them worked. We
managed to get back to base as usual. We shifted gears by judging the engine revolutions and hauled on the
hand brake when we had to stop. It was a harrowing experience.

With Phil’s bus as an obvious inducement, we decided to take him up on his generous offer. Phil Jay
and Joe Meek, however, did not get on at all well and, the following Christmas, I was to find out why.

I looked upon Phil Jay as a big brother figure and, when he went out to gigs, I used to go with him as
a sort of help. Ray and I always went with him to Orpington. We had girls there, so while he was on stage
doing his thing, we would take his car, meet the girls, and do our thing. Phil seemed slightly ill at ease with
this arrangement for some reason, and it was a lot later that I found out why.

Phil was in partnership with some shady characters who ran a club in Hounslow just west of London
called “The Attic.” Needless to say, we started playing there regularly, at least once a week. We supported
some very big acts, such as The Mind Bender and The Pretty Things. I remember seeing the lead singer
shooting up heroin jus before the show. I was shocked.

Welcome to the world of rock and roll. It shook me at the time, but later, as I saw more of it, I became
desensitized. One thing I have never done is use heroin. In fact, I have never been tempted. I don’t like
needles either.

There was a little demo studio set up when the stage wasn’t being used, and I helped Phil there
whenever I could. For me, it was an excellent experience because it made me realize how well you had to
play to be able to record. Some bands that came in were dreadful but they always blamed their poor
performance on us. That’s when I learned that the tape doesn’t lie. Well, of course, it can with a little help.

I was working at a lawyer’s office at the time and was bored as hell. The only good thing about it wa
that I had to spend many hours in London at Bush House and the Stamp Office where transfer documents are
assessed and stamped for duty. My bosses didn’t really know what I was up to, and only cared that the
documents came back to the office duly stamped. This gave me ample time to go to Denmark Street where
Southern’s Music Studio was found. One of Eddie’s neighbours was a bass player who did sessions there, so
I was invited to come any time.

This was a real eye-opener for me to be in a real studio. It was only a four-track, but it had a good
atmosphere. Robin Shaw and Mick Keen were a session duo of bass and guitar. Mick had played on the Ivy
League song “Funny How Love Can Be,” and was still involved with one band-member named John Carter.
John was the in-house producer for “Southern Music,” and I remember him as a real gent and a great talent.
I started doing vocal sessions there, including such unforgettable classics as “We Love The Pirates.” This
went out on the Marmalade label and the fictitious band was called The Roaring 60s. We recorded this in a
vain attempt to stop the Government closing an offshore pirate radio station called “Radio Caroline.” The
government wasn’t listening, as usual.

Another chestnut we put on tape was entitled “White Collar Worker.” Robin and Mick were convinced
that this would be a hit. They talked Eddie and I into promoting it. They decided to call this very temporary
band “The Ministry of Sound.” We did one appearance at “Tiles of Oxford Street” for Radio Luxembourg.
This was the only airplay it got! It was quite a good song, but did absolutely nothing. I was taught a good
lesson to learn in disappointment very early on.
10
 I was still part of The Countdowns, of course, and we were gigging for peanuts for anyone who would
pay us. Most of the bookings were weddings, which were either smooth going, or ended up in a fight
(normally the second of the two).

It amused and frightened me a little when some drunken fool decided to make a spectacle of himself.
In his alcoholic daze, he felt that he had to get up on stage and sing into the mike. It was very embarrassing,
but it was a common occurrence. It got us into trouble more than once, or at least my dry sense of humour did.
Drunks don’t always like a good joke at their expense, and I could always come up with one at the wrong time.

Phil, of course, did all the driving then, and I recall one amusing incident while returning from a gig.
We had played down on the south coast somewhere and it was very late. While driving down Uxbridge Road
at two in the morning, our very tired driver failed to notice that there was a huge hole about six feet deep ahead
of us. At the last minute, he had to make a decision to either swerve or go straight in.

He chose the latter, because he thought the van may tip over. So here we were, six feet in a hole in the
early hours of Saturday morning. We stood around wondering what the hell to do when along came a
policeman on what was then called a “noddy bike,” a small motor cycle.

He was polite enough to stop and we wished him good morning. He replied in a thick Scottish accent,
“It doesn’t look like a very good morning for you,” and promptly rode off. Luckily, there were some planks of
wood left by the workmen, so we made ourselves a ramp and, after three hours, we extracted ourselves and
our van from our predicament. I had to work in the office that morning and I felt awful, but it was a feeling
to which I soon became very accustomed.

The Christmas Eve gig that I mentioned earlier was another bizarre evening for me. Phil Jay had a gig
in town in southern England called Eastleigh, where they used to build Spitfires during the war. He asked me
if I would like to go down there with him. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anything better to do, so I agreed.

He must have planned it so that I would have to sit in the back seat with him. There was not much
room because of all his equipment, and we were really squashed together. It wasn’t too long before I started
to feel a hand in the proximity of my crown jewels. I thought at first it was by accident, but after the Joe Meek
incident, I was a little disturbed. As polite as I was in those days, I said nothing and just moved out of reach,
so to speak.

I did get the message, and when I arrived at the venue, I went out into the crowd and pulled the first
female I saw and brought her backstage. We immediately engaged in very heavy petting and I hoped that Phil
would take the hint. I managed to sit in the front seat on the way back.

After dropping off the driver, which made me suspicious, Phil came into the house to give me a
Christmas present. I wasn’t too sure what he meant by that. He handed me a carton of Benson & Hedges
cigarettes. As I did smoke at the time, I said my thanks and bade him goodnight. He acted like that wasn’t
quite what he was after, but thank God he left anyway. I’ve a feeling he thought I was playing hard to get!

Our relationship after that was a little strained, but I didn’t want it to affect the band’s future. I also
didn’t want to be rear-ended so to speak. I did go to the singer and drummer and tell them about the episode
and was surprised to find out that they were fully aware of what was happening. They all thought that Phil
and I were an item and had almost broken up the band.

All things do come to an end, and Sadge met a girl with whom he fell in love. Her name was Tina and,
of course, she wanted him full time. We became a four-piece with yours truly doing all the vocals. Because
our latest keyboard player, Dennis, looked and played like Alan Price, we played material from Georgie Fame,
The Animals, and other bluesy bands, but I think we were a little too out of the mainstream of pop to become
very popular.

We had parted company with Phil and were like a ship without a rudder. None of us were real hustlers,
although Eddie was good at getting gigs. Morale was low and eventually we decided that we were going
nowhere. It was a sad decision to make, but we decided to call it a day and went our own ways. I kept in touch
11
with Richard and eventually managed to play in the same band as him and Dennis. I was very glad to have
had the experience, but I do not regret the decision.
13
 CHAPTER TWO - I’M IN THE ARMY NOW!
There were very few good bass players around at this time. I think this was mainly because most
aspiring musicians wanted to be stars. This prompted them to either become a lead singer, or, if they couldn’t
sing, become lead guitarist. It usually turns out that, whichever they became, they had the same huge-size
egos.

Not much was known about bass playing, as the bass guitar was a recent introduction. I liked it
because it was so different and I didn’t have the balls at this time to sing lead. You feel very naked out there
without a great big bass guitar to hide behind.

With bass players being so scarce, I was in great demand. I played with any band that hired me
temporarily just for the experience, and the money wasn’t that bad. I really wanted to join a band that played
down-to-earth, blues-based rock. The trouble was, I didn’t know anyone else who did. My social life was
non-existent, as I was shy. That would change!

Playing around, so to speak, eventually brought me in contact with Richard Bennett. I had known of
him earlier because he used to be lead singer of a band called The Satellites. They were from West Drayton,
the town next door to Hayes. Their claim to fame was that they were able to do the song “Telstar” just like
the record.

We had been rivals when I was in The Countdowns. “Rocking Around The Bandstand” was a weekly
happening in Hayes Town Hall Park every Wednesday evening. It eventually lead to the contest I mentioned
earlier with Wainwright’s Gentlemen.

I had seen posters around Hayes announcing, “The Army is Coming.” This had intrigued me and I
wondered what the hell it meant. That was the desired effect, of course, and I was soon to find out what it was
all about. One evening, Richard Bennett knocked on my door. He had to visit because I didn’t have a phone.

He introduced himself and his cousin Alan, and I invited them in. The situation was that he had formed
a seven-piece band and called it The Army. Unfortunately, at that moment, they were only a six-piece because
the bass player had decided not to join forces.

I told them I would think it over for a few days and they left. What a little Prima Donna they must
have thought I was. They had arrived in a sporty M.G. Midget, which really impressed me for some reason.
Their musical style was not my cup of tea, but “soul music” was very much in vogue. One of the biggest bands
in the area was Cliff Bennett and the Rebel Rousers. It amazes me that they are still performing today.

It was while watching the bass player of the Rebel Rousers, Frankie Allen, who later joined The
Searchers, that my playing style changed. Instead of using his thumb to pluck the strings, he used the three
fingers of his right hand. I thought this looked really cool and went home and practiced. It was painful at first,
but I soon mastered it.

At last, I decided to enlist, and started to rehearse in West Drayton. This was not exactly the style I
really wanted to play, as I didn’t like soul music. I had been listening to Cream, Brian Auger’s Trinity, and
the magical Johnny Kidd and the Pirates. I liked gritty-sounding bands, but I thought maybe this would make
a change.

They had a manager called Clem Clemson who was, of course, a raging queen. And guess what? He
fancied me. He had tried to manage The Countdowns a while before, but it was close to when we broke up.
This time, I made it very clear that my sexual orientation was strictly heterosexual and to keep his hands off!
He did, but he always looked at me longingly.

The Army was a really good outfit, but we had no original material and we had to resort to doing other
peoples.’ Our line-up consisted, at first, of John and George on saxes, Tony Tacon on guitar, someone called

14
15
16
Ian on keyboards, me on bass, Alan Bennett on drums, and Richard on lead vocals. Later, we added a trumpet
player named Ron.

We did have some very good times together, and I do cherish those days. One club I especially
remember playing in I think was called “The Dungeon” in Nottingham. The other band on with us was called
John Mayall’s Bluesebreakers. Eric Clapton had just left them and this was the first night with their new
guitarist, Peter Green.

He, of course, later joined Fleetwood Mac, and it was very strange to see how nervous he was. He was
busily practicing in the dressing room. I remember watching their set and thinking to myself that it was
nowhere near as good as the original line-up that I had seen a few years earlier, but John Mayall did still have
magic.

A few months later, when we played the same club, I bought some little yellow pills from some jerk
for a few pounds. They were supposed to be speed, but I think a cup of coffee would have had more effect.
Not long after that, the newspapers reported the club had been raided by police and shut down.

My next taste of speed came from The Birds’ guitarist and both the lead singer and I partook. The
offending little pills were called “French Blues” and were popular at the time. We were doing a double gig at
Aylesbury at 10 p.m. and Tiles in London at one in the morning.

Richard and I both took four each and thought nothing was happening, so we took four more. By the
time we got to the second gig, we couldn’t stop talking and we were both high as kites. The effects at last
wore off the following day and I felt terrible, but it didn’t stop me from doing it again. This was the start of
something bad. Later, a harder sort of so-called “controlled substances” took over, but that would not be for
a few years.

The news of my girlfriend (later wife) Pat’s pregnancy came as a bombshell about now, although we
had been doing it like rabbits. Why it came as a big surprise I don’t know, as nobody had come up with the
phrase “safe sex” yet. Our lovely daughter Lisa, whom Pat named after Elvis Presley’s kid, was born the
following July and she was and still is very beautiful. It did change my life drastically. Soon after, Pat and I
got married and we continued to do it like rabbits. I’m a little surprised that we didn’t have any more kids.

One day, someone in the band had the bright idea of auditioning for “Opportunity Knocks.” I hated
the idea, but everyone thought it was the way to forward the band’s career. I had always detested competitions
of any kind as I knew from past experiences that they could be rigged. This particular show really irked me
and I used to squirm whenever I happened to watch it. The so-called winners never got anywhere after they
had won, but this didn’t deter my fellow members.

We got the summons to audition at Chelsea Barracks one Sunday morning. It was cold and rainy as
we hauled our gear into the huge room. Mr. Hughie Green, who was the normally very cheery host, was
anything but. I know he was giving up his Sunday eggs and bacon, but at least he was getting paid. He
scowled at us as we performed “You Don’t Know Like I Know,” but asked us to do another. The acoustics,
of course, were awful, but he seemed to like us.

17
 CHAPTER THREE - A SWEET DREAM
I never found out if we passed the test and around this time we did a gig at Ealing Townhall. There
were many other bands on the same bill including a blast from the past. You guessed it: Wainwright’s
Gentlemen. By this time, I had managed to enroll two of my former bandmembers, Richard and Dennis, into
the band. We also had a female dancer called Anita. It was all getting a bit silly.

Wainwright’s had two lead singers, one male and one female. Her name was Ann, and she had a very
low voice, and the other one looked a lot like Brian Jones. Of course it was Brian Connolly. The guitarist was
the original one from the contest days. He was excellent, but, unfortunately, suffered from a disease which
causes hair loss, and, therefore, wore an obvious wig. The drummer looked very pretty with a pink scarf and
bright green silk shirt. I thought he looked like a poof. Of course it was Mick Tucker.

After we had played our respective sets, Brian and Mick came over to me in the bar for a chat. It seems
that there was a certain amount of unrest in the band and that they were about to throw Mick out for some
reason. As Brian was a very good friend of his, he said that he would leave also. Little did Mick know that
they had already decided to kick him out!

I had completely forgotten our conversation and it came as a complete surprise when I received a
telephone call at work. It was Brian, asking me if I was interested in forming a four-piece band with himself
and Mick. Money goes a lot further between four than it does eight, I thought, and I told him that maybe we
should meet and talk about it. By this time, I had passed my driving test and owned a very old and rusty Austin
A40. Finding the gears on the column gear shift was like stirring a bowl of porridge. Its front shock absorbers
didn’t work, so it sort of bounced down the road. I had bought this old heap from someone I vaguely knew,
but whose sister Leslie I knew intimately more than once as often and in as many ways as possible. Later, she
became so notorious for her way-out sexual conduct that she was thrown out of Greece and told never to return.
She was amazing in the sack though, and she taught me quite a few little tricks that I used time and time again.

As I was now mobile, Brian suggested that we all meet at a school in Ruislip with our own equipment
and there I would meet Mick’s old school friend Frank Torpey. I loaded my very heavy homemade
four-by-twelve into the boot of my car and off I bounced to meet my destiny. It was a Tuesday evening
sometime in the middle of 1967 and, to tell the truth, I was quite nervous about playing with someone I had
never met. Frank struck me as a very friendly sort and easy to get along with, although a little intense.

He had managed to master the art of playing octaves, which I found very novel at first, but it soon
became a bit boring. Luckily, he could play other styles also, so we weren’t limited to playing “Eight Miles
High” all night. Frank played a custom Les Paul with three gold-plated pickups. He had an old Vox AC 30
that had definitely seen better days. The front cloth was hanging off, revealing the remains of two twelve inch
speakers.

There was not much left of the speaker cones, but much to everyone’s surprise, it sounded absolutely
tremendous. At least I thought so then; I think my opinion may be different now. Brian had the P.A. system
from his old band that was a Sound City amp and two Marshall column speakers. He assured me that it was
he who had purchased this stuff. I was not going to argue as I didn’t want to have to buy any more gear than
necessary.

Mick had a great set of Ludwig drums in a pearl grey and I had never heard anything quite so loud. I
wished that I had twice the amplification that I had. Of course, that would come later a long way down the
road. We tuned up and started playing “Stormy Monday,” a twelve-bar blues song that everyone knew
because it was a good stand-by if you ran out of songs. It was also possible to play it if you were either drunk
or asleep or both. That we all started and finished simultaneously was, I thought, a great achievement. It was
then that the original Sweet was born.

Frank lived in the glorious suburb of Kilburn in northwest London. This area was and still is very Irish,
which was fine, as Frank had an Irish father who was a great character. His mum was really wonderful too

18
and always made us welcome whenever we visited the flat. We started rehearsing there for a couple of weeks
and wrote some songs, but it was a little hard on his parents.

Brian lived in a little village called Harefield just north of Uxbridge. He never really knew who his
real parents were, as he had been abandoned at a hospital in Glasgow shortly after his birth. He had foster
parents as I have already mentioned and was using their name of McManus. Ruislip was Mick’s hometown
where he lived with his mum and dad. This was quite close to me and consequently we began to hang around
with each other quite a bit.

We found a small Church Hall in North Harrow that we nicknamed Joe’s, mainly because that was the
name of the janitor who ran the place. It cost us two pounds a night and we rehearsed there two or three times
a week. Our choice of material was very diverse, and a bit strange, including hits like “Give Me Some Kind
Of Sign Girl,” to obscure songs like “You Got Your Finger In My Eye.” Nobody had ever heard of the latter
but it always went down well when we eventually did play it in public. It was the first song that I sang solo
but definitely not my last. I would always sing the more soulful songs only because I felt more comfortable
with them than Brian did.

We had to choose a name, and, if any of you have ever tried this, you will know that it is an agonizing
process. Having already agreed that the sound of the band should have a really meaty and dirty instrumental
sound fronted by strong, three-part harmonies, a name did not spring quickly to mind.

It was an important decision to make we all knew, and that only made it harder. Many ideas were
bandied about, most of which I have gratefully forgotten. Brian even came up with a word not yet invented
which he was sure meant “harmony,” but it wasn’t in the dictionary we looked at. He often invented words,
one of which I still use.

One day, I asked him about a contract from our agent confirming a gig and he told me that it had not
yet been “defined.” It did make sense to me at the time, and I sometimes still use it myself in jest.

There were many bands around at this time that had silly names like Marmalade, Strawberry Jam or
Strawberry Alarm Clock, and so we managed to come up with a silly name too. We thought that Sweet Shop
would do it. Unfortunately, someone that Brian and Mick knew thought that it was a good name too.

This fellow’s name was Mark Wirts and he released a song called “Barefoot and Tiptoe” by a band that
he named The Sweetshop. It was their only release, but as the name was registered, we couldn’t use it. As
we were almost ready to start playing real gigs, we settled with The Sweet and put up with much aggravation
for it. We should have called ourselves “Sweat Shop”!

Our repertoire was gradually growing, and so Brian, in his infinite wisdom, managed to bullshit his
way into booking us into Hemel Hempstead Pavilion just northeast of London. Realizing of course that we
only had enough songs to do twenty minutes, we went ahead and agreed to do it. We also had to agree to do
two sets, but the allure of the £20 fee was too strong for us to refuse. We were all dreading that night in
February 1968 and hoped it would never come.

Working at an auto electrician’s was getting me very pissed off. One day, I was polishing a part of an
electric motor on a lathe. The emery paper I was using suddenly got caught and wrapped around my thumb
and ripped my nail half off. I ran into the office to announce this momentous occurrence, and the next thing
I knew I was waking up with my head on the desk saying, “Where am I?” Isn’t that expression only used in
the movies?

They put me in an ambulance and took me to the local hospital and had the nail surgically removed.
This, of course, was one week before our impending gig. I had to play with a great big bandage around my
thumb, and I was in a great deal of pain.

When the great day did finally arrive, we hadn’t really decided in what direction our image should take.
We had not really known each other very long and hadn’t discussed things much. We finally agreed to differ

19
on any ideas that anyone had and wore exactly what we wanted. Our stage clothes ranged from the sublime
to the ridiculous.

I wore a caftan with beads and no shoes. Frank wore jeans and looked like a builder. He didn’t like
the idea of stage clothes. Mick and Brian wore frilly shirts with chiffon scarves. They both looked like a
couple of tarts. Later, we decided that we should have some sort of common stage attire, but we couldn’t
afford that yet. I was unable to buy a decent pair of boots.

The Pavilion at Hemel Hempstead was a popular venue. We had all played there before in different
bands. When I had played there one time with The Army, there had been televised wrestling in the afternoon.
I had never realized how phony that sport was until actually seeing it. I’m sure it would not pay to argue with
one of the participants. Years later, I was surprised to see how we influenced the “sport” when wrestlers like
Jackie Pallo would wear makeup and act really camp, just like us!

Apart from no official stage clothes, we also had no transportation. I had to put my one speaker cabinet
in the back of my poor old Austin and bounce my way there. Although I had built the amplifier and cabinet
myself while in The Countdowns, they still worked and sounded great. My guitar was a Gibson EBO, which
was famous for blowing speakers because of its short scale and low frequencies. I had bought it at Jim
Marshall’s for the princely sum of ninety pounds. That was a fortune to me at the time.

Both Mick and Brian had cute little mini-vans. Mick’s was dark green with the registration “LUV 2D.”
It made it look like he charged little for sexual favours when, in fact, he came absolutely free! Brian’s van
was not in such good condition and tended to break down now and again.

When we all eventually arrived, one of Mick’s good friends, Tony Kilbride, and our road manager, Ray
Ward helped us load the stuff onto the stage. We then went to the dressing room, which was quite plush. We
would see many more that were not. Mick and I then mixed a horrible cocktail nicknamed “The Benny Buzz.”
This consisted of the contents of a Benadryl inhaler and Coca Cola in a glass. It tasted simply horrible. The
effect was really astounding as the inhaler contained benzocaine. This was used during the war to keep
commandoes on special operations awake. As we already were, the feeling was astounding. Our eyes became
as large as saucers and we started babbling to each other and anything around us. By the time we got to the
second set, the two of us were playing so fast the others had a job keeping up. The set, which should have
been thirty minutes, lasted twenty.

We seemed to go down well with the predominantly female audience. The males in the hall thought
we looked like a load of poofs. The manager thought that we were good enough to make a return visit,
although he did warn us that, the next time, he would require forty-five minutes a set. This would require more
rehearsals, of course, but at least we had made a start.

It was now time to start thinking professionally about the future. We were very young and unsure how
to proceed. The first thing we had to deal with was our stage appearance. Some girlfriends of Mick
volunteered their services as seamstresses. We all went and picked out material for our outfits. I chose some
curtain fabric that was thick and heavy. It was also orange. Totally unsuitable for stage attire, but it matched
my hair.

The trousers had twenty-two inch bellbottoms. I must have looked ridiculous. My shirt had huge
shoulders and a big frill down the front just to add insult to injury. The others didn’t look much better,
although their choices of colour were less garish. Frank’s pants were blue with a white shirt. Brian wore lime
green and Mick was in turquoise. At least the look was original. Stupid, but original.

With our careers off to a shaky but enthusiastic start, we rehearsed more material until we had enough
repertoire to play two whole sets of around forty minutes. Mick’s local was a pub called The Clay Pigeon,
and as he was a regular customer, he knew the owner very well. He booked bands to play there every
Wednesday night and Mick got us a gig.

The normal attire of the patrons of this hell hole then was normally leather biker-type jackets and jeans.
Try to imagine the surprise on all these people’s faces when four effeminate young lads dressed up like
20
 Christmas trees walked on the stage. They were even more shocked when they realized that not only were we
very loud, but also quite good. They liked us so much, in fact, that we started playing there every Sunday
evening.

We managed to get booked at a lot of pubs in the area and started getting a real following. Our stage
attire had to change, because they were like wearing saunas. I bought some women’s boots as they didn’t
make men’s that looked as good. They cost a huge £8, which was a fortune to me then. My curtain shirt was
changed to silk and was much cooler. The trousers remained for a while as I had run out of money. We all
had taken to wearing chiffon scarves except Frank, who didn’t like the poofy look.

Brian was, at this time, acquainted with a good-looking young man called Paul Bueselinck. He later
changed that to Paul Nicholas and went on to star in the stage version of “Hair.’ He was working for a
publishing company in London called Mellin Music. They had a song that they wanted to release but didn’t
have the appropriate artist to sing it. He was also working with our old friend Phil Wainman, and they both
thought that we would be just right for the job. Both Paul and Phil came down to the rehearsal room and Paul
sang us the song with an acoustic guitar. It was called “Slow Motion” and didn’t sound half bad.

Phil brought in a pianist who was also an arranger. We kicked the song around, and, after some
arguments, it sounded really good—or at least we thought so. One of Phil’s favourite expressions was “Play
it safe.” He would never try anything to daring. Paul wanted to produce us, but because we didn’t know
enough about recording techniques, he agreed to co-produce with Phil. The session went well, except that as
I now owned a Danelectro bass, getting a good sound was difficult. Paul made Brian sing just the way he
wound have sung it himself and, consequently, it didn’t sound like Brian at all. This happened again later with
another producer and it drove me wild. I thought that Brian should be left alone and allowed to sing a song
the way he heard it.

The “B” side was written by Mellin’s son or nephew or something, and the only way we were to have
the “A” side was to use this awful song too. Frank couldn’t, or wouldn’t sing, so we only had three-part
harmonies that I used to try and arrange just for the sake of fattening up the sound. I used to put a lower
harmony on also. We did have our own stuff to record, but, unfortunately, we weren’t well versed in the art
of making publishing money. Believe me, there were many who did, and we met most of them later.

The single was eventually released and it received absolutely no airplay at all. The only way we could
get played on the BBC was to go and do a three-hour session for the at the Aolean Hall studio in London.
They would only accept new bands based on an audition, but Phil Wainman gave such a glowing account of
how good we were, they just let us do the show.

They let Phil sit in the control box with the BBC house engineer, who looked very miserable and the
torture commenced. First of all, Frank seemed to have contracted a not-too-rare disease in those days called
“tune-up-it is.” He could absolutely not get in tune at all. Whatever note our patient stand-in piano player gave
him did not seem to aid him in his plight on iota.

As these sessions were limited to three hours, due to Musician’s Union Rules, the meter was ticking
loud and fast and still no tune was in sight. Finally, he almost had it right when one of the tiny screws in his
machine heads fell out and rolled across the dimly-lit stage. Up in the studio control room, pandemonium
broke out with poor old Phil taking the brunt of the abuse. Luckily, before fists were flung, up-to-now very
quite and polite ivory-tickler let out a huge yell that he had found the offending screw.

This, of course, poured a little oil on troubled tempers, but we only had two hours left to record, finish
and mix five songs. Fat chance. Of course it was, but we did manage to do three, including the single, the B
side, and one of ours called “Too Late Early In The Morning.” The idea was to have a different song on each
working day. The only advantage in not finishing was that they had to play the single twice in one week. We
used that trick a few times after that on various shows.

“Slow Motion” turned out to be very aptly named, because it went nowhere fast. One thrill we did get
was when we were doing a photo shoot in some dingy little studio. We only knew roughly when they would

21
play us on the radio, so we recorded the whole of the Pete Murry show. It is exhilarating to hear yourself for
the first time on radio. When the song had finished, Pete said, “I like the lead singers’ voice on this.” All
during the photo session, we would see Brian creep away, and then we would hear, “I like the lead singer’s
voice on this” over and over again. I bet Brian still has that cassette.

We went on to do many demo tapes for Mellin Music after that. Phil would use us as session musicians
on many dreadful songs. Robert Mellin went on to release some of these under the name Sweet, even though
we had been paid a fee and he had no right to. It would appear that this sort of thing happens a lot in the music
business. The one good thing these sessions did do was to get us enough money together to buy a van.

22
 CHAPTER FOUR - MAGIC BUSES
It was getting tedious not having adequate transportation. There was always a good chance of one or
more of us breaking down on the way to a gig. Mick had seen a Ford van for sale nearby and we decided to
buy it. It was fire engine red with a white stripe down the side. They wanted one hundred and forty pounds
for it. With the money from the sessions and gigs, we had managed to save enough.

There were rows of seats down each side, so it had probably been used as a work bus. We took it round
to Mick’s sister’s house and, with the help of Colin, Mick’s brother-in-law, we promptly removed them. I
don’t remember what mileage was on the clock, but we decided that it was sound transportation. We were to
put many more miles on it.

It was quite a reliable van considering its age, and we did many uncomfortable hours in it. The
accelerator used to stick down which annoyed our driver, “Little Ray,” who used to get mad and yell, “This
fucking iggzilerator!” One night, while driving back from the north of England, we all heard a noise coming
from one of the front wheels. After dropping everybody off, while in Pinner High Street, I told Ray to pull
over because the sound was deafening. After I jacked the front up, the front wheel came off the axle and fell
onto the road. If we had continued, there may well have been a fatal accident. Maybe I do have a guardian
angel. Unfortunately for Ray, he didn’t, and later in life, his luck ran out.

After a year and many miles on the road, I decided that the van should be washed. I brought it home
and got out the bucket. Down one side of the van was a large, wedge-shaped mark just below a sliding
window, which consisted of several layers of throw up. Every time we did a gig where there was free booze,
one or more of us would go overboard and drink ourselves silly. As nobody would stop for them to empty
their stomach, the poor slob had to stick his head out the window and divest himself of his ill-gotten gains. I
thought it would wash off, but the acidity of the spew had burned the paint off!

All repairs to the bus were very cheap at the time. If ever anything electronic went wrong, I could
repair it. Brian worked at a carpet shop part time, and the owner owned a Ford Thames van the same as ours.
When out delivering carpets, Brian would drive to my place, where I would remove the broken part from our
van and replace it with a good part from the firm’s van. We did this a few times and I know Brian’s boss was
very suspicious.

Our transportation changed many times. After the red Ford, we had a blue Ford slightly bigger and
newer. After we thrashed the balls out of that, we bought an even bigger Ford Transit thirty-five hundred
weight. This was the height of luxury in those days. It had aircraft seats and it felt like home.

This van went all over Britain and Europe. The only time it really broke down was when I happened
to be driving. The rest of the band had gone up to Chester in the group’s car, a big old Rover. I wanted to
leave at a different time, as usual, and decided to go with the gear. We had a roadie named “Baloo” after the
bear in “Jungle Book.” I liked to drive then and we were doing about eighty miles an hour on the M6, when
there was a huge bang from somewhere around the gear box.

I immediately pulled over to the side and we both peered under the hood and scratched our heads like
you are supposed to. There was nothing obviously wrong, so we climbed back in and tried to pull away.
Nothing happened. I put it into second gear. Still nothing. There were only two gears left, so I tried third,
and, luckily for us, we started to move. It seemed that we only had two gears that worked. We decided to
continue our journey, although there was a terrible clanking sound coming from the gear-box. The gig had
only one access in and the van had to be backed in. As the reverse gear had gone too, we had to get out and
push. How embarrassing.

A year earlier, we had a two week residency at the “Blue Lagoon,” at Newquay in Cornwall. Little
Ray Ward had been recruited to be our tour manager, and off we went like school kids without their parents.
Ray drove our little red van like a maniac through the night so that we didn’t have to pay to stay somewhere.

23
 I had a raging toothache and was in agony. We arrived in the early hours of the morning, looking like
gypsies, at the appropriate caravan that the club had rented for us. The manager of the park of course wasn’t
there, so we slept in the van until dawn.

When we awoke from our gentle slumbers, smelling like roses, we could see the full extent of the
highly salubrious surroundings. The words from a Monty Python tune comes to mind: “As much imagination
as a caravan site.” Still, we were away from our mums and dads and, hopefully, we were here to earn money,
drink lots of beer, and screw young girls.

This part of southwest England is known as “The Cornish Riviera.” I can almost see why, because
there are palm trees and the climate is very warm. It is a beautiful part of the country, however, and, apart
from my nagging toothache, I was very happy to be here. The first thing I did was find a dentist and get rid
of the bad tooth.

I found one who, of course, could not see me until the following day. They do that, I think, so that you
appreciate them more when you do get in their chair. Some pain killers were found and off we went to the
Blue Lagoon. It was a nice club, particularly as we were used to little hovels. After we set the gear up, instead
of doing a rehearsal, we went to the beach.

Frank lay on his back with just his trousers on and fell asleep. Bad mistake, because he woke up as
red as a newly boiled lobster. He said that nothing hurt, and we didn’t believe him. Luckily, we didn’t have
to play that night, so he did have time to recover. It must have been agony for him to put that guitar strap on
his bright red shoulders the following evening.

I went to the dentist the following day, and not only did he pull one tooth, in the usual British tradition
of dentistry, he yanked out three. I was fine until the drugs wore off, and someone we had just met suggested
that I should drink some brandy. It must have sounded like an excellent suggestion, because I drank nearly
half a bottle. Believe me, it worked.

We had a two-week residency here, and we were going to make the most of it. Luckily, the weather
was, for England, very hot and, during the day we worked on our suntans (except Brian who was whiter than
a sheet), not our playing. We never liked to rehearse.

We met lots of girls there and had many sexual encounters. The caravan was rocking in one direction
or another most of the time. Since we were sharing beds, Little Ray often got the wet side of ours, because I
didn’t want another kid.

The one night that really stands out was when some of Mick’s friends came down to see him and watch
us play. During one of our breaks, we all went outside to have a beer and relax. One of these young men that
I had just met started to roll a thick-looking cigarette. He lit it and offered it to me. Being “Mr. No Brain,” I
took a great big drag of it. The whole world took on a different meaning after that, and I didn’t know what
had hit me.

Mick, apparently, was feeling the same way, and when we went on to do a second set, it turned into a
small disaster. In one number (“N.S.U.” by Cream), I decided that the end came roughly in the middle of the
second chorus. I stopped playing and sat on Mick’s bass drum and giggled. Mick thought it was funny too,
because he was on a different planet with me. The others in the band didn’t quite see the humour in it, and
this was the first and last time I ever smoked hashish while working. I hated the effect and could easily see
why it was called “dope.”

We met two great girls called Jill and Cathy. They were down there on holiday looking for boys, booze
and sun. Jill eventually came to my rescue often during my very bad marriage. She had a progressive attitude
toward sex and would try just about anything. Luckily, I had a great imagination and she and I did things that
made The Kama Sutra look like Tommy the Tank Engine.

All things end, however, and, after two glorious weeks of sun, sand and outrageous sex, we had to go
home. Our next outing was to be a great mistake.
24
 CHAPTER FIVE -THE PAPER WHO?
Our agent contacted us to back a trio of young ladies calling themselves “The Paper Dolls.” They had
a record in the charts called “Something Here In My Heart,” and we had to learn that and all the rest of their
repertoire before we even started to rehearse with Their Ladyships.

I had seen them on the TV, and they looked like go-go dancers with short skirts and obvious, curly
wigs. When we met them at the studio in London, they appeared as perfectly normal young ladies, except
Tyger, the lead singer, who had a very bad attitude. Spider and Copper were the other two, and seemed pretty
down to earth.

This whole thing was a completely new experience for me. I thought that show business was putting
on a guitar and playing in front of a load of drunks. Here we were in a professional rehearsal studio with three
young ladies who had a record in the charts. It was frightening. We started to play the songs we had sat down
and learned the previous weeks.

Some of the songs were already in our repertoire; things like “There Ain’t Nothing Like a House Party,”
and other jaunty ditties. Tyger really thought she was the bee’s knees. She treated us like hired hands, which,
of course, we were. I thought we should have been treated like stars as I knew we were destined to become
just that. She would do demeaning things like click her fingers behind her back to speed up the tempo. I know
it doesn’t sound like much, but it soon gets to you.

They had a three week booking at Birmingham’s glorious “Dolce Vita” cabaret club. The one
advantage of being in the same place for three weeks is that the gear stays put. This was anything but the good
life I think bit a gig’s a gig. We would open the show with our own half hour spot followed by the wonderful
trio whom we had recently named “The Paper Bags.”

Brian felt like a spare prick at a wedding while we backed our employers on stage, so he would stand
there with a guitar round his neck and pretend he was playing. This was great until, one night, he didn’t realize
that not only was the guitar plugged in, it was also turned on.

Cheerfully oblivious to this fact, Brian continued strumming away, making the most hideous noise all
the way through the set. Naturally, our bewigged divas were not amused and, shortly afterwards, we received
our marching orders. This may have also had something to do with the fact that we were going down a good
deal better with the audience than they were, but of course, I could be wrong.

Our last gig with them was in Scarborough and, after the show, Little Ray, who had a shadowy past,
discovered how to empty the cigarette machines. We must have been nuts, because the owners of the club,
who were probably mob-related, were still in their office counting the evening’s spoils. Not only did we
empty the machines, we also ripped off the bar. Taking many bottles of various brands of booze, we retired
to our Spartan rooms and got horribly drunk as skunks. I still remember waking up in the dark having no idea
where the bathroom was and having to relieve myself in the sink.

Although this may sound terrible, it in no way compares with one of Brian’s habits of sleepwalking
and taking a leak wherever he considered the bathroom to be. Once I woke up to find a pool of water by the
side of my bed right next to an electric radiator. “Little Willy” would have taken on a new meaning. We
stayed quite often in a rooming house that we had nicknamed “The Irish Embassy” in honour of all the Irish
truck drivers. One night, Brian sleepwalked into someone’s room and pissed on the inmate’s head. What a
rude awakening that must have been.

A few years later, while touring the southwest of England, we saw that our lady friends were doing a
gig at what was known as “Bodmin Jail.” Aptly named, I’m sure, as it was a bit like a dungeon. We didn’t
get there in time to see the show, more by design than accident. We met them in the bar and bought them a
drink. They had had little success since we last saw them and were not too well off. Mick Tucker paid for the
drinks in his usual subtle way. He pulled out a wad of bills that looked huge and purposely waved it under

25
Tyger’s nose. “You flash bastard,” was all that she could say, and I knew Mick had scored a retaliatory blow
for man.

We spent a lot of time in the north of England around Manchester, Sheffield and Warrington. When
we played the Red Lion, we always preferred to stay there rather than over the street at The Irish Embassy bed
and breakfast. On one of the occasions, Mick and I were allowed to stay in one of the bars of the Red Lion
because all of the rooms were full. The bar itself was locked up with a grill all the way around it.

This would not deter us. Mick, who liked to be stark naked and was, managed to squeeze himself
between the bars and a window. If anyone outside happened to be looking, they would have had an eyeful of
his bare butt. He then opened the bar door to let yours truly in.

I’m surprised we didn’t kill ourselves with what we imbibed. At one point, Mick filled a glass with a
sample from every bottle of spirits. He then added a drop or two of orange and bade me drink it. I did, and it
wasn’t as bad as I thought. Luckily, I was sitting down, as eventually it had a negative effect on my
equilibrium. It was a night not to be forgotten.

During one of our many appearances that was in Warrington, our support band happened to be playing
Ska, which I personally thought was bone head crap. They had a holier-than-thou attitude and left their stuff
in front of us while we played. Brian got so pissed off with this that he eventually said, “Would the other band
please get this shit off the stage?” We nearly got killed.

On another occasion, at the Red Lion, we came across the band that would be, I think, one of our
biggest influences. They had only just formed and their first single, “Hush,” had made the charts in America.

They were, of course, Deep Purple, and we became very good friends with them. I had never seen so
much hair dye and hair spray in one dressing room. The only one who looked normal was Jon Lord, who is
one of the nicest people I have met in show business. When they went on stage, they went down like a lead
balloon. This was due mainly to the fact that the audience consisted mainly of skinheads who had as much
finesse as a mallet. We followed them and didn’t do much better. We managed to finish our set, however,
and didn’t get booed off.

I was very impressed with the band. They were both professional and competent musically and exuded
confidence. I was familiar with all of the members from one band or another. I had heard Jon Lord practicing
with his band The Artwoods a few years earlier. They rehearsed just down the road from where I lived. It
was behind the old United Dairies building in Hayes End. I don’t know if they did any live gigs though. Art
Wood, after whom the band was obviously named, is the brother of the famous Ronnie Wood. Not a lot of
people know that!

Both the drummer, Ian Paice, and singer, Rod Evans, were from a band called The Maiz, with whom
we shared a gig when I was in The Army. The bass player, Nick Simper, came from Hayes, and had been
“flavour of the month” in our area for a while. He eventually got the bass player’s disease of drinking too much
and was ejected from the band. I think it was a slightly different problem with Rod, but the outcome was the
same. They were, of course, replaced by Gillian and Glover.

The guitarist was the even-then legendary Ritchie Blackmore. He had been with many almost-famous
bands, including the outrageous Screaming Lord Sutch. He had played the Star Club in Hamburg, which gave
him a reputation because the Beatles had played there too.

As we were sharing dressing rooms, we had a good chat over a few beers after the show. I was
surprised that Blackmore was so offhand with the way the audience had reacted. He really could not have
cared less. The band had been put together as a business venture by some people with money. This included
Chris Curtis of The Searchers, who eventually went round the bend. This was their second gig together, and
the idea was to hone the act in preparation for an extensive American tour.

To say that this band influenced us would be a huge understatement. At least it was a positive force,
except for one aspect. From the first time we saw them, Mick decided that he and Paice were in competition.
26
In my eyes, this was a mistake. I think that it is good to emulate someone, but you should develop your own
style and not just copy. I’m not saying that Mick is not unique, but he expended a lot of energy trying to play
the same as Ian. He didn’t have to, as he is a good drummer in his own right.

We all became good friends over the next few years and would frequently meet them on the road. In
England, we would always bump into them and many other bands at the famous Blue Boar Inn on the M1
motorway. This was a service area that was always open. I have no idea what the food did to our insides, but
at two in the morning, there was no choice. When they became huge in Germany, we would try and catch
their show whenever we could.

The most unusual setting in which we saw them was Oxford. It was some type of festival and we had
a gig at some youth club or other. Brian had spoken with them during the day, and they invited us to stop by
when we had finished. When we eventually arrived there, I was taken aback by the unusual line-up of acts.
Deep Purple was in one hall, Soft Machine in another, and some Jamaican geezer singing “It Mek” (whatever
the hell that means). The latter had an audience of young men with bald heads. It surely was a strange mix
of music.

The skinhead problem was one that we often came across. They were generally thicker than two short
planks and loved reggae music. I think you had to be a bit dim to like that style of music, but to each his own.
We used to get by because we were doing a load of Tamla Motown songs in the set and you could dance to it.
When it got to a more rock style, they hated it. That was their problem.

Our agent was based in Southend and so a good deal of our gigs were youth clubs in East Anglia. This
included Margate’s Winterland. We always had wonderful sexual encounters of the most unusual kind. Once,
we walked into the dressing room and it was filled with girls. All of them were wearing black leather with
suspender belts and stockings. We almost had heart attacks. Of course, a good time was had by all after that
show and, although we could have driven home, we decided to stay the night.

The girl I was with was dressed like a whore. I think it was her intention because she found her way
into my bed with her stockings, garter belt and nippleless bra. She had no end of ideas and we implemented
them for hours. She could do things with a vibrator that made my hair curl.

There was one girl that was always there called Sheila. If we decided not to stay the night, she would
be in the back of the van like a rocket after the show. I can still remember once where she was stark naked
with all four of us doing various things to different parts of her anatomy. She suddenly exclaimed, “If my
boyfriend could see me now, he’d fucking kill me!” Of course, that cracked us all up and stayed in our
vocabulary forever.

We were never hard up for female companionship. Margate always supplied us with a plethora. Most
of the resorts around are the same in that respect, however. We all had a girl in every port which was always
something to look forward to.

I had one girl down in Weymouth who was always game for anything. She liked to give me a blow
job usually, but one night, I was gasping for a fuck. I had loaded my gear in the van and, while the rest was
being loaded, I took her out the back and into a doorway. I had the proverbial “knee trembler,” which took a
bit longer than anticipated. The rest of the lads were yelling at me to get in the van. They all laughed
hilariously when I replied in a tremulous voice, “I’m just coming!”

There were a few times that a sixteen year old girl would promise her virginity to me. One time, while
rehearsing at Pinewood studios, a young lady who we had known awhile announced that it was her sixteenth
birthday. While we took a break, she came over to me and asked if we could go somewhere private. She said
she had something to tell me, so we found an empty storage room.

Once inside, she told me that she had been a fan for years. She said every time she had seen me on
television it had made her horny. She always watched naked so she could play with herself. I was taken a
little by surprise, but then she went on to tell me that she had vowed to lose her virginity to me. Apparently,

27
she had been planning to get to me for years. I told her that I was very flattered, but that the honour was too
great. She wasn’t after honour and told me to close my eyes.

I always do what I’m told by horny young girls, and quickly complied. When she told me I could look,
she was completely naked. I nearly had a coronary. She had a beautiful body and any thoughts of chivalry
went hurtling out the window. She had made up her mind what she wanted, and who was I to deprive her of
victory?

Not really knowing what to do, I followed my instincts. She undressed me and she was astonished at
how aroused I was. So was I. We had to do it standing up and it was a bit awkward. At last, she gasped with
pain and pleasure as I eventually entered her and the deed was done. We proceeded to copulate for over an
hour before the other members wanted to continue with the rehearsal. Selfish bastards!

We made love many times in different places after that, and I showed her many of my party tricks and
she was an avid learner. It was pure unadulterated lust on both our parts and we knew it. At least it was an
honest relationship.

This scenario was repeated again in Sheffield, where another young lady came to my hotel room after
a show we had done. She was very attractive, and announced that all she wanted was an autograph. I invited
her in and she sat on the bed. I asked her how old she was and she proudly told me that it was her sixteenth
birthday.

I believed her, of course, and asked her if there was anything she wanted as a present. Her reply was
visual, not verbal. She just undressed in front of me. She took some string out of her bag and told me to tie
her hands and feet to the bed. How could I say no?

After complying with her request to deflower her, she begged me to do the same with other parts of her
body. She was like an animal and I didn’t think I would have the energy to keep up. Just one look at her naked
form was all that was needed to spur me on. Those were the days!

We were playing in a place called Walsall near Birmingham. It was a pub gig and so we arrived early.
Sitting at a table, rolling a cigarette, was a young man who was living in a room upstairs. After we had set up
our gear, we eventually started a conversation with him. He had a very heavy Brummy accent with a bit of
an attitude. He informed us that he was a singer and was going down to “The Smoke” (a Northerner’s
expression for London) to join a band. He said his name was Robert , which I thought wasn’t very rock and
rollish.

A few months later, while we were taking a break from recording at a studio in Denmark Street, we
walked into La Gioconda restaurant and there was Robert. I was surprised he remembered us. He informed
us that he had met this bloke called Jimmy Page, and together they were going to form a band.

Having heard of Mr. Page, who had a dubious reputation, we took it all in with a large pinch of salt.
Imagine our surprise when their first album came out and hurtled into the charts. Of course, the funniest part
about their success was that they never had a single released. When asked to go on the Top Of The Pops, they
out and out refused and were told that they could never make it until they did. They must still be earning
money from T.O.T.P. for using their song as the theme tune. He who laughs last!

The next time our paths crossed was on a plane to Glasgow. By this time, they were huge around the
world. Their manager, Peter Grant, was with them, and he was huge around the waist. We had had a few hits
by then, but they had monumental album sales all over.

I met Jimmy not so long ago when he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. We chatted
for a while, and he did remember the plane ride. I was surprised. The only time I have ever seen Zep on stage
was in 1975 at the Earl’s Court Arena. I don’t think I had heard anything so loud. They were brilliant. When
they did “Trampled Underfoot,” I thought the place would collapse. Everyone in the place just stomped their
feet in time. It would have made a storm trooper proud.

28
 CHAPTER SIX -A TALE OF TWO BOTTLES
I think some people do have guardian angels. One of these people was definitely Frank Torpey. We
had just dropped him off at his flat early one Sunday morning and were driving through Cricklewood
Broadway. We spotted a whole load of milk bottles neatly stacked in their crates. It seemed too good to be
true, so we stopped to take a couple.

This was not the first time this had happened, apparently, because we were immediately stopped by
two coppers in a little mini van. They arrested us and made us follow them to Willesden Green Police Station.
They left us sitting there for ages while they searched the van. I should imagine that they were searching for
drugs, but they definitely didn’t find any. What they did come in with were a couple of pieces of pipe that we
had shoved in a roof bracket a few months before.

We had put them there because there was a chance of a gig in Glasgow, and with all the gang violence
there, we thought we needed some form of defense. When the policeman came in with them, my heart fell.
It fell even further when, in reply to the question, “What are these for?” Brian quickly replied, “Oh, they are
for hitting people over the heads with.” This was before they had read our rights to us and if we had a lawyer
present, we may well have gotten off with a warning.

This was not so, and we were charged with stealing and carrying offensive weapons. They took us to
separate cells and, in the morning, gave us two poached eggs on toast. We were then taken straight to the
Magistrate’s Court and put in the cells underneath. We had not even been allowed to wash or comb our hair.
As it had been so late in the club, we had not changed out of our stage clothes.

We must have looked a sorry sight when we were taken up the stairs, straight into the Defendant’s box.
The Magistrate looked at us in absolute horror. The charges were read and we were asked if we had anything
to say in our defense. It is very difficult to think clearly under these circumstances and we all muttered that
we were very sorry and we wouldn’t do it again.

The Magistrate, whose name I won’t mention, mainly because I’ve forgotten it, had a reputation of
being a “hanging judge,” a fact eagerly pointed out by the nasty pieces of work that masqueraded as our police.
The man in the next cell to us had kept shouting encouragement to us, including such gems as “Have a go,
have a fucking go!” Sterling advice, I am sure, but when you are nineteen and never been in any trouble, it
could have lead us further into the proverbial shit. Anyway, at last we were let go, after a heavy fine and a
promise to keep the peace.

This farce didn’t end there, of course. After retrieving our van from the police parking lot, we hadn’t
gone a mile when the engine cut out. As our van was a Thames, the engine was inside under a cover. When
we opened this up clearly, there was water everywhere.

Eventually, a tow truck came along and took it and us to a back street repair shop and we went to get
some breakfast. A few hours later, the mechanic informed us that he had to remove the fuel tank and take out
a whole load of water soaked rags that our friendly boys in blue had jovially shoved in there.

The only good thing I could see about the whole situation was that if we had been a black band, we
would probably still be inside. I did have to return to appear in front of the same Magistrate a few weeks later,
because I didn’t have enough money to pay the fine. By then, I had a hair cut, and put on a suit and looked
quite normal. The Beak had a totally different attitude with me this time and almost happily gave me time to
pay.

This whole incident gave me a whole different insight as to how so-called law and order is supposedly
maintained. It also showed how a good education is essential for a decent life, and that you don’t need one
for the police force!

Frank had a very lovely girlfriend, Janet, and maybe she was his guardian angel. He also had a flat
that he was trying to buy. They were planning on getting married. Our weekly earnings by this time were

29
almost fifteen pounds a week, which would barely keep a sparrow in food. This was not the way Frank
envisioned starting out in married life so, unfortunately, he decided to leave the band. This, of course, left us
with the unenviable task of finding a new lead guitarist.

30
 CHAPTER SEVEN - THE TREK TO ROME
We soon found out that it wasn’t as easy as it sounds. Brian approached an old friend of his, Gordon
Fairminer, who sounded quite enthusiastic, but when he came and asked what the band was earning, I told him
the truth and it frightened him off. It was Gordon who played in the same band as Ian Gillan when I was in
The Countdowns so I had known him for many years. He was also in a band that I was invited to go to Israel
with and declined. He was a very able guitarist and also very good looking. In some ways, it was a shame
that he never joined us. Fate had its way and it seems we were destined not to be in the same band.

In the meantime, Mick, in his club wanderings, had come across a gentleman named Mick Stewart.
As a guitarist, this man would have made a very good used car salesman. He totally convinced Mick that he
was the best as far as the fretboard was concerned. Now it was Mick’s turn to convince us and, unfortunately,
he did.

Mick Stewart had a way of looking like he was putting so much into his playing, when he was doing
very little. He was also a good name dropper and came out with a string of artists that he purported to have
played with. He did sound very convincing, so it seemed to us that we had found our man. He decided that
as our music was, in his opinion, pretty simple, that only one or two rehearsals were necessary.

That made the correct impression on us. We thought that he was such a pro. When our first gig came
round, it soon turned out that we were dreadfully wrong. We had, over the previous year with Frank, built up
a good reputation and other bands wanted to come and see us. On our first outing with Stewart, we were
supporting The Ram Jam Band, who had a big following in the general area. The venue was a very famous
Royal Air Force station called Tangmere, and was a popular place for the locals to go. The place was packed.

Remember that we consisted of just three players and a singer, so if anything went wrong with one of
us, the rest of the band had to wing it. I had never done so much winging before in my life. It started alright,
but after the third song, Mick Stewart’s memory started to fade and he yelled at me, asking for the next chord.

I was singing at the time, so this turned out to be tricky. This was turning into a most embarrassing
situation and we all wanted the stage to open up under us. The other bands there looked shocked and we
obviously didn’t quite come up to their expectations. We didn’t do a second show and after we left the stage,
Mick Stewart totally shrugged the whole thing off. He tried to blame it all on me because I wasn’t able to
shout the chords out to him.

We didn’t throw him out, because we had a load of gigs coming up and had already signed the contracts.
We did, however, rehearse a little more and eventually started sounding like a real group again.

In the meantime, pressure had been put on me to “do the right thing” as far as the mother of my child
was concerned. The choices were to get married or go to court. Of course, after my recent ordeal in front of
“The Beak,” I thought I may not fare too well and opted, against my parents’ better judgment, to get wed. This
turned out to be a marriage made in anywhere but heaven. We thought that we loved each other, but it turned
out to be just good old lust. We had one blissful night of honeymoon, after which I went home, and Pat and
Lisa went to live with her Aunt Maureen and Uncle Les in Southall. This used to be a beautiful town, but had
been taken over by Pakistanis and gone downhill.

Mick Stewart did have some contacts, one of whom was a top London agent named Henry Sellers. He
came up with a three week gig in Rome, Italy. We would be playing in the what was the then-famous Piper
Club.

When I say “given the chance,” it was more like “if you ever want to work again, you had better go.”
It was the end of 1969 and I had been married a few weeks with Christmas looming large. When I told Pat
what was happening, she shoved me out of her Aunt’s house, catching my coat in the door. Mick says that all
he remembers is me saying, “Can I have my coat back please?”

31
 We had one week to get there, and so we set off that night in a blue Ford seventeen hundred weight van
we had recently purchased. I don’t think it had ever been serviced and all the tires, including the spare, were
virtually bald. It was all right though, because we were young and stupid. Brian was very lucky, because he
could not get his passport in time and was going to fly to Paris and catch the train from there. The rest of us
had never been abroad before, so we didn’t really know what the hell to expect. My father assured me that
we would cope, and that was enough for me.

The only real winter driving experience that I in this particular van was when were playing at an
agricultural college way out in East Anglia. The weather was cold but clear when we arrived there, but a
winter storm had moved in while we were playing.

We came out after the show to witness about eighteen inches of snow on the ground and freezing
temperatures. To top that, of course, somebody had not completely closed the sliding driver’s door and show
had blown into the van, freezing everything solid. We tried to turn the engine over, but nothing happened, so
we enlisted the aid of the local college lads, who were quite strapping fellows, and we pushed the damned
thing up and down until it finally started.

Instead of just leaving it idling for a few minutes, Brian had another of his bright ideas. He started
stamping on the accelerator pedal madly. I was standing a little way off thanking the boys who had helped us
and I tried to yell at him to stop because he might break the cable. He did. So here we were, about a
hundred-fifty miles from home, at one o’clock in the morning, with no accelerator. I, for one, did not relish
the idea of freezing to death, so I suggested that we tie one speaker lead around the lever on the carburetor and
bring the other end inside the van.

It worked up to a point. So Brian, being the culprit who did the damage, volunteered to steer and I was
in charge of the speaker lead/accelerator. I would time the engine revolutions with every gear change, and
Brian would tell me when to speed up or slow down.

This probably would have been fine under normal conditions, but there was up to two feet of virgin
snow on the road and no other traffic. It was an absolute nightmare. The van was almost impossible to control
and Brian would yell at me to ease off at times and I would reply that I already had. It was a bit like being in
the winter Olympics on the slalom course. There was about half a ton of gear in the back, so that didn’t help
much. Team work prevailed, and we made it to the café where we normally stopped that was about fifty miles
down the road.

Sensibly, we left the engine running and went inside for our usual steak and kidney pie and chips with
a cup of tea. This cheered us up a bit and then we set out to do the next hundred miles. I have to hand it to
Brian on this occasion, because he gave 100% concentration to the job in hand and, with my help, managed
to get us all home safely. This episode may or may not have helped us in our trek to Rome.

We arrived in Dover at an unearthly hour, purchased the appropriate tickets, and drove onto the cross
channel ferry. I forget much about the crossing except that it was very rough and I couldn’t sleep.

We arrived at Ostend at seven in the morning and it seemed to me like being in fantasy land.
Everything looked so different and they drove on the wrong side of the road. Mick Tucker was brave enough
to volunteer to drive this time, and everything was fine until we came to a roundabout. The first thing was to
work out which way to go round it. That may sound silly until you have experienced it for yourself.

The rules of the rod are very different there too, because preference is coming to the vehicle entering
the roundabout. It was all very confusing, but we managed to cross Belgium and enter Luxembourg that same
day. We thought we were doing well and got very smug, until we arrived at the German border.

To enter Germany, we had to purchase the local insurance for the van. We arrived at the border at 6:30,
only to be informed that they had shut the office at 6:00 and we could not pass through the border. We had to
spend the night at a local hostelry.

32
 I had never before been in a restaurant where no one speaks English. It is a strange experience but,
luckily, having learned French at school, I managed to order us all a meal and a drink. Mick Tucker ordered
lemon tea, which he had never tasted before. When he asked me what to put in it, I assured him, with a straight
face, that salt tasted good. He never asked me again.

That night, Mick and I shared a room and fantasized about one of the waitresses we had met and what
we would do to her if she just happened to come in our room. Of course, she didn’t, and I think our daydreams
were probably a lot better than the real thing would have been because she was a bit of a dog.

The next day was freezing cold and it had snowed overnight. I had experienced cold in England, but
this was different. The van, of course, wouldn’t start, as I don’t think we had put any anti-freeze in the poor
thing. Some locals gathered round and helped us push-start it and, eventually, we were on our way again.

I had summoned up the courage to drive to the border control again. I pulled up and turned off the
engine. As soon as I did, the temperature gauge went off the end of the red scale and a large amount of steam
poured out of the engine.

We pushed it to where the border guards pointed, and went in to buy insurance and the person behind
the desk phoned for the local breakdown service bandit. He arrived about a half hour later in a little VW
Beetle and looked at the engine. He mutter something about “der wasser pumpe” being “kaput” (the water
pump was shot) and offered to tow us to his workshop.

We, of course, thought that he was going to call for a tow truck, but he got a short rope out of the VW
and tied it to our van. We looked at each other in utter amazement as he told us to get in and start driving. I
wish I could have got at least a photo of this because it looked so funny, the little Beetle towing a great big
van with an eighteen-inch tow rope. It wasn’t so amusing inside, but after a few miles of twisting and turning
roads, we arrived in a charming little German village.

Our friendly daylight robber then maneuvered the van into a barn and told us that it would be fixed in
the morning because he had to order the parts. This meant staying yet another night in a hotel and spending
more money than we could afford. It was also the first time we had spent a night in Germany. It is very
different from England. The Germans in the bar of the restaurant sounded like they wanted to kill each other,
and they were only playing cards.

After a few dozen beers that they drank out of liter mugs, they all started singing what sounded like
oompa songs. It was then that I realized that the British are very straight-laced compared with our European
cousins. We did have some fun with the local villagers and they showed much friendship toward us.

While I was in my room, I noticed how well the windows fit in their frames with no drafts, unlike
England, where we got frost inside the windows every winter morning. I also experienced my first duvet-type
bedcover, which kept me very warm that night.

The following morning, we went to pick up our ailing van, which we knew was going to cost us another
fortune. The garage owner informed us through a translator that he had put on a new “wasser pumpe” and it
would cost us forty-six marks. We couldn’t work out where he had managed to find a new one, but we were
strangers in a strange land, so we paid up and went on our merry but monetarily poorer way. Of course, later,
it was apparent that the bottom of the engine had frozen and he had just thawed it out overnight.

The drive across Germany was an absolute nightmare, especially at the time of year that we were
attempting it. We wished that we had put anti-freeze in it and installed new tires.

The autobahns were generally two lanes each way, built in the 30s, by Mr. A. Hitler. I don’t mean
personally. He had slave workers do it. They were not in very good condition and were slippery. There were
multitudes of huge trucks that usually had trailers going as fast as they could. Our van had the steering wheel
on the wrong side, which made navigation most treacherous. It took two people to drive, one to steer, and one
to say when you could overtake, which wasn’t that often.

33
 Because the roads were so old and slippery, it sometimes felt that someone was steering the back
wheels in a different direction. By the time we drove into Switzerland, we were all very tired and we decided
to stop at an Inn to get something to eat before crossing the Alps. The lady at the restaurant was very pleasant
and spoke a little English. She informed us that the trains that run through the alpine tunnels were regular and
we didn’t have to worry about the time, so we took plenty of it.

Eventually, I decided that it was getting late and maybe we should phone the train station and ask them
about the schedule. They told us that the last train was 10:30. That left us a half hour to get there. This
entailed driving a winding road up the side of a snow-covered mountain as fast as possible in a van not
designed for the job, loaded with gear.

I bravely took the wheel and went on to drive like a bat out of hell. On one side of us, the road fell
away abruptly for about a thousand feet but, luckily, was on the left most of the time so I couldn’t see it. I
may have driven a bit slower if I had. At last we arrived at the station and drove straight onto the platform.
There were a few other cars there, so we felt sure we had not missed the train, although it was 10:45.

A motorist walked passed us smiling and held up five fingers. We cheered, thinking we had won. We
would be on the train, through the Alps, and well on our way to Italy. As usual, we were very wrong, because
our grinning friend had meant 5:00 the following morning. We were ten thousand feet up in the Alps dressed
for an Italian winter (which is quite mild of course).

It was freezing cold, so we passed the time by telling each other jokes and generally taking the piss out
of the other drivers. The hours went by very slowly, but at last the train came and we drove onto the trailer.
It was a most strange experience going through the St. Gothard tunnel. It’s pitch black, except for the flashes
from the electric pickup on the locomotive. The trip was surprisingly quick, however, and suddenly we broke
into daylight with the Alps behind us.

The tunnel exits lower in elevation on the south side and, before long, we had wound our way down to
the low lands and headed toward Italy. We were all very tired and a bit punchy when we arrived at the border
and were not prepared for our reception.

The customs man was about four foot eleven inches and dressed like Secret Squirrel. He motioned to
us to open up the back of the van, where he knocked with his knuckle on the bottom of one of my bass cabinets.
We assumed that he was searching for drugs, but the way he was acting reminded us of Inspector Clouseau
and we were on the floor laughing uncontrollably. He must have seen us and he started babbling something
in Italian that sounded like “coupons.” Mick Stewart rose to the occasion and suggested that we did not want
any, thinking that he was trying to sell us some petrol discount coupons. This was not the answer that the little
man was looking for, and he went into an absolute hysterical rage.

He pulled off his hat, flung it on the floor, and started to jump up and down on it. The tears streamed
down our faces and it looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel. Mick told him not to “get off his bike”
and that only made us laugh all the more. At last, a Swiss border guard who had been watching the whole
thing laughingly told us what the poor fool wanted from us.

While traveling in Italy, you have to re-register your vehicle. I presume it is supposed to stop people
bringing in cars from other parts of Europe, selling them, and not paying any taxes. We did not know about
this rule, and the Swiss guard, who had been having a wonderful time watching this little drama, said at last
that the diminutive person wanted our registration papers.

With our paperwork sorted out, we headed into the town of Chasso and almost immediately a hose blew
out on the radiator. We managed to get it fixed and were soon on our way again.

The Italian autostradas are really amazing and the bridges over some valleys inspire much awe,
especially if you are driving a right-hand drive vehicle. It felt like a person was, again, steering the back
wheels and the van was almost uncontrollable. It began to get a lot better as we got lower, and it was
surprising to see how fast the landscape changed the further south we went.

34
 The trees looked like something I had seen in National Geographic and “Quo Vadis,” and seemed
uniquely Italian. It struck me as being very beautiful and I wondered if the whole country was the same. Then
we entered the city of Rome.

It had to be rush hour of course and it was completely crazy. I think if they had tried to fit one more
car in there, it would have come to a complete stop. Italian drivers are very impatient, and when a traffic light
even thinks about turning green, they lean on their car horns as if it will make the car in front disappear.

We found the club right in the middle of Rome with no parking space anywhere near. Mick Tucker
was driving by now and he was absolutely exhausted. He suggested that Mick Stewart and I go into the club
and find out where we could load the equipment.

We walked in to find Brian looking fresh as a daisy with a beer in one hand and a girl in the other. He
got us both a beer and we nearly forgot poor old Mick stuck out in traffic. We went out to rescue him as he
had circled the club about ten times by now and was getting a little ragged around the edges. At last, he saw
a parking space and pulled up parallel to the car in front. He started to back into the spot but due to his
tiredness totally misjudged the angle. We were about twenty feet away and heard this horrendous sound of
metal scraping metal. I remember hearing the side of the van go “bonk” as the dent returned to its original
position. By the time we got there, Mick had managed to park and was trying to explain to a very irate Italian
how, with a little rubbing compound, he could remove the blue paint transferred from our van to his new shiny
white car.

He was not convinced by Mick’s very earnest efforts to console him and was getting redder and redder
in the face. That’s when we all arrived and stood next to Mick for moral support. The angry driver saw that
he was outnumbered and, after threatening in Italian to call the police, got into his newly redecorated car and
drove off.

We had officially arrived, tired but thankful that we were all in one piece. Brian attempted to tell us
how hard his trip had been, boarding planes and meeting girls on the overnight train. Of course, it all fell on
very deaf ears and we busied ourselves setting up so that we could get to our digs and have something to eat.

The stage, for once, was a good size, and we set everything up and started to have a little jam. The club
was big, so it was like playing in a goldfish bowl with echo going on and on. Every time they turned on the
lights, it made our amps go quieter and distort.

I had the great idea of adjusting our transformers to two hundred volts. That seemed to work, and, with
our technical problems sorted out, we went to our hotel. In Europe, it is called a “Pensione,” and is a lot like
a boarding house. People did live there full time, and we were here for three whole weeks. Considering that
the club was paying for it, the rooms were not too bad, but the food was scant. The proprietor’s name was
Tony, and he had a son called Marco, who we soon taught to say as loud as possible, “Good morning fucking
bollocks.”

There was another band sharing the bill and the hotel with us who were from the Bahamas. Three of
them were black and the keyboard player was white. We nicknamed him “The Beachcomber” because of his
casual attire. They seemed a very friendly lot and we got on well with them, as we were all a long way from
home.

After a week in Rome, we were all getting a little lonely and longing to hear someone other than us
speaking English. Our wish soon came true as a group of American Marines returning from their tour of duty
in Vietnam. When they found out that we almost had language in common, they invited us over to their table
for a drink.

They were a really wild bunch and, at the time, I didn’t understand why. The Vietnam war, to me, was
only seen on television. These poor souls brought some of that awful reality to us. They had all been wounded
in action and some scars they showed us were really horrid. One of them, who I shall call Joe, had been next
to a hand grenade that had exploded. It had left its deep scars on him for the rest of his life.

35
 They were all very philosophical about it and were just glad to be out of ‘nam with their lives and going
home “stateside,” as they put it. After our first encounter with them, they stuck to us like glue. They all wore
baseball jackets with a big “M” on them. When I was stupid enough to ask them what it stood for, they replied
in unison, “Meth!” Which turned out to be methampthetamine.

It was very easy to buy this chemical in tablet form at the time. All you had to do was go to your jolly
local chemist and ask for them! Like a fool, I went with one of our American cousins and purchased a load
of them very cheaply. It was New Year’s Eve 1969, and we each took a handful to celebrate the occasion. I
even gave some to the lethargic piano player of the other band. Instead of standing there looking like he was
asleep on stage, that night he was as wild as Keith Emerson.

In Italy, they have a quaint custom on New Year’s Eve of literally discarding any household item no
longer wanted. It’s the Italian way to fling out the old and bring in the new. We had not been informed of
this habit and, instead of walking to the club, which wasn’t that far, we drove. It was another one of our usual
big mistakes and trying to miss old sofas and chairs on the way home was quite a challenge. The streets were
deserted, apart from us and tons of litter. This should not have come as a complete surprise.

Needless to say, we got a puncture in one of our very thin tires, and the next day we had to take it to
another licensed bandit and get it fixed. Luckily, we had a day off and decided to go and see Rome. No one
else was at all interested, so I did what I would normally do and set out on my own.

Rome is a beautiful city, I have to admit, and there is an atmosphere that you can almost touch. There
are some crumbling ruins there, but that’s where the people live. The real ruins are very well looked after for
the tourist trade. I paid my fifteen hundred Lira (about one pound sterling) and entered the Colosseum trying
to imagine what it must have been like for the bored and bloodthirsty Romans going for brunch many years
ago.

It was not quite as big as I had imagined, but still awe-inspiring. I felt the same about The Circus
Maximus, or what’s left of it that looked nothing like it was portrayed in “Ben Hur.” I did have a map, but no
knowledge of the bus service, so I walked everywhere. I went through an ancient gate on a road filled with
irate Italian drivers whistling at me because they thought I was a girl. It led me out to the catacombs where
the early Christians held their secret prayer meetings. They were also buried there.

I met a charming Irish priest and had an interesting conversation with him about the history of the area,
and then descended the old stone steps into the musty gloom. It was quite an experience and one that I would
recommend to anyone visiting Rome. I was almost converted back to the church. After the catacombs, I went
to see St. Peter’s and then back to the hotel where I found that I had a huge blister on one of my ankles. It is
not a good idea to sightsee wearing boots.

Early the following morning, I was awakened by a hammering at the door. It was followed by the plea
to “open the goddamn door or I’m gonna bust it in.” I decided to do the former, and a very disoriented
American flew into the room and sat on the bed. Just like Kramer enters Seinfeld’s apartment!

It seems that taking too much speed is detrimental to one’s general sanity, and our friend had been
taking these pills like candy. He had picked up our van from the repair shop somehow and went on to drive
around the city believing that he was being chased by the local constabulary. This turned out to be totally
untrue, but I had to sit up all night and listen to him rambling on while my roommate, Mick Stewart, played
possum by pretending to be asleep. After that episode, we steered clear of our American cousins and,
eventually, they were shipped back to the States, much to our great relief.

I had not had sex for ages and was feeling more than a little horny. There were some great-looking
girls at the club, including a real beauty called Jenny Tamborini. Unfortunately for me, Brian ended up with
her and I made do with a right dog called Paula who repeatedly assured me of her love. I, of course, did the
wild thing with her. Any port in a storm!

When the three weeks were up, we said good-bye to Rome and started the awful journey home. It was
as bad, if not worse, than going there, and our tires were now almost to the canvas. Had I not been sitting next
36
 to Mick Tucker, who was driving at the time through Germany, we would not have made it home at all. The
autobahns are very fast and you really have to hammer along to keep up. We were doing about eighty miles
an hour when one of the front tires blew. Mick tried the best he could to hold the van in a straight line, but
needed my help, as the side of the road came closer very rapidly. Luckily, between the two of us, we managed
to keep control and came to a halt. We removed the front wheel and were just about to replace it with the spare
tire when a patrol man came along to “help.” Stewart instructed us to “crowd round” the spare, which was
balder than a baby’s bum. This did not fool the patrol man, who by now, had a shocked look on his face as
he stared at the spare. He told is in very broken English to stop at the next service station and buy a new one.
“More money out the window,” we thought, but we had no choice as he was waiting for us to make sure of our
compliance. Eventually, we arrived at Ostend to discover that the ferry had just left, of course, but there was
another leaving from Zeebrugge in thirty minutes and we would just catch it. “Stirling Priest” took the wheel
and we flew up the coast, sometimes on the wrong side of the road, attempting to get home. Again, we arrived
just in time to see the ferry pull out, and we were stuck there for the night. It seemed to me that there was a
pattern forming.

37
 CHAPTER EIGHT -M.S.
England felt really dull and damp after Italy, although it was good to see my family again. My mum
was not feeling too well. She had recently fallen down and broken her leg and now, instead of going for long
walks, she preferred to stay at home. My dad had a bad feeling that something could be seriously wrong, but
no one seemed to know exactly what.

Our local doctor had tried everything he could for Mum, including a back brace to ease the pain that
had developed, and some pills that did absolutely nothing. It wasn’t until a little later that she was diagnosed
as having the terrible disease Multiple Sclerosis. Strangely, many years earlier, one of her brothers had died
of the same illness.

The whole family became worried that it was hereditary, but we were assured that this was not so. It
does seem a bit strange that another one of my uncles has since been stricken by this disease, but is bravely
struggling on as Priest as I write this.

My mother was from Yorkshire, where they don’t put up with illness. She bravely struggled on
fighting for many painful years. It was at this time that I helped someone lift what I thought was an empty
beer keg and injured my back. I think everyone was worried that I also had M.S. when I started with lower
back pain.

We soon got back to playing youth clubs, which was a bit of an anti-climax after Rome. However, one
day, we played at a club in Bearstead, Kent called “The Tudor House,” which was run by a man named Roger
Easterby. He also managed a few bands, one of which had a hit song called “Hitching A Ride.” This was
quite impressive to us, and after a few weeks went by, he became our manager.

He got us signed with E.M.I. records and we went into Abbey Road Studios to record yet another miss
with the stupid name of “Lollipop Man.” It was quite a trip to record in the same studios as The Beatles, but
it was a shame that the material was not in the same league. I think that whoever chose this bit of crap for us
must have been screwing someone important, because I could see no other reason for putting it on plastic.

It was here we met Christine Woods, who would eventually run our official fan club. She was a really
lovely person who I would like to meet again, as I have not seen her for years. We became very close friends
and lovers too.

We were introduced to Roger Greenaway and Roger Cooke, who had written some very good stuff,
and they came up with one for us. It was a merry little ditty called “All You’ll Ever Get From Me.” We really
thought that this was going to make it to the charts, but again it was not to be. Things started to get away from
us after that, and session men were brought in to do the next release, called “Get On The Line.” The only band
member performing on the song was Brian. The only band member performing on the song was Brian. They
wouldn’t even let us sing the background vocals. Instead it was done, of all things, by The Lady Birds , who
were a trio of women that would sing on shows like “Benny Hill,” or basically any show they could. This was
very insulting to us, and eventually led to the breakup between us and Easterby. We have met him time and
again after that, but he never seemed to have the same fire as when we first met. I cruelly named him Roger
Used-To-Be.

38
39
 CHAPTER NINE -TRAGEDY, THEN FUN IN THE SUN
One of our staunchest supporters was Ray Ward. He came from a large family, and he had the heart
of a lion. He wasn’t that well-educated, but he made up for that with cunning. He had been a friend of Brian’s
for many years, and became our first official road manager. He had a quick temper, as do most small people,
and didn’t mind getting into a scrap. We had the chance of doing a week or two on the beautiful island of
Jersey, which gave me my first opportunity to fly. The whole affair was overclouded by an awful occurrence
that happened just before we were due to leave.

Ray decided to take a vacation in Saint Heller, and would meet us there when we arrived. This was
not to be the case, because the Saturday before we got there, Ray had a fatal accident with a bus. It seems he
came out of a pub at closing time, after having more than enough to drink. He was balancing on a low wall
to show that he could walk in a straight line when he lost his balance. Just as he did so, a huge double-decker
bus came barreling down the road. The driver slammed on his brakes, but poor little Ray was dragged a
hundred yards down the road under the rear wheels. He was killed instantly. He had been a good friend to all
of us, and a great character. We were all very upset, but I think he looked after us somehow from then on.

We had a good time in Jersey, despite the terrible mishap. We played to vast crowds of around six or
seven people a night during the week, and up to fifty or so on weekends. It was a waste of time, but it was
great to be away and get paid for it.

The Island of Jersey has a very interesting history, and I had great fun exploring. It was invaded by
German troops in 1940, and they left a great number of interesting artifacts behind. There are also some tragic
stories, but you can read them in your history books.

The girls who worked at the club were all from the mainland. They lived in rooms provided by the
club. Our instructions were to leave them well alone, which was like waving a red rag at a horny bull. Some
of them were quite attractive, others not. There was one who came from Wales, and she was really fun. I slept
with her, and I do mean sleep, because I could not get at all aroused. That did not happen to me very often, I
can assure you, but the exception does not necessarily prove the rule.

The two weeks passed very quickly, and we left the island sadly, boarding the ferry to the mainland.
It was early in the morning when we arrived at Mick Stewart’s house. He was living in North London with
the road crew of a band called The Foundations, who were a right randy bunch. Just as we pulled up in front
of the house, a young lady was just leaving, looking very disheveled. As she walked down the path, we heard
her say, “Thanks for the bunk-ups, whoever fucked me!” It was the highlight of the day.

40
41
 CHAPTER TEN - BATMAN AND ROBIN
Stewart was beginning to think that we were getting nowhere very fast and decided to leave us for
pastures new. As fate would have it, this was also the time when Phil Wainman reappeared on the scene. He
had met with someone called Nicky Chinn, who had written a song called “Funny Funny” with an Australian,
Mike Chapman. He wanted very much to release it, but didn’t have a band to play it. Wainman said that he
knew just the right group for the job and approached us. When Mick Stewart heard of this, his enthusiasm
was renewed, but Phil had run into Mick a few years previously, and would not work with him.

We were a three-piece again, which meant that we couldn’t gig and, therefore, couldn’t earn any money.
Nicky suggested that he put us on a retainer of £20 a week, until a new guitarist was found. Meanwhile, the
backtrack of “Funny Funny” had already been laid down and the three of us were allowed to sing on it.

Their explanation was that it would save money because session players would be so much faster.
Nicky and Mike knew as much about the recording business as I know about the dark side of the moon. They
needed Phil very much and Phil knew it!

Nicky’s father used to sell fruit from a barrow in one of the street markets in London many years before.
He had gradually accumulated a large amount of money. I’m sure that it must have been very hard work. Mr.
Chinn senior, being no dummy, invested in what was then a small corporation called Lex Mead. I think he
started out renting cars and expanded into the hotel business.

This all happened when Nicky was very young, so he became a rich kid. His father gave him half a
million shares in the company on his twenty-first birthday and told him to do something with his life. He
didn’t know what the hell to do until, one night, while doing his playboy routine at “Tramps,” he was waited
on by a young man from down under. It was Mike Chapman, who needed someone with money to get him
started in the music business. He also didn’t like being a waiter. The duo was formed.

Chinn must have thought it was Christmas, or Hanukkah, or something when the partnership was
established. I say partnership in a very loose form. It was very one-sided to begin with, and the old adage of
“Money Talks” had a deciding factor in picking the boss. When we first met Mike, we found him to be a very
charming man. We also found him to be Nicky’s man-servant, which was embarrassing at times. (“For fuck’s
sake, Mike, get me another drink.”)

It was obvious that Mike was very talented. Nicky’s strong point apparently was lyrics, but I never
saw any earth-shattering words of wisdom spilling from his mouth. Still, Mike was doing what he had set out
to do when he left Australia, and that was to make hit records.

He had been a singer in his native country, but didn’t have a hit voice, and, fortunately, realized the
fact. He did his “demos” on any tape player that was at hand, until Chinn invested in a Revox reel-to-reel. I
listened to some of the rough tracks recently, and I’m surprised that we achieved what we did, which was to
make them into real songs.

When “Funny Funny” was eventually finished, we had to find a new lead player, and quickly. Our new
dynamic duo decided to advertise in all the music papers that an “up and coming band required a lead guitarist,”
and would be holding auditions on the following Wednesday.

Chapman had rented a small studio in the exotic city of Shepherd’s Bush in West London. The torture
was scheduled to begin at 6:00 in the evening. To our great surprise, there was a line of players all around the
block.

I don’t think I ever saw the actual advert in the paper, but whichever way it was worded, it certainly
accomplished the desired effect. It was the longest night I can remember apart from the one in the Willesden
jail, and every bit as enjoyable.

42
 Mike Chapman was superb in the way that he ran the proceedings, and I think that he deserved a medal.
He smoothly ushered each contender in and, after what was normally a horrendous performance, got them on
their way without offending them. One hopeful came in with the wonderful line, “I’m twenty-three, but I look
eighteen. I’ve got fuzz-wah, and all the gear.” We tried playing “Summertime Blues” together, but, somehow,
he played to the beat of a different, and disabled, drummer.

By now, it was getting very late, and tempers were wearing a little thin. I was lying on the piano trying
to get some sleep when this bohemian, in a tatty overcoat with hair down to his waist, entered the room.

He looked like a tall “Cousin It” and all you could see was his nose. He removed a red Gibson 335
from its case and plugged it into the ugly red Marshall 100 watt stack that we had rented. At first nothing
happened, so he turned it flat out. Still nothing happened, and then, suddenly, the loudest feedback I’d ever
heard issued forth from the amp.

He quickly turned down the volume, pushed the hair back from his face, and said “Well, I guess I’ve
blown it.” I was awake by now, and it appeared to all of us that we had a rock and roll guitarist in our midst.
We played a few songs together, including one of his own called “Now Is The Time To Rise,” which was quite
appropriate, as I just had.

Chapman took an instant dislike to Andy and told Mick that he was not the right person. Mick insisted
that he was. Chapman, in his wisdom, said that all Andy was in it for was the money. Mick, who tended to
be a bit strong-willed at times, was adamant. Brian had long since tired of the proceedings, and had gone down
the pub. I was the only other member to have a vote on the subject. It was a difficult decision, and we decided
not to make anything definite that evening, because we were all grumpy.

We managed to narrow it down to three players. After a second audition, a few days later, in some
converted arches under a railway bridge, we decided somehow that Andy got the job. We were a four-piece
yet again. It was time to get things going. Nicky and Mike both wanted to be stars, and with our help and his
money, we were all going to make it somehow, whatever the cost.

Chinn and Chapman decided that because they had written the song and Nick was putting up the
money, they should be our managers. What a stupid thing for us to allow them to do. We had no choice in
the matter, and had to go along with it. We still had a management contract with our old agent, Barry Collins,
and we had to get ourselves out of it. This job was put into Brian’s hands, as he was the one that always dealt
with him on the phone. Without creating suspicion, Brian arranged for us to do one last gig for Barry Collins
that our contract obligated us to do for £25.

Nobody could believe that he had pulled this one off, but we did the gig, which was somewhere in
Essex, and we were home free. This was only the beginning of what would become complete control of us
by a couple of novices. Mike Chapman could write what sounded like hit songs, but Nicky was brought up
in a private boys’ school by a nouveau rich Eastender and didn’t know his arse from his elbow. The school
may have cost a lot but they didn’t teach common sense, or the art of rock and roll.

I named them Batman and Robin and the rest of the band thought it highly disrespectful. It was meant
to be so, and it was not long before everyone agreed with me. Their first brainstorm was to send us to rehearse
in a farmhouse in Wales. The town was called Eglwyswrw (or something like that) and it was miles from
anywhere. It took us ages to get there, and, when we did, we discovered that there was a little bridge over a
small stream that we had to cross to enter the property. We were in a 3500 weight Transit van loaded to the
roof with very heavy gear, and we were reticent to cross this final obstacle. “Brian the Bold” decided that he
would drive the van across, and the rest of us got out and watched.

Brian managed to ford the stream, and we set the gear up in the house and started to rehearse. The
material that we picked verged on the horrendous, such as “Move Over,” which was written, I think, for a
funeral, and another all-time heavy-metal number, “I Think I’m Going Out Of My Head.” We must have been
out of ours for doing it.

43
 After two weeks of this, we decided to let the public become aware of our presence, and played a gig
in Haverford West, right down on the southwest tip of Wales. I remember a few years earlier playing a club
in Edinburgh and being frightened shitless, as the security took knives and hammers from the kids as they
came through the door. This night in Wales was along the same lines.

The town is also a harbour and, therefore, filled with many very horny and drunken seamen. Most of
them were at our gig that night. They became very upset that the few girls there seemed much more interested
in us than them, and a most uncomfortable evening was had by all. We were lucky to escape intact, but we
had at least played all together for the first time. It was time to release “Funny Funny,” and we were ready to
be unleashed anew upon the British public.

The only way to have a hit in England is to appear on television. The choice of shows was limited.
Our first appearance on television was on a show that was produced by the very beautiful Muriel Young, and
introduced by a very attractive girl called Aysha. It was called “Lift Off.” All of us secretly wanted sex with
Muriel and overtly wanted anything with Aysha. We had bought clothes for the show that were quite unusual.
The trousers had one red leg, and one black. We all had some sort of black top. I bought mine with the buttons
on from a girl’s clothes shop.

One of the dancers on the show could see we were nervous, and took pity on us. She gave me good
advice to smile and show plenty of confidence and teeth. When the camera did pan onto me for a fleeting
moment, I grinned like a demented ape and looked completely stupid. It was good experience, though, for a
few weeks later, we were somehow booked to do “Top Of The Pops.”

I had never really been a big fan of Top Of The Pops, as it always seemed a bit namby pamby. My
favourite show was “Ready Steady Go,” which was much more what I felt a rock and roll show should be.
Nevertheless, seven million people watched T.O.T.P., and it was very difficult to get into the charts without
it.

To qualify for a slot in the show, your record must look like there were enough sales for it to enter the
charts the following week. It was a catch 22 situation, however, because the only way to get into the charts
was by doing the show. Chinn came up with a solution.

He sent Phil and Mike around the country to all the stores whose sales were used to compile the top
30. Between them, they purchased vast quantities of our new release, brought them back to London, and
dumped them in the Thames. Once, when Phil was up in Northern England with a carload of singles, his
engine threw a bearing.

He phoned Nicky, and was informed that it was his hard luck, and that he would have to sort it out
himself! He drove all the way home, about 150 miles, with the engine banging away. When he asked for
compensation later, he was told to pay for it himself, so he personally rebuilt the whole motor. The band was,
of course, blissfully unaware of all these goings-on and eagerly awaited the phone call from the B.B.C. that
we would be on the show. We were elated when the news came that we were being summoned to Shepherd’s
Bush early the following morning.

Doing a TV show is the most boring experience ever. As we were first on, we had to be at the studio
by 8:00, where we sat around and waited for ages. First, we did a run-through for the camera angles (the few
that there were), and then we were told that we would have to do another run-through with stage clothes. They
forgot to tell us that it would be four hours later. This always struck me as a mistake, because the canteen food
is disgusting, and everyone used to go to the bar instead. In later years, this became a terrible habit for many
groups. This did include us, of course.

When at last we did the dress rehearsal, we wore the same clothes that we had worn on “Lift Off.” As
we finished our run-through, we walked back to the dressing room and passed Alan Price and Georgy Fame.
They were doing a song called “Rebecca Are You Better,” or something. To our, and their horror, we
discovered that our red and black trousers were the exact match to the jackets they were wearing. They gave

44
us filthy looks, but there wasn’t much anyone could do by then. The one lesson it taught us was that, if you
wanted to be original, you had to have your own clothes made.

The show went by extremely quickly, and we went back to our dressing room, where we sat and
reflected on what an anticlimax it was. The show aired the following evening, and I must admit to having felt
very nervous about how well we had done, as the audience then was about seven million.

We had our first hit on our hands, as the record went slowly up the charts. It missed the top ten, but
we consoled ourselves by saying that it is not good to have a big hit the first time round. Mike played us a
tune he had just written—sorry, they had just written—after being on vacation in the Bahamas or somewhere,
which had absolutely no rock and roll feel about it at all.

We were in too deep at this time to argue, so the backtrack was laid down by the now-usual session
players, including Pip Williams, who I am sure would have loved to have been in the band. Brian then went
in and did the vocals, which always took ages. Mike was such a perfectionist, and was also getting on some
kind of power trip.

We did our vocal parts that we had worked out at a local Italian restaurant. After that, the steel drums,
of all things, were tracked on and we were then allowed to put down our “B” side. They gave us a half hour
to do it. We had written “Done Me Wrong All Right” at a club in Nottingham and finished the lyrics at that
same Italian restaurant while Brian did his vocals. Chinn and Chapman thought it far too beneath them to stay
around for this part, and used to leave us with Phil.

This was the side of Sweet that the real fans wanted to hear, but when we did appear live at that time,
the audience were later taken aback because we always came across on TV as a silly pop band. Even with the
words that Mick described to Chapman as “Ho Chi Ka Ka Fucking Ho,” “Co-Co” eventually ended up at
number two in the charts. I’m not sure how many copies were dumped in the Thames this time, but I was
assured much later that there were none.

45
 CHAPTER ELEVEN -NOT SO EASY
After having such a big hit with our second record, we thought that everything we did from then on
would be successful. Chapman came up with a terrible song called “Alexander Graham Bell.” It was a direct
rip-off of an earlier tune called “Henry Ford” who had “paved the way to drive across the U.S.A.” We had
our first flop.

I never really liked the song from the outset. It just didn’t sound like us at all. Although it was put
together very well, I couldn’t get into it. I had to go along with it because Nicky and Mike were so enthusiastic
about it. I’m not sure whether or not Phil liked it. He did a very good production job on it and I don’t think
he had ever worked with an orchestra before.

As we had had a couple of hits by now, the producers of T.O.T.P.s automatically gave us the show as
soon as the record was released. We all immediately believed that we would have a hit. My first hint that this
was not to be so was during the dress rehearsal. Olivia Newton-John was standing near enough to us that I
could almost read her lips. She was talking to her manager and producer Bruce Welch (formerly of The
Shadows). She was shaking her head slowly and it was obvious what they were both thinking.

Chinn and Chapman even went so far as having a press party at a swank London hotel where we would
perform live. It was a great success as far as parties go. We even rose to the occasion and played well! It
didn’t help much, though, and “A.G. Bell” went to hell.

Their next offering reverted to the Caribbean style of Co-Co. I think that this was because we were
doing it at Island Studios. The formal session players were brought back in, and Fiacre Trench did the usual
arrangement. It was a happy little ditty and was a reasonable success. They still would not allow us to play
on our singles and, after doing the vocals on “Little Willy,” we were asked yet again to leave the studio. I
personally think that they were embarrassed to let us see that they knew nothing about producing. At this time,
the BBC and the Musician’s Union decided that it was no longer legal to mime to records on TV because
session players may not be getting what was due to them

The M.U. decided that all singles on any TV show had to be rerecorded by the performer, with an
overseer from the Union present. This was all fine and good except for the fact that we not only had to pay
for the studio time, but we were given three hours to recreate something that sometimes took from three days
to a week to record. It did give us great pleasure to redo “Little Willy” in less than two hours with the resulting
tape sounding better than the original.

We were fast becoming regulars on Top of The Pops and this meant we had to find new clothes for
every show. Once I was so hard up for time and ideas that I got a pair of green silk stage pants and cut them
down to the length of shorts. I hemmed them with carpet tape, got some red tights and was the first to appear
on television wearing hot pants.

It did amuse me later that year when Bowie did the same thing. He got all the credit for being the first
to do it. This happened a lot in Sweet’s career and I became quite accustomed to it. We had worn stage
makeup soon after the band had formed and a good number of people thought that we were all gay. I tried to
protest my innocence to these accusations. I eventually gave up and started wearing really effeminate clothes
on stage and TV. I even had a little mini skirt and waistcoat made for “Wig Wam Bam.” The skirt was so
short my undercart hung underneath the hem. I thought it best to keep my underwear on.

This song turned out to be the biggest selling hit to date and also the first one that we were allowed to
play on, which proved a point I think that it was around this time that the so-called “glam rock” era started,
but I’m sure others have different theories.

Before we arrived at this silly time in our careers, we had to do a lot of touring and finishing our debut
album with the idiotic title “Funny How Sweet Co-Co Can Be.” As usual, we weren’t allowed to play on most
of it, and really had little to do with the choice of material. It is definitely not my favourite collection and I
have never sat and listened to it and I don’t even own a copy. I can still remember poor Brian doing the vocals

46
on “Reflections.” We were, as usual, told to leave, so we went down to the local pub. When we came back
two hours later, Brian was still doing the first line and it sounded the same as when he started. This became
a trend and seemed to sap Brian’s confidence as a studio performer.

47
 CHAPTER TWELVE - DEUTSCHLAND, DEUTSCHLAND
Our general performance on stage was usually excellent, although we all had our off nights. Our first
tour of Germany was long, hard and grueling. Often, at least one of us had much too much to drink. I can
remember once when Andy had been drinking all afternoon and stumbled onto the stage not knowing or caring
where the hell he was. He didn’t play chords but just put his hands across the fretboard and strummed. It was
most embarrassing, but not as bad as Birmingham, Alabama on our 1978 tour of America, but I’ll get to that.

This German tour was absolute agony. It lasted about a month and felt like a year. The driver hired
by the agency was so bad that the others begged me to take over driving. This was all well and good, but it
was a great strain on me.

One of the gigs scheduled was in Berlin, which meant driving through what was then East Germany.
This was a scary prospect, as we had heard so many horror stories. Our crossing point was Marienburg, where
we had to get the appropriate visas. We had decided to go in convoy with the road crew (or what there was
of them). The border was a frightening place with machine guns, signs with skull and crossbones, and general
nastiness.

Just as we pulled up at the customs shed, we beheld a bizarre sight. A whole convoy of British troops
in armoured cars came through from East Germany. It appeared to me to be very out of place. All of the
British Tommies were smiling broadly, giving us the “V” for victory sign. It seems that the autobahn through
to Berlin was open to any kind of traffic. It was lethal to detour from the road, however. The guards in the
towers did not look too pleased as we cheered at the Brits.

When we went in to get our passes, the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. One
of our road crew was smoking a cigarette, and one of the Nazis behind the desk stood up on his chair, pointed
at the offender, and screamed “NICHT RAUCHEN!” as loud as he could. This meant “no smoking,” of course.
This set the tone of what we perceived of as East German military mentality, and one of our West German tour
managers should have taken notice.

Driving through the East was definitely a strange trip. The autobahns were badly kept up. I think this
was because they were used solely to transport Westerners in and out of Berlin, so why should the East
Germans maintain them? Some of the surrounding countryside looked exactly the same as it did when WWII
ended. I remember seeing these huge bridges that had been blown up either by the retreating Germans or,
quite possibly, the East Germans, to stop citizens from escaping their fair land. The road surface itself had
more potholes than New York City streets.

When we eventually arrived in Berlin, we were exhausted, but the thrill of the city soon revived us.
Since that time, we have been back many times and had some really wild experiences there. I’ll retell them
later. We were supposed to stay in some rotten old “Gaste Hause,” but we had had enough and complained
bitterly. We ended up at the Hotel Am Zoo, which meant the hotel by the famous Berlin Zoo that was
damaged so badly during the war. There are still many scars all over the city from the bombing raids.

It reminded me of when I was a small boy and my parents took me into London. I would ask them
why so many of the buildings were missing and they told me that they were bomb sites. It wasn’t until I was
a lot older that I understood what that sinister expression meant. I have since then read many books about not
only the horrors of war, but how aircraft developed on both opposing sides. It became one of my hobbies.

The Hotel Am Zoo was very austere and highly Victorian. The employees looked upon us as
something the cat dragged in. As we didn’t like the idea of being thrown out, we stayed on our best behavior.
Until the gig, that is, which was an utter disaster.

It was a small club, and we could have used ten watt amps and been too loud. Andy ordered all his
gear to be erected and he was deafening all night. We were supposed to be showing off our vocal prowess,
but all that anyone could hear was two hundred watts of guitar. This was not the first or last time this happened
and it led to a bitter row in the dressing room afterwards. Andy walked out in a big huff and disappeared.

48
Apparently, it turned out that he got well drunk and spent the night with a prostitute. We were eager to hear
all the details. He says that he walked into a bar and started ordering some booze. One man alone at a bar
usually means that he will be approached by a woman of the night which, of course, he was. She took him to
her place and they both undressed. He then vaguely remembers her as rubbing some cream on herself between
the legs and then doing him. As far as I know, that was the only time any one of us has been with a prostitute.
At least the only time any one of us had paid for it! Well done, Andy.

We didn’t do much sightseeing in Berlin as we weren’t there long enough. We did go and see
Checkpoint Charlie and climb the wooden structure to peer over the now-defunct wall. It was an unpleasant
feeling and I am so delighted that this monument to stupidity is now history. We should not forget its lesson,
though. Leaving West Germany is harder than entering it.

The border guards were more officious than the ones on the way in. They searched the van thoroughly,
even putting mirrors on the wheels underneath. I’m sure they were looking for something specific; escapees,
I would suppose. Our German driver, Paul, who should have known better, started getting angry with them
because it was taking so long. The man glared at him and proceeded to collect all our passports and goose
stepped off into his office.

It began to get dark and we were completely stuck in no-man’s land between East and West. Just in
case any reader isn’t so good with geography, West Berlin was like an island in the middle of East Germany,
so we were in a dangerous position. The hours slowly passed and concern crept in. There was nothing we
could do and they, naturally, knew it. At last our jolly copper curtly handed back the passports and just walked
off without a word.

Our gig that night was in Kassel, which was miles away and it was already dark. I decided to drive as
it was so late and we didn’t trust Paul. The autobahns in East Germany at that time had had no work done on
them since the war.

This made them very treacherous, so I was trying hard to drive safely. After a few miles, a motorcycle
cop did a U-turn from the other side of the road and started following us. He eventually pulled us over. He
looked like he had been in the Gestapo.

I was terrified, because I had no international driver’s license and probably no insurance. As the storm
trooper in black leather approached us, I had visions of rat-infested cells or worse, a firing squad. It turned
out that one must drive with headlights on high-beam all the time, probably to give the police a better target.
After giving the explanation to the SS officer that I was a stupid Englishman, we were allowed to continue on
our way.

We arrived very late at the venue and, because we didn’t play a whole set, the promoter only gave half
the money to our agent who was with us. His esteem, in our eyes, plummeted when this unfortunate soul
started crying. To paraphrase Tom Hanks in “A League of Their Own,” “there’s no crying in Rock and Roll.”

After this incident, this fellow decided not to stay with the tour. This was good news for us, because
it was possible to stay in better hotels than the dumps in which we had been staying. This tour seemed to go
on forever although it was only a few weeks. The one good thing it did for me in a roundabout way, was to
give up smoking. It was the middle of winter and the weather was very cold and damp. I developed a terrible
cold which immediately turned into bronchitis. I kept asking our so-called tour manager to see a doctor, but
he didn’t understand English when I did ask. Even when we played Heidelburg, the center for German
medicine, I received no help.

The pain in my chest got worse and worse, and I couldn’t stop coughing all night until the muscles in
my back were so strained that I was in agony. I even coughed up blood, but my requests for medication were
ignored. Being a real pro, or idiot, I battled on and finished the tour.

One habit I did get into on this tour was to ride with our road crew in the truck. I’m not sure why,
because sometimes it had its drawbacks. One day, I left for the gig with Duncan well ahead of the rest of the

49
lads. I used to like to get there in plenty of time, to calm my nerves. We found what we thought was the
correct town on the map and, with me navigating, we had no worries.

We eventually arrived in a tiny little farming village that consisted of about three houses and a bar, to
which we headed. Our German vocabulary was almost nil, but we could order a sandwich and a beer. The
bar maid, and all the rest of the customers, were all surveying us with great scrutiny and disbelief. While we
were driving into the village, I couldn’t notice a structure large enough to be called a venue. Also, there was
a lack of posters around announcing our arrival, which I thought a bit odd.

We had been there over an hour, when it became obvious that the other band members were not there
yet and our brains began to turn over. It became quite obvious that we were in the wrong place. Somehow,
we managed to explain our predicament to the proprietor. In pigeon-English and broken German, we
discovered the whereabouts of the real venue. Of course, it was miles away and we really had to rush.
Everyone at the gig was in a panic, and the promoter told us it was too late to go on and cancelled the show.

This area was also rural and I’m sure that entertainment was scarce. The crowd went absolutely mad
and wanted to do unheard of things to us and the promoter. Our dressing room’s windows were accessible to
the mob and they were soon climbing all over them. Eventually, the police were called and things quieted
down. Some helpful members of the audience helped our crew with the gear so as to expedite our exit. They
also helped themselves to one of Andy’s Marshall speakers! Well, you live and learn; at least we got away
with our skin intact.

Although this tour was long, cold and grueling, it did give us a good start and strong base in Germany.
It was also very good experience for us as a relatively new band.

We got back to jolly old England in time to be informed that we were going on a little poodle about
Ireland. After being away from the wife and kids for so long, this news went down like a pork-pie at a bar
mitzvah.

I was lead to believe that the Irish in Southern Ireland hated the British. This turned out to be an
erroneous assumption, at least in most cases. All the Irish people that I met were absolutely charming and
really friendly. They also seemed almost oblivious to the problems up north. That may have changed since
then.

Politics were almost never discussed, and our lifestyle slowed down to a crawl. It was marvelous after
the chaotic blitz through Germany. Our tour manager was totally laid back, almost to the point of being
catatonic. It made us very nervous to start with, because the Irish interlude was good for me, but didn’t help
our marriage. We did have some interesting encounters in the “Auld Sod.” Most of the excursion was very
peaceful, apart from a couple of incidents.

We were scheduled to appear in Bangor, which is in the “Six Countries,” or Northern Ireland. The
booking agency received a phone call from somebody who introduced himself as a member of the Irish
Republican Army. He went on to impart the important information that the venue would be blown up if we
appeared there. Naturally, the gig was cancelled, but that wasn’t the only problem we ran into.

We would leave for the gig about an hour before we were supposed to go on stage. Our tour manager
would drive on little roads at about thirty miles an hour, even stopping to refuel on the way. We soon realized
that this was how it was going to be, so we relaxed and let him get on with it.

The only other real scare that happened to us was when we played at a town near the border. The
atmosphere at the gig was electric and the audience just stood and watched. They never applauded or made
any kind of sound. We could feel the hatred coming from them. When we at last finished our set, which
seemed to take forever, we left the stage and had to walk through the crowd. The hostility was intense, and it
was with great relief that we escaped unscathed. Our poor road crew had to stay with the gear and didn’t get
back to the hotel until a lot later.

50
 Apparently, they had trouble with the locals, who would have liked to steal our equipment. They were
both very frightened, because they overheard someone saying something about the IRA. Nevertheless, they
managed to clear the stage and load the van and got out of there. All that aside, the rest of the Irish experience
was pleasant and relaxing.

Irish girls appeared to be good Catholics. We didn’t have sex with any of them. They all looked like
they wanted to, but shied away at the last minute. The nearest Andy and I got turned out to be an English girl.
She was a great sport and so was Andy. It was in the city of Dublin and none of us had had sex for a week.
That is a long time when you’re in a band.

Andy managed to talk this young lady into coming back to the hotel after the show. She was slightly
reluctant, but came anyway. I was sharing the room and she didn’t want to do it with Andy in front of me.
They did it in the bathroom.

This seemed to have made her shed her inhibitions, because when they were finished, she wanted some
more. Andy was tired and I wasn’t. She climbed into bed with me and I had sloppy seconds!

Returning to England was not something I looked forward to. In fact, going home at all was something
I dreaded, but I didn’t know then that it would get worse. Our appearances on television were becoming much
more frequent, including trips to Germany, Holland and Belgium. The European shows were extremely
bizarre. Once, all four of us had to appear pulling a stage horse across the stage, which was most embarrassing.
We needed the exposure, however, as our first single had been covered by a German singer, and we did not
want that to happen again.

As Chinn and Chapman were supposed to be managing us, they decided to bring in someone to train
us for stage. Here we were, a supposed rock and roll band being schooled for cabaret. The poor fellow, whose
name was Rod Taylor, had an unbelievable task ahead of him.

The set that was put together for us was so trite, it squeaked. Songs like “Mr. Businessman,” although
good in their own right, did not suit us as was proved when we did our first stint in Sweden. Our clothing was
also picked for us; purple three-piece suits, with lavender-coloured, ruffled shirts. We looked like ushers at a
Staten Island wedding.

Luckily, I “lost” my uniform in a hotel one morning. It was after a very late bout of drinking in
Luxembourg with D.J. Tony Prince. We must have made a good impression on him, as he later wrote the liner
notes on “Strung Up.” It was the same night that Mick staggered up to me out of his brains and assured me
that I was a “fucking brilliant bass player” over and over again.

Leaving my suit behind meant that we couldn’t wear them on our first tour of Sweden. Thank God.
This was to be the furthest north we had ever been. It was also a very pleasant experience, as were all our visits
to this very beautiful country.

We took a late night flight on an S.A.S., probably to save money. I remember the plane being almost
empty, and it was the longest trip in the air that we had ever experienced. Thomas Johannsen, the promoter,
met us when we arrived in Stockholm. He was, and I’m sure still is, very polite and gentlemanly. He took us
to our Esso Motor Hotel in Kungens, Kurva, just outside the city.

I shared a room with Andy, and Mick shared with Brian. The rooms were small, and the two couches
had to be converted to beds at night. This sounded simple enough when it was light and you were sober. It
was a very different story later when I, for one, had had a few. But that’s another story.

Our tour consisted of Folk Parks, a concept which was totally alien to us. We would play two each
night, but only one set per park. Our Swedish tour manager drove this huge Mercedes van with all the gear
and us in it. His nickname was “Pifco” because of a little personal fan he had pointed at him in his van.

He had a very hoarse voice and his favourite saying was, “There is no time.” We soon found out what
he meant. When they told us we were doing two shows a night, we thought they were close together. Wrong
51
again, “mes braves.” They were nowhere near each other. We arrived at the first one about eight o’clock and
it seemed absolutely deserted.

We ate some of the food out of the vending machines and washed it down with the local beer. I was
fascinated by the fact that there are markings on the side of the bottles that signify its strength. One stroke
means that you can only drink one before you are over the legal limit to drive. Two strokes means that it’s
weaker. We always went for the stronger ones, of course.

At ten, we emerged onto the stage and were taken completely by surprise. The whole park was packed
with kids. I have no idea where they all came from. We opened up with a rather raucous version of “Mr.
Businessman.” It was the first time we had done this live and it was hilarious. When you perform a song
during rehearsals, you don’t put your all into it, concentrating mainly on remembering the damn thing.
Getting out in front of an audience is a completely different kettle of fish. Brian’s adrenaline was pumping,
and he was in rock mode. He was used to screaming “Done Me Wrong Alright” at the beginning of the set.
He started singing almost a whole octave too high and gradually worked down to the correct key. The
audience didn’t notice a thing, but I think they may have wondered why we were all giggling like school girls.
The rest of the show went almost like clock-work, and we were well-received. After the show, Duncan, our
faithful roadie, together with a Swedish helper, quickly loaded the gear into the van, and we left for the next
gig in our sweaty stage clothes.

Pifco was right, there was no time. He wouldn’t stop for anything. At one point, I was dying for a piss,
and I had to do it out of the door. I hope no one was behind us! This insane routine went on for almost three
weeks, and we received the princely sum of £1800 for our trouble. Good negotiating, Nick!

We did have some fun on our first night off in Stockholm, however. Our record sales were not terrific
yet, but our record company probably saw potential and wanted to show us a good time. They took us to some
of the clubs where mums and dads don’t go. At least I don’t think mine would have. We were surprised by
how liberal Sweden was with sex. Pornography was on sale at the local paper stand. The only people that
noticed it were the tourists and, of course, us. Anti-porno fanatics should take note of this.

When pornography was legalized in Sweden, the sales went through the roof for the first six months.
They then dwindled to almost nothing. Too much of a good thing soon becomes a bore. We, on the other hand,
had not had anywhere near enough and were up for all the smut we could handle.

Our record company representative knew all the local hot spots and, as he was picking up the tab, our
lives were all in his hands. The name of the first club totally eludes me. In fact, I don’t think I even noticed.
I was a virgin to all this stuff and was out for a good time, as were we all. After downing a few dozen drinks
in the bar, we proceeded to watch the show. It was supposed to be live sex on stage. The scenario had an
Elizabethan theme with the actors dressed in the appropriate attire. The main characters gradually removed
their clothes and proceeded to try and have intercourse, right there in front of us.

They came across a few problems, however. One, of course, was our presence, the other was that the
lead male couldn’t get a hard on. His partner did her best to assist, including the skillful use of her mouth.
She would have had more chance if he had died and rigor mortis had set in. All her efforts were to no avail
and we became a little restless. We began shouting our encouragement at first, but soon our prompts became
cajoles.

After a few minutes of this, a young man sitting in front of us turned round and angrily told us to “shut
up, that’s my wife up there!” We suppressed our laughter as long as we could, but, eventually, we had to leave.

The show in the next room was a good deal more successful. This was mainly due to the fact that both
participants were voluptuous females. There was no trouble with erections, as one of the gorgeous blondes
had a huge dildo strapped to her and seemed to be having a whale of a time. It was a big turn-on, but as we
couldn’t join in, our ardour soon faded. Our next stop was the movie room. There were the normal porno
films including one where some poor man was having a large vibrator shoved up his arse. It was being done

52
to him by a couple of naked, nubile young ladies, and he appeared to be having no end of fun! I had only
dreamed of having more than one girl at a time. That would change a year later.

The movie that I found most entertaining was “Snow White and the Seven Perverts.” It was extremely
entertaining and, I thought, very cleverly done. The theme was almost the same as the original version, but
with the obvious changes, the highlight being when Snow White was doing all the dwarves and the chimney
of the house turns into a huge cock having an orgasm.

One positive act we did while we were in Stockholm was a live radio show. It was for the Swedish
Broadcasting Service and was live in front of an audience. We had no one there with much technical expertise,
and although the playing wasn’t too bad, the sound balance was a bit strange.

The audience was small, but it is easier to play with heart in front of real people rather than a bare mike.
They weren’t too sure how to take us at first, but soon warmed up. As we were only on our second hit, we
weren’t that well-known yet. We did most of the set that we had rehearsed with Rod Taylor, except “Move
Over.” We had tried doing this little number at a club in Chester. It went down like the Titanic, and we
decided to drop it.

The whole show is on CD now, so I won’t dwell on it for too long. I must just mention that as the key
change in Co-Co was about to happen, our trusty roadie, Duncan, tripped and poured a glass of water over the
slide guitar. You can hear Brian comment on the incident if you listen closely. This was not the first radio
show we had done live, but definitely the first one abroad. Well worth the experience, as was the rest of the
tour, which went very well for a debut. It was the first of many in Scandinavia and only the beginning. We
would be back frequently.

The fact that we toured so much in Scandinavia and Germany and the resulting success shows that
touring does pay off. Although our first few tours were in front of small audiences, word spread, and the
crowds grew. I don’t even think that it was just having hit singles either, because we did put on what I would
like to consider a good show. Our blend of harmonies and heavy instrumental backing were unique at the time.
To have all four members being able to sing was unusual in itself.

We had been influenced individually by all the same kinds of bands, but no one sounded quite like us.
The fact that we were ahead of our time meant that we had to tour even more than most. It eventually paid off
and the sales of “Sweet F.A.” went through the roof. The record company threatened to give us not a gold,
but a diamond album. We never did get it though.

Our success in Scandinavia was like a stone rolling down a hill. It just kept on gaining momentum.
Sometimes it could be frightening, especially when fans decide they want your autograph and nothing would
stop them. On one very sad occasion, one young girl actually took an overdose of pills because she couldn’t
meet one of us. Her name was Petra Stracke and I would like to convey my deepest sympathy to her family,
even though it was so long ago. We didn’t hear any of this sort of bad news. We were kept away from bad
press like the naked Emperor with his new clothes. I think we hit the pinnacle in Europe during 1975. after
that, we started to try and conquer the rest of the world.

There is one experience of touring Denmark that I must share with you. We were playing in
Copenhagen and we were told that they Danish royal family would be in attendance. We were most impressed
and agreed to have a photograph taken with them all. Having been introduced and done with all the niceties,
they went and sat down in the audience. The show went as normal until half way through “Restless.’ At about
the second verse, I heard a commotion behind me. I also heard a big gasp from the audience and loud chortles
from the road crew.

I had to look behind me to find out what was going on. The sight that met my eyes was not that
pleasant. The roadies had grabbed the promoter, Eric Thompson’s assistant, stripped all his clothes off, and
hoisted him high in the air. They then pulled the curtains aside, revealing him all his naked glory. I’m not
sure what our royal visitors thought of the episode, but it stuck forever in my head!

53
 My life now seemed to belong to Chinn and Chapman, and we had to promote their songs in whatever
territories it looked like they would be hits. We began to be put in the same bag with a band called Middle of
the Road, who had a hit called “Where’s Your Mamma Gone?” We had met them at various times at different
studios throughout Europe, and eventually did a sort of package tour with the unlikely lineup of The Sweet,
Manfred Mann, The Equals and Middle of The Road. We did a load of bull rings in the south of Spain,
including Mallaga, Alicante, and other places I would rather not remember.

The whole thing must have been put together by a nut case, because none of the acts had anything
remotely to do with each other. As our wives were with us, that didn’t help much either because they had
never traveled abroad before. They all moaned so much that it made everybody miserable, and we all wished
that we were single.

Brian, of course, being a lead singer, had to have an affair with the singer of Middle of the Road, who
was female. It didn’t happen on this tour, but we knew it was inevitable. This, of course, was picked up by
the press and made our group’s name and theirs even more synonymous. This lead to a very serious mistake
a few months later involving the use of one of their songs.

Touring with all these bands was really amusing. The Equals were a bunch of lunatics. Manfred Mann
seemed very serious, but he did have a lighter side. All of us were eating “paella” one evening before a show
in Mallaga. When we had all finished, we realized that there was no one with us who spoke Spanish.

Manfred took control and told us not to worry, as he would take care of it as he spoke the language.
He called the waiter over and said with a very straight face, “Ow murch eez eet?” It managed to break the ice
among us and gave us a laugh.

As I already mentioned, we had our wives in tow. Experience had shown me already that is was always
a bad idea. Would you bring your misses to the office? It’s not that we were cheating on them at the time,
but it is difficult to deal with the problem in hand when you have distractions.

What made it worse was the fact that none of them had seen cockroaches the size of small dogs. After
checking into our hotel in Alicante, I was just unpacking my case when I heard a tremendous scream. We all
came running out of our rooms because we thought someone had been murdered. Apparently, Marilyn had
spotted a lizard in her room and was slightly taken aback!

While driving around the southern coast of Spain, I was astonished at how much poverty abounded. It
seemed to me that the locals were either extremely rich or didn’t have a pot to piss in. I remember seeing a
painted doorway into a cave beside the road. Not my idea of country living. The whole country was so
right-wing, it was frightening. We even had to change our passports to read “Artiste” instead of “Musician”
as our employment. Once, while boarding a bus after visiting the beach, we were told to put our trousers on
even though our bathing suits were wet. As the orders were from two hairy policemen with machine guns, we
complied immediately. Our next encounter with police was not to have such an easy ending.

54
55
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THE BELGIAN WAFFLE
We had been coming more frequently to Europe and it started to grow on us. Our first trip to Belgium
was in 1971 to do a TV show. I think it was called “Shaboom” or something like that. We had also tentatively
toured there without much success. I think that most audiences just looked upon us as a flash-in-the-pan pop
band. This was a stigma that was very difficult to overcome in a good many territories.

We decided to do a piss-take of the song “Where’s Your Mamma Gone?” We changed the lyrics to
“Where’s Your Titties Gone?” (“where’s your titties gone?”), “with the nipples on?”, “with the nipples on?”
singing it in low voices with great masculinity. We would then bring a couple of girls up onto the stage and
get them to sing it with us. I would then tickle one of them with a feather duster.

This was all fine and dandy in principle, until we played a little town in a little Belgian town just
outside Liege called Liers. What we didn’t know was, one, there were police in the audience and, two, our
faithful road crew had decided that particular part of the act where we brought on the girls.

We all had our usual half bottle of spirit of choice, and we were quite merry when we hit the stage. The
offending part of the act approached, which would probably change the course of our careers forever. It would
leave an indelible mark on both mine and Brian’s memories.

Just as we brought on the two girls, our road managers threw onto the stage a load of condoms that
they had inflated. Every time someone hit one of them into the air, Mick would smack his snare drum and it
looked like part of the act.

I didn’t happen to have a feather duster, so I used my hand, which was a big mistake. After the little
humorous part was over, the two girls, who were laughing as much as anyone else, were helped off the stage
by a couple of gentlemen that definitely did not belong in the audience.

After the show was finished, we sat and relaxed in the dressing room when these two fellows came
bursting in. One of them grabbed Brian and the other tried to grab me. I had already hit him a few times.
Duncan the roadie yelled out that they were police, and I immediately stopped.

What happened after that was a complete travesty of justice and the Belgian police should really be
ashamed of themselves. They closed the hall and confiscated all the kids’ ID cards, and informed them that
they could pick them up at the police station. They also arrested the club owner for having under-aged people
in a club that sold alcohol.

Brian and I were taken to the local law shop, and had to sit there all night while Mr. Plod and his ally,
took statements from all the kids with the threat that they would not get back their IDs. The police even went
to the hotel where we stayed and interviewed people there. If they had been able to find out some of the
happenings that had occurred during our stay, Brian and I would have been flayed alive.

Mick had a beautiful habit of lying on his bed during the day and beating his meat. This was alright I
suppose, but he would do it in plain view of a young girl across the street. They interviewed her too.

Brian, Mick and Andy had also had a very good time one day with an older woman. I was unlucky
enough not to have been present then, but was retold the story by all three combatants. It seems they met her
at a local pub that we frequented and enticed her back to the hotel.

After getting naked, they put their various appendages in whatever orifice was available. Brian at one
point suggested to Andy that he put his up her “Arris.” The woman then enquired, “Who’s Harris?”

For those who don’t understand cockney rhyming slang, please let me explain. “Aristotle” rhymes
with “bottle,” and “bottle and glass” rhymes with “arse.” Shortened, “Artistotle” becomes “Arris.” See?
When Andy has finished, he said, “That was great.” The woman replied, “You think so?”

56
 The owner of the club was blackmailed the same as the kids, by threatening the loss of his license if he
wouldn’t sign a prepared statement. He had to comply, and, therefore, did. As soon as he signed the paper,
they took his license away.

We were totally in the dark about what was occurring, and no one was very fast in coming to our aid.
I found out later our colleagues Mick and Andy had gone back to the hotel and taken the very first flight out.
I’m not too sure what I would have done in their shoe, but we were stuck up the creek without a canoe, let
alone a paddle.

When all the statements had been taken, the sun had risen and the birdies were twittering. We were
handcuffed and put in the back of a VW mini van and taken to Liege prison, which looked like Count
Dracula’s castle. I think it was covered with a permanent cloud.

They split us up and put us into solitary cells that were about ten by eight and had a bed, a table, and a
chair. There was a piss pot in the corner where most of my food went. There was a little booklet telling you
how to keep your cell clean—in French, of course. It is amazing how fast your grammar school French comes
flooding back when you have no on to translate for you.

Nobody else in the prison spoke English, or at least they wouldn’t own up to it. They hauled us in front
of the head man who, eventually, through a translator, gave us the great news that we were being charged with
obscenity on stage and sexually assaulting a minor. This could lead to a prison term of one to eight years.
This was not welcome news for us, and we hoped that someone on the outside had not forgotten us.

We both spent 23-1/2 hours in our cells and were only let out for thirty minutes of exercise. Every time
I went out to walk round the yard, someone in the line would start directing what I assumed were obscenities
toward me. I was promptly sent inside.

They gave me some very boring books to read (their English library was not that extensive), and I
forget what they were about. Now and then they would take us to the police station for an interview and it
became like a day trip from school. The interviewing cop seemed quite reasonable, for one of his calling, but
his eyes did light up when he found a small mark on my arm. That made him think that we were a couple of
junkies, until I told him it was a birth mark. I don’t think he really believed me, but, as it happens, it was true.

At last the troupes started to rally and we met with an Advocate or Barrister arranged by our promoter,
Mr. Louise De Vries. He was very imposing and, given the facts, assured us not to worry. Easy for him to
say. In Belgium, at this time, there was no such thing as bail and it was not unusual to stay in jail for quite a
stretch before even going to trial. One poor schmuck that Brian spoke to had been inside for six months and
no trial date had yet been set.

The only way round this was to have a hearing in front of a judge. We had to impress on him that we
were not homicidal maniacs, and should be set free pending trial. This hearing was set for the following
Friday, which was six days after our original arrest.

After being there for about four days, Nicky Chinn paid us a visit. It was almost comical in some ways
when I look back on it, because I, by now, was used to having doors locked behind me. They informed me I
had a visitor and took me to a little cubicle with a phone.

There was a glass partition dividing my side from another cubicle. Nicky was lead in and looked really
frightened when they locked the door behind him. I’ve never got over the expression on poor Nick’s face. It
was good of him to bother coming and I really did appreciate it.

The day eventually came and we appeared before a Magistrate to see if we could be released. Our
Advocate was very convincing in pleading our case and, after what seemed like hours, we were led back to
our cells.

57
 We were later informed that we would be let out later that day. I remember sitting in my little “cellule”
and bursting into tears of relief. It was the only emotion I had allowed myself all week. The one bright point
of the say was when I heard “Poppa Joe” on the radio. It was being released in Belgium the same day we were!

At last, they let us go, but not before we signed some sort of document. We thought this was a receipt
for our passports. It was, in fact, a piece of paper saying that we would appear in court when the date was
posted at the local town hall. Not knowing this, we did not appear, and it seems that they still want us. They
sentenced us in our absence ad would still like us to serve some time.

We were then taken to the airport, where we were left after informing us that our destination was not
England. Sweden was our next stop, to do a three week tour. It seems Chinn and Chapman had persuaded
the other two that we really had to tour. I don’t think I will ever forgive or forget what they did, but that’s all
water under the bridge now.

The two of us must have looked a forlorn sight standing at the check-in counter. We must have looked
even worse when they told us that we only had one seat on the plane. The only other available space was one
seat in first class and we had to pay the difference there and then. I had the magnificent sum of £5 and Brian
had absolutely nothing. Somehow, I managed to get through to Chinn on the phone in London and informed
him of our plight.

They must have really wanted us in Sweden, because they chartered a private plane. The only problem
was that it was coming from Sweden and would take two to three hours. It was already getting late and the
lights in the airport were slowly being turned off.

By midnight, there was just Brian and me, with heavily armed police all over. We started getting very
nervous, as by now, I had spent most of the money on beers. The rest I spent foolishly. I think the loneliest
places in the world are deserted train stations and airports. We were feeling very lonely.

We could possibly have been picked up and arrested for vagrancy. Luckily, the little plane arrived just
in time to whisk us away from any danger of further incarceration. There was no toilet inboard and Brian had
a weak bladder. The sick bags had to be employed for a very different use.

This tour was not planned very well. The timing was terrible and we were not happy puppies. When
Brian and I arrived, we were greeted by a huge giant of a man with the epithet of “Little’n.” The first thing
he managed to do, to my chagrin, was break my bottle of sherry. I had really been looking forward to
polishing that off. The weather was cold and damp. The tour was three weeks of drudgery. All we did it for
was to promote Chinn and Chapman’s songs, it seems. After the tour, it was very good to get back home, as
I hadn’t seen it for months. I did find out a lot later that my faithful wife not only hadn’t been at least bothered,
nor had she been faithful. These things happen and I had, of course, been dipping my wick in anything
remotely female. I was most fortunate that it didn’t fall off. I was very lucky not to have caught anything bad.
With only mild success with “Poppa Joe,” Mike decided that a change of style was necessary. He tried to write
what he thought was the same sound as our “B” sides. This resulted in him coming up with “Little Willy.”
As I have already mentioned, we were still not allowed to perform on the back track. It is possible that when
they heard the track we did for “Top Of the Pops,” and also the speed in which we did it, it helped to change
their minds.

58
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN - MAN FROM MECCA
I think that what may have sparked off the Belgian incident was something that happened earlier in
England. We were doing an extensive tour of England doing mainly “Mecca” ballrooms. I’m not sure if the
company still exists, but, back then, it owned a whole load of establishments. They all had silly names like
“Astoria” and “Palaise.” All of them looked exactly the same inside. There was a bar down one end of a huge
dance floor. The ceilings were fifty feet high and the acoustics were diabolical.

They had been built between the wars as ballrooms in a very Art Deco style. I personally love this
architecture, but they were terrible gigs to play. The stages had been meant to hold swing-type brass bands,
not hairy rockers. The crowning touch of décor was always a huge glitter ball hanging in the middle of the
ceiling.

These places were so popular, in fact, that The Kinks wrote a song about the demise of one. The Teddy
Boys of the fifties loved to have fights in them whilst “Rocking Around The Clock.” Someone in our agency
put together a whole tour of them countrywide so that we could do the same.

It was a bad mistake. By now, we had a bad boy act going. This was just a rebellion as to how we
thought the public envisioned us. This was also partially urged upon us by none other than Mike Chapman.
He had seen Slade, who were hot tamales at the time, and as they were from Birmingham, didn’t put up with
any crap.

He wanted to mold us in the same image. This was ironic, as it was he that had made us change from
that exact persona in the first place.

We were already about five gigs into the tour. It hadn’t been going that well. Neither we, nor the
Mecca ballrooms, were flavour of the month at the time. I remember walking into the hall in Reading in my
red and green platform boots and hearing one of the bouncers singing “There’s no business like no business,”
which even I found amusing. We had been getting some abuse from the male contingent, usually questioning
which way round we had sex. Our replies were generally in the area of “Go fuck yourself,” or, in my case,
“Would you like to find out?” This would send the young lads into a craze.

Eventually, the managers of the clubs began to tire of our unruly conduct. At what turned out to be
the last gig in Plymouth, the manager really got hostile. He pulled down the curtain on us and started ranting
and raving. He called us degenerates and low-lifes, and questioned our parenthood. He then went on to
complain bitterly about our foul language and got himself so worked up that he started using dirty words that
even we didn’t recognize. Of course, this put an end to the tour and we went back into the studio.

Chapman was not very thrilled with the tepid buyer’s response to “Poppa Joe.” He decided the next
single would be more of a reflection of our “B” sides. This resulted in “Little Willy.” They still wouldn’t let
us play on this one either. The resulting backtrack was weak and washed out. If we had played it, I think it
would have been a much bigger hit and even sounded like rock. Chapman had a thing about playing on all
his songs and, consequently, the outcome suffered.

After finishing the vocals in our usual record time, we had our allotted time for the other side. We
absolutely had to have a go at the idiot at the last Mecca show. The song wasn’t specifically about him, but
the title summed it up and we felt better about the whole incident. If you didn’t know better, you might think
“Man From Mecca” had some religious reference. It obviously does not.

This would be an era of change as far as the studio aspect goes and it was all due to the BBC. They
had decided that session musicians were getting ripped off because they were not receiving a fee if the song
they had played on appeared on the radio or on television. They had an idea of how to rectify this. Before we
or any other rock band could do a show, we had to re-record the song we would be performing. This was all
very well, but we had to pay the studio time. We also had to try and reproduce in three hours what may have
taken up to a week to record originally.

59
 I was using a Danelectro bass still, and it was not the easiest guitar to get a good sound with. This was
in the days when basses sounded like double basses, which was a sound I hated. My Danelectro would work
well in today’s market, but we were ahead of our time. The three hour clock started ticking and time was
running out. The session had to be supervised by someone from the BBC or the Musician’s Union. When we
finished, two-and-a-half hours later, everyone was astounded. The finished article was much raunchier than
the released version.

Even Chapman, who had grudgingly deigned to be present, had to admit that it sounded great.
Unfortunately, it was only ever used on the TV. The only good thing it did was convince Chapman and Chinn
that it was about time we played on our own records. It was what Wainman had been saying all along.

“Little Willy” did very well and reached number four in the charts. It didn’t do our image much good,
and this is where we started getting a bit outrageous. I was still wearing hot pants and silver tights. I no longer
made my own and we all started to use dressmakers.

We found a duo who worked in a flat in London and were reasonably priced. I don’t think they were
romantically involved but they were both a little weird. He was called Graham Springett and she was Jean
Seal. On a good day, they were very good. He was a little spacey, and was soon nicknamed “The Fool on the
Hill.” On one occasion, for my appearance in “Teenage Rampage” on Crackerjack, he made me a cat-suit
with one leg shorter than the other. Needless to say, I was a bit annoyed. They did make us some great outfits,
mainly out of sparkly leather, and usually silver with boots to match from Kensington market. You probably
have some pictures!

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 CHAPTER FIFTEEN - WIG WAM HAM AND EGGS
At last, the bastards allowed us to play on the back track of the next record. I had bought a five-string
Fender bass that was very awkward to play. The one reason I had got it was that it made Phil happy, but it
wasn’t a precision. I felt I had sort of won a battle. When Fi Trench came in to do the electric piano bass dub,
he couldn’t work it out and gave up the idea, thank the Lord.

One of Chinn’s failings was that he was too superstitious and hated change. Even Phil was a bit like
that and still had the motto of “Play It Safe.” One of their pet sounds was to double the bass guitar as I have
said, with a distorted Fender piano. They had used this gimmick on all the singles except “Willy.” I thought
it sounded dumb myself, and I was happy when they dropped the idea.

Our subsequent appearances on the tube began taking on an even more outrageous appearance. Andy
got hold of a huge head dress from the props department and our outfitters had sewn up some pretty garish
outfits. I had a skimpy chamois gear made, and it looked quite silly. The job was done, however, and “Wig
Wam Bam” again went to number four. The sales were up against “Willy,” but the competition was greater.
This record was, apart from “Co-Co,” our biggest success on this side of the Atlantic to date. It also proved
the point that we could perform in the studio.

While “Wig Wam Bam” was high on the charts in England, “Little Willy” was selling like hotcakes in
America and, because the record company changed hands, we never received any royalties. It sold over one
and a half million copies. Luckily, our agent and all of us agreed that we should not tour there as our image
would be vastly wrong. When we did eventually tour, it was really about two years too late. Timing, in this
business, is of the essence.

It was at this time that Mary Titmus from our agency decided that we should appear at a big event in
the Seychelles Islands. They were celebrating the two hundredth anniversary of British rule. It seems that the
British stole the islands from the French and had been good to the locals ever since. I think that all Mary
wanted was a holiday, but I didn’t hear anyone complain.

B.O.A.C., as British Airways was then known, had given us first-class tickets. All we had to do was
pose for pictures in front of their logo, for advertising purposes. The whole shindig was going to be a big deal
with royalty in attendance. As it happens, Princess Margaret was the designated royal party, and I was most
impressed.

Our flight was scheduled to leave on a Wednesday evening, which coincided with our appearing on
television. This meant that we had to leave immediately after performing “Wig Wam Bam.” It did impress
the audience when we were whisked off the set and hustled out of the BBC studios even before we had been
cleared.

It also impressed the passengers already on board to see a bunch of garishly-dressed Indians stumble
onto the plane. We had no time to change or remove our makeup, which was excessively flamboyant at the
time. Our first-class companions were most put out, but we cared not. In fact, we didn’t give a fuck.

I must admit that this is the only way to fly. The drinks are free and the people serving you treat you
like a human being, unlike in coach, which we later labeled “pig’s class.” I was taken to see the flight deck
and meet the Captain. He told me the history of the aircraft, a VC10. He didn’t instill much faith in me when
he told me it was already nine years old.

My nerves were put further on edge when the stewardess came in and informed the Captain that they
were out of vodka. He told her not to worry and pulled out a half-gallon plastic container full of the stuff. It
was his private supply. I assumed that he hadn’t been hitting it before, or indeed after, take-off.

We arrived a bit worse for booze in the Seychelles and went immediately to the hotel. We met the
organizer of the gig, who filled us in on the local customs. The islands had long been a watering hole for the
Royal Navy and certain traditions abounded.

61
 The one I found most intriguing was that it was commonplace and, in fact, habitual, for the local black
girls to copulate with visiting white boys. Our host informed us that we would more than likely be
propositioned. I, for one, couldn’t wait and the rest of the lads were raring to go.

The gig came first, however, and our sexual appetites had to be put on hold for a few hours. The
equipment had to be set up and checked. We also needed to rehearse because the venue was outside. The
organizers were expecting at least ten thousand people inside the stadium and even more outside. This was a
frightening prospect for us, as our biggest audience to date was about five thousand.

We had our own equipment, which had also come along free of charge. This was set up on the
flimsy-looking platform cunningly referred to as the “stage.” The only good thing about our equipment, apart
from being free, was that it was loud. For once, this was its only blessing. At least we could deafen the audience.

For me, the black and white copulation theory became fact the second morning after we arrived. I
woke quite early, for me, at about eight a.m. I was a tea drinker then and, as we had been up till all hours
drinking like fish, I had a terrible thirst. Room service seemed to be the answer, as this was an all-expenses
paid visit. Ham and eggs seemed to be the order of the day.

After ordering, I just laid there and snoozed a little longer. About fifteen minutes passed and there was
a knock on the door. I told whoever was there to please come in. They did—all three of them. It seemed a
bit overkill to send three girls when all I had ordered was a cup of tea and a round of toast.

They were very pretty and looked about eighteen. Although their outfits were not that flattering, I
could see that they all had very full figures. One of the girls, called Sue, put the tray she was holding down at
the end of the bed and the other two stood either side of me.

They both got very close and asked me my name and where I came from. Suddenly they both gave me
a kiss on the cheek and Sue pulled down the covers of the bed. Before I could move, the other two girls, Billie
and Joey, had tied my hands to the bed with their leather belts.

I was helpless and a bit nervous. Sue pulled down my underpants with great speed and then tied my
legs to the bed. Now I was helpless, nervous, and completely naked too. The blood started pounding in my
veins. She started to undress carefully, removing each part of her clothing most seductively.

She had very large, beautifully-shaped breasts with rock-hard nipples. Licking her finger, she pushed
it into her thick black bush and played with herself. I was totally aroused by now, and not surprisingly. She
took my cock in her hands and gently licked the tip with her very pink tongue. She put the head in her mouth
and slowly swallowed it right down her throat as far as it would go.

The other two girls were watching and obviously getting very excited. They pulled off each other’s
clothes and started masturbating each other. It was really erotic, and I wondered what was going to happen
next.

I didn’t have to wait long, as Joey climbed onto the bed. Her breasts were extremely large too and she
thrust one of her nipples in my mouth while she sucked on the other one herself. Then she put her soft thighs
on either side of my face and lowered herself until her pussy was pressed against my mouth. I licked her
clitoris and heard her breathing get deeper.

Billie didn’t want to miss out, so she climbed up and positioned herself so that Joey could lick her
pussy. It was very erotic and I had never been so turned on before. Sue had finished sucking me and was
squatting over me, guiding my cock into her warm, wet pussy. It seemed to take forever until I was all the
way inside her. She rode me like a horse for what felt like eternity. Suddenly, she let out a long moan and a
wave of warm wetness spread over me.

At the same time, Joey came in my mouth and Billie came in hers. It was not over by any means yet
and they were still very hot. So was I! It was time to change positions. Everything started to blur as I sucked
different pussies and put my tongue up different arses.
62
 Billie was a masochist and took great delight from any pain inflicted on her. The other girls were quite
willing to comply with her wishes. They had come armed with many sexual toys including a whip, a vibrator,
and a string with big knots.

They also liked putting on a show for me and, as I was completely helpless, I had to watch. Sue was
a bit of a sadist and she made Joey hold Billie’s arms tight while she whipped her.

At one point, she used the vibrator on her, putting it up her pussy first, and then her arse. Billie was
screaming with pleasure. It nearly made me cum just watching. All three of them took turns in riding me
again and again until I couldn’t cum anymore. I had already had countless orgasms and it was beginning to
hurt.

They wouldn’t let me off that easily and fucked me till I called for mercy. It was great! By the time
we finished, we were all exhausted and very sore, but it was an experience I won’t forget in a hurry.

My tea and toast had gone cold, but I didn’t dare call room service for more! The day had not begun
yet and there was still a long way to go. This was the first of seven days and there were many more girls on
the island all as horny as these three. No wonder they call the Seychelles Eden.

They even have male and female coconuts. The male is long and slender and the female looks like a
shaved vagina. It even has a clit. Everyone we met there was very friendly and, on the Sunday, Andy and I
piled on board a small luxury cruiser with the promoter to another one of the thousand islands there. Every
week, a married couple, who were almost recluses, had a spaghetti lunch for anyone who wanted to come.

It was great fun and we got to sign our names on the inside of the house with hundreds of others. We
also met Miss Seychelles and her maid of honour. They were both gorgeous and we stuck to them like glue.
I wanted to take mine behind a tree and have a knee trembler but my sore, throbbing organ made me think
better of it. She was most disappointed. I sucked her pussy instead. That seemed to make her happy.

On the day of the celebration, we donned our silver and gold outfits and took the stage. The reporter
of the local paper later described us as looking as if we had just come off a space craft from Mars. The
audience was taken completely by surprise. They had never seen anything like it.

When we finished, the real fun began back at “The Reef” hotel. Most of the invited audience were very
“upper crusty,” but they did know how to party. Every kind of booze was freely flowing, and they quickly
started letting their hair down. Very soon, someone fell in the pool fully-clothed.

This started a trend, and, before too long, nearly all of the party-goers were in there. The men looked
like a load of demented penguins. I hasten to add that Princess Margaret was not one of the swimmers. I’m
a bit surprised that no one in the band tried to get into her knickers. After the recent uproar over the Princess
Diana book, I’m glad that she was left untouched. Under British law, you can lose your big head by thinking
through your small one, it seems!

We had a great time on these islands and it was over all too quickly. We almost bought some land there
very cheaply, but for some reason we didn’t. It was just as well, because the following year, during a
Commonwealth conference of Prime Ministers, the Communists took over and we would have lost the lot.

Our flight back was a bit different than the one out. We had done the advertising and, guess what, there
were only two first-class seats left. I managed to grab one and Mick the other. During our flight, I got very
drunk. We stopped at Entebbe, where Idi Amin was throwing all those people he hadn’t murdered out of the
country. Even though we had seen TV shows covering this event, it is never the same as close up and ugly.
The sight of all the belongings the deportees had to leave was most upsetting. It had all now become the big
fat pig’s loot. I’m surprised no one has thought of knocking the bastard off. That would only lower one to
his level, I suppose. The whole scenario was very different from the one we had just left.

The one stupid thing I, for one, did, was to change all the fifty rupee notes I had back to sterling. About
two weeks after our return to England, there was a big scandal about the note’s appearance. It was quickly
63
withdrawn, and its value soared. The controversy was centered on the positioning of some palm trees drawn
behind the Queen’s likeness on the left-hand side of the note. If you turned the bill sideways, the palm leaves
on the three palm trees spelled out a big S-E-X. Oh boy! Do I wish I had one of those today.

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 CHAPTER SIXTEEN - TRANSVESTITES IN TIGHTS
After this wonderful break from reality, it was time to get back to the real world and tour Europe again.
We did an extensive tour of Germany from Berlin to Braunsweig.

Berlin really is or was a decadent and exciting city. Being situated in the middle of a Communist
country, the Berliners are always living on the edge. This was based on sound reasoning, as the Russian
blockade in the late 1940s was not yet forgotten. The nightclubs were very risqué. I thought Sweden had a
raucous night life, but it pales to German cities like Hamburg and Berlin. One night, we walked into a club
with Bubie from “Bravo” magazine. He was very familiar with the nightclub areas of most cities and was
certainly no stranger to Berlin’s.

On this occasion, our randy drummer got into a deep conversation with a beautiful brunette at the bar.
After a few drinks, I noticed her excuse herself and walked off. I asked Mick what was happened and he told
me that she was a performer. She most certainly was. The music started on stage and out she came. She did
a very exotic dance that got the audience on its feet. Bubie nudged me and pulled me away from Mick and
told me to watch Mick’s expression. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about and the girl had exposed
a nice pair of boobs by now. It was right at the end of her dance and we thought she was about to show her
pussy when she whipped out a fair size prick from her underpants. Mick’s expression was classic.

I knew I could never be fooled like that, although the pretty blonde I was with had a low, but really
sexy voice. It was getting late and I asked my little fox if she would like to come back to my hotel. She said
yes with no reluctance and off we went. When we got into the room, after some heavy petting, she took off
her blouse and showed me her exquisite, firm, large breasts. She pulled down my pants and gave me a blow
job — a great blow job. When I had cum, she continued to undress to reveal, yes, you guessed it, a rather large
appendage. I ejected her (him/it) without further ado. Oh well, we all make mistakes!

On a not-so-cheerful note, one of our stops was in the beautiful town of Braunsweig. I remember this
gig particularly well because of an incident which took place there. Halfway through the show, while Mick
was doing his drum solo, someone whispered in my ear that there was a bomb in the building. A road manager
went and got him off his drums. Andy went to the mike and announced that the I.R.A. had planted a bomb.
Apart from the fact that the audience couldn’t understand a word, it was, in fact, the notorious Bahder
Meinhhoff gang that had phoned in the threat.

I will never know for sure if this was in fact them or some Sweet-hater, but at the time it was very scary.
Happily, nothing happened and everybody in the hall managed to get out safely. I don’t think I ever exited a
venue with such speed. The incident was never repeated.

The remainder of the tour went without a hitch and we went back to England to promote our single
“Wig Wam Bam” which was still climbing the charts. While we were sitting in the TV studio’s dressing room
waiting for our call, Mike, pulled out his acoustic and played us a riff. It sounded a bit like “I’m a Man” by
Bo Diddley. Sounding much different from anything else he had ever played us, it caught our attention.

Soon after, while “Wig Wam” was still high in the charts around the world, “Blockbuster” was born.
By now, all our recording had to be done at one studio, Audio International in Rodmarten Street. This was
still mainly due to superstition on behalf of the Dynamic Duo. It is not unheard of in the rest of the industry.
When one has a certain amount of success in the charts, one tends to stick with the winning formula. The “B”
sides were still a challenge because the only one interested was Phil. The thirty minutes allowed was gradually
extended, and soon Mike began to get involved, in a way.

Chapman vowed that he would always appear, somehow, on every one of our singles. He would either
sing a part or play a guitar. I cannot remember all the different things he did, except one. Unknown to Andy,
he erased the acoustic guitar tracks that Andy had so lovingly put down. He then replaced them himself with
his own guitar. I don’t think Andy ever found out. I personally thought that it was a dirty trick.

65
 Whoever thought of putting the siren at the beginning was a genius. You would have to go a long way
not to recognize this song on the radio. When it was eventually released in America for radio play the siren
had to be dropped because drivers might think it was a police car and pull over. It didn’t make the charts there.

“Blockbuster” was a huge hit in England and Europe, but the same week that it was released, RCA
made what I consider a terrible blunder. David Bowie had written “The Jean Genie.” Only the lyrics were
different from our song. I would love to find out who really came up with the idea first. There are times at a
record company office, where an executive will play a demo of an artist on his stereo.

It they think that it’s a hit, the volume will be cranked right up. It is very possible that either Mike
Chapman or David Bowie was walking around the RCA building and that this happened. I believe that the
similarity between the two is much too coincidental.

Because they released both songs at the same time, it is possible that we both lost sales. We went to
number one for six weeks and Bowie stayed at #2. It was our only #1 on the charts in England. It became
very frustrating that we were still not respected by the media.

We tried to give the British press a different view of us by having a party at Ronnie Scott’s. This was
a famous club at the time, but we still could not give the critics the right impression. We were much too loud
and probably too drunk.

Nothing changed and the local journalists still had a go at us every opportunity they could. This was
further enforced when we played The Rainbow on March 30, 1973.

A company from Italy, called Davoli, had given us a load of equipment for nothing as an endorsement.
They were trying to make inroads into the electronics industry in England. Being very cheap, we talked
ourselves into believing that this equipment was good. It was very big and very loud. Unfortunately, it was
untried. After rehearsing all afternoon at The Rainbow, everything seemed to go well.

The problems started when some of the equipment that we had been promised did not turn up. Davoli
had led Andy to believe the amplifiers that he had tried at the factory were the ones he would be using on the
show. These were never delivered and what they did bring were poor-sounding substitutes. We went on stage
to a very enthusiastic audience. However, within a few seconds, the vast PA system that sounded just like a
million watt transistor radio, blew the main fuses and everything cut out. Andy, who always had trouble
controlling his emotions on stage, kicked over his useless pieces of junk and walked off immediately. The
rest of us had no option but to do the same. It was most embarrassing, but not quite as much as when we went
back on. The damned thing happened again. Off we all went, shouting and screaming at anyone who looked
like they should be to blame. The band who were supporting us, Georgdie, very kindly offered us their
equipment. At first we declined, but we soon realized that it was the only way out. At last, we went back on
and all the fuses held and we managed to get through a half-baked act. Our friendly local press couldn’t do
anything but slaughter us I their little rags. They must have really loved it, and it showed. We thought that it
was all over. In some ways it was because we never were prophets in our own land. It is only recently, twenty
years later, that anyone has owned up to the fact that we were a bloody good band and have influenced their
careers.

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 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - HOUSE #1
I decided that living in a council flat was not what I was destined to do. We had already started making
some money and the tax man could soon be on the scene. Andy had already taken the plunge and bought a
very nice house in Hayes, where he moved with his lovely wife, Jackie. It was time for me to do the same
thing. As we had friends to whom we were fairly close, we didn’t want to move too far away.

I found a house on Carlton Avenue not half a mile away that seemed to be in the price range that I
could afford. They wanted £12,500. To me, that was an absolute fortune. You can’t buy a car for that money
now. I managed to negotiate with them and they agreed to take three hundred less. It sounded like a good
deal to me and the purchase was made.

It had been owned by an elderly lady who had lost her husband a few years earlier. When I looked at
the back yard, it was like a jungle. I wondered if perhaps if she lost him in the back yard and he had died of
starvation by the back fence. When we did move in, my hard work had just begun.

This was the first experience I had of buying something, thinking it was fine, and very soon realizing
that it could do with some improvement. I replaced the fence between us and the next-door neighbours. It
was 150 feet long. I remodeled the bathroom and replaced the windows. I was also recording “Ballroom Blitz.”

It was in this house that I wrote the lyrics to “Restless.” We had already put the back track down but
we didn’t like the song that went with it. One afternoon I sat and listened to nearly every Elvis song I owned.
When I came to “Heartbreak Hotel,” it triggered the whole idea.

It was also in this house that Pat and I had some of our biggest rows. When Mick and Pauline got
married was the same day that my brother, his wife, and daughter, Sue, were visiting from Canada. I picked
them up at the airport and dropped them off at my dad’s, promising to pick them up later. Unfortunately, it
was a lot later and they were beginning to get a bit upset. Pat was already fairly drunk, as usual, but had to
have a few more when we got home. My visiting family went upstairs to try and sleep and Pat started yelling
at me. She went into her usual hysterics and, the following day, my visitors moved out.

All together, this house must hold a lot of memories, good and bad. I wonder if whoever is living there
now feels any of them. I hope they are good feelings.

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68
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - HELLROOM BLITZ
With my marriage at home going downhill, my career abroad was doing just the opposite. We had now
had four hits and Chapman gave us his demo for “Hell Raiser.” We took it to Hong Kong to learn it!

Our booking agent, whose name was Johnnie Jones, decided that he had wanted to go on a short,
fully-paid vacation. Apparently, a call came in from that small, soon-not-to-be-British colony for a band, any
band, to appear at some centennial or other. We got the job.

Hong Kong is really a place worth visiting and I had not experienced anything quite like it. All of us
went out sightseeing and I bought silly things like binoculars (which I still have) and a film projector (which
I don’t.).

The gig itself was pretty incredible considering that we were on the same bill as Tom Paxton who, it
turned out, was a very intelligent gentleman. He went on stage with just a bass player and sang some very
lovely tunes, the lyrics of which were probably wasted on a majority of the audience, who were Chinese. After
a short break to set up our amps, we turned ourselves loose on China for the first and last time. I had never
seen so many people in an audience wearing glasses before. About three quarters of them sat there reflecting
our stage lights back at us.

They listened very politely to us, which took us completely by surprise, as their European counterparts
sometimes showed a very mean side at times. We went down well enough and they seemed to enjoy it a little
and that was that.

We now had to listen to, and learn, our next hit. It didn’t sound all that easy, and anyone who has heard
that demo will probably agree with me. A little train took us to a school where we could rehearse and we all
listened to the tape and fell on the floor laughing. Not knowing quite how to arrange the song, we just learned
it and went back to England hoping for some ideas.

Luckily, when we got together with Mike, he explained his whole idea of the song to us and it all came
together. It has been ripped off a few times, quite recently I think!

We did well in the charts and achieved number two in the BBC charts (one of our many number twos).
Believe it or not, we were kept from number one by “Tie A Yellow Ribbon.” It made me feel like going
number twos, but not as bad as what happened to our next attempt.

By now it had become apparent that all Chinn and Chapman did was to sit down, thrash out a song,
made a rough demo and then left it up to us and Phil to turn it into a really saleable commodity.

There was always much help from Phil Wainman, who was the eternal optimist, even when we were
giving him a hard time. Without Phil, “Ballroom Blitz” would have sounded like a weak Marc Bolan reject.
Again, we sat around for hours trying to think of something to make it come alive. Wainman eventually came
into the room. He said with much enthusiasm that he had a great idea. He got out his drumsticks and started
beating out the rhythm to a Sandy Nelson song called “Let There Be Drums.”

We all looked at each other and knew instantly that this was the necessary ingredient that had been
missing. The following rehearsal, the prominent “Record Man” of the moment, Mickie Most, accompanied
Chinn and Chapman to hear the latest from us and immediately gave us his seal of approval.

We went into the studio the following day and started work, as usual, on the drum sounds. This took
the normal day or so, and then it was my turn. I had an ongoing feud with Phil about my bass sounds, as I
thought that his ideas were out of date.

I had long been a fan of John Entwistle of The Who. He had long an interesting sound that made the
bass guitar into a prominent instrument.

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70
 Instead of just making it sound like a double bass, Entwistle put a lot of top end on, and with the help
of the new Rotosound strings, made the instrument come alive. Phil, on the other hand, would always insist
that I should put a load of foam rubber under the strings to make a sound like an old fart Fender Precision.

Just before we started to record the back track, I removed the offending stuff. Over the talk-back
system, Phil asked me if the padding was in place, to which I, of course, replied in the affirmative. When it
came to the part in the middle where the bass is featured on its own, I just dampened the strings with the palm
of my hand. Phil was never the wiser, at least I don’t think so.

We had alternative lyrics to most of our singles and “Blitz” was no exception. They went roughly like
this:

I see a man at the back who’s taking a crap

His arse is as red as the sun
The girl in the corner is sucking Jack Horner
And soon in her mouth he will cum.

Oh yeah, he came like lightning

And his cum tasted frightening
But she swallowed it gladly
And her bowels acted badly

Chorus: the usual, but substituting “Ballroom Blitz” with “bloody great tits.”

I put a lot of ideas into the song myself after lying in bed awake all night. The outcome was a classic
and remains so. It is arguably one of the best pop songs we ever did. The biggest disappointment was when
the title tune of a very popular TV show, “Van Der Valk,” went to #1. The song was called “Eye Level,” and
a catchy ditty it was too. Unfortunately for us, it was a bit too catchy.

Sales of “Blitz” went crazy, and we were amazed that it didn’t go straight in at #1. Unfortunately, it
went in at #2 and stayed there. We never did have another #1 in England. “Eye Level” just kept on going and,
when it did drop in sales, “See My Baby Jive” took its place.

This leads me to a very sore point, and probably the beginning of the end of us with Chinn and
Chapman. They had turned into a kind of hit factory, bashing out hits for loads of different acts. All they
seemed to care about was their own success.

They made a beautiful blunder of hiring a management company to take care of us all. This was meant
to cover Phil Wainman too. We went in to sign the agreement, and they handed us a cheque for twenty
thousand pounds. What were they thinking? It was meant for tour support. We assumed it was an advance
for signing with them. Under this presumption, Brian paid it straight into our account, and wrote out four
cheques each for five thousand.

They hadn’t made it clear what the money was actually for. What made matters worse for them was
that Phil did not want management and wouldn’t sign the contract. That made it void. The management
company then asked for the money back. When Phil heard this, he fell on the floor laughing. Having been a
musician himself, he knew it was hopeless trying to get money out of us.

The situation was eventually resolved. They managed us and we kept the money. It didn’t last long,
though, and we again were not managed again for a long time, although we were approached many times. We
preferred to remain unmanaged rather than mismanaged.

Phil had rowed a friend of his into being Chinn’s business affairs person. He was an ex-shirt salesman
and I, for one, wished he had stayed in that profession, as I’m sure he was good at it. Inevitably, he wound up
looking after our affairs. I was very wary of him, and I know that Brian held him below contempt. The
majority ruled and David Walker was on board.

71
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74
 Our next single, “Teenage Rampage,” opened with what sounded like a live audience chanting “We
Want Sweet!” This could not have been further from the truth. What we had done was slow the tape down
and had the road crew and anyone else around yell their heads off. It was most hilarious seeing all these big,
hairy Northern cousins like Terry, Cuz and Bruno, shouting something they surely didn’t mean. When the
tape was set back to normal speed, the requisite effect was achieved.

The powers that be released “Rampage” at the same time as the Mud single “Tiger Feet.” The idea was
to have multiple #1s. There was one flaw. As I mentioned before, the charts were based on sales from
randomly-picked shops.

Britain is very regional, and Mud came from the Midlands, where most of these shops are located.
Even though our sales were higher, they were not in the right places. New Musical Express did put us at the
top of their paper, but when the BBC chart came out, Mud were #1 and we were #2. It remained that way, and
it began to upset us. If the release dates had been changed, things would have been very different. They also
had Suzi Quatro with “Devil Gate Drive.” We thought she and her band looked silly on one TV show we did
with her. They had a little dance routine worked out for the three in front. We nicknamed them the “Chinn
and Chapman School of Dancing.”

I think Chapman was feeling a little guilty and came up with what he thought was a great idea. We
should all write an album together. The theme was based on some mythical fellow in Australia called “Okker.”
This fellow had mysteriously died and left behind some songs. We were going to call the album “From The
Tomb of Okker The Rocker.” It sounded good in theory, but all we ended up doing was going to Nick’s flat
in Hill Street and drinking vast quantities of alcohol. I don’t know where someone got the idea that “A Touch
Too Much” came out of these sessions, because it didn’t.

It was around this time that we decided that management was again a necessity. Nicky Chinn had been
introduced to a man named Ed Leffler, who had a good reputation and wanted to come and see us. We hadn’t
heard of him, but were informed that he had been involved with The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. This
sounded very impressive, so we agreed for him to come and see us. The gig happened to be Loughborough
Universal on the 17th of November, 1973, and he turned up in a bright red limousine just like Joe did in “Man
at the Top.” Little did we know that he was about to leave the management company he was with and didn’t
have any acts. We were most impressed by the limo, which definitely did the trick, and we hired him.

It is with great sadness that I have to report the death of Ed Leffler—ironically, during the same week
that I reached this part of writing the book. He had been battling cancer for the last ten years of his life. Even
with his stubbornness, he couldn’t beat this terrible disease. We miss him terribly.

The show he came to see was one of the best we had done, and Ed was very impressed. He had already
heard of our “Fuck You” attitude and witnessed it first hand. The crowd loved us too, thank heavens. Our
next meeting after signing contracts was at the exotic “Hillingdon Rugby Club,” where we were rehearsing.
He happened to walk in just as we were playing a new song called “Sweet F.A.” It went down very well with
him as he could see the song summed us up.

Ed suggested that we use the title for the next album that we were just about to begin. We had already
written a few tracks and C&C had some too. Recording was started and proceeded very well. However, when
it came to laying down the back track for “Sweet F.A.,” Andy could not get the timing right and blamed it on
Mick and me. He was shown the error of his ways when the both of us did the whole track without him. We
did it in one take! The guitars had to be overdubbed afterwards.

We had finished all the instrumental parts and were ready for Brian to come in and sing the leads. He
was unable to do so because of an incident that would probably, again, affect the future of the band.

75
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 CHAPTER NINETEEN - DESOLATION AND FRUSTRATION
Brian got himself badly beaten up in a brawl outside a pub in Staines. It was the night before he was
to have finished the remainder of his lead vocal tracks. We were all devastated.

The problem apparently started when he had decided to go out for a few drinks with a friend. Brian
couldn’t hold his liquor or his tongue very well, which often got him and us into trouble. It seems that some
boyfriends took offense when Brian and his friend tried to steal their girls.

The irate duo, it would appear, followed Brian out of the pub and proceeded to beat the daylights out
him. One of them was heard to say, “Kick him in the throat and make sure he doesn’t sing again.” I have
since heard that it was planned, and it couldn’t have happened at a worse time. There are a few people who
know exactly what happened and why.

Brian was taken the next day to a Harley Street throat specialist who informed him that he had a very
bruised larynx. He gave him some powerful injections that relieved the pressure and allowed him to sing for
short periods.

It worked up to a point, but it was obvious that some of the keys were much too high for him. He
managed to get through the majority, but when it came to “Restless” and “No You Don’t,” it was hopeless.

Nicky and Mike decided that this was the perfect time to forsake us and travel round the world. We
didn’t have a clue what to do, so we sat down with a very frustrated Phil. He suggested that we carry on
regardless. I was put forward as the candidate to sing the remaining songs, which were too high for me as well.
After playing around with the tape speeds, I managed to finish the album with my own throat very sore.

Making this album was a great experience for us in many more ways than one. The down side was the
problem we had with Brian, but on the up side, we began to realize that we no longer needed Nicky and Mike.

The other outcome of Brian’s voice loss was to affect us even more. Pete Townsend of The Who really
wanted us to play with them at Charlton Football Stadium. Appearing in front of 20,000 people at the request
of one so revered would have helped us immensely. It would also have launched our first real album into the
charts, I have no doubt. Not only could we not do the Charlton show, but we also had to cancel a British tour
and even offers from America. So much for timing.

No one thought there were singles on S.F.A., but many of the tracks have been covered since. Except
for “Peppermint Twist.” Some bright spark from the Australian branch of RCA decided that it would be a hit.
He was right, and it went to #1 “down under.” We had only included it on the album as a joke because we
had run out of songs and we were three minutes short.

The tension between Mick and Chapman started as soon as he arrived back from his world tour. Chinn
and Chapman had written what was probably their best song yet. It was the story of six teenagers growing up
the hard way in Los Angeles. Appropriately called “The Sixteens,” it was one of our more mature recordings.
It was during this session that Mick Tucker and Mike Chapman had their biggest row ever. They had always
been at each other’s throats.

I don’t quite remember how the argument started, but it culminated in Chapman yelling at Mick, “We
don’t fucking need you anyway, Mick.” This was probably the wrong thing to say to Mick, who had been to
the pub and had had a few, and was in mood to take that kind of insult. “If you don’t need us,” he rejoined,
“why don’t you just put that tape player into record and erase the whole track?” As we had just finished about
six hours of recording, and a couple of days of setup, Chapman could see that Mick had a salient point.

The rest of the studio was very quiet while this barrage of nastiness was being exchanged. At one point,
we all thought that Mick would do the erasing, as he was so angry. Obviously neither Chapman nor Tucker
was stupid enough to do anything radical and, when tempers died down, we went on to finish what I consider
to be a great song.

77
 Unfortunately for us, not only did bad timing strike, so did the BBC. “Top Of The Pops” was cancelled,
and without the show and with a radically different-sounding single, it was going to be a rough road to the
charts.

The only TV show still on the air was “Lift Off.” Aunt Muriel still loved to have her little boys around
her, and put us on the show without a thought. I designed an outfit that sent gay men berserk. That wasn’t
the idea, but such is life. The boots that went with it were made for women and had huge platforms. They
were a dainty shade of gold and almost impossible to walk in, let alone perform.

What made it even more difficult was the fact that we had been plied with an abundance of champagne.
By showtime, it was almost impossible for me to stand. I can vaguely remember nearly falling over and
almost breaking my ankle. It was not a good show.

“The Sixteens” only just reached the top ten in England and around #4 in Germany. It was very
disappointing, but by then we were getting used to it. It would appear that John Mellencamp heard and liked
the song. Listen to “Jack and Diane.” Well done, John! Imitation is the greatest form of flattery.

Due to musical and business disagreements, Wainman decided to go his own way. This was after we
had done a huge deal with a German record company for £15,000,000. I wonder where all that went. Phil
went on to produce other hits in his own right. This left us with just Chapman, because Nicky thought it best
to keep out of the way and “write.”

We needed another album and went back to the studio in Rodmarten Street to do it. We had already
spent a lot of time in Andy’s little studio. It was like a large dog kennel behind his house in West Drayton.

We had quite a few good ideas, but one of them had us totally stumped for a title. Mick and Brian had
had enough at 2:00 one morning, which had left only Andy and me. As we were about to call it a day, I came
up with a great idea. As the song we had been writing was about a groupie, maybe the word “fox” should be
incorporated.

After further thought, wine and desperation, I blurted out, “How about fox on the run?” Andy thought
about it for half a second, and decided that it would fit, and that was the end of that. We put down a very rough
version on tape, which I believe has just come out on a CD.

The next day, we told the others of our great breakthrough, and off we went to the studio to record it.
The first version sounded a little like Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel.” Well, there’s a thing called plagiarism in music,
and it is sometimes subconscious. I think the band Queen would know more about that than we did, but they
weren’t around yet. All except Freddie Mercury, who was known at the time as Larry Lurex. I wonder where
he got that idea.

Mick wanted to show off his expertise as a drummer on this album to stick it to the critics. This meant
doing the theme from “A Man With A Golden Arm.” None of us had any experience with brass instruments,
so we had to hire some players.

The outcome was not as loose and sexy as the original by Elmer Bernstein. It sounded like they had
broomsticks up their backsides. Mick did do an unusually good solo, in a remarkably short time. Halfway
through the two weeks of recording time, Chapman, who had been listening to Cheech andChong, came in
with a new song entitled “Turn It Down.”

I liked it a lot, and we got exactly the right feel to it. It was the most enjoyable track I ever laid down
with the band. We wanted to go with this track as the first single. When Robin Nash, who produced Top Of
The Pops, heard it, he refused to put it on the show. His argument was that it contained the words “for God’s
sake.” It was successful in the rest of Europe, although not our biggest ever.

We finished the album in two weeks flat. The last track we did was supposed to be a tribute to The
Who. We even asked Pete Townsend to guest on it, band he agreed. At the last minute, however, he declined.

78
I think this may have been because we hadn’t played at the Charlton gig. Maybe Pete did not believe the story
of Brian’s beating.

With the album done, it was time to go back out on the road. In August, we went to Europe for an
extensive tour. On our return, we decided to do a University tour in Britain. It was an attempt to appeal to a
more mature audience. There was only one city that would not take us: Birmingham. Their excuse was that
there had been vandalism at other venues. I think it was a throw-back to a few years earlier.

We had only had one hit at the time and we thought that we were real big shots. When we played at a
certain club in Birmingham, our set was a bit short, mainly because we were too lazy to learn new songs.
Anyway, the two brothers who ran the club were not impressed with our success or our attitude. One of them
said, “They think they’re the fooking Beatles.” The other one was heard to remark in a very thick Brummy
accent, “You’ll never fookin’ play in Birmingham again.” To my great relief, he was right. It became
apparent later that these two brothers were in an organization whose name rhymes with “raffia.”

Back to the present, Chinn and Chapman were off again and we sorely needed a single. We had a
notion of releasing “I Wanna Be Committed,” but the Beeb had quickly vetoed that because the reference to
mental health was taboo.

Someone at the record company suggested that we go back into the studio on our own and rerecord
three of the songs on “Desolation Boulevard” as singles. This sounded like a good idea in principle. I
suggested that we should do what Chinn and Chapman would do and concentrate on just one song.

We decided to go with “Fox.” We changed studios to what was formerly called “Delaine Lea” studios,
but renamed “Kingsway” by its new owner, Ian Gillan! Not wanting to change our luck, we told engineer
Louie Austin to change the twenty-four track head back to sixteen.

I think Louie thought we were nuts. The trouble with not having enough tracks is that it is like doing
a BBC session. The back track went down really quick, but when it came to doing the back vocals, there were
no more tracks left for my little part. This meant that every time my bit came around, I would have to lean
into the mike during the chorus. Louie then had to put the echo effect on and off when we mixed it.

The result was very much what we wanted, and we took it to RCA for release in Great Britain alone.
They released it worldwide. As we all know, it was a big hit, much to the chagrin of the Dynamic Duo.

I remember one Wednesday morning, the phone ringing in my little house in Hayes and hearing Mike
Chapman on the other end. “Well, I guess that you won’t be needing us anymore,” he said. I thought for about
a nanosecond and replied, “It doesn’t look much like it, does it?” That was the end of that. I didn’t see or hear
of him until 1988, when he tried, fruitlessly, to reunite the band.

This felt like our first real hit: written, recorded and produced solely by us. Things looked good. We
had to move on write a follow up. Not so easy. Our attitude now was that we were invincible and that it was
us that had made the hits and not the other two. This was not strictly true, of course, as it was a two-way street.

Brian had moved out of Hayes into a townhouse in Staines. It was built on a crash site of a Trident 3
airliner that had stalled while taking off from Heathrow, killing all on board. I know that lightning doesn’t
strike twice, but this seemed to be pushing ones luck by building there. Anyway, this is where we wrote “Action.”

I was getting most exceedingly pissed off at the fact that I was not yet “rolling in it.” It seemed to me
that everyone around us was getting rich and we were not. My good friend Michael Angus was trying to set
up an offshore company to save us paying so much in income tax. It does seem like tax evasion, I know, but
you have to remember that life in a band is usually short, and most income is accrued in a few years. If it was
income averaged over an earning lifetime, the real figures would be quite small. The government views this
differently.

Ways have to be found to avoid paying them vast amounts. He tried, along with our friend and agent,
Lindsay Brown, to start a company on the Isle of Man. It would have saved us thousands, but, in his infinite
79
stupidity, David Walker vetoed the idea. I suspected something other than the reasons given by Walker. It
was a coincidence that David, who knew nothing of the entertainment industry, immediately went into
business with Lindsay, who did.

Mick Angus was pushed out into the cold and became our tour manager and a close personal friend.
About a year later, Walker called a meeting at the office to inform us of a great idea he had for us. He came
out with exactly the same scheme that Mick had thought of, virtually word for word. The only problem was
that it was a year too late. We eventually got hit with a tax bill that took us ages to pay off. What wonderful
business advice!

It was a lot to do with what I have just explained that led me to come up with the idea of “Everybody
Wants a Piece of the Action.” It only took us a couple of hours to write the rest of the song as we were all of
the same mind. When we went into the studio, somebody, Andy I think, wanted to put “You Kiss My Arse”
backwards over one section. That part that seemed to work best was when we repeated “Liar, you know you
believed it.”

We sang it forwards first with no lyrics and then turned the tape over. After we had achieved our goal,
the tape was turned over again. Unfortunately, our engineer had forgotten to change tracks when wiping the
original guide vocal and erased the whole of Brian’s vocal on the first verse.

Brian was unaware of this and was just walking out the door. We told him that maybe he should wait
for a few moments while we “checked the tape.” He took it quite calmly and went back into the vocal booth.
It took only one take and we had the magic back again. After we had mixed it, we went over to our record
company and played the head man there our latest. I don’t remember his name, but I know he was from
Australia. After listening to it, he said in a perfectly dead-pan voice totally devoid of any expression, “You
must be very pleased with that.”

In June, we went to Spain to promote “Fox On The Run,” which had just been released there. When
we arrived at the TV studios, the producer informed us that he wanted one of us to stand on a huge box so that
he could make it look like we were standing in mid-air. He would then superimpose dancing girls all around
us. It sounded like a dreadful idea, and so we informed him how we felt. As Gary Glitter had just been in the
paper refusing to do something just as stupid, we went to the dressing room and drank a gallon of sangria.

Our record company representative was duly frightened, and told us that we would not have a hit if we
didn’t do the show. We didn’t, and “Fox” went to #1. I think that this was the same year that, after making
RCA millions, they had the gall to send us Christmas puddings to show their appreciation. Mick was totally
indignant and told our driver, Bert, to take them back and tell them to stick them sideways.

They were totally shocked, and gave us each a bottle of Scotch instead. That was a little like giving
heroin to a drug addict, but we felt we had made a point. “Action” wasn’t the biggest hit of our careers, but
it is still my favourite Sweet song.

It was while we were doing “Top Of The Pops” with “Action” that we had our biggest row with the
producer, Robin Nash. I had already upset him a year previously when I wore a particular jacket on the show
for “Ballroom Blitz.” His camera shots were beginning to piss me off. He would always send one camera
round behind us, especially during my parts, so I got our dress maker to make a jacket with a skull and
crossbones on the back. You probably think that wasn’t too bad. Nor did I, so I had them embroider “Fuck
You” over the top of the motif. When the two producers, Bruce and Robin, saw this, they went through the
roof. They threatened to throw us off the show if I didn’t remove the offending garment. I, of course, did, but
when it came to the actual show, I was wearing it again, but I had to cover my piece of Shakespearean prose
with gaffer’s tape.

This time, however, was much worse. Robin Nash, who I had now nicknamed Nob in Rash, became
beside himself with fury, because Mick and Andy, he said, were late for a run-through. He started yelling at
Brian and I, who were on the set, that this always happened. It had never happened before, but he thought

80
 through his alcohol-befuddled brain that it had. He was still screaming at us when our colleagues walked
through the door, at the precise moment they should have. Robin had to shut up, and we got on with it.

When it came to taping that evening, the whole show was brought to a halt when Robin caught Andy
on camera picking his nose. We never gave it a thought because he was always doing it. Our gallant producer
was so sozzled, he almost fell down the metal steps from the control room. It probably didn’t help the situation
much when we fell on the floor laughing.

Eventually, the situation was resolved through a lot of arse licking by our “manager,” David Walker,
and the show was finished. The feelings between us and Nob in Rash were never the same after that. Why
does that not surprise me?

I had many run-ins with TV producers over the years, the first one being on the Spanish show I
mentioned earlier. One of the other arguments I had was with a certain Mike Mansfield. He had a show called
“Supersonic,” and also “Saturday Scene.”

We hired him to produce our own videos as well. I heard later that he was selling these tapes to
companies in the USA. He didn’t give any of the profits to us, of course.

We were taping “Burn On The Flame” for his show and I told him that the effects he was using as a
back drop were stupid. After a few words were exchanged, he agreed not to use them. When the taping started,
I noticed that the effects were back in. In a total fury, I threw down my guitar and walked off the set.

If you have a copy of the video “Ballroom Blitz,” you can see both Brian and Andy laughing because
I had disappeared. When it came to doing “Action,” Mansfield was in such a snit that he wouldn’t put the
camera on me at all. To be fair to these producers, I suppose it must be difficult to come up with something
original every time.

It wasn’t as bad as the first video we ever did on location for “Poppa Joe.” It was a bitterly cold
summer’s day in Weston-Super-Mare and the producer decided to shoot us by the seashore. I thought the
whole thing absolutely stupid. He had shots of just our feet or our hands tapping out the beat.

He also had limbo dancers and flame eaters. It was a bit like a circus. There were shots of us running
up and down the beach like idiots. I would be very surprised if anyone ever saw the actual video, but I do
know that Ralph Grimm in Germany has a copy!

Meanwhile, in the United States, we were having some success. Our first hit had been “Little Willy”
on Bell Records. The first album put out by them was designed to look like a Hershey bar. This gave the
American public a totally wrong picture of what we were all about. It was partly due to this image problem
that we had not been across the big pond.

“Hell Raiser” would have helped to change things but it was unfortunately it was not a hit. The powers
that be would not allow the record company to put the siren on the beginning of “Blockbuster,” and that too
was a miss. In fact, it reached number 73 on the Billboard charts.

Ed Leffler got us out of the Bell contract and signed us with Capitol Records. This was done with a
great deal of help from a man named Rupert Perry. He was recently with EMI Records in England but had
transferred to Capitol in Los Angeles. Knowing already of our hit-making ways, Rupert struck a deal with Ed
and we had a new label. We could have done better.

81
 CHAPTER TWENTY - GIVE US A COKE PLEASE
The first release on Capitol was “Ballroom Blitz,” and they had to struggle to get it in the charts. They
could see that “Fox” was #2 in England. It was also #1 in almost every other territory.

Leffler had a way with record companies, and he went into the Capitol Tower every day to yell at them.
He loved to shout at people when he thought that they were hurting his act. He took it very personally. In this
particular case, he was absolutely correct, and “Blitz” eventually made the charts at number five. However,
this was a year down the road.

It was time to make another album. It was also a time for a change of studio. The British government
was making it even harder to keep hold of any money, so we decided to go abroad.

Apparently, if we wrote and recorded the album in another country, our tax liability would be a lot less.
Yeah, right! I don’t think it made any difference whatsoever, but it was a good experience.

The Arabella Hotel in Munich has a twenty-four track studio in the basement and gave good room rates
to those who used it. We had already been to Spain to write the material, and then it was on to Germany. It
seems the Rolling Stones had used this studio, so it couldn’t be all bad.

The studio itself was very cozy and it didn’t take long to settle in. We introduced ourselves to our
German engineer, named “Mack,” who we discovered would be most able. As the studio was under the hotel,
there was a huge corridor that trucks drove in to make deliveries. There were to big soundproof metal doors
connecting the studio to this entryway for loading gear in. One day, while we were laying down a back track,
someone accidentally opened these doors. Mick had his drums set up next to these doors, and the sound went
thundering through the basement.

The sound was tremendous, and Mick immediately wanted to put his drums outside, in the corridor.
This was fine up to a point, but all you could record was washed by the reverberation. It was also a little
difficult playing with a drummer you couldn’t see.

The next plan was to bring him back inside and amplify the drums through two huge speakers outside
the studio. The result was astonishing, and we knew we were onto a winner. The news of this new sound
spread through Munich and even John Paul Jones from Zeppelin came to hear us.

I do remember spending more time playing pool and sunbathing on the roof than recording, but we
managed to get it done. It was, however, during this period in Munich that I was introduced to an evil white
powder. Somebody had given a small amount for us to “try.”

I was always willing to have a go at something else, and the word “cocaine” had something mysterious
and forbidden about it. While we toured New Zealand, I had read a book by Aleister Crowley. It was all about
cocaine and champagne, and how wonderful it made him and his friends feel. I had been intrigued by the
atmosphere conjured up while reading this book. It seems that the euphoria that Crowley wrote about and the
reality of his life were far apart.

Anyway, it was time for me to try this wonder drug. We chopped out lines on the hotel table, rolled
up a hundred Deutschmark note, and snorted it. The whole world took on a new dimension, and there was no
looking back. That night down the local disco where we went quite often, we both stood there like zombies
with eyes as big as saucers, sipping Coke. Everyone who knew us by then could see that there was something
different about us. We felt so superior to all and sundry and it didn’t take long before the rest of the band was
let into the secret.

The rot had set in, but before it got any worse, a rumour flew around that the Belgian authorities had
learned of our whereabouts. There was still an outstanding warrant for our arrest in Belgium, and the thought
of returning to a Belgian prison was drear. Brian and I got on the earliest flight back to England, leaving two
tracks without my bass parts and Brian’s vocals.

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83
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - THE “EYE” DOESN’T HAVE IT
Sooner or later, the other two realized that neither of us was returning. They both came home, and we
went back to Kingsway to finish the album. At this point, I would like to put the record straight about a rumour
that was started by someone. In my absence, Andy had put the bass lines down on the last two tracks. When
we listened to them, I said that they were not good enough and immediately did them again.

The album title was a play on words, and I don’t think you have to be a rocket scientist to translate it.
I did like the concept of the cover, but I thought it was going a bit far by having “Queen are a bunch of winkers.”
They weren’t that bad really.

Our next plan was to tour Europe to promote the album. Our lighting company said that they had come
up with some ideas for stage props. This was a new concept for us and we told them to go ahead. The results
were very amusing, but also expensive.

One concept was to have four marionettes dressed like us, lined up across the stage. They would be
surrounded by lots of dry ice, and people would think that they were us. The intro music would play and, at
the last moment, the puppets would all collapse on the floor, and we would appear in all our glory.

At a sound check somewhere in Germany, the puppets were wheeled out. They looked nothing like us,
and Brian and I started quietly giggling. They played the theme music, and, at the last moment, the strings to
collapse them were pulled.

Nothing happened at first, then, slowly, one by one, they began to break down. It looked absolutely
hilarious. The two of us were on the floor in tears, laughing. Andy and Mick were horrified, and of course,
the idea was never seen in public. Although this idea was funny, it didn’t compare to the other idea.

This must have cost us a fortune. As the theme of the tour was, of course, “Give Us a Wink,” Pat from
the lighting company designed a huge eye. It was about five feet across in a big iron stand. It had a gigantic
hinged eyelid with six inch lashes. The general plan was that the whole thing revolved, and when it was upside
down, the eyelid closed.

I don’t think I have ever seen anything so hideous in my life. Again, we, the terrible twosome, were
on the floor pissing ourselves. When we first saw it, the lid was open, revealing a huge bloodshot eye. One
of the road managers then turned a crank on the side and we watched, in shocked amazement, as the whole
thing turned round. At the last moment, the big heavy lid came down like a garage door.

The lid didn’t quite close exactly, so you could still see the eyeball peeping through the gap. Andy was
so upset by the whole deal he was close to tears. Brian and I were so amused by it we were crying.

We used the eye on a few gigs, but we vetoed it after a while because I think it made some members
of the audience faint! It certainly made my stomach turn.

The German tour went by without much incident and we had to plan our next campaign. As “Pepper-
mint Twist” was at #1 in Australia, and “Fox” was on its way, it looked like a good place to go.

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 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - GOING DOWN, UNDER
The flight from Heathrow to Perth in western Australia took us forty hours! We sat on the runway for
three hours while they repaired one of the engines. This did not inspire confidence. By the time we reached
Perth, we had drunk the plane dry of just about all their alcoholic beverages.

Our next stop was Sydney, where we stayed overnight, and then on to Auckland in New Zealand. We
had been there before in the “Blockbuster” days, and now we were real stars. I wished I had seen a lot more
of the country than I did. Instead, I saw a good deal of the inside of bars and young girls’ thighs.

The first time we had been in this beautiful land was 1972, when we toured with a guy called Daniel
Boone. This was a most unlikely pairing, and I’ve no idea how it came about. He had recently had a hit with
a song called “Beautiful Sunday.” This put him on top of the bill for some reason. He must have had a better
agent. It wouldn’t take long to figure out that this arrangement was wrong.

New Zealand is like a sub-tropical England a hundred years ago. It seemed very laid-back, and
sometimes agonizingly slow. For example, some of our equipment went wrong at the beginning of the tour.
The agent kept promising the replacements every day. They eventually arrived the day we were about to leave,
three weeks later. It is also a long way from England. I always wonder why we didn’t play Australia at the
time after coming so far.

The whole three weeks were largely uneventful except for one disturbing happening. We had finished
our gig in Napier and we chatted while relaxing in the hotel bar. As it was getting late, we decided to call it
a day. I was very tired and needed a good sleep. I was just entering the Land of Nod when somebody started
to shake my bed violently. As my door wasn’t locked, I assumed it was Mick, and pulled myself up. I was
about to tell him to cease when I realized that there was no one there.

There were two ladies in the next room getting very emotional, but soon the shaking subsided. I got
up and went to the window, and tried to work out what was going on. I couldn’t see a thing, as all the lights
had gone out. There were sounds of sirens in the distance, but I couldn’t see if it was police cars or fire engines.

Suddenly, it started happening again and this numbskull here realized that he was in the middle of his
first earthquake. For those of you who have not experienced this phenomenon, I can assure you that it is far
better to hear about from a third party. I have since been through earthquakes many, many times stronger than
this piddling little one, but it was an episode not easily forgotten.

The second time in New Zealand was very different because we were stars. The venues weren’t much
bigger solely because there aren’t any halls that are bigger. We had a much better time this time around with
young ladies everywhere.

One thing I remember about Auckland was the bridge over the bay. It had been built a few years earlier
without the foresight of a heavier traffic flow. Not knowing how to make the bridge any wider, they brought
in some Japanese engineers. Without much fuss, they designed a way of hooking another lane on each side
of the existing structure. The idea worked and was quickly dubbed “The Nippon Clip-On.”

Traveling round this relatively small but charming country had its ups and downs. At one gig, it was
so dark, Andy could not see where he was going. He was also unaware that there was a ten foot drop in front
of him that he had to walk round. The opening film ended with the usual flashes and explosions and Brian
and I were expecting the opening chords to “Hell Raiser.” What we did hear was anything but. There was a
terrible sound from Andy’s guitar like an amplified “El Cabong.” He had just walked into space, which must
have been an awful feeling. Luckily, he didn’t hurt himself very much and, after a brief rest, he managed to
continue. He did have a few bruises though.

About halfway through the tour, our promoter decided that we could do with the night off. He made
arrangements with a local country club for us to be guests for the night. He also supplied us with some young
ladies. We didn’t know they were, in actuality, hookers—until it came time to pay. Michael Angus had been

85
our tour manager for many years, and was as tight with money as a Scotsman. He refused to pay, and was
informed that he would be receiving a very “close shave.” I shit myself, but Angus was cool as a cucumber.
When they realized that Mick wouldn’t budge, they all cooled off, and had a great time.

The girls were good sports, and even though no one had sex, we had just as much fun. On the way
home to our hotel, one of the young ladies hung her very attractive and naked rear-end out the side window
of our car. Her friend in the other car did likewise, and I’m very surprised we didn’t get arrested.

When we arrived, somehow I managed to get all of them back to my room. They promised that they
would all do me the following day free of charge. I thought that was well worth looking forward to and bade
them goodnight. Mick Angus knocked on the door and complained of being hungry. I felt the same and he
suggested that he would go in search of food.

When he returned, he was giggling like a schoolgirl. It seems that the had gone round the back of the
building and found a locked gate. This did not deter him and over he went. There was a door slightly ajar that
led to the kitchen. He opened it and went inside. After looking around for a while, he discovered a whole
cooked chicken. He grabbed it and made his escape. As he was climbing back over the gate, a security guard
appeared.

Mick quickly shoved the greasy bird up the back of his shirt and cheerfully declared, “Oh, there you
are. I was looking for something to eat.” The guard said that everything was closed until morning. Mick
climbed down from the gate and, keeping his loot concealed, walked away backwards until the guard had gone.
We both went to his room and climbed into a closet and started to eat it. The door eventually was pulled open
by Mr. Tucker, who had heard our suppressed laughter.

We were awarded many gold disks on this visit and, as we were going on to Australia, it seemed like
a good idea to have them shipped back to England. The hotel where we stayed gladly said that they would
take care of this for us. They supplied a big box and packed all the disks carefully inside. They vowed to
make sure nothing would go wrong. We never saw the disks again.

New Zealand, we went on to tour Australia. We played in five thousand seat venues and filled every
one, some of them twice. I think that this was the only country that we played “Peppermint Twist.” It has
been blanked out of my memory banks!

The Bay City Rollers were there too, and as we had little respect for them, we gave them a wide berth.
Our booking agent, meanwhile, decided that we should see Sydney Harbour the way it should be seen, from
a boat. Coincidentally, whoever looked after the Rollers thought the same thing. The means of transportation
for the two bands were worlds apart.

We were driven down to the dockside, where a huge fifty-foot sailing boat awaited us. It was a bit old
and unkempt and we were a bit disappointed. We had expected a cabin cruiser. This is exactly what we saw
the other band boarding. Tucker was furious and called the promoter a cheapskate and other unflattering
expletives. It’s just as well he wasn’t there. I tried to cool Mick off by explaining that we were a real rock
band, on a real boat, and they were a bunch of pansies, in a floating living-room. That scenario seemed to
sooth his ego, and out we went.

It was the first time I had been on this type of craft, and it was most invigorating. I was wearing real
seafaring footwear: platform sole boots! We slowly got under way, and sailed under the famous harbour
bridge towards the open sea. The captain had failed to warn us of how these boats react to wind. As soon as
we passed the headland, the wind caught the sails. I was sitting on the forward deck, or sharp end, when the
whole boat tipped forty-five degrees. I slid down the deck at an alarming rate and just managed to hook my
three inch heels on the edge of the deck. The captain informed me minutes later that there were sharks in the
water!

The young lady that I was with, I had met earlier in the day at the hotel. She didn’t seem that interested
in me, but was happy to come along for the boat ride. She had a friend with her, and Andy naturally asked
her if she would like to come also. When we eventually got back to shore, we invited them back to our hotel.
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They both agreed and we went and had a few drinks in the bar to loosen them up. After the rough sea, I thought
the two girls would be easy sailing. This was not so, and both of us were a little baffled as to why.

They did agree to come to Andy’s room for one more night-cap and a little chat. It didn’t take long to
find out the problem. They were lukewarm for us because they were hot for each other. Both our cocks stood
at attention to that news, but we were baffled as to what to do. This was a challenge that had to be worked
with great skill. More booze was applied. They started to get horny and, with a little encouragement from us,
started to fondle each other.

I have no idea why two girls having sex is such a turn-on for us males, but let me assure you ladies, it
is. They seemed to be totally oblivious to our presence and began to pull each other’s clothes off. Needless
to say, they received no discouragement from their audience, who were by now drooling. As soon as they
were completely naked, they assumed the 69 position. Their moans became louder and they both had an
orgasm together. We were at a loss as to what to do and they could sense that. The one with whom I thought
I had been suggested that they both spend the night. She was still horny and wanted to sleep with me. It didn’t
seem like a bad idea.

She just put on her skirt and blouse and we left for my room. As we walked down the corridor, she
made me put her hand up her skirt and feel her pussy. I was scared that we might get caught, but I didn’t stop.
I wanted to know if she was AC or DC. By now I was very confused. When we arrived at my room, she
confessed that neither of them had ever had sex with a man. Earlier that day, they had made a pact with each
other to give it a try. As we looked like a bunch of pretty boys, they singled out Andy and I, but I was not sure
whether or not this was a compliment. As my little head said it was, I believed it.

There was nothing she wouldn’t do and inhibition was not a word she was familiar with. She had come
well-prepared with loads of little sexual stimulators. One of these devices was a strap-on dildo and she began
to put it on. Having a mind like a steel trap, I realized what she had in mind and knew I wasn’t ready for that
experience, and dissuaded her. She was nice enough to allow me to use it on her, which I did more than once.
I was very excited to be her first male sex partner, and vowed not to let the side down. She told me to handcuff
her to the bed. I found out later that she had very easy access to these, because she was a policewoman. If
only she had worn the uniform!

After shackling her to the bed without any reluctance, I removed the rest of my clothes. I was
sufficiently aroused that my organ was nearly tickling my chin. I was pleased to see that she looked impressed.
It took a few hours to prove that all men aren’t such a waste of space and I have a feeling that Andy succeeded
in his quest as well.

Our next stop was the beautiful city of Melbourne. I had heard a lot about the place, including the fact
that there was a big English population. Unfortunately, they all live in one spot, which gives the feeling of
being in a ghetto. This is where I met my former lead singer, Richard Bennett. He had emigrated to Australia
with his wife Sue a few years earlier. They tried to talk Pat and I, also, into coming, but we decided not to.
History would have been a little different if we had. In fact, Richard and Sue were splitting up at that time.
When the rest of the band left for Perth, I decided to stay for one more night with Sue.

The following morning, after a night that neither one of us would forget, Sue left to go home. The
previous day, I had met a girl with enormous boobs who had promised to take me to the airport. She arrived
at about 9:00 and immediately offered to roll a joint and handed me a big block of hash. At the same moment,
there was a knock on the door. When I opened the door, there stood the biggest policeman I had ever seen.

I threw the dope backwards, and stepped outside the room, closing the door behind me. I must have
looked as guilty as hell, but fortunately, I have blue eyes. The gigantic cop was looking for a couple of young
girls that had disappeared with last night’s support band.

As it was obvious the girl in my room was not a fugitive, they left me alone. I then flew to Perth on
my own, feeling very lonely, and it was a long flight. When I arrived, no one was there to pick me up. I don’t

87
usually carry any money with me, but, as luck would have it, I had found one of the roadie’s wallets the night
before, and it contained some local currency. I did return the wallet and the money to its rightful owner.

Our manager, Ed Leffler, also arrived from L.A. to see how things were going. He caught us at a funny
time. He came into the hotel’s game room where we were in the middle of a game of pool. He was so excited
that one of the top stations in Los Angeles had just added “Ballroom Blitz” to its heavy rotation play list. We
couldn’t care less, because we didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about. Furthermore, it was
a most important game in a series of games we had been playing. Looking back, poor Ed must have been so
frustrated with us.

Ed could be infuriating too, and loved to put you on the spot. Ian Tilbury was the representative from
the booking agency. He was great fun, with a very dry sense of humour. We called him Dr. Tilbury, as he
supplied us with speed. One day, he announced that his boss would like us all to come round his house for
dinner.

Perth is a lot like the nice parts of Los Angeles. The house to which we were invited was perched high
on a hill overlooking the city. It was all very beautiful and we were busy relaxing. Mick Angus was sipping
down a beer when Ed Leffler asked him how he liked the brew. Before he could say a word, Leffler said very
loud, “You think the beer sucks. Go on, tell him the beer sucks.” We hid our heads under the bar and
pretended not to be there. It is not surprising that we weren’t invited back.

There were, at the time, only four or five good-sized venues to play in Australia. As we were doing
well in the charts, we had to return to some of these gigs and play a second show. We played Sydney,
Melbourne, Adelaide, Perth and Brisbaine. Only the last gig did we play once. Brisbaine was the birthplace
of Mike Chapman. It turned out to be one of the worst gigs we played. The late Andy Gibb was supporting
us. He was a great guy. It must have been difficult for him to keep his sanity under the looming shadow of
his famous brothers.

He went down very well and warmed up the audience for us. Before I go on, I have to explain
something about Andy Scott. He is a perfectionist. He can also be a selfish bastard and sometimes entirely
unprofessional. This particular night, he was all of the above.

Andy always wanted everything we did onstage to sound exactly like the record. This is fine up to a
point, but it is difficult to reproduce all of the overdubs. The one solo he always had difficulty with was “Fox
On The Run.” He had almost overcome the problem of the three-part guitar harmony by using a synthesizer.
It was very early days for this instrument, and they were not yet reliable. Today, electronic keyboards
automatically check their own tuning. Not so with the old A.R.P.; you had to do it yourself.

No matter how close you managed to get it in tune, as soon as it was heated by the stage lights, out of
tune it went. This was what happened. The solo of “Fox” was awful with the synth dreadfully out of tune.
Andy was fit to be tied. Our encore was “Sweet F.A.” at that time and strongly featured the A.R.P.

Our outraged guitarist stormed off the stage with the offending instrument and left us to it. As it
happens, Mick had a drum solo and we thought there would be time to retune the synth. When the solo
finished, there was no Andy, although we could hear him shouting and swearing in the dressing room.

We stood on the stage for what seemed like hours without him. I think we attempted a song without
him but it didn’t sound too hot. Eventually, we had to leave the stage. Mick was outraged and had a huge row
with Andy, which led them to stop speaking to each other. Mick wanted Andy out of the band. This was not
the first time this had happened, and it was not the last either.

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 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - MAI TAI HAVE THE NEXT ARGUMENT
I tried to shrug the whole episode off as “one of those things,” but Mick took it as a personal insult.
Leffler had gone back to the USA and didn’t know anything about the argument. He had also arranged two
gigs in the States: Seattle and Santa Monica.

We were going to spend a few days, after Australia, in Hawaii to recuperate. This sounded like a great
idea, except there was still stony silence between Andy and Mick. The only time they were in the same room
was when we rehearsed. The problem was never really resolved but Ed managed to get them talking eventually.

I fell totally in love with Hawaii. We even stayed at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel where the Elvis movie
“Blue Hawaii” was filmed. It was paradise. We went and saw Pearl Harbour with the Arizona still submerged
with all the poor sailors still on board.

One morning, someone came up with the bright idea of going surfing. Mick Angus, Brian and yours
truly went to Waikiki Beach and rented the most enormous surfboards we had ever seen. We held them high
on our shoulders like real men and marched down to the ocean.

It didn’t take us very long to find out that this sport is not as easy as it looks. I couldn’t even lay on
the stupid thing, let alone ride the wild surf. After many vain attempts, we all finally succeeded in mounting
our boards, only to find out that we were hundreds of yards from the shore. Feeling terribly tired by now, we
managed to paddle our way back to the shore. We looked like Napoleon’s troops after his defeat at Moscow
as we trudged up through sand. I have never tried it again.

The whole time we were in Hawaii, Mick behaved very strangely toward us all. I think that he wanted
to throw Andy out of the band and was surprised that we didn’t. Brian and I thought that he was making a
mountain out of a molehill and that things should remain as they were.

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 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR -L.A. AND THE CIVIC
It had always been my dream to come to Los Angeles, and it was fast coming true. When we did
eventually arrive, Ed managed to convince Mick that he should review the situation. He was very good at
negotiating, and things got back to normal, at least on the surface.

Our first gig in the United States was to be in Seattle of all places. Of course, now that town has been
put on the map by Nirvana and other “grunge” bands. The hall was not very full (about 650 people), but Ed
reminded us of the Stones’ first tour. He had been involved with both The Beatles and The Stones debuts to
the country in the previous decade.

He had what, in my view, was an old-fashioned idea that our tour should be handled the same. He did
not want us to make an TV appearances and to make ourselves aloof. I’m afraid that the poor turn-out could
well have been contributed this strategy, but Ed was very stubborn.

I did meet a great girl after the show called Claudia, and we went back to the hotel bar for drinks. It
didn’t take long before we were in my room, where we had a night of cocaine and unbridled lust. She did
scream very loud, and this was remarked on by my cohorts, who could hear her very clearly.

The day after, I felt dreadful when I saw Ed. He looked like death warmed up. He had been up all
night boozing and snorting with the local promoter, whom he had known for years. This was part of the
business then, and one of the only ways to get radio airplay.

Our next show was what has now become kind of famous in some ways: Santa Monica Civic
Auditorium. We flew down to L.A. from Seattle and were driven in style to The Beverly Wilshire Hotel. This
was the only hotel in town that would take us.

We had great rooms with huge beds. Mine was a California super King that the whole band could have
slept in. I meant to put it to good use as we were staying for almost a week. It was incredible how people
found out where we were staying.

We all started getting weird phone calls. People called me and tried to sell me amplifiers. One even
tried to sell me a set of drums. He was obviously not a fan.

One evening, the L.A. super-groupies turned up. They all had great names, like Kay Starr and Suzie
Thunder. I ended up with the latter. The following day, we went to meet the people at the record company,
Capitol. The famous Capitol Tower is situated in what is now a sleazy neighbourhood. It is on the corner of
Hollywood and Vine and is impossible to miss.

We first met some of the executives, including Rupert Perry, who signed us. We also met the president
of Capitol, Don Zimmerman. I owe Mr. Zimmerman a lot, as many years later, he transferred my second wife,
Maureen, from New York to Los Angeles, where we now live.

After the official stuff, we went to the floor where the workers were. This was also where the
promotional albums were kept. There were some great girls there, including one with large breasts. I won’t
mention her name, but as I was talking to her, I dropped my room key in front of her so that she could pick it
up. How subtle. As it happens, I had been imbibing a few beers previously and did drop it by accident. It did
work, though.

One of Ed’s major rules was that we did not play with the girls at the record company. I found out
later that he had good reason for this. One was because if the relationship ended in tears, it could affect how
the album was promoted. The other reason was because the girls may be having affairs with the record
company executives!

This happened to be true in this young lady’s case, but how was I to know? She was able to phone me
that evening, because, of course, she knew my room number. By then, we had given the front desk
instructions to only put through calls when the correct number was given.
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 We met again that evening and, after a dinner and a bottle of vodka, I came face to face with those
wonderful boobs. They were gorgeous, along with the rest of her. After another night of cocaine and
unbridled lust, she left for the office. Unfortunately, as she was leaving, Leffler was arriving.

I could not deny the breaking of the rule, because she was coming out of my room when they met.
Anyway, I went on seeing her the whole time we were there without Ed’s knowledge. She was a real good
companion, as well as being great in bed. We had some good times together. Eventually, the playtime
finished and the night of the gig rolled around. Our manager tried to keep us from being nervous by taking us
to an English-style pub not far from the venue.

We stayed there until an hour before we were due to begin. The drive to the Civic Auditorium was
short, and I remember feeling frightened when we arrived. There were loads of search lights outside the front
of the place, which was supposed to make people believe we were big cheeses.

When we walked on stage, I had to laugh, because planted right down the front were Suzie Thunder
and Kay Starr bedecked in sequined dresses. As soon as we started, they both stood up and posed like Marilyn
Monroe. I had never been so terrified before. The audience was very much on our side because of a Rodney
Bingenheiner, who played Sweet songs at his “English Disco,” where we often went.

My feet felt like they had been nailed to the floor. In fact, there wasn’t much action from any of us,
so maybe we all felt the same. At the end of the show, we made the biggest mistake of our American career.
Even though there had not been much action on stage, we did play exceptionally well. When we came off,
Leffler decided that we did not do an encore. I’m not sure whether he thought that we would go back and
screw it up or he was just trying to make us appear superior. Whatever the reasoning, it was totally wrong.

To celebrate the fact that we had actually played in L.A., we decided to have a party for the record
company. So as to be as pretentious as possible, we had it in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel. It
was a great success. Unfortunately, we made such a mess, they never allowed us to do it again.

Because of the success of “Desolation” in the U.S., and not yet having another album, the record
company released “Strung Up.” This was made up of live tracks from the Rainbow concert of ’73 and a sort
of “best of” material. The title came about by the fact that we thought our musical direction was being
manipulated both by management and the record company. Each time we recorded something, our so-called
manager would want a rough copy or monitor mix. He would then take it to the A and R man at the record
company and play it to him. They would then decide that it was not a single and tell us to rewrite it. This
became so frustrating that we eventually told everyone that there would be no rough mixes. We even told
them not to come to the studio at all. We wished to be left alone!

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 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - CHEWED IN CHATTANOOGA
This became so frustrating that we eventually told everyone that there would be no more rough mixes.
Also they informed us not to come to the studio. By, this time, however, Walker was only coming to the studio
to steal cocaine from us.

By now, Fox had reached the top five in America and Leffler decided that it was time to tour. We
landed in Washington D.C., drunk out of our minds, and transferred planes to Chattanooga, Tennessee. As I
was a little “tired”, I went to bed and slept for hours.

Mick Angus phoned me in the morning and told me of what had transpired the previous evening.
Tucker was in hospital and due to be released shortly! It seems that he and a few others had gone out carousing
at one of the local drinking establishments. Many drinks had been imbibed and soon an altercation took place
between our heroes and the local inhabitants. I find that while traveling in foreign climes, it is best to be polite
to the natives.

This does not include getting very drunk and referring to them as “Rednecks.” This, unfortunately is
what had transpired. Americans in the southern states are not impressed by the British and it is best to give
them a wide birth. Mick was apparently not aware of this and got into a discussion with some people at the
bar. It resulted in the idiom which I mentioned above being used.

It seems that nothing happened at that moment, but when Mick and company were outside waiting for
transportation, all hell broke loose. One assailant hid behind a car and jumped Mick from behind, knocking
him down. If he had not been wearing a huge fur coat, his injuries would have endured far worse injuries.

As it was, he was pretty badly bruised and was told to spend the day in bed. He was in pain when we
played that night, but with some tape and pharmaceutical substances, he coped well with his wounds. Our
first night on the tour was, thankfully, over.

As I mentioned before, Ed Leffler decided that we should break America the same way as the Stones
had over a decade earlier. I was not in total agreement with him as I think it pays to advertise.

In Europe, we had done dozens of T.V. shows and it reflected in record and ticket sales. Ed’s
reasoning was that if it worked for the Stones, it would work for us. I knew what he meant, but I think we
should have done some personal appearances on local talk shows. We did do a lot of radio interviews, but that
doesn’t get your face around.

In fact, there was one instance where an interview did much more harm than good. It was halfway
through the tour and we were getting just a bit tired. Most of our travel had been by rented Greyhound bus,
which was a trifle grueling. We arrived in Detroit after traveling through the night and all felt like death
warmed up.

Leffler insisted that we all had to go down to the local FM station and meet the DJ that had broken
“Give Us a Wink” in that area. We had absolutely no idea how powerful this station was and we were
dreadfully tired.

We met the disc jockey and started the interview. It didn’t go very well from the start. I think he
wanted us to kiss his feet, but our attitude was worse than his. After a few questions, he suddenly got up and
walked out. We were taken totally by surprise. So was Ed. We stood there for a few minutes and then left
too. As we climbed into our car, the sign outside the studio which read “DETROIT WELCOMES THE
SWEET” was being taken down. Oops!

When the tour started, we were being supported by a young singer named Eric Carmen who had a song
in the charts called “All by Myself.” It was at #1 at the time and he had the attitude to go with it. He insisted
on bringing a grand piano with him on the tour. This was a major pain in the rear end.

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 As anyone with a piano will tell you, every time it is moved, it needs retuning. We had to listen to a
blind piano tuner ply his trade at every sound check. It drove us nuts. We ended up calling him Eric
Cardboard because he was so stiff. He didn’t end up doing the whole tour. I think he pissed Ed off and we
decided to part ways. A number of what later became big acts later on supported us from then on. These
included Journey, Cheap Trick, Bob Seger, Kansas, and others whose names I forget.

We still didn’t fill the halls, but considering the publicity we weren’t getting, the turnouts were not that
bad. “Give Us a Wink” was beginning to sell, and the tour was starting to help promote it. One open-air gig
we did was supporting Rush. This was our first outdoor venue in America. As we were not headlining, we
had to go on in broad daylight. The place was called Alpine Valley and, in my estimation, it was huge. While
the first band was on stage, Brian and I looked out into the audience. It was a frightening sight because we
could see all eighteen thousand of them; normally you only see the first few rows. After the show, we did what
would soon become a habit of ours. We went to New York. We fell in love with the place the minute we
arrived there. A lady named Judy Axler from the record company met us at the airport and we took a limo
into “The Big Apple.”

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 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - NYC AND MO
We stayed at The Drake Hotel just off Park Avenue on 56th Street. I was terrified of the city at first,
and spent the night in my room watching TV. The rest of the lads went out on the town and had fun. The next
day, I was informed that we were going sightseeing with some young ladies from Capitol. It was January 26th
and freezing cold. We got in our limo and went to Judy Axler’s apartment.

That was when I first met my future wife Maureen. She was not in a very good mood—understandably
so, as this was a Sunday and her day off. I’m sure she didn’t feel like nurse-maiding a bunch of unruly British
musicians with a bad reputation.

We bundled into two limos provided by Capitol and went down town. Our first stop was the Statue of
Liberty. Try walking up a load of very narrow steps in platform sole boots! I did manage to get the courage
up enough to ask Maureen to take a picture of me and Andy with the New York skyline as a back-drop. This
broke the ice and I realized that New Yorkers aren’t so scary after all.

That evening, we went to Little Italy for dinner and were fed stories of mob “rub-outs” and where they
took place. It was all very frightening, but also exciting. Afterwards, we went our separate ways, but the
band’s love affair with New York had begun. My love affair with Maureen had also begun.

We managed to get back to New York whenever possible with excuses like Andy needing new strings
or picks. We just couldn’t stay away. I needed no excuses. I wanted to see Maureen.

The tour had its ups and downs, including one incident involving a plane. We had boarded our aircraft
somewhere in the Midwest, heading for the warmer climate of Miami. It was freezing cold and it had snowed
overnight. The runway seemed bumpy with the snow and made us nervous. When the pilot slammed on the
brakes, we kept right on going and ended up with up with the nose wheel stuck in the snow.

When we arrived in Miami, we were met by our wives and kids. This should have been a joyous
occasion, but it was anything but. The weather was absolutely awful. One day, it was raining so hard that the
hotel put on a movie. It was about a newly married couple on vacation in Miami. The moaning wife got so
sunburned on the first day the she had to stay in bed. Needless to say, the horny husband had an affair with a
beautiful blond. As I sat and watched the film, I couldn’t help putting myself in the same position.

None of the wives was having any fun and all of them were constantly bemoaning their lot. Even a
trip to Disney World was an utter disaster. We were very happy to see them leave for England. Going back
on the road seemed like a lot more fun. I did miss Lisa though.

It always amused and surprised me that the road crew picked up so many women. My personal roadie,
Jan Frewer, had this right little nympho with him on the road permanently.

I can’t remember her first name as we called her “Mrs. Frewer.” One day when the gear was being set
up and she was all alone in her room, I decided that I was horny and gave her a call. She arrived very quickly
and I let her in. She immediately took off her dress to reveal a gorgeous slim and naked body. After she gave
me a wonderful blow job, we proceeded to do it for two hours. I know it was that long because “The Wizard
of Oz” was on the TV, and it finished the same time we did. Every time I see that film now, I get vivid
flashbacks.

St. Louis has some vivid memories too. It seems that in the afternoon of the show at sound check,
Mick was rude to some security people. I, as usual, had no knowledge of the incident. Before the show, a
young lady came into the dressing room and showed us what she could do with a Heineken bottle.
Appropriate Polaroid pictures were taken, after which we did the show.

It did not go too well and, afterwards, I had a few too many brandies and ripped the door off a
refrigerator. I then went outside and gazed at the Mississippi. Meanwhile, the guards found out about the
fridge and for some reason wanted to kill Mick! They started beating on the door urging the occupants of the

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dressing room to allow their entry. Eventually, our courageous manager, Leffler, opened the door and calmly
said, “Hit me, I’m a coward.” The incident came to a screeching halt, thank God.

The tour had a few highlights, including the last date, which was a reappearance at Santa Monica Civic.
We were supposed to have been supported by a band called Backstreet Crawler. Tragically, however, the night
before the gig, Paul Kossoff, who was previously the guitarist with Free, took one Quaalude too many and
died. It was rumoured that Suzie Thunder may have been involved, but that may be untrue.

We played a much better set this time than the first time we were there. My feet were no longer nailed
to the floor and we were all a lot looser. The audience seemed to enjoy it a lot more than before. Ed Leffler
had been running around all afternoon trying to get more mid-range speakers for the P.A. system. He always
had a thing about the sound and drove mixing engineers absolutely nuts. This day was no exception.

The vacant support spot was filled with the ex-lead singer of Montrose, Sammy Hagar. He had formed
a new band and needed the exposure. He could well have been a contributing factor to our failure in America.
Leffler liked him so much that he started managing him. He was already under contract with Capitol Records
with a terrible deal. Eventually, when we released Sweet Six in America, Ed and Sammy had a lawsuit going
with Capitol. Obviously, they were not going to work very hard on our album, which, in the long run would
help Ed. Water under the bridge.

A major event of that night was when Ritchie Blackmore played “All Right Now” with us as a tribute
to Paul. Ritchie was in town, and we gave him a backstage, of course. We had a drink or two with him while
Sammy was performing, and we asked him if he would like to have a blow with us. The tribute, as an encore,
was his idea. I hope that if Paul was watching, he didn’t think it disrespectful when, at the end of the show, a
six foot dick came swinging down from the ceiling spraying the audience with confetti. It was a realistic
looking affair with all the attributes of the male appendage. It was huge, with coloured veins, and a subtle
1000 watt bulb inside. I would love to know where that thing is today and I wish I had a picture.

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 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - AND DON’T MENTION
PEARL HARBOUR
We didn’t come back to the States for another two years, and it would be that long before I would see
Maureen again. Later that year, we toured Japan. It was a weird but wonderful tour, but it started out totally
on the wrong foot. We were booked to play a gig entitled “The World Rock and Roll Festival,” or something
like that. It was being held in Sapporo, on the north island of Hokkaido.

We entered Japan through Tokyo airport in July 1976 and were greeted by thousands of screaming fans.
I was totally taken aback. It reminded me of Sweden, Denmark and Germany in earlier years. We eventually
got to the Tokyo Hilton, where we stayed for the night.

The next day, we flew north to do this huge concert, or so we thought. When we arrived at the venue,
which was much like an aircraft hanger, what was supposed to be the next-to-last act was playing.

His name was “Banana Joe,” and we watched him for a while as he performed, whirling a Samurai
sword in the air. I don’t know what song he was singing, but he refused to leave the stage. As there was a
curfew at the concert and time was running short, Ed, as usual, started shouting at Joe’s manager. This did
not go down too well with the local gentry, and things started to get nasty.

Leffler finished shouting, and saw that it was getting us further up the creek. I remember him coming
into the dressing room and instructing us to leave with haste, through the window. We did. We sat in the cars
provided by the promoter and waited. The driver of the first car would not move, because he had not been
told to. Andy was in the second car, and, in his usual impatient way, leaned over his driver and honked the
horn.

We had tried to escape with as little attention as possible and, of course, this blew our cover. In seconds
flat, a huge Japanese character built like Odd Job in “Goldfinger” came out dressed in a red shirt and armed
with a Samurai sword. He stood in front of the first car. Needless to say, we all shit ourselves. The only
words we heard him say was, “I kir you,” meaning that he would kill us.

After a good deal of groveling on our part, and also threats of calling the police, we were allowed to
continue on our way. We all wanted to go back to Tokyo then and there, but there were no flights leaving that
night.

The following morning, we got up like larks and made our way as quickly as we could to the airport.
What we didn’t know was that it was the day that all the Japanese people go to their local graveyards, to pay
homage to their ancestors. The traffic was dreadful and the short trip took hours. When we did get there, we
had only a few minutes to board our plane. This meant that we had to carry our own cases because it was too
late to check them.

My case was very heavy, but that didn’t stop me from running all the way, which was miles. The
outcome of our desperate flight was one that had a very unpleasant effect on me. The following day, my right
wrist started to swell up. It was, of course, the same one I carried my suitcase with. It became excruciatingly
painful until I was in agony.

I told Mick Angus the problem I was having with my wrist and he arranged for me to see a doctor.
They had one in the hotel, which was most handy. The doctor saw me straight away, and the way he looked
at me was a little unnerving. The clear nail varnish he was wearing spoke volumes too! Anyway, he told me
that I had pulled a tendon, and that I had tendonitis. I didn’t care what it was called, but I did want it to stop.
He gave me a cold bandage, told me to take a couple of aspirin, and that was that.

The cold bandage did nothing at all, so the only other resort was booze. That didn’t help much either.
We were scheduled to play at Tokyo’s Nakano Sun Plaza that night, so I tightened the bandage, wrapped
gaffer’s tape around the it, had a few brandies, and went on stage.

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 During the whole tour, my wrist was like that and didn’t get any better for months. We went around
Japan for three months, but spent a good deal of our time in Tokyo. In fact, the staff at the Hilton would put
screens round our dinner table. This was mainly because we were always as drunk as skunks and became very
rowdy after dozens of bottles of wine.

We went all over the country, and visited some really historical places. We played both Hiroshima and
Nagasaki, where I personally couldn’t see anything that left any memory of those awful days at the end of the
war. We spent many hours on the Bullet trains that hurtled along at breakneck speed. We passed Mt. Fuji in
all its splendour a few times. The whole country is densely populated, and all the towns blend into each other.
I don’t remember seeing actual countryside.

We found a local nightspot called Byblos and, whenever we were in Tokyo, that’s where we would be.
Of course, there was a choice of the local females, and one attached herself to me. She was exquisite, and
extremely horny. She would do anything I asked her. This was good only up to a point, however. One evening,
I was so tired that I told her to go home, as I had to get some sleep. It took a lot of persuading, but at last she
left. The next night at Byblos, all the girls treated me like I had the plague. Whoops!

We did meet the huge man who had threatened to “kir” us one evening in the club. We had nick-named
him “Red Shirt” for obvious reasons. He was very friendly by now, thank the Lord. He told us his name was
Gan, and that he was a friend of Simon Phillips, and now he was friends with us. He turned out to be a good
bodyguard for us. I preferred him to be on our side.

The myth that Japanese women did not have breasts was dispelled for me when we went down to the
south. I met a girl there that was positively voluptuous. She was incredibly shy, and would not undress in
front of me. I didn’t mind because once she got under the sheets, she was unstoppable. She must have liked
what I did, because, years later, she turned up at the Hammersmith Odeon gig. That took some juggling,
because my wife was there.

Our visit finished on a very sour note, I’m sorry to say. I personally was not party to the incident which
apparently happened at Byblos. It was almost the end of the tour and Ed was celebrating the fact with the
promoter.

It seems that a more than usual amount of alcoholic beverages had passed our manager’s lips. Well,
these loose lips started talking of sinking ships, in particular the ones at Pearl Harbour. This was probably a
sore subject for Ed as, being a true American, took that particular incident very personally. A lot of water has
flowed in and out of that harbour since then, but that didn’t stop our Ed. After chastising the promoter for
being personally responsible for starting the war with America, he went on to point the outcome of that foolish
action. The promoter did not care to be reminded that two of his cities, and thousands of fellow countrymen,
had been annihilated. This stupid altercation led to a rift between Ed and the only promoter in Japan. It is also
the reason that we never returned. What a shame. I have a profound respect for the Japanese people, and I
personally found them to be most polite, although, at that time, they all smoked too much. The country side
is beautiful when you get out of the cities. I am very sorry that we would never return. Maybe one day.

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 CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - PEA SHOOTERS
Our next project would be to record an overdue album. For some reason, we decided to go back to
Audio International Studios with Nick Ryan as engineer. Even though we were producing, we never received
a penny as a fee. The production money was and still is being paid to Chinn, Chapman and Wainman. This
was because we were technically signed to their production company called Chinnebridge, and no one could
or wanted to find a legal way out. It still pisses me off!

All that aside, we started recording. We had no material, and so the writing had to be done on studio
time. This was not the first or last time this happened and I do not recommend it.

Being in a studio is like being in a taxi; the meter is always ticking. What also wasted a lot of time is
having pea shooter fights. This we did frequently, like little kids. Nick told me later that he was finding peas
all over the place including the twenty-four track recorder. The main offender concerning time was the evil
white powder affectionately referred to by us as “Old Charley,” or cocaine.

We assured ourselves that we did not really need it (sure), but it was beginning to run our lives. Every
now and then, someone would sneak off to the bathroom, coming back looking highly dazed and confused.

If anyone is under the impression that cocaine sharpens the senses, they are completely wrong. There
were times when we would all sit in silence staring at the control board, not knowing what to do next. On the
road, it was almost written into the contract that we would not appear without “The Old Boy” being present.
At Cologne in Germany, on one tour, the promoters went berserk trying to get the stuff. What they did come
up, with was some noxious yellow powder that they assured was the real thing.

After the gig, I felt like I was going to die. If I had taken any more of the shit, I think I would have.
This happened time and again. Would we ever learn?

We felt a bond forming between us because we were all in the same boat. It was like us against them,
“them” being the record company and anyone else. That didn’t include Leffler because he liked coke as much
as we did! I’m sure that cocaine got our songs played on many radio stations across America.

With the album at last finished, we had to come up with a title. We were going to call it “The Windy
City,” when Norman Goodman, our tape operator, brought a sketch of an idea he had. It looked like a giant
space ship coming in to land at first glance. It quickly became apparent what it really was, and the title “Off
the Record” came about.

Unfortunately, we did not get much success with it, although it went down really well live. Maybe we
should have gone with our first idea and called it “Windy City,” as that song always went down a storm!

On the home front, my marriage was going down hill at a rapid pace. My wife was never home when
I was and, when she did return, she was drunk as a skunk. We had moved from Carlton Avenue to a
Georgian-style house in Iver Heath near Pinewood Studios. It was my dream home, but not hers. We should
probably taken heed to the fact that the previous two couples that had lived there were both divorced.

We were both drinking far too much, but I had the advantage of being hooked on coke! We had the
most violent fights. This was nothing new. In fact, two years previously on Christmas Eve, I couldn’t stand
it anymore and emptied a bottle of sleeping pills down my throat. Looking back, it was a selfish and foolish
act and I was lucky to get away with it. I was unconscious for two days with my father-in-law walking me up
and down for hours. Thanks Ron! You saved my life.

I tried calling Maureen several times, but, as I wasn’t aware of call forwarding, I kept getting the
message service. The person who answered was always male, so I just hung up. Why I didn’t phone her at
work I’ll never know. I wouldn’t see her again until 1978.

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 CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - STING IN THE TAIL
We toured Germany again, but our audiences were getting smaller. There were a few highlights that
come to mind, however. A young German band was chosen to be our support band. I never bothered to watch
them, even though they were supposed to be very good. They never really wanted to know us, and they had
a huge attitude. On the last show of the tour at the Zircus Kronen in Munich, we had our only altercation.

Our road managers had been very good to them, as far as stage size went, but our gear was always set
up behind them, for a quick changeover. This did not seem to be a problem until the last show. The lead singer
was having a wonderful time, and his ego was really pumped. I’m not sure what prompted his next action,
but it definitely was to show his disdain for us. He was dancing around Mick’s drums with a glass of some
sort of clear liquid in his hand. He shouted something insulting in German, and flung the liquid all over the
drums.

Our tour manager, Mick Angus, went berserk. All I saw was a blur as he ran towards the stage. He
had murder in his eyes, and he was obviously furious. Just before he rushed onto the stage for the kill, we all
grabbed hold of him and managed to stop an ugly incident from getting a whole lot uglier. We never spoke
to or communicated with them again. It was ironic that they later covered Fox and Action under the name of
“The Hunters.” They were dreadful copies too.

We had been using two screens behind Mick for some time now. They were used to show a
semi-obscene movie at the beginning and again showing Mick during his drum solo.

This effect had been seen on many tours and we decided that we should go with a new idea. The
projectors were supposed to be phase locked, whatever that meant. Every now and then, one of them would
jam and burn a frame of the film. This had to be cut out, which made it a twenty fifth of a second shorter. The
appropriate frame then had to be cut from the other film, or they would go out of sync. I remember at one
sound check where the projector jammed and the only one to notice was our drummer Mick. He was furious
and yelled through the P.A. system, “That ain’t fucking burning is it?” sarcastically.

“Bang” Martin, our lighting man, came up with a new idea. In principle, it was good. He built six 20
foot towers that had three sides. On each of the sides would be a different scene and the towers could be turned
around. On one side was some new reflective material which was supposed to reflect the lights. It wouldn’t
stick properly and had huge air bubbles in it. Another side was black and the other side had a silhouette of
either New York or Chicago. It was similar to both. We used this for Windy City, of course.

The original idea was to have them all joined together, and turn them with an electric motor. This
proved to be too expensive, so they were turned by hand. It was a frightening sight, as they swayed and nearly
fell. We didn’t use them very much!

We also starting using more pyrotechnics. Mick’s drum riser was made of a substance called Mylar.
It was transparent and had lights inside. “Bang” Martin put a tray under it and filled it with flash powder. At
the end of Mick’s solo, he would set this powder off. Mick said that, on one occasion, the explosion was so
great it lifted him a foot in the air.

Andy had a 45’ single taped to the front of a dummy speaker cabinet. Behind the single was another
charge of flash powder. This was set off, predictably, at the end of his solo. At the last German gig, the whole
cabinet exploded and bits went everywhere. Some parts ended up in the audience and law suits ensued.

One of the scariest moments I have personally experienced on this tour was when we were flying to
Dortmund. We had our usual late night, and horrid early morning. I was asleep with my head resting against
the window. Suddenly, there was a huge bang and flash.

The pilot cut the engines right back, at least I thought it was the pilot’s doing. The stewardess ran down
the aisle and sat down in the first seat she could find and strapped herself in. She was a deathly white and had
a frozen smile on her face. We were losing height at an alarming rate, but gaining speed just as fast. I saw

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Mick Angus shaking hands with Brian and saying, “Goodbye, it was good knowing you.” The lights had gone
out, and we all thought it was the end. After what seemed to be eternity, the plane came out of its dive and
everything started working again. Eventually, the captain turned on the PA system and calmly informed us
that we had passed through a “little shower” and “Oh by the way, our tail was struck by lightning.” I think
that, apart from my unfortunate brush with the sleeping pills, this was my closest visit with The Grim Reaper.
I almost believe in guardian angels again.

This sort of scare has happened again to me since. While flying back to L.A. from New York with
Maureen and Danielle, we realized that we had lost our car keys. Our next door neighbours had a copy, and
so I tried to call them from the plane. Receiving no reply, I went to sit down when the engine that I could see
clearly exploded, and a huge plume of fire was ejected from both ends. I sat down very quickly and strapped
myself in. It was reassuring that we were still in the air, but my heart was pounding. Eventually, the co-pilot
told us over the intercom that a compressor had blown in the engine, but as it was still working, we could
continue our flight. He went on to explain that as we had three engines, we could easily fly on two. On
reaching our destination, I looked back at our aircraft and realized that he was lying, and there were only two
engines!

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 CHAPTER THIRTY - THE WEST COUNTRY
After the failure of “Off the Record,” it was decided that we should take a different tack with the next
album. Someone had heard that Deep Purple had written their last album at a manor house called “Clearwell
Castle.” If it was good enough for them, it must be good enough for us.

This was the beginning of the era of “Let’s see how much money we can squander.” We all piled into
our newly acquired Rolls Royces and Mercedes Benzes and thundered down the newly opened M4 motorway.
The town of Clearwell is situated in the west country of England, about 150 miles from London. The driving
time is two hours for normal people; less if you drove with us.

I am personally very familiar with this part of the country. My father was born in Chepstow, a small
town a few miles from Clearwell. The easiest way to get there is across the Seven Bridge.

The building of that bridge has a lot to do with my very existence as it happens. Many years earlier,
in the Roaring Twenties, my mother’s parents had heard that a bridge was being planned to replace the ferry
across the River Seven. This old ferry had been running for years, and was still going when I was a boy.

The original idea was to run the bridge over the river at the same place as the ferry. My grandfather,
whom I never met, decided that it would be a great investment to buy a restaurant on the road to the bridge.
It sounded good in theory, and so he uprooted the whole family, and moved them from Sheffield to Chepstow.

The Priest family had been in Chepstow for hundreds of years. I have a copy of an arrest record of one
of my ancient great grandparents being locked up for drunkenness and tearing a door off its hinges. That was
in 1790- something, and his antics sound a bit familiar too. My great grandfather had been the local
blacksmith, and liked his ale. He would go from bar to bar in his horse-drawn cart, getting more and more
sozzled. Eventually, his very smart horse would ignore his master’s orders to stop, and just take him home.
His son, my grandfather, never had a drink in his life. He lived to a ripe old age, and so did my grandma.

I do find it slightly ironic that my grandparents ran a public house in the middle of Chepstow. They
couldn’t make any money out of it, mainly because the locals didn’t have any money to spend. They
eventually gave it up as a bad job.

The real family business was still blacksmithing, but as cars had taken over from horses, they had to
diversify. They became plumbers, and they also repaired gutters for the local gentry, who, I believe, my dad
came to despise. The next two pages contain some pages from Chepstow Town Hall with a brief history of
the Priest family.

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 Between the wars, and before television, there was little to do in Chepstow, and the Saturday night
dance was a big deal. My father had a reputation as being a bit of a “snake hips” on the dance floor. My
mother once told me that all the girls wanted to dance with him, and it took her a while before she got the
privilege.

I haven’t been told what happened after that, but the two of them must have hit it off, because shortly
afterwards, they were married. My eldest brother was born in 1935. For obvious, reasons my parents decided
not to have any more kids until it looked like the war was almost over.

With very few job opportunities in Chepstow, Mum and Dad had moved to Hayes before Michael
appeared. My dad worked all over the place before he ended up at E.M.I. During the war, he worked on radar
and other secret weapons. He also used to spot for the A.R.P. (Air Raid Precaution). This involved sitting in
a small tower on top of the factory with a huge pair of binoculars.

It was while he was observing on July 7th, 1944, that a V.1. “Flying Bomb” cut out over Hayes. It
began its descent straight towards my father. He told me recently that he thought it was the end, and his legs
had turned to jelly. At the last moment it veered off to the right, and ploughed into an air raid shelter. The
infernal device killed thirty-seven unfortunate souls.

My mum was shopping in Hayes and heard the explosion and she nearly passed out. She was pregnant
with my other brother David at the time. Horrible thoughts of losing her husband went through her head, but,
luckily, he was fine. When my brother was born, he had an unusual birth mark in the shape of a rocket on his
arm.

This may or may not be due to a V.2. rocket that landed a few hundred yards from our home just before
he was born. It blew our front door in but, as the windows were open, they were spared. All our neighbours
lost theirs. My Aunt Millie said that she heard the explosion, and she lived fifteen miles away at the time.

After the end of hostilities, mum and dad decided that the family would be complete with a daughter.
I came along. Contrary to a few peoples’ opinion, I am no girl.

My grandparents had remained in Chepstow, and we visited them often, and that was why I was so
familiar with the area. I had no objection to going to where I had so many good memories of my childhood.
I know this may sound a bit of a coincidence, but Maureen’s forebear’s name, which was Goodrich, had been
custodians at Goodrich Castle, which was only a few miles away. Maybe it is a small world after all.

Clearwell was built many years ago as a mock fortified manor house. It was currently owned by the
Yeates family. They had done their best to restore it to its former glory after it had nearly been destroyed by
fire in 1924. Sue and Bernard ran the place, using it mainly for wedding receptions. On Saturday nights, they
would open it to the public for a period-type dinner.

It was on the first day of our thirty-day writing stint, which happened to be a Saturday. I was not
informed of the waitresses costumes and was taken very much by surprise when one of them walked passed
me. She was dressed as a Seventeenth Century chambermaid and glided by me without a sound. I thought I
had seen a ghost!

We used the downstairs basement for our rehearsal room. While everyone was exploring, I went
upstairs and claimed the best room in the house. It had a great four poster bed, which I made very good use
over the next few weeks.

After we had a monster meal prepared by Sue, who had a body to die for, we went to the local boozer.
We had already been told that “The Allpool,” nicknamed the “Whore Pool,” was where to find the local
crumpet. They were right. It didn’t take long before Andy had pulled a West Country lass. She had a friend,
onto whom I latched very quickly. They both had great accents, and were fascinated by ours. I think the Rolls
Royce may have helped too, just a tad.

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 As far as writing went, we did a lot of drinking. After downing up to a dozen bottles of wine at dinner,
we would rush to the pub to imbibe some of the local brew. The rest of the evening was spent fornicating.
There were times when Andy reminded us what we were there for, and we would go to the chilly basement
and work.

After a few days of this, it came to our notice that we hadn’t done anything at all, and our management
was going to visit soon. I’m not sure whether or not David Walker was coming to listen to music, or just snort
coke. I have a suspicion that it was the latter.

It was time to get serious and, before long, “Level Headed” started to take shape. One of the first ideas
that came to light was “Anthem No. 1.” This song was very much influenced by our surroundings. Andy was
inspired by his new-found girlfriend and came up with “Dream On.”

After a month and a few £1000 had passed, these and a couple more songs had come to the surface.
We did have a good cricket team, and were excelling at soccer. I had received a cricket ball in the ribs at
astonishing speed delivered by Mick Angus. He had to take me to hospital for an X-ray, and was informed
that nothing was broken. My West Country wench was overheard saying that she wouldn’t get any that night.
I proved her wrong!

The locals must have thought that we were mad and we drove around the tiny country roads at
breakneck speed. On one occasion, Mick drove straight across poor old Bernard’s neatly cut lawn. He then
did a hand-brake turn, ploughing the whole thing up. I’m sure Bernie was not too pleased, as it looked like
an eye sore.

Another of our little pastimes was to have seances. We cut out little squares of paper, marked them
with the letters of the alphabet, and put them in a circle. I am really not sure whether or not we ever got
through to the “other side.” There are a great many believers in this stuff, so I cannot discount it out of hand.
It used to keep us up very late though.

After one very late session, we all decided that we were very hungry so we retired to the kitchen.
Cheese on toast was the order of the day, or rather, night and we made a considerable noise doing it.
Eventually, Sue Yeates came down in a very flimsy night dress and admonished us for being so rowdy. We
would all have been happy to receive a spanking too! The episode was not repeated.

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 CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - LETTERE’S DE WHAT?
Our next stop was France, to record. Again, Deep Purple had found a studio at a place called
Herouville, just a few miles outside Paris. It was very picturesque, with a swimming pool and a tennis court —
more reasons not to get on with what we were supposed to be doing. Walker had the idea of rowing in one of
his other clients as an “arranger.” Geoff Westley was a great musician, but was as much like rock and roll as
a ham sandwich.

Again, inspired by our surroundings, “Lettres D’Amour” sprang forth after a visit to Paris. Andy was
listening to Hall and Oates, and decided that he was England’s version of “Blue-eyed Soul.” This spawned
“Strong Love,” not my favourite track, although we did do a version I did like. We re-wrote the lyrics with such
literary treasures as “Oh won’t you sit on my face” and “Won’t you cum in my mouth,” etc!

Anyway, some gems were about to happen, like “California Nights.” I never thought I would end up
living in California, but I always wanted to. One evening, after eating dinner, one of our road crew sat down
at the piano and played an idea that he had for a film soundtrack. It was a very powerful sounding piece but
we didn’t know what to do with it, and it was put on the back burner and forgotten about. It would reappear
later.

One incident that occurred in France is really worth telling. Brian had flown over a week later than us,
and, when he arrived, he told us of the two Californians that he met on the plane. One of them had been
married to one of The Righteous Brothers. He, of course had invited them over to meet us all.

They arrived, looking very Californian, while we were playing tennis. As they came from a state where
most people have a tennis court in their back yards, they were great players. They stayed for dinner and late
enough so as not to be able to get a cab home. “Can we stay with you?” they asked. “Of course you can,” we
hastily replied.

There were no spare rooms, so one of them, I’ll call her Connie, said that if I promised that I would not
get up to any monkey business, she would sleep in the same bed as me. With the appropriate assurances, she
took off her outer clothes and climbed in. After about an hour of me playing it very cool, she turned over to
me and told me that lying next to me was making her very horny.

Not wanting to deprive her of anything, I willingly obliged her every whim and many whims there
were. After quite a considerable time, she asked me if I would like to put it up her arse. Being a perverted
rock star, I informed her that I was not averse to putting it anywhere in a female body. With the help of some
cream designed to relieve aches and pains, I proceeded to take care of her demands. My, my did that cream
burn. The next day, after her departure her friend informed us that asking Connie if she wants it up the arse
was like saying, “Polly wanna cracker?” I’ll never forget that quote.

Our time in France was beginning to come to an end. Unfortunately, there were a number of technical
problems. This included not having any air conditioning. This became a major problem when it came to a
“take.” The temperature soared rapidly and, eventually, we had to leave the windows open. If you listen to the
some of the tracks from Herouville, it is possible to hear birds singing.

It was time to go back our old haunt of Kingsway, where would finish everything off. This included
“Air on A’ Tape Loop,” which is exactly what it was. Mick and I put down about twenty seconds of the
backtrack and Louie Austin made it into a loop. He then copied it onto another two-inch tape. We had no
idea of what tune to play over it. One evening while listening to “Solveg’s Song” from the Peer Gynt Suite,
I knew that the tune would fit. With a little imagination, it did.

When we had finished laying down all the ideas that we had, we were well short of a whole album.
Even after doing “Anthem No. 2,” because we liked the string arrangement so much, we still needed another
song. Someone reminded us of that theme music idea that was played to us in France. After the roadie, who
thought of the idea, played it again to Westly, he promptly made it into some sort of arrangement resembling
a song.

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 That night, we were all ordered by Andy to come up with lyrics. I wrote something totally forgettable,
and the idea was thrown out immediately. Andy had gone home and listened to Hall and Oates who had
“inspired” him. I’ll let the reader figure out which album he had been listening to. As I have mentioned before,
plagiarism is part of the music business. Mick and I did think that this was a bit blatant though, but we
couldn’t come up with anything better.

We desperately needed a single, and “Love is Like Oxygen” fit the bill. Our thinking was that it was
different enough to put us in a more contemporary league. It did have to be edited, as it was seven minutes
long. This was also our first single on Polydor, our new record label. We had not had any chart success for
two years. Some of our more notable misses were some of my favourite Sweet songs.

One of the more notable misses was “Lies in Your Eyes.” I did have to laugh when our manager Ed
Leffler made us change “I ain’t blind” to “I’m not blind,” in the chorus. His reasoning was that kids in
America no longer used that expression! None of us really agreed with his train of thought but decided not to
argue as we wanted to finish the job.

We had decided to augment the band on stage by adding a couple of musicians. This did make a
tremendous difference. Gary Moberley hailed from Australia, and was a great character to have on the road.
He once told me that a girl had picked him up because she thought he looked so hung-over and debauched.
It was a look that he frequently adopted.

Nico Ramsden was employed as second guitarist. I could never see the point, personally, and it just
looked like Andy wanted to take it easy. The other reason for his presence was that he was managed by David
Walker. We paid Ramsden a wage, and Walker could take a percentage. How could the bastard lose?

We did our first T.O.T.P. for God knows how long time with our new line-up. It was a happy time
when, at last, the charts came out and we were in them. It was a good time to take advantage of the situation,
and we decided to tour the U.K. This was a prelude, and rehearsal, for a big onslaught on America.

We began or first tour of Britain in four years, and were pleasantly surprised by the audience reaction.
It appeared that the old stigmas of the so-called “Glam Rock” era were slowly being forgotten. Even though
“Level Headed” didn’t do too well in the charts, the fans that attended the shows knew the songs, so they must
have had copies.

Someone decided that the time was right to put in a London date. We all thought it was a bad idea, as
we had always had bad luck in this city, such as the Rainbow gig in ‘73, and the one at the London School of
Economics, where the power went out during the first song. That was a common happening, because with the
smoke pots and explosions, it usually blew a fuse or two. At one gig at the Town Hall in Manchester, some
powder had fallen into the bottom of the pots, where the ignitor is. This should not have happened, of course,
because when the pots were set off, instead of just giving off a flash of smoke, they exploded!

I had never heard anything so loud in my life. It was very lucky for us that no one was hurt. It did
blow some of the big drivers in the PA system and nearly blew my eardrums. I suspect that the audience had
never experienced anything like it either. Naturally, the fuses blew.

The venue that was picked in England’s capitol was to be the Hammersmith Odeon. This was, and I
think still is, a popular place for shows of our ilk. We had reservations as to how well it would sell, however.
Three weeks before the show, we were very surprised to learn that it was, in fact, completely sold out and that
there were rumours of a second show. No one had the guts to go for it, though.

We had absolutely no idea what our audience would be like. There had been no Sweet records in the
charts for some time now. This is despite the fact that these songs had been some of our better material.
“Oxygen” was our first big hit in years, which meant, I would suppose, that our audience may well have
changed a lot. Punk rock was in vogue and I didn’t expect to see any of that crowd.

I was completely wrong about everything. When February 24th rolled around, it was a day of total
chaos. As it was a local gig, the wives and kids had to come too. This only added to the pandemonium. They
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 thought they were bigger stars than we, and demanded their own limos. Having your wife at a gig is really
nerve wracking. This is especially so when they are inexperienced backstage. You really have to try and stay
calm and collected behind the scenes, so as not to panic anyone. Having your missus there getting hysterical
because you haven’t spoken to her for five minutes tends to sap your nerves.

For some reason, instead of using a warm-up band, someone (I’m sure it was David Walker) had the
idiotic idea of opening with a comedian. We should have shoved Walker on and see how he fared. With any
luck, they would have ripped him limb from limb. While this poor schmuck was trying to get his humour
across, I had a chance to see what the crowd was like. I had never seen such a cross section of humanity in
my life.

There were forty year old businessmen in suits, punk rockers with mohawks and rings in their noses
and whole families with their young kids. I was completely taken aback. So was the comedian, who had no
idea what would make them laugh.

Backstage was beginning to look like a circus. There were semi-celebrities, roadies, wives and kids,
and to my horror, the two girls from Japan that I had made whoopie with. Luckily, I spotted them before they
saw me and I was able to get my faithful roadie, Jan, to usher them into a safe area. Be still my heart. I know
things weren’t too good between me and Pat, but I did not want any aggravation before this show.

The time to start the show was rapidly nearing and you could feel the tension growing in the audience
and back stage. I had forsaken the habit of tooting half a gram of coke before a show, unlike the rest of the
band. I found that it dried my throat out so much, I would lose my voice. While the rest of the lads were
imitating vacuum cleaners noisily in the dressing room, I would knock back a few belts of brandy. This
numbed the nerves. I would do my blow after the show when I needed help standing up!

When we took to the stage, the suspense was incredible. We opened with what had become our anthem,
“Ballroom Blitz.” The crowd went nuts. I had never seen a crowd in London react this way. The only gig that
came close to it was in Scotland at the Apollo. We even received an award for selling the place out. The only
other act to have done that was The Osmonds. It’s ironic that we ended up with the same manager. I wish I
had their money though.

The atmosphere remained electric through the whole show. Nothing went wrong. Even during “Lady
of the Lake,” my eight string bass stayed roughly in tune. I never used it again because I thought I was pushing
my luck! We did two encores and then lined up arm in arm like chorus girls and thanked the audience. We
were really touched by their reaction and Andy was heard to say that he was thankful because they were British.
He may have only been half right in assuming that.

Then came the after-show party. Even Nicky Chinn was there. He hadn’t changed one bit and was as
polite as ever. Christine Woods, our fan club secretary for many faithful years, was really overcome with
emotion. She came over and knelt down in front of me hugging my legs. This didn’t go down too well with
my wife, needless to say. Christine and I had been more than close for years, but as she is now presumably in
wedded bliss, I won’t go into that in detail. It would make good reading though. Melody Howard took over
as fan club secretary, and did so for many years.

Hammersmith was the last time England saw The Sweet in its original form, and it is a great shame
that there was no video. If any one reading this does have anything on tape, please let me know. I am sure
that all of the band would love to see it.

1978 would be a year of immense changes in all our lives, some for the good and some not. Nothing
can change what took place, but I do wish that we could have held the band together, as we would have been
the biggest thing since sliced bread.

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 CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - AMERICA THE BIG AND BEAUTIFUL
I know that some people criticize English bands that want to conquer the States, but that is where the
big bucks are, and, generally, one’s time of success is short. After a few weeks on the road in Britain, we had
honed the act into the most professional band we had ever been. Our PA system was custom built for us and
the sound was excellent.

The bad-boy reputation that we had built so far in the U.S. was one that we had to overcome. When
we were talked about, if ever, the word was that we were incredibly loud and obnoxious. Unfortunately, that
was right.

We arrived in New York relatively sober for once, and there was Maureen waiting at the airport. I had
been in contact with her on the phone but this was the first I had seen of her in two years. It was a wonderful
reunion.

I had to play the first few gigs with a bandage on my hand. This was after a terrible row with my wife
where I put my hand through a glass door. There were still some pieces of glass in the cut and it was most
uncomfortable. Our opening night was Syracuse, in upstate New York. The venue was small, but we needed
to warm up in an out-of-the-way place. We were the headline act, so there was no need to worry about stage
size. This was about to change when the real tour began.

I had seen Bob Seger at The Hammersmith Odeon a year before and thought that he was brilliant. He
had supported us once or twice on our first U.S. tour and we shared record labels. It was now our turn to play
second fiddle to him. What happened during the next few days was a good lesson in how to choose your road
crew. On our first outing two years earlier, while headlining, we had been sabotaged a couple of times by our
support bands. I won’t mention their names, but we thought that at the time it was most unprofessional. It
also showed us how not to behave with the headline act.

Our first time out with Seger could have been a total mess if it were not for Fred Munt, our stage
manager. He set the gear up at the stadium, and came to our hotel and called a meeting. He told us all to calm
down. Apparently, we would have absolutely no room at all on stage.

There was a grand piano that Bob Seger used blocking a fair part of the stage, and his crew refused to
move it. In all fairness to them, the damned thing had to be tuned at every show and was very sensitive to
movement. This reminded me of “All by Himself” Eric Cardboard.

When we arrived for the sound-check, Fred’s words proved to be all true. I don’t remember being in
such a tight spot since playing at Doncaster Workingman’s club. It was tiny. Andy was so close to Brian that
he had to be careful not to hit him in the face with his guitar. Mick didn’t even have his drum-riser. It was
just like the early days.

Fred told us to be patient and things would change. It was gradual, but he was right. The following
night, the piano was off the stage and we could at least breathe. As the tour progressed, conditions became
better and we soon had a full stage.

We had a single in the American charts at last and it didn’t take long for Seger to realize that we were
bringing in half the audience. Thirty thousand people a night was the average, which was awesome to begin
with, but we soon got used to it. In fact, the shows were going so smoothly that we didn’t bother with sound
checks anymore. Our road crew did it for us.

As usual, all good things come to an end. We were in Birmingham, Alabama, where the whole of the
high-ups of Capitol Records were supposed to show up. For us, it was a very important gig. It would help
heal the wounds of the 1976 tour. The executives had already heard that we were a new, improved version,
and had decided to come and see for themselves.

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 Because we no longer did sound-checks, we had time on our hands during the day. On this occasion,
we had not seen Brian all day, and it seems that he was hanging out with an unknown young lady. When we
did find him, he was in cloud cuckoo land. He insisted that he had not been drinking — at least we thought
that was what he was saying.

He had absolutely no idea where, or who he was. From what Fred could deduce, and he was an expert,
it looked like Brian had taken some serious downers. The show had to go on, but I wished it hadn’t. It was
an utter disaster from the outset. We were set on 78, but Brian was on 33 1/3.

Brian was having such a great time in his own little world, which had nothing to do with ours. This
torture lasted for the full forty-five minutes. Brian would pick up Seger’s mike from the side of the stage and
start singing. Of course, it wasn’t plugged in, but that didn’t deter him. He would stagger around sticking his
head in the side monitors and generally looking stupid.

I could see Fred getting furious in the wings and making the signs that he would like to beat the shit
out of Brian. As Ed Leffler was taking care of annoying the sound engineer, I could only guess what reaction
he was having. We managed to struggle through “Love is like Oxygen,” but we eventually had to call it a day
and left the stage.

Ed was absolutely beside himself with fury. I thought he was going to have a coronary, he was so mad.
Needless to say, the big-wigs were not that impressed, but I’m sure they could hear Leffler yelling at Brian as
far away as the Capitol Building in L.A.! Even “Alto,” Seger’s sax player said it frightened him. It didn’t get
through to Brian, who was floating past Venus by this time.

The next day, when some of the dust had settled, we had a meeting that would start crumbling the
foundations of the band. Andy wanted to throw Brian out of the band then and there. This, of course, was out
of the question, but I should have seen then where Andy was coming from and what he was trying to do.

I hadn’t seen the friction building between the two of them or maybe I had just denied it. To quote
Scott Weiland, the lead singer from Stone Temple Pilots, when asked why he hadn’t helped Kurt Cobain,
“How do you help a drowning man when you are treading water yourself?”

It should have been obvious to us what was happening to Brian and that he was slowly going under.
I was going through hell myself with my personal life and couldn’t see what was happening. We did resolve
that this was not the time to change lead singers, much to Andy’s chagrin. This was not the end, however.

Things went smoothly for the next couple of gigs until we arrived in Atlanta, Georgia. Deja-fucking-
vu! This time, Brian got as drunk as a skunk and had the same outing as Birmingham. Of course, Andy took
this opportunity to lobby once again to kick Brian out. This meant that we had to have a serious meeting. This
time, Brian assured us that he would clean up his act and behave himself. A kind of truce prevailed and the
rest of the tour went without a hitch.

At this time, we could have continued touring with Mr. Seger all the way up the west coast. This would
have definitely made sure that “Level Headed” would have charted much higher than it did. It would also
have got us back into Capitol Records’ good books.

This was when everything started to unravel. David Walker could see that he was going to lose control
of the band. As Andy and he were at that time, in cahoots, they hatched a plot between them. Walker decided
the we owed another album to Polydor before the end of the year. Although this was probably true, I am
positive that it could have been delayed. Andy’s wife was also giving him a bad time. Our whole history
would have changed drastically if we had continued to tour, but I, unfortunately, kept my mouth shut and off
we went back home.

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 CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - THE MELISSA AFFAIR
We returned to Clearwell for a disastrous time. By now, we were doing enough cocaine between us to
keep Colombia’s economy afloat. This had some strange affects on our relationships. We also drank like fish,
which made matters a lot worse. Getting drunk every night became a habit, as was doing coke in the mornings
(and all day) to get going.

This was extra hard on Brian, because he had a real drinking problem. The problem was that he
couldn’t hold his liquor. There were some awful rows between Brain and Andy which almost came to blows.
How the hell we were able to write most of “Cut Above the Rest,” I’ll never know.

One of the biggest distractions, however, was Melissa. Brian had met her while on tour in the States
and had decided to bring her over for awhile. This turned out to be a great mistake, to say the least. They
argued all the time in their drunken stupors, and were quite distracting. On one horrendous occasion, Brian
phoned his wife and tried to get Melissa to talk to her. He just kept on repeating “Go on, you tell her.” We
didn’t have a clue what to do or what was going on. Marilyn was most confused and decided that she would
come down and find out what was happening here.

This meant “Operation Cover-up.” One of our road managers whisked Melissa out of the house and
booked her into The Travellers Rest, one of the local inns. When Marilyn did arrive it was early evening, just
in time for dinner. She must have known something was going on and we must have been acting very
strangely. For one thing, nobody said anything. You needed a laser to cut the air.

It turned out that sweet little Melissa had a sexually transmitted disease and had donated a part of it to
Brian. She had also given it to another member of our party, but I won’t mention his name. Brian really
wanted Melissa to tell Marilyn about the VD. For what purpose I’ll never know. I am sure that Marilyn
suspected something, but I cannot imagine what. He decided after we had words with him that it was better
left undiscussed.

Thankfully, Marilyn only stayed the night and left, totally confused I’m sure, the following morning.
Melissa, however, did not. I wouldn’t say that she was a “loose” woman, but she seemed to spread it around
a bit. Maureen was staying with me for two weeks and, the minute that she left for the airport, Melissa asked
if she could move in with me. This may have had something to do with the fact Brian was firing a shotgun
out of the window at the tree tops filling the whole place with smoke!

Maureen kept me sane the two weeks she stayed with me. While we were writing, she would explore
the local area and fell in love with it. Peace and tranquility abound, and with one side of her family coming
from just up the road at Goodrich, I’m sure she felt an affinity. I know it sounds a bit like a fairy tale, but this
was when we really fell in love. It would be a long time before we would be able to marry.

She was, and still is, a very patient person, and this really showed when Easter rolled around. Nobody
could come up with an excuse why we didn’t have to go home. I certainly did not want to go back to Iver,
because it was turning into a nut house. Pat had found some very weird friends who were on a completely
different wavelength from me.

Somehow she had fallen in with a load of gay men. They happened to be fans, but I couldn’t fathom
why Pat was so interested in them. One night, we all went out to a huge gay club in London. It had about a
thousand men all happily dancing away. I have never been so bored in my life. Everywhere I looked there
were more men. The only females that were there, apart from Pat, or maybe not, were Fag Hags and definitely
not interested in me. It was a night to forget.

These men almost totally moved in. It reminded me of a film I had seen called “The Servant,” where
the manservant, Dirk Bogart, insidiously takes over his master’s house. I could see the same scenario
developing. It became even more bizarre when Pat kept on urging me to do it with one of them while she
watched. That would have looked good on the divorce papers!

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 My Easter week-end was not looking that rosy and I was dreading it. Rightfully too, as it turned out
When I got to my house, it was locked and I did not have a key. I walked round the back and found an open
door. There was no one home, much to my relief. That would change. Pat soon came home, drunk as a skunk,
and asked me what I was doing there. “I thought I lived here,” I replied. That sort of humour does not go
down well with an obnoxious drunk, and she started screaming at me as usual. I was used to this, but didn’t
relish it.

During one of these hysterical outbursts, I made a recording of her yelling. I was going to play it back
to her when she was sober. The opportunity never arose, or at least I thought better of it, and forgot about the
cassette completely. Later, while living with Maureen in New York, I happened to come across the tape. Not
knowing what was on it I played it. Maureen’s face went white as a sheet when she heard the screams
emanating from the speakers. She could not believe how I had put up with that behavior for so many years.
Nor could I.

With the long weekend of hell over, I went and picked up Maureen from Lindsay Brown’s house,
where she had been staying, and drove like lightning back to sanity. Brian and Andy, for some stupid reason,
both brought their shotguns back with them and also a clay pigeon trap.

Whoever suggested clay pigeon shooting must have had a screw loose. I became quite good at it, but
in the hands of a drunk, drug dazed rock star, these guns could be lethal. We didn’t give that a second thought
and happily banged away. We no longer played cricket for recreation and had taken up soccer. The day that
Maureen left to go home, I was so upset that I kicked the ball at Andy so hard, he decided to exit the game.
The only good thing that came out of her leaving was “Mother Earth.”

One morning, when all were still in a stupor, I went downstairs to the garden and found Andy with his
acoustic guitar. He was strumming out what was to become the intro of “Mother Earth.” He didn’t have any
ideas for a melody. Inspired by the vision of Maureen’s pretty eyes, I said to Andy, “I don’t know the chords,
but I have an idea for the opening line.” Sometimes it is as easy as that, but not often.

We put down all the back tracks that we had come up with on a mobile studio. It was thought to be a
money-saver to write and record the songs in one place and save studio costs. This was, as usual, totally
wrong but that was par for the course. I think we eventually used one track. Brian had not yet stepped up to
the mike.

Our next move was to Townhouse studios in sunny Shepherd’s Bush. This would probably be our
most expensive album to date. It was also the most turbulent time of my life. While I had been working at
Clearwell, it seems that my wife was letting one of her boyfriends use my Rolls Royce. He apparently used
it in some criminal activity and damaged it. Pat told me that it was hit by a truck while parked in the street.
I took it to be repaired, and then moved it to a different location.

Things between us were moving from terrible to dreadful. I came home one night to find the safety
chain on the front door. When I looked through the window, she was fast asleep with some fellow on the
couch.

This reminded me of the one and only time I ever heard my mum swear. She said, “It is one thing for
someone to shit on your face but it’s another thing when they rub it in!” This was a definite case of the latter
and I had had enough.

I kicked down the door and threw the bastard out. Needless to say, Pat assured me there was nothing
going on between them and I wanted to believe her. I was in a turmoil and was not sure what I should do.
Shoveling enough snow up my nose to sink the Titanic didn’t help my thought processes much either.

The next few days were not good. Every time I came home from the studio, Pat would be out of her
skull and we would get into a huge fight. I remember one night after she had passed out, going into little Lisa’s
room and crying on her shoulder. On the one hand, I could not stay in the house, and on the other, I didn’t
want to leave Lisa.

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 It was a terrible choice to make, but, after one of our biggest rows ever, I packed a suitcase, jumped
into my little Fiat and left. It wasn’t the first time I had done this, and I’m sure that Pat thought I would be
back. This time she was wrong. I couldn’t take Lisa away from her because Pat had been an exceptionally
good mother. I think it was having too many girls around that got to her.

Usually I would go to Mick Angus’ house in Maidenhead. This time, I decided to go to David
Walker’s. I slept on the couch for the next few months until he had enough of me. This was the same time
that Andy walked out on his wife. As he had nowhere to run to, Walker rented us a house in Princes Gate
Muse in London.

It was located in this charming little place, although it was always freezing cold in there. The one good
thing about Andy and I being together again in one place was that we could go on writing. He had met a
beautiful oriental girl named Alice and moved her in as a hot water bottle. She was really gorgeous and
intelligent. Maureen has a theory that all lead guitarists date oriental women because John Lennon did.

When Maureen at last was able to visit, I proposed to her on bended knee. Is that corny or romantic?
She did say “yes,” although it would be a long time before we were able to marry. I had a divorce to go
through first.

We were progressing with the back tracks in the studio, and the time was fast approaching for Brian to
do his vocals. As there was bad blood between Andy and Brian, we decided that Mick should be behind the
desk and help him.

It was a disaster. Brian had got it together, but he had not yet regained his confidence in the studio.
In his defense, he had been badly bullied by Mike Chapman in the earlier days and this had left scars. Andy
and I stayed out of the way for the first day, but decided to see what progress had been made on the next day.

We were in for a big disappointment. Brian had managed to struggle through the first couple of lines
of “That Girl,” and morale was at a terrible low. They asked to be left alone a little longer, and we complied.
A week passed before the song was completed. He also put the lead vocals on “Play All Night.” Unfortunately,
they were not very good.

At this point, Brian decided that enough was enough. He couldn’t even stand to be in the same room
as Andy, and the feeling was very mutual. He told us that he wanted a solo career with his own songs. I think,
in retrospect, that it was a bad move, but it is human nature to think wisely and act foolishly. We had been a
winning team and it was stupid to break it up.

The next decision was whether or not to replace him. Andy insists to this day that Ronnie James Dio
was interested in joining. This is totally untrue. I got evidence to the contrary straight from the horse’s mouth.
Ron’s ex-wife and manager is a friend of mine and I asked her.

With time being a big factor, we decided to continue as a three piece. We almost changed the name to
S.T.P. Obviously, we never did. The first single released was “Call Me.” Mick described it as “pop pap.”
Our so-called manager was so scared that, as the middle section was a bit risqué, the record would be banned.
Against our better judgement, we edited it for the single. Stupid!

I remember the first TV show we did with me doing lead vocals. The attitude people have toward the
singer, as opposed to being just a bass player, is astonishing. All of a sudden, you are a star. Girls flock round
you and you get everyone’s attention. I was taken by surprise, but I didn’t complain. Unfortunately, we didn’t
have a hit.

Walker then decided what else should be released, including “Big Apple Waltz,” which I had written
for Maureen. That was never really promoted. The video we did was hopeless, and a very good song was lost.
It really was a poor choice for a single and I think Walker just picked it to make me happy.

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 CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - ALL FOR ONE AND THREE FOR ALL
We did do a few gigs in 1979, including a tour of the States. Things had changed a lot, and we ended
up supporting bands that had supported us previously. One highlight of the tour was the Palladium in New
York. This was the only time we had ever played in the city itself, and we had a big argument about who
should be headlining. The other band on the bill was Journey, who were quite hot at the time.

It was probably the best show we ever did as a three-piece in America, and I wish more people could
have seen us. If we had done more gigs like that, I think that we would have had a very good chance of being
successful again. The only gig that was its equal was The Lyceum in London, in February 1981.

Most of the tour was in the south, where it was very hot. When we went to San Antonio, Maureen and
I sat by the pool and sunbathed the whole day. The others had gone with Andy to see The Alamo. We should
have done the same thing, because we both turned lobster red and were in agony. I had to play that evening
and my guitar seemed twice as heavy as usual.

After the tour ended, we went up to Canada to record “Water’s Edge.” Not everyone was pleased with
this decision. David Walker could again see his hold over us slacken.

I loved the arrangement, because Maureen could fly up at the weekends, and I could also visit my
brother Michael and his wife Anne. We had never been that close, as he had left home to join the Royal Navy
when he was seventeen. At that time, I was about four years of age so I didn’t remember much about him.
This seemed a good opportunity to renew our acquaintance.

The studio we used was owned by Marilyn Barry, mother of the Barry twins who had minor hits in the
early 70s. She and her husband used to host a television show called “Spot the Tune.” Toronto, where the
studio was located, is a very pretty town and we had a great time there.

The only bad time I personally had was when we sat down to watch The Stones on a program called
“Saturday Night Live” from New York. As I could not see the TV too well, I decided to move the couch. It
was of a modern design and had mirrored glass around the bottom edge.

As I pulled it towards me, it slipped on the carpet and ran over my left foot. It didn’t seem to hurt very
much until I moved my foot from underneath. There was a great deal of blood and, when I wiped it off, I
discovered that the glass edging had cut both my middle toes down to the bone.

It started to really hurt, so Andy helped me to the car and we went to visit Toronto General Hospital.
The National Health System in Canada is very good and the hospital was exceptionally clean and efficient.
The doctor that sewed my toes was a plastic surgeon and he did a good job, although you can still see the scars.
I decided not into go into the furniture-moving business after that.

The title track, “Water’s Edge,” was very close to the truth for me. I had nothing to stay in England
for, apart from my parents and brother David. Although we were a close family, business had kept us apart.
Maureen and I decided that we couldn’t live apart and I moved in with her in The Big Apple.

The apartment was small, but it was closest thing I could call home for over two years. Our affairs in
England had been handled so badly that we were assessed for a tax bill of over £500,000. Needless to say, we
didn’t have it. We should have become tax exiles years before. Again, David Walker did not want us too far
away and we had to pay.

The only money that I had was invested in the house where Pat and Lisa lived. I couldn’t afford to pay
the mortgage anymore and had to sell it. The money from the sale was divided between myself and Pat.
Another dream that didn’t come true.

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 CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - A TRAGEDY
I loved being in New York. Some people say it stinks, but it does have its charm. After finishing the
album, everyone went their separate ways. It was winter and very cold. Maureen and I went out to New Jersey
and spent Christmas Day with her mum, Etta O’Connor, and other relatives. We had a great day.

In America, there is no such thing as Boxing Day, so things were back to normal. I had started going
to a chiropractor to sort my back out. It had been bad now for a good ten years. I walked uptown to 74th street
where his office was. It was my tenth visit and so I knew the doctor very well.

When I walked in, he acted a bit strange and told me that Maureen had called and would I call her back.
He suggested that he do his adjustment first, as there was no hurry. When I phoned Maureen back, the news
she told me made me sit down with a bang.

Pauline had been found dead in her bathtub. I couldn’t believe it. I could see why the doctor had not
let me call before the treatment because it would have made my muscles as tight as a bass drum. I walked
back to our apartment completely numb. I had no idea what had really happened.

I knew that she had been seeing a private doctor because she was suffering from depression. He had
given her a prescription for tranquilizers. In fact, when she visited us in Canada, Fred Munt, our tour manager,
asked her if he could take one. He was having trouble sleeping and he knew that Pauline had something to
make him drowsy.

When we saw Fred the next day, he was barely awake and was stumbling all over the place. He asked
Pauline what was in the pill she had given him. He said that he thought that it was an elephant tranquilizer. If
one pill had that effect on someone the size of Fred who was over six feet tall and hefty, what effect would
they have on Pauline, who was petite? She was taking two a day.

It seems that Pauline had taken her nightly couple of pills and forgotten she had taken them. She took
two more. Mick was down the pub having a drink with the boys. When he came home, he couldn’t find his
wife. He ran upstairs to find her underwater in the bath. His attempts to revive her failed, as it was already
too late.

The police were called and suspicion of foul play were leveled at Mick, all of course without any
foundation. It was a tragic case of mistiming drugs. If Mick had come home a half hour earlier, things may
have been different. The incident must have affected Mick deeply, I’m sure, because I still cannot believe that
it happened.

Rest in peace, Pauline.

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 CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - YESTERDAY’S ARSEHOLES
1980 was a year of commuting for me. If there had been a frequent flyer program at the time, I would
still be flying free. My first return to England was to tape a video for the first single. Again, Walker had
managed to get one of his other client’s songs on our album. The last time he had tried was with a song whose
lyrics were so stupid, I couldn’t sing them. It was called “Yesterday’s Hero.”

I’m not saying that this song was a bunch of shit exactly, but one of the lines in the song went as
follows: “Have you seen a tiger when he was in danger, how he runs from the scene of the crime?” What the
hell was that supposed to mean? We spent hours getting this on tape in Canada. When Walker heard it, he
was not at all pleased with my performance. He wanted me to sing it again. I refused to fly to England and
so Andy and I went to Electric Ladyland in New York.

I still couldn’t sing it with a straight face and we dropped the idea. Eventually, someone did record it
after rewriting the lyrics. It was a huge flop called “Back on my Feet Again.”

Walker had started to sign anyone who had songs. He would take 25% from them and promised that
he would place their material with other artists. Ray McRiner was a client of Walker’s and, as we always
needed a song or two, he rowed him into the band so he could get a percentage of that too as a management
deal. There were two tracks of his on the album. They were produced by Pip Williams, who had played on
“Funny Funny.” He was also managed by — guess who? — Walker, who was getting it from all angles. We
were only getting it from one!!

When we finally did the video for “Sixties Man,” Walker had the brilliant idea of not having me in any
of the close-up shots. Most of the time, the camera was on Mick. I couldn’t understand the logic, but by then
I was beginning not to give a shit. The whole thing was falling apart.

We received no success at all with this album, and, eventually, the record contract ran out, and we were
dropped. We had one last chance at an album, but it would only be released in Germany. We wrote it at
Andy’s house, where he lived part-time with Jackie, who was still his wife. It was a strange arrangement, but
not my problem. Jackie would get most embarrassed when she put out the garbage. It mainly consisted of
empty wine and beer bottles.

When it came to recording the tracks, a shitty little studio in North London was chosen. I think Walker
had a deal going with them. The whole album to me was a bad experience. Cocaine was being used all the
time and we were always at each others throats.

I was being housed in a sort of retirement home called Chelsea Cloisters. It was a miserable place
which I renamed “Chelsea Barracks.” My transportation was London Transport underground. I had got used
to using the subway in New York, and the Tube was a lot cleaner, so I didn’t mind that much.

With the album coming out in only one territory, it seemed a waste of time and money. By now, I
wanted to get on with my new life in the good old U.S. of A. I wasn’t allowed to go until we did our last gigs
together as the real band. This included, as I have already mentioned, The Lyceum.

We were supposed to have been supported by a new band of teen idols called Duran Duran, but they
maintain that they were never asked. As they were recording an album at the time, I’m inclined to believe
them. The other band on the bill was Dumb Blondes.

I remember hearing a writer’s remarks that I found very amusing, in which the writer stated that the
Dumb Blondes “have as much arrogance as a bamboo shoot in a panda cage,” whatever that means. The only
criticism he had for us was when I said something about the London crowd being the best in the universe. It
sounded good at the time.

One of the last gigs we played was in Nottingham. Over 1,500 people showed up, which was quite
impressive for England. I decided to go to the bar before the show, which turned out to be a mistake. I was

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happy chatting with some of the audience and was having a good time. Unfortunately, Andy decided to join
me and he had a few beers and a few scotches too. By the time we took to the stage, the whisky was starting
to work. He started getting in a bad mood. One member of the crowd was winding Andy up, or at least he
thought so. At last, the young man threw a plastic beaker at Andy who promptly walked off the stage. We
no longer had a keyboard player, so it was just drums and bass. Mick and myself had to busk for 20 minutes
before “Her Royal Highness” would return. It was not the first time this had happened, but it was definitely
the last. At this point, it was obvious that it was a waste of time continuing and we called it a day. I hated
being in England and couldn’t wait to get back to America. There is something about New York that is
fascinating and it was time to start anew.

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 CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - THE TOP OF THE WORLD
My divorce at last came through, and I was a free man. Of course, as I already had proposed to
Maureen, this wouldn’t last long. We quickly set a wedding date. I think I rushed Maureen a bit, but some
things can’t wait. We had to do the normal things that one has to do, such as get the wedding license, and have
a blood test. The reason for the blood test was from earlier times to stop the spread of tuberculosis.

We received notification that our wedding day would be May 28th. We planned a reception at our
favourite restaurant, The Leopard. My best man was going to be Fred Munt, who I had known now for many
years and also resided in New York on 44th Street. Maureen thought it was a good idea if we went to the Top
of the World for drinks before the ceremony. This was a restaurant and bar at the top of the “World Trade
Center” that some stupid bastards later tried to blow up.

What we had totally forgotten was that poor old Fred was terrified of heights. Maureen’s good friend
Ebet was taking photos for us and one of them was situated up against a window. Fred nearly had a heart
attack when he saw the view. We were a quarter of a mile up, so imagine how he felt. He had to smoke a
cigar to feel better. I joined him and had one also. It made me turn green.

The time eventually arrived to go to the Hall of Justice across town. It is a beautiful building and
photos were taken at the appropriate places. The man who did the wedding looked like Heinrich Himmler. I
had a job not laughing at him. Arlene Kramer, who had been high school friends with Maureen, was Maid of
Honour. Maureen’s mum, Etta, of course, was also with us.

The reception was a great success. All of Maureen’s, and now my, friends and family came. Now that
we live out on the West coast, we don’t see them anywhere nearly enough. Some of the family have passed
away, but I do miss all our friends. We would have wonderful times at “Barnacle Bill’s” owned and run by
Joanne and Bill Petruzell. It was down on the Jersey shore and Maureen, myself, and Arlene, would go down
there whenever we could. I would play the pinball machines, and the girls would talk. I managed to take Lisa
there once or twice when she was visiting us. They were great times.

We have been married now for thirteen years, and they have flown by so fast. Recently, my little Lisa,
now married to Elliot who is a singer, has made me an official old fart. I am now a grandfather. Well, as an
older person who lives across the street said to me, “It doesn’t change you, it changes the parents.” I agree
with her sentiment entirely. I am looking forward to meeting my little grandson Jordan in the very near future,
I hope.

I loved living in New York, but, even though I played with several different musicians, I never again
found the same chemistry that we had with The Sweet. The one good partnership that did happen was when
I got together with Marco Delmar.

He had been with a very good band on Capitol (poor things) called The Elektrics. Things had not gone
too well for them and they split up. This left Marco looking for a writing partner. Who better than yours truly?
We started writing together.

I had a little four-track cassette studio and we put hundreds of ideas down. We even shopped them
around, but if you don’t have a manager, people won’t listen. We did demo them again with a real drummer
named Steve Missal, who had a rehearsal and demo studio.

We got on together so well, in fact, that we formed a band. We called ourselves The Allies. This was
appropriate as I was English, Missal was American, and Marco was half French. We played a few gigs out in
Long Island, but it was hard work and the hours were atrocious. We did have some of the shows videoed and
they are very good.

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 CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - DANIELLE
By now, I was the proud dad of a little girl called Danielle, whose birth I had attended and late nights
were no longer for me. Poor Maureen was in labour for sixteen long and painful hours before our precious
little girl arrived.

In the meantime, Don Zimmerman, head of Capitol Records, and also Maureen’s boss, wanted her to
relocate to California. He wanted her to advance in the company and this was the only way to do it. We
decided that we should go out there and see if we would like it.

We spent a week in Los Angeles and decided that we liked it a lot. After returning to New York, we
took a few days away at our house at the lake. While we were there, my brother phoned to say that our mother
had died. Needless to say, I was deeply upset.

Just prior to this, Mick had phoned me and asked me if I would like to do some gigs with him and Andy
in Australia. As we had decided to move out West, I declined the invitation. I was appalled when I heard that
Andy said to someone, “Well while he’s over here (for the funeral) he may as well rehearse with us!” I didn’t
even see them.

It was a shame that Mum never saw Danielle, but some things one cannot change. There are a lot of
things that I would have liked to have been different, but that’s life.

We arrived at Los Angeles airport early New Year’s Day 1986. All we had with us was a couple of
suitcases, Danielle, and our two cats, Niki and Blue. It was a lonely feeling. After a few months, we bought
a house and began to settle in.

Our house felt big compared to our shoe-box in Manhattan, but before long one bathroom didn’t seem
enough. I spent the next year or so, building an addition. It was a good way of meeting my neighbours as
they had all done the same thing. It was something I had never done before, but it was a great experience.

In the meantime, I was approached by an English guitarist, Stuart Smith, to form a band. What hard
work that was. I soon discovered that there were several bubble-brained musicians in L.A. Most of them were
expecting a record deal after the first week. One singer sent a tape to Stuart which sounded great. When he
turned up for the audition, however, he was tone deaf and couldn’t keep in time.

The one good thing that came out of all this was that I met David Arkenstone. He was, and is, a very
talented musician both on keyboards and guitar. If we had managed to get the right singer, the whole thing
may have taken off. The drummer, Craig Spriggs, is also excellent and has a voice as high as Andy’s.

We eventually all went our separate ways. My heart was not into it. I had missed most of Lisa’s early
years and I didn’t want to miss Danielle’s. Later, I did manage to get in touch with David, and we got together
to write some songs. One day, I hope to get them released.

Many people think that all of us who live in California are air-heads. This is not entirely true. I have
found that most of the populace is very hard-working. With a few exceptions, they are very friendly and
generous people.

California itself is a magical and seductive locality. It is obvious why the early film makers loved it
here. There are some drawbacks, though, but like anything else, one gets used to them. Since we have been
here we have experienced just about every natural and unnatural disaster known to mankind.

I have seen brushfires wipe out whole cities, floods washing houses and people away, stupidities of
riots, and bravery of policemen and firemen. I have also lost some good friends, such as Ed Leffler from
cancer, and also Terry Price from a car crash. They are both sadly missed.

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 CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE - AND SO TO BED
I hope you have enjoyed sharing the ups and downs of my life so far. It may or may not give you some
ideas of what you should look out for, especially in the music field. I would like to give some good, sound
advice, however. Just remember that you do not need to rely on chemicals to make you excel. You can do
anything much better straight.

I shall start writing songs now, so you will all hear from me again in the near future.

See ya!

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This copy signed to - Scott Boyer
Date: August 23rd 2017
Number: e1264
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