Five

Home and away

As I entered the sixth form at Lancaster Royal Grammar School I realised that I had to think seriously about a career. After various meetings with the careers master and mediocre O-level results, I realised that my dreams of becoming a pilot or anything medical had gone, and university was out of the question. Obviously, any form of entertaining was not a serious consideration as a ‘proper job.’ Nor was anything to do with radio or the embryonic world of television.

Art was one of my best subjects at school, along with English, geography and economics, and I had developed a keen interest in the world of advertising and marketing. I spent a lot of time creating advertisements for popular brands for my own enjoyment, and even subscribed to Advertisers’ Weekly – a trade magazine for the profession. For one of my sections of the GCE O-level paper I designed and produced a poster featuring racing driver Stirling Moss recommending BP petrol. As a 13-year-old visiting the Aintree race track in Liverpool in 1954, I had collected Stirling’s autograph, which I had obviously kept safe and sound, and I included it in my poster design, practising signing his autograph time and again for the benefit of accuracy.

Many, many years later when I entered the world of Top Gear I would, inevitably, meet Stirling Moss and interview him a number of times. We struck up a good rapport, and I now like to consider Stirling and his wonderful wife, Susie, as friends. Not long after they became Sir Stirling and Lady Moss I regaled them with my story of the BP poster for the art exam, and said I had practised his autograph in my design work as part of planning my career. “What career were you planning?” asked Susie. “Probably a forger, by the sound of it!” said the great man.

I had two boyhood heroes from 1958 onwards, but unlike most schoolboys of my era, these were not footballers, cricketers, or film stars. Stirling Moss obviously featured because of his enormous racing and rallying ability, and his high media profile. The other represented my interest in the world of show business, and was the irrepressible young comedian from Knotty Ash, Ken Dodd. I marvelled at his ability to communicate with his audience, having actually seen him on stage quite early in his career.

I first met Ken Dodd in 1964 when, for some unaccountable reason, he became a member of Preston’s Longton and District Motor Club, and I was asked by the Club’s leading light, Gavin Frew, if I would like to attend a function at the Odeon in Preston where Ken was presenting prizes. He was already a huge star by then, and was shepherded from his car into the Odeon by the largest and burliest members of the Motor Club, including top local driver Roy Mapple with whom I was competing in rallying from time to time. I tagged along with his entourage, although I can’t imagine I would have been much use at fending off the crowds as I was very small and puny in those days.

Ken stayed for some time after his presentation, and I had the chance to meet him briefly. I also met him again after various shows, including a memorable visit with my wife, Sue, and daughter Emma, who was six when Ken was appearing in pantomime. For such a big star he gave us so much time, and, of course, gave Emma the obligatory tickling stick. However, I got to know him much better when I entered the world of television with Top Gear as you will read later.

I still find it quite astonishing that today I should have a good relationship with my two main boyhood heroes, and it is another of my examples of dreams coming true which, you will find, are scattered throughout this mighty tome.

Away from these superstars I was having to buckle down to getting a job so sent letters to all the major companies in Lancaster and district. I was offered a sales office job at James Williamson and Sons, the manufacturers of floor linoleum, but was also offered a position as traffic clerk in a proper advertising agency as a result of the efforts of another person in the village of Bolton-le-Sands, John Thrower. He was also in the advertising profession, and he and his wife Pat were members of the Bolton-le-Sands Players, the amateur theatrical group that had given me minor parts in productions.

There was a problem, and I realised I was going to have to take a major step into the unknown; the advertising agency in question was in Liverpool. It was too far to travel daily, so ‘digs’ would have to be found, but more help was on its way from friends Garry and Jean Helliwell, mentioned earlier. I was offered lodgings in their home town of Southport, from where I could commute daily by train.

I joined SC Peacock Ltd, a leading provincial advertising agency and was offered the princely sum of £6 per week for my troubles. It was a dream job for me, and entailed keeping records and checking progress of all new jobs for the clients, which included several then-popular brands like Royal Lemon Meringue Pie, Richmond Pork Sausages, Meccano, Red Heart Dog Food, and numerous major local retailers and car distributors. I was in constant contact with all the staff in the company, as well as all the consumer and trade press and the new independent TV companies. I really loved every minute, and, I believe, became a popular member of staff, congratulated by the bosses on my great attention to detail. There were also several nice young girls in the agency who seemed to enjoy my company, but regrettably none of them lived in Southport, so relationships did not develop any further than mild flirting during the day. When filming The Race of Champions in 1995 for BBC in Gran Canaria, I bumped into a lovely lady in our hotel who introduced herself and her husband. It was Glenda Charnley (her former surname) who had sat at the next desk to mine some thirty-five years before at S C Peacock. She still looked as attractive as before, and she and her husband and I had a pleasant evening reminiscing. Glenda said she could not believe I had achieved such a high profile TV career, as I was such a shy boy. I wouldn’t kiss her at the Christmas party, she said. I must have been a fool.

One of S C Peacock’s clients was NEMS Record Store in Liverpool, owned and run by Brian Epstein. You may remember that Mr Epstein achieved a much greater claim to fame, for in 1961 he met and subsequently signed up to manage four youths appearing as a band at the nearby Cavern Club. I am now about to indulge in another bit of name-dropping for, one morning, I was asked to visit Mr Epstein at NEMS, carrying out some menial task like delivering artwork, and who should be in his office but the then relatively unknown Beatles. Pleasantries were briefly exchanged before I was ushered out, but they did show slight interest in my appearance there and in the parcel I was delivering. It’s a pity I didn’t get them to sign the receipt for delivering the parcel. It would be worth a few quid now, I reckon.

Each Friday evening I would leave the agency and take a train from Liverpool’s Exchange station north to Lancaster and home for the weekend for much bike-riding and catching up with friends, including members of Morecambe Car Club. I was put in touch with one member by the name of Arnold Roberts, a farmer from Garstang. He wanted a navigator for an evening rally in which he had entered his Triumph Herald Coupé. You’re ahead of me now, but this was another major happening in my life; I was about to compete in my first ever rally.

I was introduced to ‘my driver,’ and some weeks later was transported by my mentor, Leslie Rigg, to a large transport cafe in Garstang for the 6.00pm start of the ‘Mild and Bitter’ Rally. I was, of course, excited but somewhat apprehensive. However, I was armed with the appropriate Ordnance Survey map, a number of 2B pencils, and a ‘Romer,’ which is a simple device to enable you to plot map references for all of the points you have to visit. I had previously read several books on how to compete in rallying, so I had a clip board, a map board, and a clock in a plastic case, just like those that baffled me on my first rally marshalling expedition some months before.

I plotted all the map references, and we lined up among the forty or so cars. I had marked the route we should take on the map using my 2B pencil (with a rubber on the end, of course) and when the start marshal had signed my route card and entered our precise time of departure, we set forth along the old A6 road. Within a few miles we were looking for a minor ‘yellow’ road. I was quickly picking up the terminology and jargon, and knew that navigators describe the colour of the roads on the map: red, brown, yellow, or white. I also knew that ‘white’ roads could be surfaced or rough and muddy and should be avoided unless instructed to use them. In fact, as I would learn, a good navigator will build up a huge knowledge of ‘goers’ and ‘non-goers,’ and mark these white roads appropriately on the map.

Despite one or two hesitations at junctions my new friend Arnold and I were proceeding satisfactorily. The car was bumping around the lanes near the Trough of Bowland, along a few muddy tracks, and I began to smell the marvellous magical odour that had captivated me on my first marshalling expedition. You remember? Mud and farm yard effluent on a hot exhaust.

Things suddenly started to go awry, however. I felt a bit queasy because of constantly altering my field of vision, looking at the map one minute then looking at the road ahead. In addition to this my driver was puffing at a strongly smelling pipe and the inevitable happened. I asked that we should stop immediately, and opened the door to vomit. Arnold was very understanding, and obligingly stopped a few miles further on for a repeat performance. For navigators, travel sickness is an occupational hazard, I’m afraid. However, nearly everyone overcomes the problem the more experienced they become.

We continued on our merry way, and observed lots of cars going the opposite way to us or approaching from side roads, or, horror of horrors, approaching a control from the wrong direction, incurring a big penalty. Three hours after our start time we arrived at the finish at a pub, where timecards were handed in so results could be calculated. We then sat, waited, and mixed with other competitors who, in those pre-breathalyser days, were enjoying a few beers. After my earlier nausea I refrained from drinking alcohol, but I would certainly make up for this omission on future evening events after I had overcome my travel sickness problem. As another aside, when I had graduated to full night rallies it was not unknown for bars and hotels to be opened after breakfast, and the odd foaming pint consumed whilst waiting for results.

The results of the Mild and Bitter Rally were eventually announced, and a large scorecard stuck on the wall that showed we had placed second in the novice section and had made few serious mistakes, apart from the inevitable delays caused by my ‘mal de rallye.’ My first rally had been a relative success, and I was congratulated by one or two senior Morecambe Car Club members who identified me as the boy who came by bus to stand at the back of meetings.

I wouldn’t say drivers were clamouring for my services, but over subsequent months I had further trips of a similar length and won the novice class on one, despite more travel sickness. Soon I was a so-called ‘expert,’ and invited to accompany one of Morecambe Car Club’s top drivers, Bill Willicombe in his Austin-Healey ‘frog-eye’ Sprite. Small trophies were now being won, and I was working hard at my rallying, preparing maps and talking to other navigators about map reading. In fact, I was starting to eat, sleep and breath ‘rallying’ and discovered Motoring News, a weekly newspaper that covered motorsport in detail including many rallies both large and small. I was fascinated by this marvellous publication and achieved a new ambition – to get my name in Motoring News.

Thanks to my avid reading of Motoring News, as well as any rally books I could lay my hands on, I realised that I would need to have all the right equipment for map reading if I was to succeed. I knew about maps, clipboards, average speed tables, and other bits and pieces, but it was to the lighting department that I turned my attention.

All rally cars are fitted with a ‘flexy’ light, dangling from the inside top corner of the roof, which is vital for plotting map references and fiddling about with other paperwork. This is the driver’s responsibility, of course, but the navigator has to provide more illumination in the shape of a map-magnifier. I found to my bafflement these came in a variety of designs, so I sought advice from those in the know and learnt that an ‘Eolite’ was considered the bee’s knees. It had a powerful magnifying lens and a rheostat, which enabled the user to vary the brightness of the light bulb by twiddling a little knob on the top. The whole thing was about the size of a large coffee mug. There was only one problem: Eolites had been manufactured for use by RAF navigators during the war, so they were very scarce indeed.

I searched army surplus stores and junk shops to no avail, before hitting on the bright idea of advertising for one in my now beloved Motoring News. The small classified advertisement appeared in due course but, sod’s law, there was a typographical error in the advert. The ‘o’ had been omitted, so I received details of Lotus Elites! The advertisement was rectified, and I then received just one reply, so I sent off a cheque for a couple of quid. When it arrived I felt like a proper navigator.

As Eolites became scarcer, one or two other contraptions were introduced. One was called the ‘poti’ which became the generic name for such devices, but, far and away, the best one to appear was the Don Barrow light. Multi-championship winning navigator Don gave a lot of thought to designing his plastic moulded product. It had changeable base plates with varying map scales, and a handle (which the others hadn’t), and became very popular. Don still manufactures these lights, selling them along with other navigational device like ‘Romers’ for plotting map references, but, as I also later designed such a device, I’m not going to publicise his!

Fully equipped with all the appropriate navigational clobber, I was now fully prepared to compete in rallying. I was so keen to succeed that I practised plotting map references incessantly, and even took my Eolite magnifier to bed to get used to reading maps in the dark. Yes, I know it sounds a bit sad, but it’s a fact. All in all, life was good and I was enjoying my new-found hobby.

My enjoyment was short-lived, however, when my mother was admitted to Blackpool Victoria Hospital to undergo a minor heart operation. It was considered a fairly straightforward procedure by the family doctor and hospital surgeon, but sadly there were complications and Mum did not recover well. She had a type of stroke, partly losing her speech and the full use of her leg and arm on one side.

My father, brother, and I visited her in Blackpool as often as possible but with great difficulty, as my father worked in Kendal, I worked in Liverpool, and Stuart “was on his way to Oxford University.” It was a very unhappy time for all of us and we all knew that Mum would be an invalid for the rest of her life. She returned home with a lot of medication and recovered slightly over the next year, but never lived life to the full again.