World in My Eyes: The Autobiography Read online

  The developer allowed them to customize the design to their tastes, but being English they stuck fairly closely to the architect’s plans. “After all we didn’t want to upset him,” said Dad.

  They took me up there to see the site when I was eleven years old. It had rained non-stop for the previous three days and everything was so wet that Mum opted to stay in the car. My father led Stephen and me to a muddy patch of ground that clawed at our Wellington boots like quicksand.

  “This is where we are going to be living,” he proudly announced.

  Stephen and I looked at each other and at the marsh that was threatening to suck us down and engulf us and we didn’t quite get it; were we going to set up a tent in this open swampland and cook around a camping stove?

  Dad sensed our apprehension and laughed as he tousled my hair, “Don’t you worry, boys, I promise it’ll all be fine.”

  Dad was right. Eight months later the drainage had been put in, the roads laid and the house built. It was everything Mum and Dad had wanted and more. We all loved number 22, especially Dad, and every spare moment that he had, my dad tended the garden, planted trees, dug out and poured concrete for pathways and was up on a ladder pruning hedges. If a reporter from Architectural Digest had shown up then my parents’ garden would have been ready for the cover.

  HALCYON

  When I turned thirteen Mum and Dad bought me a transistor radio for my birthday. This small plastic battery-powered device changed my world. Suddenly I could tune in and hear records that I related to, music that was made for teenagers. No more Perry Como, Bing Crosby and Ray Conniff. Now I could hear The Beatles and The Monkees on the radio. But only at night.

  The problem was that in Britain in 1965 there was no pop music radio. None. The BBC had a total monopoly on the airwaves and had no interest in playing anything remotely interesting to kids. Even though John, Paul, George and Ringo were number one on the sales charts they were considered unsuitable for broadcast by the BBC. To hear songs from the pop charts you either had to buy the record or go over to a friend’s house who already had a copy. But that changed when the pirates arrived.

  Strictly speaking Radio Luxembourg wasn’t a pirate station. It had been granted a license by the country that gave the station its name and allowed it to operate a massive 100,000-watt transmitter at 208 on the AM dial. Two-Oh-Eight, as it was affectionately called, would start its pop music shows around seven at night after the sun went down and its signal could then blast unencumbered across Europe and the UK. The British government frowned upon this intrusion into its airwaves but could do nothing as suddenly every kid in the UK was listening to 208 and buying the songs they heard on the station. The DJs became massive stars and Tony Prince and Kid Jensen were as famous as Mick Jagger or Keith Moon.

  With 208 having such a huge audience other entrepreneurs had the idea to follow their act, but if they couldn’t convince another country to grant them a license to broadcast as Luxembourg had done then where would they put their transmitters? The answer was floating in front of them. On a boat!

  Radio Caroline became the first of the pirate stations whose signal came screaming in from a ship anchored in the North Sea in international waters barely three miles off of the English coast. No longer did we teenagers have to bow down to the Beeb and put up with Henry Mancini’s greatest hits night after night, now we had options for our music.

  Most evenings, after I fibbed to my parents that I had finished my homework, I would leave the house clutching my beloved transistor radio and join my buddies Mike Frost, John Bennett, Ian Acton, Malcolm Alsop and Steven Easterbrook at Kitson Park where we would huddle together for warmth as we tuned into Radio Caroline to hear the world of music revealed to us. It was there that I heard what I consider to be arguably the very first punk song, “My Generation” from The Who, and was introduced to musical geniuses like Roy Wood and Brian Wilson.

  Those nights at Kitson Park, waiting breathlessly for “this week’s pick of the pops” or “something brand-new from the U.S. of A!” created a love in me for music and the pioneering DJs who brought it to us. As I listened, hour after hour, that portable transistor was shaping my musical tastes forever.

  I made a point to thank my parents for the little radio that had become my gateway to a new dimension. They were happy their gift was appreciated and they knew that it hardly ever left my side. But there was one thing I wanted to know that had me puzzled. The brand name of the model of that tiny portal to the world of music was a word I had never heard. It was called Halcyon.

  “What does halcyon mean, Dad?” I asked.

  “It means happy times that were in the past. Long departed days that you think of often and wish they would come again,” he explained.

  There was no irony in his answer but what an appropriate name for that little radio and the joy that it brought me. To this day when a song comes on that I first heard on that tiny transistor those moments that come flooding back and I return to that time of innocence and discovery, those halcyon days.

  LOVE ME DO

  Girls were always an attraction for me as a boy. I never went through that period of “girls are gross.” Gross? Hell, no. Having a girlfriend and making out was something you aspired to even before you hit your teens.

  Every Saturday someone would have a party in their parents’ front room, preferably when their mum and dad were out of the house, at “the pictures” or the pub. The routine was simple and excitedly anticipated by all. After about thirty minutes of small talk everyone who didn’t already have a current boyfriend or girlfriend would pair off and the lights would be turned all the way down. This was the cue for the make-out session to start and the host would put Simon & Garfunkel or The Beatles on the record player to create the mood. The object for the boys was to find out how far they could go; for the girls it was to get the most from the boys without “going all the way.”

  For three hours your lips were locked together as hands fumbled in the dark for bra straps and zippers.

  Sadly there were always one or two unfortunates who didn’t get paired up or failed to hit it off and you could hear them munching sadly on their crisps and noisily drinking their Coca-Cola through straws as “Sound of Silence” played.

  Until I was fifteen all of my girlfriends were local; they lived close by and would hang out with us at the bowling alley or the park. But then in the summer of 1967 I started noticing the Scandinavian girls that flooded into town for eight weeks during the summer.

  These were tall, lean, flaxen-haired exotic beauties with rocking accents and no local ties to worry about. They were away from their families and boyfriends and in Torquay to learn English and have a good time.

  I tried hard that summer to “get off” with one of those blond babes but I was too young; their ages ranged from sixteen to twenty, so that would be impossible, right? But I still persevered to no avail.

  It was late August and I was at St Luke’s Church’s dance. Reverend Ryder Jones held the disco for teens every Friday in the church hall and it was something that every kid who was too young to go to a pub or a real club looked forward to. That Friday I was shocked that a half-dozen Swedish girls were there. One was stunning with golden hair and a short, pink dress. My favorite song at the time, “Gimme Some Lovin’” by Spencer Davis, came blaring over the speakers and I plucked up enough courage to ask her to dance.

  Her name was Elizabeth and she was from the east coast of Sweden where she lived in a town I couldn’t pronounce. She told me she was seventeen and asked how old I was.

  “I’m seventeen too,” I lied, hoping my voice didn’t break as I said it.

  We shared soft drinks and danced until the church hall shut its doors at eleven. She was staying in Shiphay, just a mile from where I lived. Not wanting to say goodbye to this gorgeous girl I offered to walk her home and she said she’d like that. Our path took us through the grounds of Torre Abbey and suddenly I found myself making out with Elizabeth standing up against a
centuries-old oak tree.

  As our session got hot and heavy I readied myself to hear the inevitable no which always came right at the good part. But not tonight.

  Holy shit, I thought, No fucking way!

  She hiked her dress up and still in a state of disbelief I unzipped my fly. Is it really going to happen?

  She kissed me hard as if to dispel any doubt and I went for it.

  I knew roughly what I should do, the physics and biology of it. But it’s like explaining to someone how to drive a car and then putting them behind the wheel for the first time and saying, “Just go.” It’s not that easy.

  But I just went. Suddenly I was inside Elizabeth but so was the bottom part of my shirt! It had come out of my zipper along with the essential bits and was going along for the ride. Sadly this was 1967 and I’d just come from a church dance so I was dressed up. That meant a long-sleeved nylon shirt with spare buttons attached. And you know where they sew those two extra buttons? That’s right, at the very tip of the bottom of the shirt, the part that was now 100% obscured from sight.

  Nylon chafes, and buttons, well they are definitely not the softest things. But I was fifteen: I certainly didn’t want to stop, this might NEVER happen again! At that moment I was achieving my life’s ambition, having sex with a real live girl. The fact that I was also having sex with a Van Heusen shirt was a little troubling but not enough to stop. And I was so naive I didn’t know what to say. “Excuse me, but you’re humping me and my dress whites” were not the romantic words I’d heard Cary Grant utter in the movies.

  And I didn’t know if she even realized we were having sex. What if she hadn’t noticed? Maybe she had been so caught up in our kissing that she wasn’t paying attention and it had accidentally slipped inside. If I pointed it out she might scream, “What? You’re having sex with me? I didn’t know. Get it out.” I might never have the opportunity to meet a willing girl again and would be resigned to living out my life in a monastery; bowing, scraping and regretting my decision to speak out that night in Torquay.

  So I did the only thing I could: I kept going. Sure it hurt and I could feel the end of the family jewels losing skin with every push as the buttons scraped against it but I was finally doing it and that was what was important. And maybe it was meant to feel this shitty.

  I had anticipated a slightly better result. A year or so before, my father had tried to give me the birds-and-bees lecture.

  “Your mum wanted me to have a talk with you but I figure that a young boy like you with all your girlfriends has a good idea about what’s going on. But if you want to know anything just ask.” He smiled then added, “You know, Rich, I used to think planes were the best thing in the world until I discovered sex.”

  He gave me a wink and walked away. Sex talk over, I was now a qualified expert.

  Except that I wasn’t. I had no clue. And right now a good airplane ride seemed a much more enticing proposition than the shirt that was having its way with both of us.

  Finally I just stopped. There was no climax. No fireworks exploding or rockets launching. Just a humiliating withdrawal. It was like the British troops being evacuated from the beaches of Dunkirk, it had seemed a good idea at the beginning but ended in humbling defeat.

  I kissed her then put everything back where it was meant to go and carefully zipped up. We walked to her house in silence. As I kissed her goodnight she smiled and said words that at first I couldn’t quite comprehend.

  “I had fun. Do you want to get together again? I only have a few days left before I go back to Sweden.”

  Once I understood the meaning of what she was saying we made a date to meet the next night. As I walked away I was almost in shock; she wants to see me again? How on earth had she enjoyed it? Maybe she was into men’s haberdashery?

  Less than twenty-four hours later it was time for me to head back to Shiphay to where Elizabeth was staying and take her out for the evening. Tonight, just in case that same miracle of young love happened, I would be prepared. I was wearing the shortest t-shirt I could find; it barely reached to my belt and it definitely had no fucking buttons on it!

  Elizabeth and I travelled in style that night; we rode the number-twelve bus to the harbor. Our destination was Torquay’s version of Las Vegas, an amusement arcade called The Golden Palms, where we played the penny slots and laughed at the money tumbler where you feed coins into a machine and watch as it stacks them until the very weight of all the money you’ve donated makes some of it over-balance so that a small fraction cascades out and is returned to you.

  You squeal with excitement at the jangling sound of the coins rattling down into the metal holder that catches the winnings and as you count your plunder you begin to realize that it only cost you thirty-five pence of your money to get back sixteen pence. But you won, and if math, logic, reason or common sense aren’t your strong suits then you do it all over again and again until you run out of cash.

  Having dined on the finest cotton candy and ice cream that the south of England had to offer we grabbed each other’s hands and strolled along the seafront. First we went to the beautiful Rock Walk, a towering cliff covered with trees and bushes and lit by massive colored lights so it looked like a scene from fairyland. It was also one of Torquay’s most romantic spots and I was hoping that we might find a secluded alcove . . . Unfortunately I wasn’t the only bloke with that idea; it was a Saturday night and there was a line for all the secluded alcoves that evening with dozens of other young, frisky couples milling around.

  Time was running out and frustration was starting to build.

  “Let’s keep walking,” I suggested.

  We wandered along the seafront talking about school and Sweden and holidays but all the time I was looking for that perfect dark spot. There had to be somewhere. We passed Torre Abbey and both of us looked up the little lane to the stand of trees where Elizabeth, Van Heusen, and I had become intimate the night before. I was buggered if I was going back there to repeat last night’s disaster and I didn’t want to be standing up if I was to try it again. That’s not how I had heard it was done. Move along, nothing to see here.

  We reached the outdoor bowling greens and the fenced-off mini-golf course. It was nine holes with sand traps and bunkers. I had played on it a couple of times and it was always fun. Then it hit me. It was closed now so if we hopped the fence we’d have it all to ourselves. I knew a spot where the fence dropped from an intimidating six foot to a more manageable four foot.

  “Wanna try and get in there?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said Elizabeth.

  We reached the low point and I gave Elizabeth a boost and we were over. We found a spot on the green that was shaded from the walkway and laid down and starting making out. I was shocked because she seemed as excited about it as me. All four of our hands were everywhere and in just minutes it was round two but this time no men’s evening wear was interfering.

  “So this is why it’s better than an airplane!” I remember thinking as we kissed, rolled and squeezed.

  Amazingly, though I had heard all the jokes before, it wasn’t over in seconds; in fact I really wanted it to last so I forced thoughts of cold cauliflower, Harold Wilson and slimy earthworms to fill my head and calm me down at each critical moment. Finally, maybe fifteen minutes later, I pushed those nasty images from my brain and said hello to the end of my innocence.

  We lay on the cool grass of the putting green for a while and she stroked my hair and whispered something in Swedish into my ear. I wanted to reply but all that the fifteen-year-old boy could think of was, “Thank you for taking pity on me.” Even after the rush of hormones I had the sense to know that wouldn’t be cool but I had to say something. Then the words came to me as we lay there on the golf course and before I tell you what I said, please forgive me in advance; I was a kid, it was my first complete time and I was over the moon with what had happened. All I could see was this beautiful girl, the moon above and the flagstick with the number seven on it wavi
ng softly above us. So I whispered to her, “Hole in one.”

  Whether she understood the joke or not I’m still not sure, but she laughed and kissed me and we ran all the way back to her house. That night I slept like I had been nailed to the mattress.

  I saw Elizabeth for half an hour the next day then it was time to say goodbye. The family she was staying with was taking her out for a farewell dinner that night and then first thing Monday morning she left with the rest of her Swedish classmates on a bus bound for London. I never saw Elizabeth again but I have never forgotten her and I smile every time I see hole number seven on Torquay’s seafront. As for that stand of trees and Van Heusen shirts? I avoid both like the plague!

  A month after losing my virginity to Elizabeth something else almost equally momentous happened for me—and for millions of other kids in the UK.

  CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION

  In the summer of 1967 the pirates finally made the British government walk the plank! Due to the continually growing popularity of the offshore radio stations the BBC capitulated and was forced to introduce full-time pop programming. They caved in and revamped their entire antiquated broadcasting structure and announced to the nation that BBC Radio One was coming.

  On Saturday morning September 30, 1967, I set my alarm clock for 6:45am so I could catch every second of the beginning of this new station that promised to rock Great Britain. At 7am I was tuned in to 247 on the AM dial and listening intently as the countdown started and the familiar voice of Tony Blackburn came over my little radio.

  We had all wondered if the BBC would “cock it up” and if the old guys in charge would be so out of touch that they would have no real ability to bring us legitimate pop programming but this was a good start; we all knew Tony Blackburn from his days on pirate radio so at least the Beeb had brought on board “the real thing.”