Sometime later, late 1965, I think, the Mojos rented a house out in Golders Green. They moved out there, but I’m afraid I was left out. I stayed in the centre of London. I believe that this was at the behest of Bill Collins, Lewis’s dad, our other road manager. Bill had been with the Mojos long before I joined them, and he and I didn’t get on very well. Possibly it was because I was the same age as the guys in the band, and he was so old. Perhaps he resented me – I don’t really know.

It was a little silly actually, because I had to be collected at the Madison before each gig, and a lot of those gigs were north of London, so a trip had to be made from Golders Green in north London to Sussex Gardens, in the centre, where I was, then back out again. I must ask Nicky Crouch; perhaps he can shed some light on the situation, if he still remembers it. I remember the world cup being shown on TV at the house in Golders Green in 1966: black and white at that time, of course. I can, with hand on heart, state quite categorically, that I am not a sports fan. I find football a little less exciting than watching grass grow. You can therefore guess what happened next. I’m sitting on a very comfy easy chair: a guy on TV blows a whistle: another guy – or maybe it was the same one – blows a whistle and I wake up. I had gone out like a light at the first peep, and slept right through the game. 

Another band that lived at the Madison was the Four Pennies: great gang of lads. One of the Pennies was a guy called Fritz Fryer, and he and I became great pals. Amongst other things, we went to the first night of the film ‘Operation Crossbow’, in the West End, and later went on to a party that he had been invited to. When we got there, there were what we thought, some rather strangely dressed guests. It turned out that we were the only two fellas at a lesbian’s party; half being dressed in male clothing and the others not. I must admit however, that some of the more feminine ones were rather gorgeous. We didn’t stay long. No matter how pretty we were, we wouldn’t have clicked anyway.

Picture if you will, a night-time trip returning from Cornwall to London. The band is pretty well out for the count: we’ve traveled all night; well, most of it. O.K. some of it: stop being pedantic. Sunrise is expected quite soon. As we drive along country lanes through rolling hills, with the moon’s rays slanting across the ill-lit road: through a monochromatic moonlit vista, with scudding clouds breaking up the harsh moonlight and causing deep, darkening shadows; we must pass close to the area known as Stonehenge. The view we are witnessing has probably not changed very drastically over the past couple of thousand years or so. We’ve driven many miles and are very tired. Well, Bill is anyway, as he is our driver. He pulls over into a lay-by just across from the stones (Stonehenge – not Rolling) for a kip. Everyone is fast a-bo-kip goodnight in the van. Everyone, that is, except me.

The sound of snoring drifts over the countryside. The boys, totally flaked-out, send sonic messages into the ether: the sounds of well deserved sleep, loud enough to wake the local frogs. (This is a reference to the thousands of frogs that had crossed the road the day before, when we were headed to Cornwall, committing frogicide or whatever frogs call it, by diving under the wheels of any vehicle that passed their way, and not giving anyone the chance to sample frogs’ legs – unless they were of the pate type).

Anyway – I was wide awake. More than alert; lots more in fact. Finding myself the only one alert– and as everybody knows, Britain needs lerts – I left the van and meandered up the hill, through the stones, and into their centre. Really, I just needed some fresh air after being subject to hours of the band’s grunting and farting since we left Cornwall. 

I did something that is not possible nowadays; I sat in the middle of Stonehenge and watched the sunrise. 

I’m afraid that, as much as I love to write, and as much as I adore the English language, with its variations; its almost infinite nuances, and as much as I admire the usage and control of the English tongue as shown by the likes of Shakespeare and other writers and poets down through the years, my command of my native tongue is far too limited and inadequate to give a true rendition of my feelings at the moment when the sun broke the horizon, and shone directly onto me - a miniscule figure in a place of incredible power, having the temerity to face one of the most powerful forces in the galaxy, without arrogance; without egotism; just a tiny, tired, temporal figure, sitting in the centre of one of the most magnificent, most permanent structures ever conceived and erected by man. If you are ever, in your life, given the opportunity to do it – take it. If you can, it will be one of the most phenomenal experiences that you will ever have: I promise. 

The only other place I know that contains so much peace and raw power is a candle-lit York Minster at 4 a.m. - but that’s another story.
© David Conlin 2005

Editor’s Note: The Madison Hotel in Sussex Gardens was like a rock ‘n’ roll hotel. Virginia and I lived there for a time when we first moved down to London. We had our own room with an en suite bathroom. I was managing the Four Pennies at the time and other regular guests at the hotel then included Ayesha, Dave Dee, Dozy Mick & Tich and Hedgehoppers Anonymous. I had also been press agent for the Peddlers, the trio Trevor Morais had joined.

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