As I left the hospital, I bumped into an old friend. I asked what he was up to, and he said he had a couple of contacts, and that hopefully, he was going to make it big down here. I asked where he was staying, and he told me he wasn’t, and when I asked when he had eaten last, he told me before he left Liverpool. I took him down to an Italian restaurant in Praed Street, not very far from our hotel, and bought him a meal. I couldn’t eat anything, so I just had a gum cooling drink while we sat and talked. Way back then, the meal cost me a small fortune – about 4 shillings or so: that’s about 20 pence in modern money. (My hotel bill at the time was £7.10 shillings, or £7.50 per week. £1 a day and £1.50 for Sundays: And, I might add, that included breakfast and all the hot water I could bathe in). Afterwards, he came and stayed with us at the hotel for a day or so, and then off he popped. Next time I saw him was on the Southport Theatre a few years ago. The boy done good.

But hey Freddy, just because you’re a Starr, don’t forget you owe me a Spaghetti Bolognese and apple pie and cream.

One of the things I learned while I was with The Big Three was how to make scrambled eggs. One of the regular places we visited at that time, particularly if we were traveling south early in the mornings, was the Hollies Hotel, in Shropshire. Johnny Hutch had the hots for the daughter of the establishment, so excuses were made for us to travel that way – even if we could have avoided the place. Having said that, I think Hutch had the hots for anything and everything in a skirt – except perhaps for Scotsmen. When we arrived at the Hollies, usually quite early, we would be treated to scrambled eggs and toast. Actually, to just call them scrambled eggs demeans them: they were literally a work of culinary art. I still prepare them the same way to this day. Best scrambled eggs I ever tasted.

While with The Big Three, we did a summer season at Great Yarmouth Pier. Do you know, I’d forgotten all about Great Yarmouth until just now, while writing this? Mind you, anyone who has spent a summer season at Great Yarmouth has only one wish in his life – and that is to forget Great Yarmouth. A highlight of our stay was to watch a guy pour petrol off the pier into the sea, set it alight, then dive into the flames. I’ve always been a great believer in the old adage that it takes great skill to do something like that, but it takes greater intelligence not to do it.

I also remember an incident from Yarmouth that showed that Hutch had a rather nasty streak. We played with a very famous rocker of the time called Gene Vincent. Now Gene had been very seriously injured sometime before, and wore callipers on his legs in order to walk. He had a habit during his show, of lying on the stage, at the front, and singing to a particular female member at the front of the audience. I didn’t witness this first hand, as I was in the dressing room, but Hutch told us he had gone down into the orchestra pit, and while Gene was concentrating on his audience, Hutch unscrewed one of his callipers. Poor so-and-so, finished his song, and then couldn’t stand up again. I never did like Hutch much.

There was a time with the Big Three that I remember very well. We were playing on the same bill as Cilla Black and Billy Kramer in a theatre somewhere in the middle of the country, or perhaps a little more east of the middle. Anyway, I had got the band’s gear ready, and Billy popped into our dressing room for what turned out to be an ego boost.

He asked what we thought of the jacket he was wearing for that night’s show, and I’m afraid I suggested it would be better for a day out in the countryside. It was a tweedy thing, very well cut, but not what I envisioned as stage wear. He looked stunned, and left our dressing room in an unbelievable rush. Hutch said that I should get over to Billy’s dressing room ASAP and try to repair the damage. I asked what the hell he was talking about, and he just said ‘Go.’ When I got to Billy’s dressing room, he was chewing purple hearts like they were Smarties. Smart as ever, I changed my opinion of his jacket, telling him how good and suitable it really was, and I’m not kidding, I watched him calm down in front of my eyes. He was a lovely fella, but his self confidence left a lot to be desired. It could not take a knocking.

Anyway, let’s get back to my time with Faron’s Flamingos. I have much fonder memories from that period than I had with The Big Three. Funnily enough, that bit about Freddy reminded me that he used to come with us (The Flamingos) on occasion, mostly, if I remember right, to a regular gig we did at Leigh. Either Leigh Town Hall or Corn Exchange: no, I’m pretty sure it was the Town Hall. Funnily enough, I read Bill’s article about Freddy a couple of days ago, and Bill’s comment about Freddy bragging about being ‘hung like an Arab stallion’. Actually Bill, it was true. I still remember him pulling this monster tonker out of his trousers in the van on the way to gigs, and banging on the drums with it. He caused some jealousy, I can tell you. Perhaps I need to see a shrink, too? And there were more girls than you could shake a dick at, sorry, stick at, in Leigh walking about bandy legged after Mr. Starr had visited. I liked Freddy. He was very crude but very funny. Hasn’t changed all that much, has he?

The first truly mini skirt I ever saw was at Leigh Town Hall. The girl had good legs, but she suffered all sorts of comments about not being able to afford the rest of her skirt, and stuff like that. Personally, I loved it, and still do.

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