While California had its ‘summer of love’, Britain was better – far, far better. We were swinging to The Beatles’ ‘All You Need is Love’, Procol Harum’s ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ and the Stones’ ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’. We had The Who, Twiggy, Carnaby Street, Biba and Mary Quant, Radio Caroline. We had it all. London, England – this was the only place to be as the celebrity culture began to explode.
And then there was me. A star-struck 17-year-old country bumpkin complete with country bumpkin accent, country bumpkin clothes and country bumpkin attitude. Graduate of the world-famous Oxford College of Technology with two A levels and a couple of dubious secretarial skills. Shy, frightened of almost everything, ignorant of the ways of London, the media, music and sophisticates in general, and completely devoid of self-confidence.
Despite this distinct lack of any obvious potential as a member of the beautiful people club or even the lower echelons of the pop or media worlds, I moved to London anyway, got a break and was soon living a life every bored secretary, shift worker, schoolgirl or pop music fan could only dream about (myself included). A life filled daily with all the fabulousness that was the music, movie and press scene of the late ’60s and through the ’70s. And I got paid for it. And I lived to tell the story.
Yes, I really was there. I spent several crazy years immersed in the world of popstars, musicians, movies, TV, theatre, actors and every kind of celebrity you could imagine. I was there, soon after the start of the cult of celebrity in all its forms. I was there at the start of mass hysteria for boy bands (think The Monkees, The Osmonds, Jackson Five, Bay City Rollers). Think of the biggest names the world of post-war music has ever produced – The Beatles, The Doors, The Stones, The Who, Queen – and I was there seeing it all, seeing them, first-hand. From Jimi Hendrix and Joan Baez through to Slade and Marc Bolan, from the last breaths of festival hippiedom through to glamrock, bubblegum and the start of punk, I was there.
Veering uncertainly between taking it all for granted, wondering what I’d landed myself into, panicking about how soon I’d get caught out as a useless imposter hick, and pinching myself hard to prove I really was not dreaming.
I lived in it and through it, with it and, I suppose, for it – observing, dipping in, enthralled, occasionally objective. My shyness often worked for me but just as often, my youth and stupidity got me into minor scrapes and major difficulties. Although sometimes it was just like I’d imagined – when I’d dreamed of being a pop writer during several depressing early teenage years through which my pop and TV heroes had sustained me – at other times it was nowhere near. There were bad bits: big bad bits. Some of it wasn’t so much fab as just plain weird.
Decades later I’m just an ordinary wife, mum and writer – back in the country with few links to that world apart from my unique bag of memories that have provided a source of great fun, wonder and supper party moments for my circle of friends. ‘You really met Freddie Mercury/Paul McCartney/Jim Morrison/Mr Spock/Robert Redford …’ etc., etc., etc. And before I know it, I’m off on one – another story comes intact and fresh as ever, out of a brain that hasn’t recalled it for years.
How did I manage all this? Well, first get yourself an older sister who works as a secretary at a London publishing company and who notices there’s a job going on another magazine in the same company, as editor’s secretary. Make sure sister tells you about it. Apply for an interview. The rest is easy. Ish. The biggest blag of all time and not as difficult to achieve as you might imagine. Well, if I could do it anyone could.
One week I was sitting in the wilds of Oxfordshire with no job, the next I was working for the ‘original and best’ pop magazine that I’d spent the past five years avidly reading, and whose colour photos were taped to my bedroom walls. I became friendly – or at least, on hugging terms – with many of the biggest names of the ’70s as well as relics from the ’60s and megastars of future years when they were still the equivalent of X-Factor hopefuls or, in some cases, babes in arms. I dated a few of them as well. Occasionally I turned down some very famous people while, sadly, several stars I fluttered my false eyelashes at chose to ignore the challenge.
So who would blame me on the days I did pinch myself – how many people wake up on a Monday morning and feel nothing but pit-of-the-stomach excitement at the thought of going to work? How many people can say they have danced with David Bowie, sung with Freddie Mercury, smoked a joint with Jim Morrison, been read The Book of Mormon by an Osmond and, of course, had their lipstick stolen by Keith Moon? And there was more; plenty more.
So if you want to know the mad, fab and sometimes bad detail – grab a drink, and let’s be off.