During the first summer that I worked for the Dominoes, Bobby was asked to work with Rory Storm and the Hurricanes at Butlins in Pwllelli. I was asked to collect him the following week and return him to God’s country, so, accompanied by John Kennedy, I climbed into the old Bedford van and tootled-off to sunny Wales. When we got there however, we discovered that Butlins was more difficult to enter than Fort Knox. So, not to be beaten, I pulled the van off the road about a half mile from Butlins gates and we crept rather surreptitiously around the perimeter fence until we found a likely spot for our nefarious activities - breaking in – or at least, climbing over, that barbed wire topped barrier that stood between us and our friends. 

John went over first, jumping down into the long grass that grew almost to the fence. My turn next, and as I reached my leg over the top, John’s urgent cry, “Redcoats” made me leap the rest of the way, backside over breakfast, neatly missing the long grass, and landing right in the middle of a load of nettles. 

We stayed concealed in the grass until we deemed it safe, then very carefully crept over to one of the pathways between the chalets, where we seemed to be hidden in full view. If we had been seen in the grass, it would have caused problems, but now, where everyone could see us, we had become invisible. Strolling quite nonchalantly into the Pig and Whistle bar where the boys were playing, we were greeted with pints of black velvet, until one of the girls in the company noticed the blood coursing down my arm and dripping all over the show. I was duly given into the custody of one of these angels, taken back to a chalet, where my arm was washed and bound, then returned to the Pig and Whistle to tell our tale of the heroic SAS style penetration of Butlins once again…and to get drunk.

I awoke in bed in one of the chalets the following morning lying next to a rather gorgeous girl clad only in a baby doll nightdress. I had no memory of leaving the Pig and Whistle, but I was extremely stiff and sore, and I must admit, my arm was stiff and sore too.

We left Butlins before lunchtime that day, the legal way, via the gate, collecting the van en route. There were a few of us in the van, including Bobby and John. There were others, but it must be remembered that I was only seventeen and some memories are beginning to fade, and unlike some people, I’m not prepared to make them up as I go along. 

As we drove through the lovely Welsh countryside, we came upon a pub. The lads decided it was time for a liquid lunch, so pulling up outside, we invaded the place. As Bobby and John walked in, they banged their heads on a hanging flower basket in the porch. Of course, when we were leaving some time later, the same thing happened, so unknown to me, already in the driving seat, John and Bobby decided to liberate the poor lonely basket.

As I drove away, I saw the pub disgorge its well lubricated occupants, who chased after us for about ten feet with shaking fists, and who then gave up, totally puffed out, and went back inside. When I turned to find out why we were being pursued, Bobby and John were discussing just where they were going to hang the basket when they got home. I think though, that what they had done sunk into their booze befuddled brains, and we stopped about a mile further on so that they could eject the offending basket into a field of sheep, scaring the Schweppes out of the poor animals by shouting ‘apple sauce’ at them.

When I got home after dropping everyone off, I found my father being interviewed by a rather gigantic plod, about our sojourn into the Welsh hills. He insisted that I pick up the perpetrators, head back to the valleys, retrieve the basket, deliver it to its rightful owner, and apologize for being such pillocks.

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