We drove out of town, and found ourselves on what seemed to be a road to nowhere, until we approached a military style gate. It was a Royal Air Force base, and the guys on duty at the gate had obviously been primed about our visit and waved us through. When we got into the alley, we found ourselves looked after by some rather gorgeous Royal Air force ladies who had also opened the bar, so all in all, we had a magic evening – at NAAFI prices. If memory serves, I’ve got the feeling that when we returned to our hotel much, much later, I crawled up the main stairway to my room. 

When Lewis returned after his short sojourn into wooly-back land, he could not wait to tell us about a member of the Hollies who had gone on the prowl the night he played with them. He had come back to the dressing-room and told everyone about a conquest he had made. Gorgeous; sexy; attentive; horny: and all sorts of other things. The only thing he found strange was her proclivity for rather horrendous green stockings. It took Lewis at least an hour to tell us the tale, in between bouts of hysterical laughter.

A week or so prior to that, on the 14th, we had played at the Chester ABC. One of the artistes on the tour was a guy called Simon Scott. Now Simon was a really good looking fella – well, pretty, in fact, but I’m afraid that when it came to his singing ability, he left just a little (lot) to be desired. I actually saw him on a vintage ‘Top of the Pops’ or ‘Thank Your Lucky Stars’ a few months ago, and my memories were spot on. At that time, the singers were able to stroll through the audience without fear of being mobbed. There was Simon, nonchalantly wending his way through the dancing throng, singing his little heart out, when he hit one of those weird and not so wonderful notes I remembered so well. A girl he was passing by at the time turned and gave him a look that would have curdled butter. 

Anyway, back to Chester. This night sticks in my mind for a few reasons. Two girls I had known since I was with Faron’s Flamingos, Soo Marshall and Little Liz, had contacted me to say they were coming to the show, and would I arrange for them to meet the cast. Of course I said yes, and arranged to meet them in the ABC coffee bar. Simon’s personal manager, whose name it shames me to admit I’ve forgotten, asked if he might join me. Off we popped to the coffee bar and there we met the ladies. Soo was telling me how much she was enjoying the show so far, but then she asked who on earth told Simon Scott that he could sing. I had to very quickly introduce Simon’s manager before any further damage was done. 

We went back up to the dressing rooms. The first half of the show was almost over, and as my band, as second on the bill to the Stones, finished the first half, I had to get them on stage. I was getting the stage suits ready, as the sound gear had been made ready some hours previously, and Charlie Foxx came into the room. As usual, Charlie was on the cadge for a drink, and we must have had a reputation for having a surfeit of the amber nectar (Whiskey). He walked into our dressing room, and there was a sort of smacking sound, and a hole appeared in the exterior window.

Charlie was on the floor in a New York second: he was, after all, an American, and the only one of us who had any idea what a bullet sounded like as it passed through a window. Charlie was a black guy, and I can honestly say, without any fear of contradiction whatsoever, that this was the only time I had ever seen a black guy turn white. Well, actually. It was a sort of greenish-grey. We made sure he was alright, gave him a drink and calmed his nerves. 

The coincidences at this point are fantastic. Charlie is just getting up off the floor, I’m stooping down to give him a drink, and Simon’s manager walks in, wondering just what the hullabaloo is. Simon’s manager was gifted with a magnificent nose, which just happened to be directly in line with the trajectory of the cork that had been safely ensconced in the neck of a half pint of very fresh, very lively scotch and coke in my hip pocket, which had managed get itself shaken up in all the excitement, and had decided, quite unilaterally and without any prior warning, to eject itself, using his rather protuberant proboscis as it’s target. The noise made by the pop of the cork ejecting sent Charlie flying back down onto the floor, thinking he was once more under fire, and Simon’s manager grabbing his assaulted olfactory factory, which had been subjected to an assault enough to draw blood.

And a good night was had by all. It seems that some idiot had been popping off with an air-rifle, and just picked our dressing-room window at random: at least, I hope it was random. It really scared the Schweppes out of poor Charlie.

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