Keith Moon Stole My Lipstick

by Judith Wills

  PRAISE FOR KEITH MOON

  STOLE MY LIPSTICK

  ‘Evocative’, ‘Funny’, ‘Touching’, ‘Shocking’, ‘Delightful’, ‘An elegy to lost innocence’.

  ‘Enjoyed every minute of the book – didn’t we all have charmed lives? It was a delightful read from the perspective of an innocent in the ’60s/’70s lion’s den – one of the many strengths in the story.’

  Tony Prince, ex-Radio Luxembourg DJ, founder DMC

  ‘A funny, poignant, delightful memoir. Wills is never less than frank about the stars she meets in her eight frantic years in London on a pop magazine.’

  Phillipa May, leisure editor, Hereford Times

  ‘It hits the spot – sparks off so many memories for me … compelling.’

  Nick Owen, BBC presenter, Midlands Today

  ‘It’s compulsive reading; well written and humorous. I empathised with the author and cared about what happened to her. It beautifully captures what it must have been like to be a young person in the hip, happening times of the late ’60s and ’70s. Titbits about the celebs are very interesting and often funny. I love it.

  Sarah MacPherson, chartered psychologist, London

  ‘If you’re looking for a gift for the music fan in your life, consider this great, funny new book.’

  wnew.com

  ‘I honestly couldn’t put it down!’

  Chris McLoughlin, freelance health editor

  ‘I found it fascinating to read – I went through lots of emotions. Laughter at times, sadness, sometimes shock. I couldn’t move until I had finished it.’

  Nesta Parsons, retired factory manager, housewife and mother

  ‘I absolutely loved the book, so many memories.’

  Fiona Adams, ’60s celebrity photographer

  ‘Loved it, nice pace and very touching. Even though it is about the author and a set of rather unique circumstances, I think it is actually archetypal, an elegy to childhood dreams and lost innocence. It would make a good film.’

  Dr Robert Hill, clinical psychologist

  ‘A bit chick-lit in a non-fiction way, funny and occasionally profound in a passage-of-life mould.’

  Chris Charlesworth, ex-NME writer and now editor-in-chief, Omnibus Press

  ‘A fascinating and intriguing journey through the ’60s and ’70s pop world. The story of an impressionable teenage girl let loose in the London jungle of the time is as relevant today as it was then.’

  Neil Broome, actor

  ‘An enjoyable, nostalgic and evocative read, whether or not you are of an age to remember the legend of the title himself. I found the author’s own story just as fascinating as the anecdotal tales of the celebrities she encounters. I particularly like the easy, accessible style of writing. Sequel please!’

  Coral Jane, artist

  ‘I really enjoyed it! It was good to have the culture of that era brought to life, especially as the author is an ‘ordinary’ person.’

  Sarah Giles, freelance editor

  ‘What a fantastic book this is – I really couldn’t put it down!! It has a lovely style.

  I found myself trying to pre-empt the wonderfully evocative descriptions (who would the boy with funny teeth dancing round the office turn out to be?!).

  I saw the ’70s as a schoolboy but lived them again through the book from a totally different perspective.’

  Simon Nicholls, Courtyard Theatre, Hereford

  ‘Because the author tells her story so very well, I often forgot I was reading someone’s memoirs and read it like a novel – it’s charming.’

  Lara Hale, freelance journalist

  ‘This is a rattling good tale but with an underlying deeper, sadder story of a driving determination to succeed against the odds.

  I found it a page turner, and I think young people will love it too.’

  Ann McDonnell, retired behavioural therapist

  ’It’s very readable – once you start you want to keep on. It’s nice and light but with some poignant moments too. Just all the famous people she knew is enough to get you hooked. It’s very funny, too.’

  Julia Smith, freelance publicist

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank:

  My sister Ann McDonnell without whom my Fab days would never have begun, and of course Unity Hall who was brave enough to give me the job.

  Betty Hale, my ‘third parent’, without whom the book would have been considerably shorter, as would my career.

  Jane Turnbull for her support, time and encouragement.

  All the team at The History Press who have done such a brilliant job on producing this edition of the book.

  Tony Prince, Chris Charlesworth, Abbie Carter, Nigel Hunter and Annie Moore for help with facts, names, dates and details.

  Jackie Skinner for her help in arranging a latter day meet up with the Osmonds.

  Jimmy and all the Osmonds for finding time in a hectic schedule to meet and reminisce.

  All the Fab photographers, some of whose photos may appear in this book – with special thanks to Peter Pugh-Cook, Roger Brown, Roger Morton and David Porter.

  Everyone who took time to read the manuscript and pass comment on it.

  Most of the colleagues I met along the way who enriched those years, including several of those already mentioned above, as well as David (‘no longer a Kid’) Jensen, Rodney Burbeck, Roy Carr, Gordon Coxhill, and the many ‘residents’ of the Hoop and Grapes and Rules restaurant.

  Most of the entertainment, music, film, TV and show business stars and would-be stars I met during the years, for providing such a rich source of memories. With special mention to Mr Spock himself Leonard Nimoy, Andy Williams, Slade and Mud.

  The Boss, for obvious reasons.

  Everyone who was at Fab at the same time as I was – including Georgina Mells, Julie Webb (now Emberton), Sue Lumsden (now Hegarty), Tom, whose real name was Brian Thomas, Ann Wilson (now Annie Davison), Jackie Fearn (now Wyatt), Bev Ballard, Louette Harding, Sue James and David Porter – for making my years there such fun.

  And I would like to remember the friends, acquaintances and interviewees who have passed on but will never be forgotten and are, hopefully, having a great party somewhere: Billy Fury, Andy Williams, Leonard Nimoy, Hal Carter, Gene Pitney, Freddie Mercury, Les Gray, Dave Mount, Jim Morrison, Richard Beckinsale, Jason Eddie, Spike Milligan, The Beast – and – of course – Keith Moon.

  Contents

  Praise for Keith Moon Stole My Lipstick

  Title

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction – An Inauspicious Beginning

  One Hot Town

  Two Now and Always

  Three The Good, the Bad – and the Bizarre

  Four Something Groovy and Good

  Five Some Things Are Meant to Be

  Six Just Call My Name

  Seven To Reach the Unreachable Star

  Eight That’s Neat, That’s Neat, That’s Neat

  Nine Judy Teen Grew Sick of the Scene

  Epilogue Some Time Later

  Appendix And What Happened to the Cast

  Plates

  Copyright

  Introduction

  An Inauspicious Beginning

  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.

  one

  Hot Town

  1967

  Elvis married Priscilla in May. Evel Knievel has jumped over sixteen cars on his motorbike. The Beatles have a new album out – Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The single ‘San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair)’ by Scott McKenzie has just popped into the charts. And Keith Richards has been sentenced to a year in jail for possessing illegal drugs.

  Drip, drip drip. Drip, drip drip.

  It’s July. I’m in bed, half asleep. It may be the summer of love in San Francisco but here in London it’s wet. My head’s wet, anyway. No – it’s not rain. The ceiling’s leaking.

  Monday morning; my first morning in my very first bedsit. But this isn’t the start I’d planned. I’d wanted the rhythm of music to wake me up – The Beatles’ ‘All You Need is Love’, say, or ‘Pictures of Lily’, the new single from The Who – not the damp annoying beat of dripping water. Never mind, saves washing hair.

  (Did I say bedsit? Not much of a bedsit – a tiny single bedroom in someone else’s apartment with use of their K and B (kitchen and bathroom). The leaseholder, a Spanish guy with a wife who, he says, lives mostly in Spain, won’t give me a key to my door but I’ll worry about that later.)

  At least the leak gets me out of bed.

  Having caught the coach from Oxford to London and stayed with my sister a few days in outer suburban dreariness, I’d found this room in West Kensington in the Evening Standard small ads – £1 10s a week and a short walk from my favourite underground line – the District and Circle, where all the most glamorous addresses were, I had decided. Okay, my nearest station was the distinctly unfashionable Baron’s Court next to the unglamorous Hammersmith flyover, but for 30s I could hardly expect Sloane Square.

  There’s enough money in my post office savings book to last for a month by which time I must have a job or else I go back to my mum, the cat, the budgie and our home – a 16ft caravan on a small estate in Botley, an Oxford backwater.

  I have to make this work. Mum can’t afford to support me any more and who wants to live in a bloody caravan anyway? Not me.

  At 11 a.m. I have my first interview. Well, to be honest, the only interview I’ve got lined up. For the only job I want to do. Ever. But I don’t stand a chance. But I’ve got to try. Otherwise, I’ll never know.

  So I dry my hair and curse the kinks that appear, and put on the warpaint: Rimmel Truly Fair make-up for combination skin; Boots Cream Blusher, Truly Fair powder compact (anti-shine); bright pink lipstick (pinched from Mother’s small and ancient make up collection), Boots Powder Eyeshadow in Shimmer Blue. All fine. Shaking hands, stab eye at last hurdle – Rimmel Stay Put Mascara in Brownish-Black. Bugger. Not that stay put then – as my eye streams the mascara ruins everything. Have to start again. Bugger! I’m going to be late.

  10.15 a.m. Run down Gliddon Road, across the Talgarth Road and join the crowds jostling into the tube on their way to work. Feel the rush! I’m actually part of the London rush hour. How fantastic is that? When you’ve come from living in a caravan and then you leave your mansion block and walk down the streets of West London to catch the tube to get to work, and you can actually mingle with Londoners at last, and pretend to be one – well, that’s amazing. Even more amazing to get out at Blackfriars and walk down towards Ludgate Circus and FLEET STREET. Fleet Street!

  I’m 11 and it’s my first visit to London, and I’m standing on Fleet Street with my mother and her friend Mrs Hill. As I don’t talk a lot, ever, they aren’t to know that I’m almost passing out with excitement to be here at last. With the help of one of my life’s many decent coincidences, it turns out that Mrs Hill’s oldest son works in an office right on the street itself. So here we are, waiting for him to take us to lunch.

  There was a year, around the
age of 8, when I wanted to be a stable girl, but two years ago I decided I want to be a journalist and that’s been my career decided ever since. Nothing more, nothing less will do. So just to stand here, near the Daily Express and the Daily Mail and Reuters …

  ‘Do you think he’s a reporter? Is he Cassandra? Do you think she’s a journalist? Where’s the Cheshire Cheese? Where’s the Wig and Pen?’ all this said to myself, not out loud, I don’t like to be a nuisance.

  This is the only place to be, I have to be here. I can’t wait to grow up.

  Strange, now, to think that a walk down grubby old Fleet Street was enough to begin the process of turning me from a shy no-hoper child into, several years later, a walking advertisement for Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway.

  Thank God for aspiration and ambition, the fantastic surge of anticipation that comes in around adolescence. The blind faith that says ‘I am special!’ and the ignorance that allows you to say ‘I can do anything I want!’

  Without that, a large helping of luck, and the undoubted advantage that my ambition was to work on a teen pop magazine rather than be the next Simon Jenkins of The Times or Katherine Whitehorn of The Observer, I would probably still be in Botley today.

  By the time I cross Ludgate Circus and begin the journey down Farringdon Street, I’m not so much walking as wobbling along, as my knees have given way with nerves. I would ask the way now but I can’t because my voice has disappeared along with my bravado. I’m holding my A-to-Z but I’m too embarrassed to look at it as I don’t want people to think I’m new around here. My stabbed eye aches a bit. Also, I am itching.