MY arrival in Blackpool was in the spring of 1964. In my wake for that summer's season came Ken Dodd, Frank Ifield, Kathy Kirby, Al Read, The Bachelors, Joe Brown, Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, Mike and Bernie Winters, Jimmy Tarbuck, Adam Faith and Yana and lots more I always was a trail blazer.
Reporters from the Evening Gazette were despatched to cover the opening nights of every one, from Doddy to the Ice Show at the Pleasure Beach to the Tower Circus, and write reviews. These were never derogatory. They were puff pieces that found the most positive things to say about the stars and production and entertainment value. This was Blackpool – the Vegas of the North – a town that depended on visitors and you didn't rock the boat.
My fellow journalists received their assignments to watch the shows and mingle with the stars. I waited for my turn. I got the strippers at the Royal Pavilion in Rigby Road. I didn't believe it, either.
For a few years in the 1960s, the theatre had a summer season of exotic dancing. It had been a repertory theatre but there must have been more money in young ladies taking off their clothes twice nightly. I went to early evening performance alone. I had two Press tickets but this was not a gig to which you invited a young lady.
The show was titivating in a rather sad middle aged way which totally reflected the audience: sad, male and middle aged. At the interval I went to the basement bar where the girls hung out and was surprised to see the chap who had the flat next to mine. He was a small, bald, ebullient, middle aged bank assistant and he was sitting amidst the strippers, some of whom were extremely scantily clad, having the time of his life. He apparently spent the season there.
'Denis, old boy. What are you drinking?'
After the show I drove 55 miles home to Cheshire for a late night date with a girlfriend, then back to Blackpool. My review copy was written and filed before 8 30 the next morning. The stamina of youth.
This was the same year I saw The Beatles live in Blackpool at the Opera House: you couldn't hear them for screaming girls. Coincidentally, Maria, my wife to be, was at the same gig but had seats on the front row because of her father's connections. She was just 16 and we didn't meet until New Year's Eve later that year.
The Stones also famously appeared at the Winter Gardens during my first season. This was an inspired booking as it coincided with Glasgow week, when that city's youthful warring factions came south to battle it out in surroundings with a sea breeze. The Scots began spitting at Brian Jones. Keith Richards was not impressed. He wandered to the front of the stage and kicked a youth as he tried to climb it. Riot commenced.
Kit was abandoned, the Stones were escorted out of the building over the roof, and the doors of the Winter Gardens locked. The fighting continued. Eventually the seething mass inside was subdued by two flying wedges: security staff from one side of the hall, police from the other, all with staffs drawn and swinging. They met in the middle, leaving bodies in their wake.
I reckon the Glaswegians considered they'd had a good night out.
Reporters from the Evening Gazette were despatched to cover the opening nights of every one, from Doddy to the Ice Show at the Pleasure Beach to the Tower Circus, and write reviews. These were never derogatory. They were puff pieces that found the most positive things to say about the stars and production and entertainment value. This was Blackpool – the Vegas of the North – a town that depended on visitors and you didn't rock the boat.
My fellow journalists received their assignments to watch the shows and mingle with the stars. I waited for my turn. I got the strippers at the Royal Pavilion in Rigby Road. I didn't believe it, either.
For a few years in the 1960s, the theatre had a summer season of exotic dancing. It had been a repertory theatre but there must have been more money in young ladies taking off their clothes twice nightly. I went to early evening performance alone. I had two Press tickets but this was not a gig to which you invited a young lady.
The show was titivating in a rather sad middle aged way which totally reflected the audience: sad, male and middle aged. At the interval I went to the basement bar where the girls hung out and was surprised to see the chap who had the flat next to mine. He was a small, bald, ebullient, middle aged bank assistant and he was sitting amidst the strippers, some of whom were extremely scantily clad, having the time of his life. He apparently spent the season there.
'Denis, old boy. What are you drinking?'
After the show I drove 55 miles home to Cheshire for a late night date with a girlfriend, then back to Blackpool. My review copy was written and filed before 8 30 the next morning. The stamina of youth.
This was the same year I saw The Beatles live in Blackpool at the Opera House: you couldn't hear them for screaming girls. Coincidentally, Maria, my wife to be, was at the same gig but had seats on the front row because of her father's connections. She was just 16 and we didn't meet until New Year's Eve later that year.
The Stones also famously appeared at the Winter Gardens during my first season. This was an inspired booking as it coincided with Glasgow week, when that city's youthful warring factions came south to battle it out in surroundings with a sea breeze. The Scots began spitting at Brian Jones. Keith Richards was not impressed. He wandered to the front of the stage and kicked a youth as he tried to climb it. Riot commenced.
Kit was abandoned, the Stones were escorted out of the building over the roof, and the doors of the Winter Gardens locked. The fighting continued. Eventually the seething mass inside was subdued by two flying wedges: security staff from one side of the hall, police from the other, all with staffs drawn and swinging. They met in the middle, leaving bodies in their wake.
I reckon the Glaswegians considered they'd had a good night out.
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