hospitals

Hospitals Don't Have Bars

CHAPTER 1

I was in the studio at the bottom of my garden, when Mrs. Griffiths who “does” for me called down and said that Gwyn my agent was on the telephone. With a sigh at the interruption, I reluctantly switched off the tapes and strolled through to what used to be the dining room, but now served as an office. Crossing to the desk I picked up the receiver to be met with the “whee-hee” sound that is so reminiscent of the sirens of “Hawaii Five 0.” The tight git had hung up to save on his phone bill... .......again.I dialed 1471, then 3, and waited. Engaged. I pressed 5 only to hear an insincere mechanoid apologising for the lack of a call back facility on this number.

I quickly found his number and dialed. I purposely never memorized my agents number, or any agents number for that matter as a reminder to myself of who’d paid for their houses and put their vile children through a succession of mediocre public schools. There was a time when my agent would visit me, I lived on the sea front in Porthcawl in those days, with a portfolio of lucrative work in top class cabaret clubs and theatres the length and breadth of the country. Full summer seasons in Blackpool, Yarmouth, Brighton or Morecambe. Ah, those were the days.

Now I have to return his calls and chase and accept any work on offer. I’m skint and that rotten sod Gwyn knows it. That’s how I have ended up playing in working men’s clubs and boozers. One day I’ll be back at the top - one day.

“Gwyn Wilson Entertainment's. Gwyn Wilson speaking” said a cheery voice at the other end of the line.

“Hello Gwyn,” I said “What have you got for me?”

“Well Dai,” Gwyn replied “It’s a bit complex.”

Everything was a bit complex for Gwyn, not the brightest fellow in the world, but he had more money than me, so who was really not too bright?

“We need to have a meet,” he added.

Gwyn also had this curious habit of speaking like Arthur Daley which coming from a man who’d lived in Llanelli all of his life was somewhat strange.

“Cut to the chase,” I says “let the dog see the rabbit, what you got?”

“A full tour.” Gwyn announced grandly.

“I’ll be right over.” I announced, stunned.

I put the receiver down and stared at it in disbelief. A “full tour,” that’s what he’d said, a “full tour.” Best get cleaned up for the “meet.” I quickly showered and changed into one my few remaining decent suits and having told Mrs Griffiths that I was off out, went to get the car out of the garage.

Lifting the up and over door I once more feasted my eyes on all that remained from my days as top entertainer. It was, and still is for that matter, the very epitome of style and class in automotive engineering. Sitting in that garage waiting to once more bought back to life, like sleeping beauty waiting for her prince, was a 1978 Ford Granada 3 Litre Ghia, in purple with a black vinyl roof. I sometimes marvel at myself for hanging on to this car, but at my lowest, it is true to say that it was all that kept me from really going over the edge. It had been round the clock several times, but the only real signs of its’ age were the sagging drivers seat and shiny steering wheel.

Driving into town, I thought about the good old days. Tarby, Brucie, Kenny Lynch, little Ron Corbett, Henry Cooper, we were like the rat pack. Endless rounds of golf and charity fun days. Bobby Monkhouse, a real gentleman, now he could see the signs in me. Signs of impending doom Bobby called them. Warned me about the drinking countless times. Countless times. So when my day of disaster finally came Bobby was one of the first on the telephone to say “I told you so.” Smarmy sod.

Then I got to thinking of my last gig. Like most of the work that I did at that time, it was Gwyn Wilson who acted as agent. The location was Llandrover Ex-Serviceman’s Club, a God forsaken little village where it was entirely possible for your wife and sister to be the same person. I was supposed to provide these plebs with what Gwyn called “Top Class Entertainment.”

I hit the stage to the strains of “Hillbilly Rock, Hillbilly Roll” which is a guaranteed crowd pleaser, especially when the crowd is your typical Saturday night social club crowd. The audience was going wild letting out hoops and hollers, with a few “Yee Haws” coming from a pissed up crowd of boys at the bar. At the end of the track I motioned to Gordon, my roadie to cue up the next track on the good old Sony Mini Disc, when a voice from the back of the room shouted out

“Turn it up you flash bastard! We can’t hear you!”

With that I looked to the side of the stage where Gordon was sitting looking bored as usual and wondered what the hell I was doing wasting my talent on bunch of losers like these. Gordon caught my stare and I motioned for him to increase the volume after I’d introduced the next song. Now I do like to keep up to date with the charts, so I introduced the Oasis song “Roll With It” and Gordon started the backing track. The effect was cataclysmic. An old man from the committee who was acting as “compere” dropped his pint on the floor as the first distorted chords sounded, at the back the pissed up crowd started headbanging shamelessly. At the song’s conclusion the applause sounded almost non-existent even though I could see people clapping. I was definitely a bit too loud now, as my ears had begun ringing. It can be hard to judge the required volume, especially if like Gordon you played in a “Death Metal” band. Besides, there aren’t many performers in South Wales going out with a full 10,000 watt P.A. You must also take into account that Gordon, who was also laughing known as my sound engineer, was thick as shit, and worked on an “all or nothing” policy when it came to volume. It was for this reason that for the rest of the show I ended every number to either,

“Turn it up you bastard!”

“Turn it down!”

The audience was starting to take it out on me, somewhat unfairly I thought, especially as Gordon was being paid good money for his assistance and alleged expertise. It could have got nasty, but like a true pro I turned it to my advantage by leading the singing of “Gordon Is A Moron” which went down well with everybody in the room. Well nearly everybody. Well, okay, everybody except Gordon and his girlfriend. Now she thought that I abused her Gordon. She said that I couldn’t see his hidden talent. Now knowing in no uncertain terms just what kind of girl she was, I can definitely repudiate that kind of talk. I saw Gordon in the shower once and I couldn’t miss his “hidden talent.” Although his “hidden talent” was definitely something really spectacular in both length and girth, nothing in this or any other world could alter the fact that Gordon was, is, and shall remain a complete and utter moron.

I parked the car outside the Brunswick, and looked somewhat longingly at the chalked sign advertising a veritable cornucopia of real ales. Wadworths, Fullers and the local brew Brains. God, how I needed a drink, but I also knew I could never just drink one pint. No, I would stay there all afternoon, or until my money ran out and that would be it. Once more I would be a hopeless drunk. Instead I was a hopeful man of sobriety and dignity. So I had to content myself with just looking and a few private thoughts about my days as a drinker.

As I walked past the second hand cars, and crossed the road a thought suddenly occurred to me. To get to Gwyn’s office I had to go within easy reach or directly past not only the Brunswick, but also the George, the Fusiliers club, the Tenby, the Conservative club and the hateful Oz Bar.

Now to digress a moment, here I am in the second city of a country as rich in culture as Wales. A country with a massive amount of national pride and passion, and what do the brewers in London foist upon us? I’ll tell you what they foist upon us, an Australian themed pub, on the grounds that it’s “popular with the students.” Do you know what I think of students? A bunch of fornicating self-abusers that’s what I think of students.

Back to what I was on about with these pubs all being near Gwyn’s office, well I think it’s spooky. In order to go and get work I have to walk past that amount of temptation. It’s just unfair, really unfair. Yet the people at the top in the council still seem to think that filling the city centre with public houses, wine bars and night clubs is good for the business prospects of the city. As if any decision about opening a business in Swansea is going to be affected by the thought that on a Friday night you can go out to Ritzys or Jumpin’ Jaks, get off your face on bottled lager and get your head kicked in by a load of boys out on a stag night out from Caerphilly. I bet you didn’t know that your inter village warfare is an essential “rite of passage” for any young Welshman whose passions have been inflamed by an evening of drinking exotically named lagers, and bizarrely fruity alco-pops. I think that it’s really sad that a lot of young people have just this almost tribal violence to fill their days - they certainly haven’t got jobs.

You see I built my career first time round on the working man. There were lots of them in those days, and the clubs were booming. Everybody was in their local club at a weekend and it made careers for the likes of myself and comics like Mike Reid. Others came through at the same time like Frank Carson and Bernard Manning - which was a real pity. But everybody had a job, a good laugh, a shag on Saturday night after “Match Of The Day” and two weeks in Blackpool every year. That’s all. That’s all you were ever entitled to, and in the main you were happy with it. Trouble was that some got greedy and ruined it for the rest what with their strikes and go slows and all that nonsense. So when that Thatcher woman came along the pits were all closed down and the clubs emptied. Work for everybody in South Wales was hard to come by. The 1980s could have a real boom time for me had I not been pissed out of my brains on a daily basis. See I was absolutely despised in England, but in Wales I had become something of a folk hero. Yet although I look back on the 1980s with regret at really never earning anything at all, if I am totally honest I would never have accepted the kind of work available to me in the clubs. Financially had I not been drinking I wouldn’t have needed it, but more significantly I would have considered it beneath me. Unfortunately now I really need the money, and most unhappily everybody knows it.

Which brings me back neatly to work, work that I was now desperate for. You see even as an ex-celebrity, which is what I am in some peoples’ eyes, I can hardly go and get a normal job. Indeed on the odd occasions that I’ve tried, the interviewer usually looks upon me as a curio, or as a stooge for somebody like that bonehead Jeremy Beadle. Some folks seem to think that people like me only exist in some sort of strange twilight world and that the needs of the real world do not impinge upon us. Indeed the times I’ve faced people in Tesco’s who wonder “what are you doing here, Dai?” and have been met with my usual answer of “shopping” and then they proceed to fall about laughing and uttering such inanities as “ooh you are a one!” frankly leaves me baffled. Do these morons think that I only exist on their T.V. sets or when I’m onstage? That certainly appears to be the case. Anyway, enough of these musings and back to my story.

My meetings with Gwyn were always bittersweet affairs. Bitter for me as I now had to go cap in hand to a second rate agent in search of what was usually second rate work. Sweet for Gwyn, very sweet just like revenge, which I suppose in a way it was, for I’d sacked him as my manager many years previously in my pursuit of fame and fortune. We had parted acrimoniously and he’d stated at the time that I’d come crawling back one day, as indeed I had. He never mentioned that. Never. He didn’t need to. He also knew that I’d never split with him again, as he was the only person to take me seriously when I let it be known that I intended launching a comeback. There was and still is a bond between us. However, I am not sure on what that bond is based. Certainly not respect, nor loyalty. No I really don’t know what keeps us together unless it’s the fact that as two losers who’d tasted the fruits of success we felt that we could fight together and get back to the top. Gwyn really felt at that stage that I still had it in me to reclaim my place as genuine star-and he was really the only person that did, me included. It was for this reason that when I’d received the phone call offering me a “full tour” I knew that the work on offer was likely to be “top drawer.”

CHAPTER 2

Sitting in the outer office waiting for Gwyn to finish with another client, I was engaged in conversation by his secretary, the luscious and somewhat middle aged Barbara. Now Barbara had a soft spot for me and always treated me to coffee and her own personal supply of biscuits whilst I waited for Gwyn.

Being kept waiting by Gwyn was usual as he liked clients to think that he was busy constantly, and that you could never just walk in unannounced. It was all just illusion of course as he couldn’t possibly have been as busy as he liked to make out, and I knew for a fact he was frequently on the phone to his bookie shoving his commissions on some washed up old nag running at some windswept racecourse for little or no return. Which is how a few unkind people looked at his relationship with me.

Barbara also knew this which is why she kept disconnecting his phone to prevent him gambling away her wages. Gwyn was completely in the dark about this ruse and would spout on about how the privatisation of British Telecom hadn’t improved service at all as his phone was constantly out of order. Barbara was about fifty five and a really striking looking woman, if somewhat overweight and a little heavy handed with the old makeup. She also spent most of her spare cash on “beauty treatments and enhancements.” I have to say though she scared the daylights out of me. Most of the time I couldn’t cope with her as she was an outrageous flirt.

She was also very worldly wise and kept a close watch on me and was very protective. For instance there was one occasion where the chairman of some working mans’ club was trying to fleece me in terms of my fee. I argued that the agreed amount was, oh I don’t know, two hundred quid. This joker was adamant that I was only going to get one-fifty, and threatened me with assault if I didn’t stop arguing. That particular evening good old Babs was there and witnessed the argument, and when I was threatened with violence stepped in an told this man that if she didn’t get the two hundred then she was going to beat the living crap out of him, and then cry rape! Well, what was the man to do? Here he was faced with six feet plus of woman, well he mumbled something about “misunderstanding” and handed over the loot.

“So what does the great impresario want with you, David dearest?” Barbara cooed at me.

“Well he says he’s got a full tour for me.” I replied just choking off the “love” at the last possible moment.

“A full tour, how interesting. What do you think that means, David?” Lucinda was really turning into Joan Collins, even in the way she dressed.

“I don’t really know, Babs.” I hated saying “Babs“ to her I hated calling her “Babs” but that’s what she insisted on being called. “But Gwyn has always been very fair with me, so I can only hope that it’s as good as it could be.”

“Mmmm, you really are so full of talent David. And you just ooze sex appeal.” She trilled. ”So much better than that Tom whatsisname. You’re just so...” The words just faded away. Help, she’s getting worse. I can’t deny that she’s always seemed to fancy me, but her come ons are becoming more and more blatant. Time to try and diffuse the situation.

“Well, it’s just an act, as you well know. I can hardly get up on stage and stand there like a statue, now can I? I’m just an actor playing a part.” I muttered.

Lucinda leaned across her desk giving me a panoramic view of her very own silicone valley and said,

“David, oh David. Not even Sir Anthony Hopkins is that good an actor.” After making sure that I’d had a good look at her tits she added, “I’ll see if Gwyn is free shall I?” As if there was any alternative, though she looked as though she’d thought of something we could be doing across her desk. Mind you they’re great tits and a very pleasant sight, But were they worth more than a Ford Escort? Yes, of course they were.

Within a couple of minutes I was seated opposite Gwyn in his office. To describe Gwyn or his office would stretch the talents of a far more gifted storyteller than myself, but nevertheless I’ll have a go. Gwyn himself was some fifty odd years old, and had “loser” etched across his pudgy face. What was left of his hair was coloured by some ghastly agent like Grecian 2000 or Just For Men, and applied with all the dexterity of a chimpanzee or a YTS trainee hairdresser. Gwyn always managed to miss part of his face every time he shaved, and as he needed to shave hourly, on this particular occasion he was sporting the makings of a very fine goatee, which could have left him with a somewhat bohemian look. Could have, but didn’t as his dress sense was non-existent. He had a penchant for shiny suits and suede shoes, which is not so bad in itself, but the sheen on Gwyn’s attire was normally due to accumulated grease rather than some notion of making a fashion statement. Gwyn was also a smoker, with the obligatory yellow fingers and brown teeth, and his clothes were liberally sprinkled with ash. Gwyn’s office was just as impressive as the man himself. He’d had these premises for some fifteen years and in that time his inner sanctum had never had the benefit of a duster or vacuum cleaner. Rarely, if ever was anything thrown away, with possible exception of coffee cups that make their presence felt like some creature from Quatermass. Dotted around haphazardly were a selection of metal filing cabinets purloined from various auctions and car boot sales down the years which contained all manner of stuff. Fags, booze, porno mags, clothes and even the odd portfolio about a client. You see Gwyn didn’t really like putting anything to paper as “my word is my bond” and it made life trickier for the taxman, the vatman and the D.H.S.S.

“So what’s the score on this tour then, Gwyn?” I asked expectantly.

“Top notch work, good money, a lovely little tour.” Gwyn answered. Now the key word here was little, but don’t worry about that I thought.

“Details please Gwyn. Come on I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve.” I said.

“Okay.” He lit another fag. “ Three weeks, fifteen dates, money from one-eighty to two-fifty a night.”

“Sounds great!” I says, “Now what about the venues and what are you making on this?”

At this last remark Gwyn looked wounded, a look he must have practiced over the years in front of a mirror and replied,

“My usual commission is 15%, as you well know, but as ever with you Dai my old son the figure is 10%. The venues are well established clubs and nightspots.”

“Where?” I asked my eyes widening.

“The Black Country.” Gwyn answered smugly.

“What do mean the Black Country? It’s not somewhere abroad is it?” I asked him with my heart full of hope of a paid holiday.

“Might as well be.” says Gwyn, “It’s where all them darkies live, you know Birmingham, Wolverhampton, Dudley, Walsall.”

“And you call that a full tour?” I was pretty angry at this stage. “The well established clubs and nightspots are just social clubs and boozers aren’t they?”

Gwyn sighed and said

“Think of the money, nearly two grand in less than a month. Can’t be bad now can it?”

“In that case I think I’ll do it!”

Back at home once more I sat at my desk pen in hand to make a list of the things I needed to get done if this tour was going to be a success. My biggest problem was going to be Gordon. As I have already noted he was rather a gormless fellow, but his lack of grey matter made it easy for me to use him as cheap labour. As a rule I paid him ten quid a week retainer plus a tenner per gig, bought most of his beer for him and the odd packet of cigarettes. He also had use of a company vehicle. If you think it was the Granada then you are seriously deluded. No Gordon had more or less exclusive use of the Transit, or “shag wagon” as he so delicately called it from time to time.

I really have no recall of how I came to own this beast of a vehicle, but I do seem to remember it didn’t cost much over £100. The thing is I bought when I was still drinking as I wanted something for getting from “A to B” in, that other motorists would do their best to avoid. This was crucially important as driving a vehicle can be a tad difficult when you are as pissed as a rat in a distillery. Therefore the colour was most attractive to me. It was some kind of orange colour, the sort that British Leyland called “Blaze,” but most people would call “JEEEESUS!” The bodywork was immaculate except for the holes caused by extensive corrosion, and the dents caused by extensive parking incidents. Various parts of this once proud conveyance were painted with red iron oxide paint, Hammerite, and emulsion that was about £3 per ten litre from Hyper Value. So much so, that when exposed to what my old geography teacher used to call precipitation, it would change colour. That was a ploy to keep fuzz off my back when I drove when “under the influence.” The other thing that kept the police away was my willingness to make a run for it, if some zealous officer ever had the temerity to try and stop me and get me to blow into the bag. You see the beast had a 3 litre Granada engine and gearbox jemmied in under the bonnet courtesy of a couple dodgy mechanics from Plasmarl, and unladen would do 130 mph dead easy. The police would have hells old time convincing a magistrate that their state of the art cop car couldn’t keep up with a rusty, barely roadworthy, Ford Transit. Every copper who looked at that van and me in the hope of making an arrest must have thought “case dismissed-officer committing perjury!”

This beast was what used to take us to the gigs, loaded to bursting with my gear and piloted by the hapless Gordon. In an effort to entertain me, Gordon used to tell me of his sexual exploits on the way to shows as if describing a football or rugby match. For a working class Welsh boy who loved heavy metal, and Iron Maiden in particular, he had a strange way of talking about sex. Very Mills And Boon. All “heaving breasts” and “low moans” and “shudders.” Of course this was before he took up with the witch. Now as far as Gordon was concerned monogamy was it. He told me he’d turned his back on the promiscuous lifestyle as he was “scared of catching Aids or the Clap” and the vile witch Wendy (my words obviously-not his) was the best shag in the world ever. (his words obviously-not mine) If there was to be a problem with Gordon it would of her doing, so I decided to shop around for an alternative sound man, roadie and all round loser who’d work for next to nothing.

I reached across the desk and picked up the phone and dialled. I asked the person on the other end to “pop over for a chat.” The person on the other end of the phone was my very own super-fan come stalker, harmless but gullible and devoted.

You know, ironic as it may sound, one of the major drawbacks to being a famous entertainer, or formerly famous like me, can be the fans. Some, not all, intrude on your private life and can spoil some of your simple pleasures like walking in the park and throwing bread at the ducks, because everywhere you go they are not far behind.

Now I’ve had dozens of letters from the council, some threatening not to collect my rubbish anymore, all because of the state of my “black bags.” For a long time I put this problem down to bad luck and neighbours’ cats and dogs, that is until I caught the sad obsessive in the act. It was a humiliating experience for both of us. You see, it was about half past one in the morning and I hadn’t been in very long, I’d had a show that night. l forget where, but that’s not important. I was making myself a cup of cocoa when I heard this God Almighty crash from the bottom of my yard. I quickly found a torch and nervously I don’t mind admitting set off to investigate. Now at the bottom of my yard there’s this like access road, like you on see Coronation Street in point of fact, and that’s where the rubbish is collected from, and that is where I kept my rubbish bags. So I come upon this figure all dressed in black entangled in the next-door neighbour’s moped. I thought he was trying to pinch it, so I gave him a swift kick. Instead of groaning or fighting back he slipped his gloved hand inside his jacket. I thought he might have a weapon so I kicked him again, a lot harder this time. Now he did make a noise, one which rather took me aback. For from inside his jacket he produced a small notebook and uttered the immortal words,

“Please can I have your autograph, Dai? Mr. Dennison? Sir?”

As an afterthought he added,

“Can I have your black bags as well?”

I didn’t know what to say so in my best Windsor Davies voice I boomed out,

“Who the bloody hell are you? Identify yourself, boy!”

“It’s me, Dai... .I mean Mr. Dennison.... It’s me Gareth Hughes!”

I looked down at this sad bedraggled figure covered from head to toe in dog shit and other assorted excrement with a great deal of pity, what could I do? I made a snap decision and invited him into to my home to share cocoa with me. Us “stars” do have responsibilities you know. I’ve had trouble with fans before, which is why I decided to take young Gareth under my wing so to speak.

After one of my first “comeback” gigs I was accosted by a very effeminate young man, who not to put too fine a point of it propositioned me. Of course this was after buttering me up with tales of how his Mam and aunties thought I was brilliant and had been badly treated by the press, the media in general, and so on. Anyway after listening to his lewd, illegal and probably physically impossible suggestions I gave him the brush off in no uncertain terms. This was a bad move on my part, what I should have done I really don’t know, but my handling of this situation led to a good deal of paranoia on my part for several months.

It appeared that every show I did in the following months he’d be there somewhere. As soon as I saw him it seemed that he would quickly leave. He never approached me, but I was very wary of anyone that did. You must remember that these early comeback shows were the first I’d ever done “dry” and as result I was absolutely terrified. The number times I ordered drinks in those days as “just one will calm me down” only to have them taken away by Gwyn, Barbara or even Gordon was innumerable. What I’d forgotten at the time was the fact that as a performer, even in a small venue like a pub, you are very sexually attractive. Even Quasi Modo could pull if he sang in a band! Anyway, I thought that this effeminate young man had taken to dressing up as a woman to terrorize me. For instance, in the Red Lion in Trimsaran I “identified” him as a large breasted thirty five year old in a low cut blouse displaying an ample cleavage. That night I believe that “he” offered me work, at least I think that some kind of job was on offer. Naturally, and petrified, I declined. It got worse. My stalker transmogrified into a five feet tall Baby Spice look-a-like on “her” hen night who offered “her” body on “her” last night of freedom before marriage. Again in sheer unadulterated terror I declined the promised night of passion. However, my paranoia came to a very satisfying end when after a particularly successful show at a location that I’m not prepared to divulge, I was met once more by my nemesis. This time the disguise was fantastic. ”he” was disguised as a stunning blonde with a curvaceous figure, powder blue eyes, long luscious legs and a wide inviting mouth with full lips. “He” never took his eyes off me throughout my performance, and I was scared to death. I felt that this was to the night that my stalker would surely strike. My friends were unsympathetic to my fears, Gwyn said something along the lines of,

“Go on my son! Fill your boots!”

Anyway, my so-called friends conspired to leave me alone in the dressing room after the show. The door opened and in “she” came. We looked at each other for a moment and then “she” removed her dress by lifting it over “her” head. “She” stood in front of me for a moment, naked except for a g-string and stilettos. “She” then grabbed my hand and thrust it against “her” private parts.

“You’re a woman!” I exclaimed on discovering an absence of masculine “wedding tackle.”

“Yes!” She said. “And if you want to shag me, be quick ‘cos my bus is due in half hour.”

“We’ll have to make sure you don’t need a taxi then, won’t we?” I replied paranoia cured, at least for the time being.

CHAPTER 3

Gareth was seated at my kitchen table, sitting incidentally on newspapers as he was covered in what a detergent manufacturer once upon a time called “understains,” you know the kind, “the one’s that are difficult to even (dramatic pause!) talk about,” I liberally sprayed the room with air freshener and handed the spotty youth his cocoa and began the interrogation. I looked him over, all spots, lank hair and grease and asked him what he thought he was doing. He stared sullenly into his cup and shook his head.

“Come on boy,” I said gently, “What on earth were you up to out there?”

“If I told you, well you’d only kick me again.” he whined.

I assured him that there was to be no more kicking and asked him once more what he was up to in my yard.

“Promise you won’t go mad?” he pleaded.

“I can’t promise anything. Besides you’re in no position to bargain, I could still call the police.” I told him.

At that point his eyes filled with tears and I thought that he was going to cry. I really did feel sorry for him, but there was no way I was going to let this little episode pass without taking some sort of action.

“All right then, I’ll tell you. I don’t have any choice, do I?” young Gareth said.

“No son you don’t. You either tell me or the police” I said. I’d heard Bogart say that in a film once, it was nice to an opportunity to use it in real life.

“Promise you won’t hit me?” I nodded. “Well I was in this pub the other night, and I put one of your records on the jukebox,”Streets Of The Rhondda,” I think, and this mush comes up to me and he says like “you like him?” and I tell him that I does and that I thinks that Dai Dennison is a true great, and better than them Sinatras and yanks and stuff. He says that you is a washed up has been, and I says that you is no such thing, I mean you are not washed up are you?”

What could I say to such a question? “Yes son I’m washed up, finished and I drank more money than you’ll ever earn in your life.” So I merely shook my head and motioned him to continue with his story.

“Anyways, he says he wants to write a piece in a newspaper about you. Like where are they now, or something like that. And I says that you’re making a comeback, and going to the Palladium. He says Dai Dennison will never make a comeback because he’s going to get some scandal and finish you for good. Even if he has to go through your rubbish he said. So I thought that if I pinched your rubbish then if you were in a scandal then he would never find out, see?”

As daft as it may sound I did see. I had nothing to hide these days, apart from the odd lustful thought about Barbara, but think what the tabloids could make of that!

This spotty youth could be a great ally, I thought. Loyal, steadfast and true just what was required by a man in my position. I needed to find out though who this reptile from a newspaper really was. Perhaps then we could dig some dirt on him. That or we could give him a good kicking. It was for this reason that I instructed young Gareth to befriend this reptile and find out all he could about him. This greatly cheered him, and he left my house that night with a vigour previously absent. He did still smell of dog shit though.

The bin bag evening was about a month earlier and so imagine my surprise that the first words Gareth said to me when I opened the door for him were,

“I found him again Mr Dennison! He works for some paper up in England!”

I’d almost forgotten about Gareth’s little job for me. I was now curious to find out just who was trying to stop my comeback almost before it had begun.

“Have you managed to find out what his name is?” I asked.

“Oh yes! And he don’t like you one little bit!” Gareth replied.

“Well?” I was waiting.

“Freddie Winfield!” Gareth announced in triumph.

Gareth sat himself down in the front room, and I put a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He was almost child like in his innocence, and although he was capable of uttering truly offensive remarks, it was necessary to bear in mind that anything said to you had no malicious intent, unless he shouted, that is. Naturally young Gareth would never raise his voice to me, but his confrontations with Gordon were usually entertaining, as Gordon was thick and monosyllabic if he wasn’t talking about sex or Iron Maiden, whereas Gareth was thick, but had a lot to say for himself on any subject matter. Immediately he was demanding to know who Freddie Winfield was, and why he “had it for me.” I told young Gareth I had no idea, but I knew all right, but that was something I had no intention of telling Gareth, certainly not at that stage, if ever.

I told Gareth that I had no interest in some low life who wanted to write lies about me, and then told him why I’d asked him round.

“You see, Gareth, I need someone reliable and honest and dedicated. Gordon won’t come with me without his girlfriend, I know that even though I’ve not asked him. So I thought to myself, who do I know that could help me out?” I nodded at him smiling.

“So, Mr Dennison you couldn’t think of anyone, so you are asking me if I know anyone.

That’s right, isn’t it?” Gareth was also smiling, giving me a lovely view of his black teeth, which probably had never felt the benefit of a toothbrush. I took a deep breath, God in Heaven, was that boy slow or what?

“No Gareth,” I said patiently, “ I was thinking of you.”

“Me?” he asked incredulously. Well he would have done if he had known what “incredulous” means, so I think I’ll say puzzled. “Why me?”

“Well Gareth, I think that you have all of the necessary attributes to replace Gordon.” I said.

“But I can’t drive!” he wailed, “And I’d never be able to operate the equipment!”

“Of course you could,” I told him, “I’ll show you, it’s really simple. All you would have to do is help me hump the gear in and set it up, and put the discs on. I’ll write a set list and everything. It’ll be really simple!”

“I’ll never be able do it!” Gordon was almost shouting, almost.

“Why?”

“I can’t read!”

Spiffing, fantastic, and bugger!

“I’ll come with you though, and I can sleep in the van to guard the equipment.”

Terrific.

“And you mustn’t pay me, cause it’ll mess my dole up.”

I took a deep breath and could have screamed. I had just managed to lumber myself with an illiterate halfwit for one month in the West Midlands. My own lack of foresight astounded me sometimes. I tried to discourage Gareth, but he was full of anticipation and was becoming excited to the point of hyperventilation. He gulped the rest of his coffee and left to “tell me Mam!”

I then made up my mind to get hold of Gordon, and see how he was fixed for this upcoming journey into the unknown. I won’t bore you with the details of our little tete a tete, but basically the gist of what he said included the following phrases:-

“F*** off.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“£100 a week.”

What I said was less polite, and I demanded the immediate return of the Transit.

“Come and get it yourself.” he said

“Return it, or I report it stolen!” I said.

“Okay I’ll return it but I’m taking my stereo out first.” he said.

Great! Bloody great! Now I had a willing member of my “roadcrew” who didn’t want paying, and volunteered to sleep in the van to guard the gear, but he had no chance of operating a mixing desk and a minidisc player! Gordon was joined at hip to that vile witch Wendy, so I judged that the odds on him changing his mind and coming to the Midlands with me, to be remote. Plus he was becoming more demanding financially, and I was beginning to think that I could really do without him, especially at small gigs. I needed another option, some option that I couldn’t perhaps see. Perhaps what I needed was a cunning plan. Perhaps what I needed was a drink. Perhaps what I needed was some female company.

“Lucinda, I’ve a real problem with this tour. Huh, tour! Bawling my lungs out in working mens clubs!” I was not a happy chappy at that moment.

She looked at me over the top of her wineglass, its’ rim stained scarlet with lipstick, her eyes full of concern and said,

“David, I do so worry about you. I worry all the more when you get depressed as I think you may.................”

She couldn’t bring herself to say “start drinking again.” but we both knew that’s what she meant. She placed her glass carefully down on the table between us, and looked at it guiltily,

“Look, before we talk I’ll get rid of this, it’s bound to upset you, and get us a couple of cokes.”

“It doesn’t bother me in the slightest,” I lied, “But you’re clearly uncomfortable so it’ll be my treat!”

With the cokes in front of us Lucinda listened to my problem regarding my need for cheap, free or unpaid assistant-small brain essential, extensive knowledge of P.A. equipment preferable. I told her of Gareth who’d drive the van and guard the gear, but would have no idea how to operate the gear. So with all that explained, I said that it was likely that the “tour” would be over before it had begun, but I ended my torrent of misery with the comment,

“I’ll listen to any suggestions.”

Lucinda looked levelly at me, and said,

“I’ll do it! It’ll be easy for me to get some time off.”

“Great!” I thought, “Fan-bloody-tastic!”

Then she leaned across the table and took both of my hands in hers, licked her lips, looked deep, deep into my eyes and breathed,

“And we can share a room! A double’s the same price as a single in most places!”

I have no conception of the look that crossed my features at that precise moment, as I pulled my hands from the table, upsetting two tall glasses of coke, an ashtray, and more significantly the person who had become, over the past few years, my best friend in the world.

She burst into tears immediately, and loudly. Other punters in this pub looked over towards us, and put their heads together in conspiratorial little huddles. I felt like shouting at them, I also felt ashamed. Ashamed that I couldn’t really deal with Lucinda. Were Lucinda an ordinary woman I would have either laughed off her last remark as the joke it more than likely was, or tried to take her up on the offer and rogered her senseless. My mind was racing, my heart thumping. Lucinda dabbed at her eyes and looked at me,

“I used to think that I was the one that was mad, or bad,” she paused as groping for what to say next. ”You must know how I feel about you, you must! And because of what I was, rather than who I am now, you can’t find it within yourself to indulge me and flirt like you would with a regular girl, or one of those slappers that chase you around social clubs.”

She was quite composed now.

“You find me revolting, don’t you?”

I couldn’t give her an answer to that question so I busied myself picking up the glasses from the floor,

“Answer me, for Christ’s sake!” Lucinda pressed, “After the things I’ve done for you in the past, I think that you should, no you owe it to me to answer. You think I’m some sort of freak, don’t you? Just because I’ve tried to put my past behind me. You won’t forget will you?”

I desperately wanted to find the words to say, but the right words were not going to come, all I could say was,

“No Lucinda, I don’t find you revolting, I don’t think you are a freak.”

“Well what do you think of me?” she demanded

“I don’t know. I like you, you’re a good person, but can’t you see that when you come on all, you know thingy, it scares the hell out of me. You intimidate me! I never, ever think of your past.”

“Liar!“ she was angry at that response, ”You say that like some so called “new man” and I bet you read that in Cosmopolitan, what was the article, “gender issues in the 90s?””

“Look,” I interrupted, “you’re the one who’s not being fair.”

“Rubbish David! And you know it! “ she was coming in for the kill, “ You like to be seen with me, because lets face it, I’m not bad looking, and nobody outside of you knows of my “past” in this town. In public you treat me like a lady, but if I start acting like one you accuse me of coming on all thingy, and scaring you. You really are full of shit!”

With that she stood up, reached for her coat and bag, and looking down on me from her considerable height said,

“You know where I live. If you ever grow up enough so that our friendship can continue on a more adult level, then feel free to call me. If you can’t accept your feelings, well David, just crawl back into your bottle and go back to the gutter. I’ve no intention of joining you there, I’ve left my sordid past behind me.” She paused, and shaking her head sadly continued, “ I really did think there was a depth to your character. Just goes to show how wrong one can be.”

So there I was, left alone in this pub with a wet table, an ashtray full of pop and two chipped glasses in front of me. Oh yes, and a pair of wet trousers from where I’d managed to soak myself with the “real thing.” That little scenario just about summed up my life. I went to the bar with the glasses and apologising to the barman for my clumsiness ordered myself a low alcohol lager and a cigar. When he’d put the drink in front of me he asked whether everything was all right. I told him that everything was fine. Then he astonished me with his next remark. This is what he said, I remember it clearly,

“ I hope the lady is okay. I could see she was upset. You know sir, it breaks my heart to see such a , if you don’t mind me saying, classy lady cry!”

And this about a “lady” who used to be what is laughingly known as an “exotic dancer” and “model” who had been the original good time - had by all.

CHAPTER 4

I decided to decline all offers of “help,” and do this tour alone. I told Gareth it wouldn’t be fair to him to come all that way for no financial reward, and I left a message on Lucinda’s answer phone that I would contact her immediately on my return. I’d made provision for the fact that I would be totally solo, and sorted and labelled all my backing tracks in a manner that would ensure that I would need no help from a third party.

The beast of a Transit was taken to Plasmarl for a genuinely thorough service, in preparation of a hard month in the West Midlands and all of the gear and my casual and stage clothes loaded. Bookings in Travel Lodges were made and arrangements to have a little local help in humping gear about were also put into operation.

The tour was about to start, and because of my arguments with Gordon and Lucinda, I felt very bloody minded, and had adopted a “don’t worry about me I’ll do it all” type of attitude. Gwyn kept phoning to ask if everything was all right, to which I’d informed him that I wasn’t a child and could organize myself without his help or interference. I rather nastily told him that if he was so worried about his commission that I’d write a cheque in advance.

The day of departure had finally arrived and for what seemed like the first time since I was a fresh faced eighteen year old heading for University, I was to travel alone. Swansea being Swansea, it was pissing down which would make my three or so hours journey all the more depressing. Since Gordon The Moron had removed his tape player from the Beast I was faced with driving 150 miles accompanied only by the sound of the windscreen wipers clunking and clattering with disconcerting irregularity.

It wouldn’t have been so bad had the beat been regular as I might have been able to sing some songs to myself to keep myself amused. As it was all I had for company was the deafening silence of a three quarter knackered Transit Van doing 85 all the way – and my thoughts.

I never liked being on my own without some kind of distraction. It allowed me to think, to dwell on the past. Something that I was never particularly keen to do. Still I could then, and can now, appreciate what a self deluding twat I can be . I had a career once – a career with a capital “C” and I’d fucked it up big time. What was I? What am I? A talented musician who can sing a bit.

Yet I’d allowed myself to be turned in the space of a couple of years and two flop singles into what is laughingly known as an “all round enterntainer” who wore crushed velvet suits and sang emotion drenched sentimental ballads. Do you want to know why I did it? Because it was easy and the money was good. I despised my audience, I was a smug arrogant sod accumulating cash and peddling crap at every conceivable opportunity. Sitting in that van I had no career, was been paid shit money to peddle the same crap. I suppose that’s what is called poetic justice.

I left the motorway and headed towards Wolverhampton on theA4123 and ended up on the ring road system, which incidentally goes slap bang through the center of the town. By the time I had passed what I took to be the library three or four times, I decided that perhaps in the abscence of that mainstay of the piss poor cabbie, an A to Z, I need a few directions.

The first show of this tour was in Wolverhampton at Norton Villiers (Redundant) Workers Club in Lower Villiers Street in a district called Blakenhall. I was relying on directions from the good citizens of Wolverhampton, none of whom had ever heard of a district called Blakenhall. I found this to be quire bizarre.

Finally a gentleman sporting the most impressive set of dreadlocks gave me detailed directions out of town towards my destination. Imagine my diappointment when I ended up in Tettenhall. I angrily turned the Beastback towards the town center, took a wrong turning a was on the point of both tears and admitting defeat and going back home.

Part of the problem, it transpired arose from the fact that Blakenhall is not pronounced as it is written. No, Blakenhall is pronounced “Blaykunnnull.” I finally discovered this in a wonderful little shop called Gupta’s Mini Mart in a colourful area known as Whitmore Reans. The number of languages in use in that wonderful little emporium was bloody staggering. Speak as I find though, the directions that I was given, “Turn left at the Mosque, straight on past the Hindu temple, turn right at the Synagogue.............” were a tad eccentric, but spot on.

I was met in club car park by an old gent, who looked a little like Freddie Kruger’s dad, who called out what I took to be a traditional local greeting,

“Yow core park that thing theeah! Yow daft bugger!”

TRANSLATION:

“I say, it is quite inadvisable to leave your vehicle in that exact location.Sir!”

Quite what that meant I had no idea at the time, but I had a fair idea a couple of minutes later when a Banks’ beer wagon smacked into the Beast, causing a few modifications to the body work. Mr Kruger became rather animated at this event and once more spoke,

“Ah towulld yow! Ah towulld yow! We bay Lyabbul! Tay ower fullt! Ah towulld yow!”

TRANSLATION:

“I did notify you my good man not to park your vehicle in that precise location. Therefore by order of the Committee the committee accepts no liability for damage to your vehicle! ”

Of course I had no idea what this rather grotesque octogenarian was talking about. I was wondering whether he speaking to me in Polish? German?

“Oom yow?” Mr Kruger enquired. I knew it was a question by the inflection in those two sounds.

“Sorry?” I said at a loss.

“Oom yow? Oo am yow? Am yow thee tern?” Mr Kruger elaborated.

“Who am I ? Am I the “turn?”” this last word cut me to the quick as I still had some level of professional pride. “ Yes I suppose you could call me the turn, but I’d prefer it if you just called me Dai, or Dave or Mr Dennison!”

My attempt at ironic humour was lost on this cretin as he looked me up and down and said,

“ Well “turn” thee chairmon’ll wont to see yow. Sue goo threw them dooers ann foller yer nowerz.” The amount of malice and spite he managed to fit into the word “turn” was frankly astounding. I merely responded,

“Thank you for your help, kindness and consideration. You know you really are the most repulsive little man I have ever clapped eyes on in my life!”

Well I didn’t really, but I wish I had, what I really said was,

“Thanks.”

Thanks! Thanks! What was I becoming? Thanking a wizened ignoramus for insulting me! I was getting soft!

The chairman of the club met me as I was walking down the short corridor that led to the “concert hall” and at least he looked genuinely pleased to see me.

“Well bloody ‘ell! It is yow! Ah thought it might’ve been one of them crappy tribute acts.” he paused and scrutinised me closely for a couple of seconds and continued, “I am right ay I ? Yow’m really ‘im ay yow?”

I held my hand out to shake hands and said,

“ Dai Dennison. Pleased to meet you.”

We sat at a table near the bar and the chairman, Brian, apologised for not being able to offer me a pint. The reason he gave was something to do with the steward either cleaning out or girding his “loins.” I had no idea what he was talking about so I asked if I could have a tonic water.

All chairman Brian could say, in between puffs on his pipe was,

“Bugger me! Dai Dennison in owier club! Bugger me!”

I believe that it’s fair to say without being excessively egotistical, I was a highlight in terms of talent in this club, who had never had anyone more famous than a third rate tribute group on its’ stage before. The chairman informed me that the “Bilston Beatles” were “bostin,’” but added that it is difficult to accept a retail butcher, and a painter and decorator as “ John Lemming and Paul MacCarthy.”

Then chairman Brian informed me that a chap from the local paper was coming over to a little interview, if I didn’t mind.

“Should be all right, Brian. “ I said. “ Any idea what his name is?”

As I said this I had a funny feeling about Gareth’s “reporter from England.”

“Bloody ‘ell aah! I’ve got ‘is card ‘ere! Aah! Frederick Winfield, writes for the Express And Star!”....................................................................................................................

CHAPTER 5

Freddie Winfield, now that was a name from the past. If I was washed up then the same could be said for old Freddie, the bastard. He must have been at least sixty by then, and was a journalist of the old school. Perhaps you have heard of him, might even have seen him on T.V. years ago with Mary Whitehouse. A real boy scout was old Freddie. Against all manner of things he was. Never would he come out in favour of anything, always trying to put a stop to something or other. Which was ironic in its’ own way, as Freddie could really drink, and he liked girls young if you know what I mean. You know fourteen or fifteen, that’s the age Freddie liked them. Could always try his “Old Uncle Freddie” act with girls that age.

The amazing thing is that he never got caught out. Not once, yet his habits were widely known, and in some cases admired, by a wide circle of show business people. At the height of his career Freddie was the top show business critic in the country and his column in the Daily Express could make or break performers. There was many a promising show removed from the air because of Freddie. He had power and was both ruthless and self serving in the way in which he used it. In other words if you knew any details about his vile and sordid private life, then the tacit agreement was that you’d get favourable coverage. If, however, you were ignorant of Freddie’s love life, then as likely as not you’d be hammered by him. Very few performers could rise above the waves of vitriol spewed forth by Freddie and have successful careers. A few managed, I was one for a few years, and that is one of the reasons he hated my guts.

There were of course many others, most involving the fact that I’m younger, better looking than him and Welsh, but there again Freddie was no matinee idol and was of questionable origin. No, what I think Freddie found most odious about me was the fact that I could, and frequently did, drink him under the table and then go out onstage and perform for two hours with no apparent ill effects. Into the bargain on the night I “disgraced” myself on live national T.V. Freddie was comatose in the Green Room at the B.B.C. Television Centre and unable to file what was the biggest show business story for years, my appearance on Billy Warner’s show.

I know that appearance on “Warner” is the overpowering reason that my career went into a spectacular tailspin. It is also the reason that in the minds of some I went from cheesy old fashioned variety type performer into some dangerous form of alternative Welsh Lenny Bruce. It is also the reason that in the minds of others I should have been tried with treason, blasphemy and executed, having been tortured first.

According to the “Sun” I was less popular in Leeds than the “Yorkshire Ripper.” The thing is about my appearance on that show that few people realize is that I wasn’t trying to be funny or provocative or anything like that at all. No way, I was simply pissed out of mind. The problem is and was that nobody believed me because I didn’t “look drunk.” The thing is in those days I was always drunk to a greater or lesser extent so nobody could remember what I looked like sober.

It was 1981, and the day began innocuously enough. Breakfast at home in Porthcawl, and then driven to Cardiff to catch the train to Paddington. I remember signing autographs at the station as I waited on the platform. I stood there as I recall for about fifteen minutes chatting to various people all of whom seemed to know I was going to be on “Warner” that evening. I had a new show starting in the West End in about a month and I was to sing a couple of songs and generally plug the show.

It was something of a departure for me as up until that point I was what dear old Freddie had called a “professional Welshman,” and the old bastard was spot on. The English lapped it up. You know it was all miners, choirs and rugby, but even I was getting tired of it. This new show was to be much less structured and the music was going to be supplied by rock band and I was going to talk to the audience not as the performer, but as a person. Trying to make it “real” I was. The content of my chat was going to be topical and relaxed. In a unique venture for the time the audience were invited to respond and take part. I was to be like the host at a damn good party, with the audience invited to really join in and even come on stage. The reviews from the press only shows had been ecstatic, with massive success both here and in America predicted. I was in my early thirties and superstardom beckoned.

The train pulled in and I took my place in first class. I settled down and opened my case to get out the newspapers that I needed to read if my show was to be topical.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

I looked up and there stood Freddie Winfield. Even then I had a great dislike for the man so I replied,

“Of course not. Take a seat, it’s good to see you.”

I studied him closely. At this time he’d have been in his early forties, but he looked considerably older. He was emaciated, looking rather like out of uniform member of the Nazi party with his hair centre parted and slicked down with Brylcreem. His long and twisted nose was marked with thin red veins, “ a sure sign of a whisky drinker” as my Bampy used to say. He had thin mean lips hiding small brilliant white yet crooked teeth. He could have come from any decade yet here we were in 1981.

He looked me over with thinly disguised contempt and offered drinks which I naturally accepted. With that he went off to the restaurant carriage, returning minutes later with a small tray containing four cans of beer and a couple of miniature whisky bottles, and a couple of gins with tonic water. As he set the tray down I asked him what he was doing in Cardiff.

“I’ve been visiting an elderly cousin of mine.” he replied, “He’s not at all well at the moment, so I thought the least I could do was to pay him a visit.”

Now I knew that Freddie had no family, at least he’d always traded on the fact that he was a “Barnado’s” boy. Plus the thought of Freddie doing someone an act of unselfish kindness, well it just wouldn’t happen. As likely as not he’d been on an away day to Bute Town in search of teenage totty. This was one of Freddie’s ruses for keeping his murky sex life away from the public eye.

What I needed to do there and then was see if I could get Freddie to give me and my new show a nice big fat plug, without having to resort to threats, violence or blackmail. We sat opposite one another with cans of beer opened and spirits awaiting consumption. Neither actually liked the other, but our success was inextricably linked. He had no job without the likes of me to write about, whilst I had no profile without being able to keep my face in the daily papers. As the train rocked from side to side, like a sullen child, I had an idea.

“Freddie, are you working on anything special today?” I asked him, my voice earnest and as full as respect as I could mange without actually puking.

“David, my day is my own. I am as you may say a free agent. Why do you ask?” he intoned. At that that moment I could have smashed his face in. He was just such a smug superior bastard. I had no choice but to bite the bullet,

“Did you know that I’m doing “Warner” tonight?” I continued.

“Somebody ought to! Jumped up bank clerk! Good for you! I always wondered how he got so far so quickly. I wrote that in my column once. did you read it..” He oozed like an open sore.

“Look Fred my teenager chasing old mate.” The drinking caused me some wild mood swings and an uncontrollable temper which had just reacted like a wounded bear, ”Are you just going to take the piss or be civil?”

That’s one of the only advantages of drinking the amount that I used to. Absolute lack of fear and an ability to lose your temper very quickly, take a sip and get back in check. Anyway, at that last remark of mine all the smug, supercilious look disappeared. His face gave away little, but his eyes betrayed a certain caution.

“That’s a slanderous remark, young sir!” he said.

“Only when it’s not true!” I definitely had the upper hand, “ Take me to court.”

He looked uneasy, so I poured myself a gin and tonic into the plastic tumbler in front of me, and waited. Let the bastard fret for a while, I thought. Besides I needed to calm down. I must have been wound tighter than a spring.

“ Now Dai, what’s all this about? We may not be best of friends, but we usually get along just fine. If I have upset you or provoked you, in any private way, I apologise. However, If anything I have written about you in my column has offended you, well “C’est la guerre”” The old bastard sounded almost sincere, almost.

Got him! A brilliant tactical manoeuvre that one. He’d have done virtually anything to keep me sweet. You see, the drink got me a bit of a reputation as a “hell raiser,” as they call them in the gutter press-celebrity piss artists that’s all they are. Get a few gallons down me and I got real nasty. Quick with the fists and the tongue. As a result a lot of people were wary of crossing me, or at least knew those unfortunate enough to have done so. Freddie knew one or two, like the Tory M.P. who tried it on with a girl I was with. I punched his lights out. Not wise, but necessary. He threatened me with the police, I threatened him with the press and Conservative Central office. You see he was a married man. Mind, he did disappear from Parliament for a few weeks to let the swelling go down. I’ve always wondered what he told his wife.

“Freddie I’m offering you a nice little story, and you’re taking the piss. Now I don’t want to get angry, so just listen and answer me when I’ve finished, okay?” Freddie nodded. “Like I said I’m doing “Warner” tonight, just me, I’m the only guest. A bit of a plug for the new show, you know the score.”

The unctuous little git asserted that he did indeed know the score. I continued,

“Well I thought it might a nice idea for you to come with me and write it up, you know, the T.V. appearance and all that. A nice little exclusive for you, and a nice plug for me. What do you think?”

The thing that probably appealed to Freddie was the “exclusive” bit. Plus as an entertainment writer, if he could get in at the start of a new show and boost it up, well it had to worth some Brownie points, didn’t it? Anyway the old bastard agreed so for the rest of the day we were to be stuck with each other.

Anyway as I’ve already mentioned and showed, me and Freddie weren’t exactly bosom pals. The only thing that kept our meetings civil as a rule was our mutual love for all things alcoholic. On this occasion we’d not got off to a good start and I realised that if Freddie was going to write nice things about me then I would need to be nice to him.

Pissed as I was becoming, I also realised that my earlier outburst was a little uncalled for, so in the spirit of cooperation I opened my case and brought forth a bottle of Glennfyddich, and offered to share it with Freddie by way of an apology. At this point I had already drunk two cans of beer and two large gins, and that was just on the train since Cardiff. I remember quite clearly opening that bottle, and noting that the train was still well short of arriving at Swindon.

For the remainder of the ride to Paddington, me and Freddie got very thoroughly pissed. Our conversation as I recall was largely based around naming someone in the business, and either describing to the other in great detail some murky secret or peccadillo, or simply summing up their act as “shit,” and describing them as talentless. All the while the train rocked back and forth, and all the while me and Freddie kept the banter up. You see, when you’re talking about somebody else then you are not giving away any secrets about yourself.

Freddie’s secret was his taste for teenagers, my secret? Well it was an open secret to everyone who knew me, I was what the newspapers call a “Hell Raiser,” and what most people would call a piss artist, dipso or pure and simply an alcoholic.

We virtually fell off the train at Paddington, and knowing that I needed to get back in shape, I suggested that we went to get something to eat and would meet in a couple of hours suitably refreshed. Freddie decided to go to his flat to deposit his bags and change, and I was off to my hotel where I had to meet with my personal manager, and shower, change and generally get back into some semblance of shape, for I knew I was close to being dangerously and uncontrollably drunk.

With a decent enough meal inside me to soak up a little of the days refreshments, I met up with Freddie in a Sloane Square wine bar. He had arranged transport for us, courtesy of his newspaper, in order that we might get to the Television Centre with plenty of time to spare. We agreed that we would use the hour or two in the wine bar to put together some sort of “profile” to accompany the article, “A Day In The Life Of Dai Dennison.” We had also agreed that the main bulk of the article was to be a work of fiction, and Freddie had even jested that he might enter it for the “Booker Prize.”

You see the reason that it had to be a work of fiction was that even then as a successful performer, I really didn’t have much of a life. Most of my days were spent getting pissed with various cronies and hangers on, or fellow dissolute celebs. Most of the nights were spent on stage, or shacked up in a hotel bed with some star struck chorus girl, fan or, if I was desperate enough, hooker.

It was laughable, as I was known as an eligible bachelor and “ladies man,” but had never had a proper relationship with anyone. I think I was incapable of love, or you could say that my only idea of love, was sex. I was a mess.

The only other thing I did on a regular basis was play guitar and piano. It amazed me that I had set off all those years ago to Parlophone to become another Eric Clapton or Jimi Hendrix, yet I had been seduced by the lure of the cash and the celebrity, and I had turned into a second rate Englebert Humperdinck. I made a point of keeping my musical abilities “secret” as it was the only part of me that I felt was truly private.

I had written hundreds of songs and pieces of music, and even a couple of musicals, but I never had any intention of anyone ever hearing them. They were mine, my friends, my family, my children and I was not prepared to have them prostituted, as I had prostituted myself.

Anyway, Freddie rather drunkenly ran the idea of the “workaholic” performer dedicated to his art, by me, and I readily agreed that it was the sort of thing that the public likes to read about the famous. The public likes to think of performers being totally dedicated to performing and honing their act for the pleasure of others. They also like to think of celebrities inflicting themselves on the sick and needy in the name of “putting something back.”

I never did anything like that, but me and good old Freddie weren’t interested in truth, we were interested in publicity. Besides as long as Freddie was vague about my “charitable exploits” then we weren’t going to get caught out.

All the time we were talking, we were drinking. I had eased back on consumption and was drinking white wine and soda, a good drink in public, but old Freddie was still attacking the scotch like it was going out of fashion. As a result he got drunker and drunker, so much so that when the limo arrived to take us to Shepherds Bush I virtually had to carry him out. The mini bar in the back of the car did Freddie no favours, mainly because by now he was drunk enough to want to show off. He was regaling me with a tail of how important he was, all the while demolishing the contents of the limo’s alcohol supply. Me, I was getting nervous as I had little experience of live TV, but I consoled myself with the thought that there was very little that could go wrong. As an interviewer Warner was a pussycat and as a singer, well I had every confidence in my abilities.

The limo pulled into the BBC Television Centre and upon entering the building we were met by a production assistant from the show. He greeted me warmly, even though to my recollection we had never met previously. However, he looked at the drunk and dishevelled Frederick Winfield and enquired who he was. To add further unintentional insult, he also asked if he was with me, as if he was just a bum who’d followed me in off the street. Good old Freddie exploded with indignant rage at this and started effing and blinding at all and sundry, and especially at the security chap who’d come over to see what the fuss was about, prior to issuing us with passes. A small scuffle ensued, until Freddie, at my request, was led through to the “Green Room.”

There the producer of the show, who wanted to run through the running order of the show, met me. I’d already put in a day of rehearsals just for this programme, so even with the butterflies still floating in my stomach, I was becoming more relaxed as show time approached. I should have known this relaxed state of mind didn’t bode well, as in those days I was always edgy and tense before a performance. I have since been told that this tension was caused by a comparative lack of alcohol coursing through my veins, as I usually didn’t perform when pissed. Not on purpose anyway.

That little chat over, I headed into make up where my P.A. (that’s Personal Assistant) was busily exchanging notes regarding the men in the studio, the latest gossip, make up tips, and other such trivialities that the female brain dead discuss when they meet a like minded individual. He certainly was an odd bod was my P.A.

When the greasepaint had been applied, I slipped into a rather fine outfit consisting of a white jacket and jet black trousers with patent leather shoes.

“ Ooh, you look a proper James Bond, you do! You really do!” My P.A. twittered, “It’s a real pity you’re such a short arse though, it is ! It really is!”

Anyone else speaking to me like that would have either got a thump or similar, but my P.A. was, and probably still is the best in the business. Besides he kept me well entertained and relaxed with his girlish chatter. I headed back into the “Green Room” knowing there was barely sixty minutes to the show going out. My band was seated together around a table, all of them dutifully drinking halves of lager. Freddie was having a discussion of sorts with the producer, but Freddie was so pissed that he could not have been making any sense at all, to anyone including himself.

In then came the host of the show, Billy Warner. You know all about “Our Billy,” don’t you? You’ve seen him on the telly, heard him on the radio, he’s like one of the family, right?

WRONG!

That is unless you have a psychotic vindictive serial killer in your family. You what his opening words to me were? You’ll never guess so I’ll tell you. He said, something like,

“I didn’t want you on my show because you a shit singer and about as funny as road accident. But my production team insisted. Reckons you’re popular though I can’t see why.”

or words to that effect.

I was speechless. Well I was for a moment or two until I had a great idea, so I looked this smarmy insulting prat in the eye and said,

“If that’s how you feel I’ll be off!”

With that I strolled over to the producer of this show and related what the lovable host had said to me. Well, the producer tried to laugh it off saying that Billy always tried to “wind up his guests” before going on air to create a bit of tension. Then came the second insult. He, the producer, then said,

“All the top people know of Billy’s little foibles and tactics, ha ha!”

I felt I’d been fed to the sharks, and I was thinking of what I’d do to my precious P.A. when I caught up with him. Why I hadn’t he briefed me on this? He was supposed to be the best in the business. No, that wasn’t right, he was the best in the business. I was being turned over here, and I couldn’t think what to do? My P.A. had seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth, so I couldn’t even ask him what was going on. Freddie, well I didn’t trust him any further than I could throw him, and besides he was absolutely out of his brains. There was nothing for it, but to get in touch with my old dear friend so I turned away from this smirking producer and headed towards the bar.

“Do you have a telephone here?” I asked the barman.

“No sir!” he replied.

“In that case just give me a very large scotch.”

“Same again.....”

It’s quite amazing the effect that forty odd minutes drinking scotch, initially on my own and at the end with the almost paralytic Freddie can have on one’s mood. I was, as I strode on to that stage to take my place in front of the band, the “King Of The World.” That nervous confusion of less than an hour ago had evaporated to be replaced by a belligerent confidence, and aggression. I’d thrown off my white jacket as I walked onto the stage, and carelessly draped it across the top of the guitarists’ amp. I stood there adrenaline pumping whilst the taped theme tune played and the floor managers were cajoling the audience to applaud and cheer. “ Our Billy” did his usual “humourous” piece to camera and introduced me as the “fantastic,”” marvellous,” with a “brilliant” new show opening shortly, and a lot of other claptrap. Then me and the band ripped into “Promised Land,” a great old Chuck Berry song, and at its’ conclusion, “Our Billy” came across and tried to make my, our applause his.

“Ah now that was great, what a voice.” he smarmed, “What a performance!”

I sat down opposite him and took a drink of water from the table between us, I was adrenalized.

“Now that brought this lot,” at this comment he gestured at his captive audience, “to their feet. It’s a special talent that can do that!”

There were a couple of whistles from the audience at this, so “Our Billy” continued fawning,

“I’m really looking forward to seeing the show, and hearing your new album, if that is anything to go by!”

I nodded and smiled, and those whiskies I’d drunk were beginning to “kick in,” so I looked at “Our Billy” and uttered the first of my “controversial” remarks of that show,

“That’s interesting Billy, that’s really very interesting.”

At this point I turned in my chair to face the audience and decided to continue,

“You see folks,” I said, “Less than one hour ago in hospitality here at the B.B.C. Billy here described my singing as “shit,” and told me I was only on this show because his production team insisted.”

I could see the stage manager gesturing because I’d said “shit,” but I looked over at him and called out,

“I’m only repeating what this poor man’s Parkinson said to me. They’re his words, not mine”

“Ha! Ha!” laughed “Our Billy” joylessly, “ Now that was funny, you’ve got everyone’s attention now!”

It was a fine attempt at wallpapering over the cracks now appearing on his show, but it was of course doomed to failure. All the efforts I made on a daily basis to keep the “whiskey monster” seemed pointless, so I decided to go for the big one. For some reason the idea of performing on the edge was now the single most attractive thing in the world, so I turned back to “Our Billy” and said,

“You’re a useless interviewer, so let’s get the audience to ask some questions. And I’ll tell you what, I’ll answer them all truthfully!”

“Our Billy” had that fake plastic smile of his welded across his features, so with little he could do about it, he got up with his radio mic and headed towards the studio audience. All the time he was “crying” that this madman had hijacked his show, and that he was going to tell his Mommy. naturally, the audience thought that this was an elaborate set up, and were laughing fit to burst.

“Lady here has a question for you!” called out “Our Billy”

“Go on then, love. What do want to know?” I called back.

“Well my question for you is, what do you think of Mrs Thatcher?”

I made an effort to look thoughtful for a moment or two, as if considering the question and then said,

“I firmly believe that she is the Anti Christ, intent on the ruination of the economic base of this country. I also believe that she is attempting to line the pockets of that weasel of a son of hers, he who surely must be a great disappointment to her.”

The reaction to that was interesting, a mixture of amused shock, and righteous anger, but I really didn’t give a toss.

“Our Billy” battled on gamely and went in search of another question, which was something along the lines of,

“What, Dai, did you think of the Royal Wedding?”

I considered that question for a moment and gave my now notorious response.

“Speaking first and foremost as a Welshman I find it difficult to get excited about a wedding that doesn’t include the odd punch up.”

That drew a few chuckles from the studio audience and a relieved smile crossed Billy Warner’s features, but all hell broke loose when I added,

“Thing is though, I reckon Diana was the only virgin they could find dumb enough to marry someone as ugly as Charlie boy! I mean how can you go to a public school and only come out with one “O” level unless you really are as thick as shit.”

The audience were now howling with derision so when I continued,

“I wouldn’t mind fucking her though – I bet she’s great in the sack.”

Pissed as I was I realized I’d gone too far and I thought I was going to get lynched.

Billy Warner made a rush for me, and as we were face to face on the little stage, he swung a haymaker at me. I easily ducked inside it and hit him hard on the point of the chin. He folded like a pack of cards and landed with the grace and poise of a sack of spuds.

Someone at this point grabbed me from behind and was trying to wrestle me from the stage. I could see Billy scrambling to his feet looking a bit put out. He was coming back for more, so I brought the heel of my cowboy boot down hard across the toes of whoever was holding me, and he released his grip – now for Billy.

This time I decided the superior bastard wasn’t going to get up as quickly. He was screaming and came at me like an angry schoolgirl, all scratching and biting. Well I wasn’t going to have any of that now was I? A knee to the nuts stopped him dead in his tracks, and by second punch of the evening neatly and comprehensively broke his nose.

It was then I looked levelly into a still running camera and said,

“That’s all from Warner tonight! Goodbye!” and legged it.

Having viewed the tapes of the show, I find it hard to believe that I could be so articulate, physically co ordinated and pissed simultaneously. My remarks, as you know have passed into TV folklore, but suffice to say the “pop” I had about Princess Di being the only eligible virgin does have a ring of truth thanks to many years of hind sight.

From nowhere my P.A. appeared and somehow spirited me away from the wrath of the audience, Billy Warner and very possibly the police. For once in my life I did exactly what I was told and headed for what the tabloids refer to as a “secret hideaway.” Not that it remained secret for very long.

The wilderness years were about to begin