by Greg Tesser
But it was comedy shows that brought him national recognition. They ranged from the gentle fun of Harry Worth to Bless This House, starring Sid James, Diana Coupland and Sally Geeson (both Sally and Judy Geeson could be seen regularly at the Bridge) and the controversial Love Thy Neighbour, a show that to this day evokes fury amongst many people. Even back in the far less PC days of the 1970s, the show was regarded as overtly racist.
I once asked Vince about the programme, and at the time I laid my anti-racist cards on the table (I was already involved with the Anti-Apartheid Movement, as indeed was my father), and he told me that the whole philosophy of the sitcom was to expose racism, and at the same time ridicule it. Knowing him as I did, I believed him. After all, hadn’t Johnny Speight done the same thing (although in a totally different way) with Till Death Us Do Part and Alf Garnett?
Now Vince Powell’s part in the success of Peter Osgood was only small, but had a massive impact nonetheless. And like so many aspects of life – and in particular life for what John Mortimer referred to in one of his Rumpole stories as ‘showfolk’ – its beginnings were convoluted.
Having already explored by the back-end of ’69 as many avenues as possible in which Ossie could spread his wings and not simply rely on his ability to trouble the onion bag each and every Saturday, I got wind of the fact that Vince Powell had become captivated by manager Dave Sexton’s team; captivated to a such a degree that, despite his Manchester beginnings, he had adopted Chelsea as his club. So it was with some cheekiness in my heart – probably aided, I am sorry to say, by the odd pill – that I contacted a friend at London Weekend TV and obtained Powell’s telephone number.
At the time, Vince and Harry Driver were receiving plaudits from the critics about their series Never Mind The Quality, Feel The Width, starring John Bluthal (later to garner even greater success as Frank Pickle – ‘The Most Boring Man In England’ – in The Vicar of Dibley) and Irish actor Joe Lynch, who built up a huge following in the 1970s as Elsie Tanner’s boyfriend in Coronation Street.
The series, which ran from 1967–1971, concentrated on the activities of Manny Cohen (Bluthal) and Patrick Kelly (Lynch), two tailors in business together – one Jewish, the other an Irish Catholic.
The openings for jokes – many of which were obvious but nevertheless extremely funny – were enormous.
Anyway, I spoke to Vince, and he was very approachable. Straight away there was a simpatico between us – you get this sometimes in life with a person you’ve never met before. It is difficult to put into words, but I think on this occasion what it boiled down to was that, despite his comparative fame, and his age, we were one of a kind – enthusiastic and optimistic, and above all, mad about Chelsea FC.
So, after the first few sentences of, ‘how are you?’ etc., I asked him about the possibility of using Peter Osgood in one of the episodes, and he went for the idea, without any apparent salesmanship from me. Later he was to say to me that Ossie could in fact ‘make it on TV’, but life moved on and any ambitions we had of stardom away from the football pitch were never realised. Opportunity knocked, but thanks to fate, we weren’t able to answer the door.
My next step was to journey down to the Thames TV studios at Teddington Lock and meet Vince, who was dying to meet Ossie; he had made his own way from the Chelsea training ground in Mitcham.
Powell and Peter were soon chatting away like old friends, and within a matter of minutes we were in the Thames TV bar downing a few drinks. Producer Ronnie Baxter then joined us, as did some of the actors. And it was Joe Lynch, buoyed by the odd glass or two, who took centre stage. Here was yet another Ossie fan, and the striker lapped it all up like the proverbial cat with the cream.
Vince told us he was going to fiddle a scene into this particular episode which would be shot on film; all Peter had to do was show off his soccer skills on a pitch adjacent to the studios. His only ‘acting’ was to utter just a few words, but it would, assured the scriptwriter, be an integral part of the show, and bring with it a feast of publicity for all parties.
As we were leaving, an excited Vince told Peter he’d be at the next home game, and as I made my exit, he asked me if I would like to have lunch with him at the Barbarella restaurant before the match.
All the ‘Thames TV’ people really enjoyed Ossie’s company, and one man in particular, Never Mind the Quality, Feel the Width co-star Joe Lynch, became a close friend to the two of us.
Having gained a great deal of success in his native Ireland, both on stage and in TV productions, he later gained many more media accolades across the water both in the sitcom Rule Britannia, as well as Coronation Street.
By 1979 he was back in Ireland, and soon his portrayal of Dinny Byrne in the RTE soap operas Bracken and Glenroe had made him a household name. His was also the voice of Grundel the Toad in Don Bluth’s hit adaptation of Hans Christian Andersen’s Thumbelina.
Joe enjoyed a bevy or three, and after the filming of Peter’s scene, we all retired to the bar where copious amounts of alcohol were consumed. Eventually, realising it was getting late, Ossie bade his farewells, and Joe kindly offered to drop me at my home in Hampstead. He lived not a million miles from me, so ‘it was no trouble’, as he kept saying.
Arriving in London NW11 – and by now it was very late indeed – we thought it would be a good idea if he joined me in my flat for a few more glasses. ‘How about some cheese?’ I asked. My speech by this time was as thick as a 1950s London pea-souper.
He voiced his appreciation and addiction to French cheeses, in particular Brie and Camembert. Once inside my front door, I dashed into the kitchen and whipped up, what seemed at the time, a tasty selection of cheese and biscuits, which we gobbled greedily while relaxing on a Victorian settee in the sitting room. We washed the food down with a variety of drinks, mainly red wine, but later we took the bull by the horns and went for something stronger, namely some ludicrously pricey cognac I had recently bought from Harrods. ‘Nothing but the best’ was my motto, no matter how much it dented my bank account.
As our tongues grew looser and looser, the conversation developed into inarticulate rambling bouts of fractured speech covering food and football and politics, with Joe at all times emphasising how much he admired and liked Ossie. No matter what the subject was, we always returned to the subject of Chelsea FC. Joe had been a fine footballer in his younger days, and in fact had refused professional terms in 1947 to join the Radio Eireann players as an actor. He vigorously maintained that apart from George Best, Charlie Cooke and Peter Osgood were the most exciting players in the country. I mentioned Rodney Marsh, but Joe was a bit dismissive, making the point that the QPR hero was performing his magic tricks in a lower division, so any comparisons would be invalid.
Suddenly poor old Joe’s face took on a pea-green aspect, and unfortunately all the expensive Camembert, Brie, burgundy and cognac were returned to sender in most dramatic a fashion. Then, seemingly just to remain in synch with the jovial Irish actor, my insides did much the same. It was not a pretty sight! Matters did not improve when my twelve-year-old tabby cat, Pamplemousse, joined us and proceeded to investigate the ‘damage’ in the manner of a bloodhound on the scent for arch detective Sherlock Holmes. We felt and looked like extras in The Night of the Living Dead!
Somehow, Joe managed to gird his loins and spruce himself up; he even found time to thank me. As he left, I felt even more fragile. I knew I needed to go to bed, but illogically I craved another drink. Downing a quadruple brandy, I felt better, and my senses began to return to normal about the same time as my stomach felt my own again. This general feeling of mental and physical togetherness was even more enhanced after I had swallowed one of what were known in the 1960s as wake-up pills. I did not sleep, and tomorrow would never come if I didn’t go to bed. Anyway, I had a very special idea to put to Peter Osgood, and his agreement to my plan would make him unique in the world of professional football. In fact, in this respect, he still is.
My manifesto was
to spread my agent’s wings as wide as possible, but with a marked difference to anything that had been attempted before. We already had this company, Peter Osgood Ltd, to administer all aspects of his career, but what was needed was another organisation to ‘do deals’, as I put it to him, for other Chelsea stars. So, Star Soccer Management was born, complete with expensive-looking blue company paper, with me in the driving seat, and Ossie the contact man. It was, on the face of it, a partnership made in heaven.
I was already doing bits and pieces for Charlie Cooke, but on our blue letterhead, we were able to add the names of Alan Birchenall, (a great singing voice, had Birch; in fact he had once formed a duo with ‘With a Little Help from My Friends’ star Joe Cocker in some pubs in Sheffield) Ron ‘Chopper’ Harris; John Hollins and the Manchester United goalkeeper Alex Stepney. Never before, and certainly not since, has a star player been part of the agency business.
However, it should be pointed out that the business of being an agent during the 1960s and 1970s was a totally different enterprise to today’s wheeler-dealers. Contracts and transfers were forbidden fruit forty-odd years ago. The sole purpose of a footballer’s representative then was to promote the player in terms of endorsements, newspaper columns, opening supermarkets and TV and radio. Trying to offload him to another club in order to pocket a percentage of the transfer fee was verboten big time.
Meanwhile, the Blues were receiving a plethora of plaudits from all and sundry. It was true that Leeds United – guided by their astute and no-holds-barred boss Don Revie – were the most effective outfit in the country, basing their whole modus operandi on the physical aspects of the game, whereas Chelsea could at times be unpredictable, but at the same time much more aesthetically pleasing.
Some thirteen or fourteen years before, during his time as a player with Manchester City, the grim-faced Revie had devised ‘The Revie Plan’, based on the system employed by Nandor Hidegkuti for the rampant Hungarians during the 1950s. Yes, he was full of new ideas, some of which were regarded as revolutionary. But to say that his players were as colourful as those of the equally intense Dave Sexton would be a gross exaggeration of gargantuan proportions.
Having despatched Birmingham out of the FA Cup on 3 January 1970, seven days later saw them host Leeds for what was already being regarded as a vital contest in terms of the league. In the encounter at Elland Road back in September, Revie’s men had prevailed 2–0. The Yorkshire Post had given the match its very own X Certificate with phrases such as ‘late and early tackles’, and its correspondent had gone on to criticise both sets of players for playing ‘venomously’. Some form of revenge was gained sixteen days later with a 2–0 victory in a League Cup replay, but it was the First Division fixture in the autumn that proved to be the template for all the hokum that was to follow.
So the scene was set for a right winter dust-up. Pre-match, I joined Vince and girlfriend Judi at Barbarellas for a culinary delight of a lunch. Judi was a really pleasant girl. Obviously sensitive – some would say neurotic – she made easy company and we ate and drank with relish.
It was difficult to get away from business, so during what was probably the tenth or eleventh glass of wine, he gave me the schedule for the filming and told me that he’d like me to be his guest for the broadcast of the Ossie episode. He also gave me a few pointers as far as other ITV shows were concerned, in particular the afternoon children’s programme, Magpie, hosted by Susan Stranks. Later it was fronted by Mick Robertson – yet another follower of Chelsea – who became a great friend and a great help in my everlasting quest of attempting to get footballers on to kids’ TV.
Arriving at the ground, we joined over 57,000 others to witness a debacle. Leeds bashed the Blues 5–2. Ossie notched a goal, but it was all depressing stuff.
Victories over Arsenal and Sunderland, with the Burnley FA Cup success sandwiched in between, soon revived flagging spirits, but it was the FA Cup that seemed to whet the appetite down the Fulham Road and beyond.
Struggling Crystal Palace succumbed 4–1 in round five, thanks to goals from Ossie, John Dempsey, the vastly underrated Peter Houseman and that chaser of lost causes, Ian Hutchinson.
Chelsea v. Queens Park Rangers, 21 February 1970; 33,572 overtly partisan spectators were packed into that compact coliseum Loftus Road, right smack in the middle of Steptoe and Son territory, Shepherd’s Bush. As far as Londoners were concerned, it was the tie in the last eight. And on a personal note, it gave me just a smallish loyalty tug.
For by this time I was also ‘doing the agent bit’ for a true club icon, the trendy Rodney Marsh. That Victorian teller of gothic tales and intricate mysteries, Wilkie Collins, used Hampstead Heath in North London as the eerie setting for the opening scene of his pièce de resistance The Woman in White, and it was on the very same heath that I first had a conversation with the enigmatic yet extremely likeable QPR idol.
It was 1969, and The Rolling Stones were gearing up for that jam session to end all jam sessions, the free concert in a sun-drenched Hyde Park, which they dedicated to the recently deceased Brian Jones.
The plan was to meet Rodney in Hampstead, and once on the glorious swathe of Hampstead Heath, take some ultra-modish shots of the man himself, looking every inch the rock star. Our photographer, one of those precious effete guys more used to dealing with Vogue models than pro footballers, pouted unattractively and told me in no uncertain terms that he was not at all happy with Rodney’s apparel.
It is important to remember that these posters of ours were not the common-or-garden mugshots so prevalent in the likes of Shoot and Striker and a whole host of cards pirated by suspect ‘businessmen’ operating out of small, smelly offices in some back alley. No, these had to be all about Carnaby Street and the King’s Road and fashion and attitude.
Now, I was fortunate enough to possess a wardrobe full of flower-power shirts, marketed by that trendsetter chain of emporiums I Was Lord Kitchener’s Valet. What type of shirt Rodney was actually sporting on that particular afternoon, I cannot for the life of me remember, but as far as the mincing snapper was concerned, it was definitely passé in the extreme.
‘Look here, Greg,’ snapped the guy with the camera, ‘your blue flowery thing is what we’re after, so could you give it to Rod to wear.’
So, a-shirt-swapping we went, and the mouthy photographer gave me his Yves St Laurent jacket to wear (a bare torso on Hampstead Heath, even in the liberal and permissive 1960s, would have been frowned upon by the more traditional populace of Hampstead).
Once it was all over, I chatted to the jovial Marsh, and dropped a few unsubtle hints about Eric Clapton and Peter Osgood. We agreed I could ‘give it a go as [his] agent for a bit’.
The following day, I gave Terry O’Neill a bell, and even though he was an ardent and dedicated follower of Chelsea, like me, he was bowled over by Rod’s unique brand of insolent skittishness. Rod was undoubtedly cool and he was undoubtedly photogenic with a big ‘P’, and after a few more telephone conversations, he was on his way to model for a series of full-colour monthlies, Yves St Laurent’s brand-new collection for men, in his ‘Rive Gauche’ range.
The main star of the photo session – apart from Rod himself, that is – was Yves St Laurent’s new very chic denim jacket, retailing at a hefty £60, (over £700 in today’s values), which the QPR man showed off perfectly. As a model, he looked like he’d been traversing the catwalk since birth! I almost expected him to call me ‘darling’!
Okay, so he was a guy from the East End, but he could paint and he was perfectly at home at poseur-style cocktail parties, just like the one we attended just before Christmas 1970. The room was choc-a-bloc with society wallflowers of both sexes plus the usual quota of dippy debs, but Rodney flourished in these surroundings. He was cool and he was hip, but he was also very much part of the new social strata of a country no longer completely enveloped in a straitjacket of snobbery.
Away from George Best and the Chelsea crew, Rodney was the only player of that
era to truly encapsulate both the colour and the thumbing of nose to convention that was the swinging ’60s.
Rodney liked freebies – I got him one of the sixty quid Yves St Laurent jackets gratis – and he also liked his money in ‘readies’, as he regularly put it. He owned a beautiful Lotus Europa, which I always found getting into about as hard as trying to put on your trousers with a broken arm. The motor looked lovely, but the passenger door opened up like some massive can of sardines – like it, I did not!
Not to be outdone, I scrounged a ‘Rive Gauche’ jacket for myself, for as Ray Davies so aptly put it: I was ‘a dedicated follower of fashion’.
We would regularly pop along to the Pizza Express in Dean Street, sometimes to eat lunch and drink red wine with his old mukka Terry Venables. More than once during these drives, Rod would quip with a terrific twinkle in his eye that every time he asked QPR chairman Jim Gregory for a transfer, the well-heeled car showroom entrepreneur would make him a present of a new motor!
At that cosy but raucous enclave of Loftus Road, Rod was a big fish in a pretty small pond. He was an authentic hero – the man whose élan and improvisations had guided QPR to unlikely League Cup final glory in 1967, when the West London outfit became the first Third Division team to lift a major trophy at Wembley Stadium.
That day, 97,000-plus fans saw Albion take a 2–0 advantage before goals from Roger Morgan, Marsh and Mark Lazarus gave the underdogs victory.
Rangers were managed by the evergreen Alec Stock. Many years later, in 2000, I helped to organise a special Testimonial Dinner at Yeovil Town Football Club, where Stock’s name had first reached national sporting hearts and minds in 1949, when, as player-manager, he had netted one of his side’s goals in the 2–1 FA Cup fourth round ousting of the so-called ‘Bank of England team’, Sunderland. Marsh was Guest of Honour, and agreed, for no fee, to stay on and answer a whole series of questions from the assembled guests.
