47 b. There was far more to Madame Marguerite than met the eye

The heading number blog  (47 b) fits into the other blogs time- line between blog 47 and blog 48.

Seventeen-going-on-eighteen, one and a half thousand miles from home and playing in a professional rock band. No wonder I thought I was a man of the world... in fact, however, nothing could be further from the truth. In reality I was extremely naive... as the following incident illustrates. 

We were playing our regular Sunday Lunchtime Session at The Grand Prix Night Club in Sea Point, Cape Town . 

As usual the place was choker block. We had been playing for half an hour or so and announced we were going to 'take five'.  

                 The Chequers on the tiny Grand Prix stage


As we extricated ourselves from the cramped stage we were approached by a half dozen girls who looked like they’d just stepped off the cover of Fab. (60’s Teen magazine).

They turned out to be hostesses who worked at the Moulin Rouge Night Club. The owner of the Moulin Rogue,  Madame Marguerite, had asked them to accompany her to our session as she wanted to hear us play. Apparently Madame Marguerite thought we were terrific and wanted to buy us a drink. Anyone who thought The Chequers were  terrific and offered to buy us a drink were considered our kind of people. 

We followed the girls through the mass of bodies to a corner booth where an elderly woman sat nursing a cocktail. I say elderly, and at the time she certainly seemed so, but elderly to me 'then' doesn't equate to what I consider as elderly now…looking back in all probability Madame Marguerite was in her late thirties, early forties.

Anyway, Madame Marguerite invited us to sit down sent one of her girls off for our drinks.

What follows speaks volumes of the staggering magnitude of my naivety. For it never occurred to me, that this large, heavily made-up woman, with big hair, big bust,  big hairy hands and a large prominent ‘Adam’s Apple’...

... who spoke with  a deep gravelly baritone voice, was a man. The thought never entered my head. I had never heard of a 'Transvestite'. Never. I was totally clueless.

     

As far as I was concerned women wore dresses. Madame Marguerite wore a dress therefore Madame Marguerite was a woman. 

We sat around lapping up the praises dished out by Madame Marguerite. "Wonderful, dear boys." "Marvelous, dear boys." "So talented,  dear boys." Then she asked us if we’d ever consider leaving the Grand Prix…adding because if we did the Moulin Rouge would welcome us with open arms. I had a mental image of  being welcomed with open arms by the hostesses at the Moulin Rouge and it certainly appealed to me…and I'm guessing it appealed to the others as well.

Madame Marguerite must have sensed our interest because she invited us to her club that night as her special guests…we couldn't wait.

That night we arrived at the Moulin Rouge Night Club and knocked on the door. A small hatch slid open to reveal Madame Marguerite's beaming and heavily made up face. 

With a husky, “Welcome to the Moulin Rouge, dear boys” the door was thrown open and we were ushered in.

What struck me first when I stepped into the Moulin Rouge was the lighting, by which I mean the lack of it. They had taken subdued lighting to a whole new level...basically a dim red glow which when combined with the  smoke from countless cigarettes...it was hard to make anything out. 

It seemed everybody always had a  cigarette on the go in those days...and at 1/6d (7 pence) for twenty Rothmans Kings Size who could blame us.

Being a kindly soul who tries to give people the benefit of the doubt - bear with me while I polish my halo - I would like to think Marguerite felt the subdued lighting gave the club real atmosphere but in all probability the reason was to hide the tatty décor.

Anyway, we were escorted to a table and plied with drinks…and the drinks just kept on coming.  

Sometime in the early hours of the morning Madame Marguerite presented us with a sheet of paper. At first we thought it was a bill but it turned out to be a contract…a six month contract for the Chequers to play at the Moulin Rouge six night a week, Monday to Saturday, plus Sunday Lunchtimes.

Marguerite’s hostesses were all over us, encouraging us to put our signatures to paper…I can’t remember if we did or not…but seeing as we never actually ended up playing there I can’t see how we could have. 

There is a coda to the story. All the hostesses lived in rooms above the club. Madame Marguerite kept a tight rein on her girls...it seemed they provided other services to customers other than plying them drinks. 

Anyway, Jack, who had his eye on one of the girls, arranged for her to leave her bedroom window open. 

In the early hours of the morning Jack made his way furtively along the open corridor that ran the length of the block, found the open window and climbed in. A couple of minutes later he was out of there like a bat out of hell, butt naked, clutching his clothes.

According to Jack he had peeped through the open window - seen what he thought  was his intended lying in bed - climbed through the window, stripped off, and jumped in beside her.

Jack recounted how he slide his hand over the girl’s shoulder and instead of it being soft and smooth it felt wrinkly and decidedly hairy. The figure, according to Jack, gave a  shocked and disconcertingly deep grunt of surprise sat up and switched on a bedside light ...and Jack found himself face to face with a bald but otherwise extremely hairy Marguerite.

I'm sure you've noted that I have made capital of the crowds we attracted for our Sunday Lunch time sessions at the Grand Prix. Banged on about how they flocked in their droves to the club...something I'm sure Marguerite had noted and what prompted her offer. Recently, however, while writing this blog in fact, I have question this. Not that there were crowds -  but why they came. Up until now I believed it was because they wanted to see and listen to us. But a gnawing doubt has entered my consciousness. Was the youth of Cape Town flocking to the Grand Prix on Sundays because The Chequers we were so darn good or was it because there was hardly anywhere else to go to on Sundays, if you were into rock music that is. In that respect Sundays were pretty dead in Cape Town and the Grand Prix was among only a handful of venues open, and who had a live group playing...although it pains me to say it I believe this to be the case.

32.b Mac takes the lead and runs with it...literally!

The following happened in and around Salisbury, Rhodesia, 

before we turned 'pro' and headed South... for Cape Town.

I don’t know what it was with Mac and his gi-normous guitar lead. It was ludicrously long. We're talking at least 60 feet in length in an age when most, if not all, shop-bought guitar leads were between nine and twelve feet. Yes, Mac’s lead was in a league of its own...if it was a snake it would have been an Anaconda.

It has only just occurred to me while writing this that there was nowhere Mac could buy such a beast off the shelf. Which means he must have made it himself ...which beggars the question why? Was there an eureka moment when Mac leapt out the bath – figuratively speaking –  and shouted or sang, “Of course! That’s it! What the world needs now is not love, sweet love, but a gi-normous guitar lead - the like of which the world has never seen!”

Mac use to stow his lead in his bass guitar case, coiled up like some kind of cowboy’s lasso…

Oh, yes, I forgot to mention it was white…when all self respecting 60’s guitar leads were black.

At the hall or the club or wherever it was we happened to be playing, Mac would plug one end of the lead into his amp and the other into his bass and then, once the doors were open and the place was heaving, he would bid us ‘au revoir’ and disappear, threading his way through the throng of heaving bodies playing the bass line to the song as he went on his merry way. 

Lord only knows what he got up to on his walkabout... Lord only knows how he didn't get himself tangled up with the audience or trip up dancers or, as what happened to an unfortunate member of a  beat group in Umtali, find himself being throttle with a length of  guitar lead by some bolshie love-struck okie. Apparently at this session in Umtali the above mentioned okie thought the guitarist was eyeing up his 'goose' (girlfriend) - it's been known to happen - and tried to throttle him with a guitar lead ... talk about  being 'hoisted by your own petard'. 

We never knew what went on during Mac's jaunts. Once gone he wouldn't return to the bandstand for at least two songs, that's about five to six minute, possibly longer. We’d catch glimpses of him from time to time – well, glimpse of the top of his head bobbing above the audience…he stood 6’4” -- 6' 6" if you took into account the Chelsea boots with 2" Cuban heels all us Chequers wore...

When I say all us Chequers wore... I mean we all had our own Chelsea boots...we didn't all wear the same pair...that'd be ludicrous as well as impossible.

5c. First tentative foray into creative writing, “Cops, Robbers & Spies”

On moving from Mount Pleasant to Greendale Lea and I left Avondale School and enrolled in Courteney Selous Junior School - Standard 5 and Standard 3 respectively. 

                                    Courteney Selous Junior School Badge

Neil who was a few years older went off to Churchill High School.

It must have been around Christmas 1957/58, the end of the school year was approaching when Lea, who couldn't have been more than twelve at the time, cooked up an idea which if in the unlikely event of it ever being permitted it would take us out of reach of the teachers and away from the classroom for the last two weeks of term. The idea? To put on an end of year school show. But not just any show. A show 'by the kids', 'for the kids'.  Written, staged and acted by kids...to be watched by the whole school.

                      Me wearing my Courteney Selous school blazer

Although the odds against it ever happening were pretty remote, Lea, always the optimist, asked his teacher, a Yorkshire man named Robby. Robby mentioned it to Mr. Levitt the head master...and this goes some way in proving real life is indeed stranger than fiction, because Mr. Levitt gave the idea the green light...what was he thinking? 

We - I was allowed to take time out my class to help with the production - had two weeks to not only write the play, but to select a cast, procure costumes and organize rehearsals...so we needed to shift ourselves.

That night after the 'go ahead' had been given Lea and I, armed with dad's portable typewriter and a pot of tea, locked ourselves in our bedroom and set about writing the script.  We were under the impression writers drank numerous cups of tea... some kind of a tannin lubricant to oil the creative wheels...which in our case certainly didn't work.

After an hour and numerous 'lubricating' cuppas we gave up the ghost.  It just wasn't happening...the creative wheels weren't turning. In fact they had come to a complete stop. All we managed to come up with was the title, "Cops, Robbers and Spies"... (more a wish list of characters we'd like to play than a title). 

                        A picture paints a thousand words

That night we experience our first taste of writers block and as the blockage seemed to be set fast, it was decided we'd let the story-line evolve 'au natural'. By which I mean we would resort to what we did in the play ground at break time, i.e. make up and act out stories as we went along… today it has a loftier title,  'improvisation'.

Our cast included all the usual suspects,  Lea, me, Mac, Alan, Alec Moig, Robin Roll and a whole bunch of kids desperate to escape the classroom...needless to say we had to turn away hundreds of applicants…well if not hundreds a good few.

The great day arrived. We had turned up early and created a stage at one end of the classroom by pushing all the desks together and set out rows of chairs commandeered from nearby classrooms for the audience. 'We', by which I mean 'the cast', assembled in the boys loos dressed in our 'costumes' borrowed or stolen from our dads…this was exclusively an all male cast.

Lea who played the part of the Master Spy wore Dad's whiteTuxedo which reached almost down to his ankles...the rest of us were similarly attired in blazers and suit jackets, etc. Incidentally, to add 'character' to our characters - we had been split into three groups named in the title "Cops", "Robbers" and "Spies” - we used burnt corks and spent end of matches to draw mustaches, side burns and unrealistic looking scars (lines with dots either side) on our faces. We checked ourselves out in the mirror…although we must have looked ludicrous we thought we were the business.

We were as ready as we'd ever be and waited with growing excitement for the audience to get seated.

It was at this point, a few minutes before curtain -- not that we had a curtain -- that Lea received a sudden flash of inspiration. Something that would elevate our “Cops, Robbers & Spies”  from a confusing, structure-less anarchic turkey of a  show into a total triumph. That something in a word was Gobstoppers! He dashed off to the tuck shop and hurried back clutching a gigantic bag of them.

No sooner had he returned than someone ran into the boys loo and announced the audience were seated…the time had arrived to launch "Cops, Robbers and Spies" on the world.

Our appearance onstage was greeted with enthusiastic cheers…which died out as soon as the play began and the audience tried to figure out what they were watching. 

I know we incorporated a lot of guns shooting in our play…when I say guns I obviously meant index fingers and when I say shooting I obviously meant we shouted, “Bam!” or  “Ratta-ttata-ttata-Ratta-ttatta-Ratta-ttat!” if firing machine guns. There were also innumerable hand grenades thrown by dastardly spies,  which went something like, “Eeeeeeee---Boom!” And bombs, "Ker-Pow!" dropped on spies by unseen but  'audible' Stukka Bombers. "E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E!!!!" I don't remember how the Luftwaffe came to be included in the story but included it was. 

Consequently with all this ordnance flying around the casualty count among the characters in the play was horrendously high, around 99%. On the plus side, however, it  meant plenty of opportunity for 'dying acting' which we all loved and stretched out for as long as possible. Our terrifyingly realistic howls of agony as we staggered round the stage after being shot or blown up and before gasping our last breath was a high point if not for the audience then certainly for those of us taking part.

And thus after a good fifteen minutes of murder, mayhem and a lot of dying on stage - literally! - our show came to a brutal and climatic end...with only one man (boy) left standing, brother Lea the Master Spy in the white Tuxedo

Confusingly instead of rapturous cries of delight - we thought it had gone brilliantly - our bows were met with polite but decidedly unenthusiastic applause.  I can only assume "Cops, Robbers & Spies" was one of those entertainments which are more entertaining for the entertainers than the audience...but all was not lost.

Lea, who must have had a premonition that our show, like the Stukka Bombers, would take a nose-dive,  took out the gigantic bag of sweets, looked out at the sea of less than satisfied faces and asked if they wanted a gobstopper. The mood changed instantly as in one voice they shouted, "YES!".  Lea had them in his hand, well the bag of  gobstoppers, and chucked a handful into the audience. A riot ensued as kids scrambled around the floor trying to bag a gobstopper. Another handful followed the first…more cheers more scrambling and more importantly, smiling happy smiling faces emerged from the scrum... another handful of gobstoppers rained down on the audience... and another...and another, until the bag was completely empty.

When asked immediately afterwards if they had enjoyed the show the audience to a man – well boy and girl -  nodded their approval…they couldn't say yes because they were sucking on a great big gobstopper…hence the name of the confectionery.

So, as the bard said, "All's well that ends well".

35 b. Hairy legs to kill for...maybe, maybe not.

 A bizarre and, in many ways, a decidedly dodgy incident – which I had completely erased from my mind until being reminded of it by Mac – took place during our short sojourn in Johannesburg before the band drove down to Cape Town and took up residency at the Grand Prix Night Club.  The incident which included the spectacle of Mac, Lea and I parading up and down on a table with our trousers rolled up to our knees – as you do...was just the start of it.

Soon after we arrived in Johannesburg (as mentioned in blog 35 ) Billy organized for us to play at Archie’s Beat Club, The Fire Station and at The Flying Saucer.

It was suggested by Billy that it would be a good idea for us to swing by Archie’s and show our faces. We arrived at the club, said our hellos to the management and sat round drinking (free drinks) and listening to the band. 

After awhile Jack and Frankie went back to the hotel leaving Lea, Mac and my good self. Three girls were being being chatted up by three guys and somehow or other we ended up at their table. When it was time to leave for some inexplicable reason a contest was proposed…a contest in which Lea, Mac and I pitted our legs against the other guys legs. Well, not our legs per se but the hairs on them. The trio adjudged to have the hairiest legs would have the honour of taking the girls home. The girls were to be the arbiters of this bizarre contest. 

So that's how me, Lea and Mac came to be parading up and down on a table-top with our trousers rolled up to our knees in front of three young ladies.

After a few minutes of deliberation a verdict was reached and we were declared the winners. It was official we had the hairiest legs!

I know what you good people are thinking. “What a load of cobblers. Right?” I don’t blame you. Writing it down I kept asking myself did this really happen. The answer is yes, it really did. Unlikely as it sounds it is, in fact, the God’s honest truth. There was a hairy legs contest at Archie’s Club in Johannesburg…and the guys with the hairiest legs got the girls. Us.  Not that we were excessively folically endowed...but apparently we had the edge. Anyway, flushed with triumph we drove our ‘prizes’ out to a suburb in Johannesburg to drop off the first girl…who during the drive had paired off with Mac…in fact she was all over him. When we drew up outside her apartment block, the girl, not wanting the night to end, invited us all in for a night cap...we duly obliged. (Breathalyzers had yet to be invented).

Five minutes later we were all kerfuffelling (petting) in the lounge when the door of the flat opened and some  bleary eyed young guy wandered in and started ranting in Afrikaans at the girl who was now firmly ensconced on Mac’s lap. The girl screamed an unintelligible tirade back at him before coquettishly turning her attention back to Mac.  

Mac, who was slightly disconcerted by the bleary-eyed young guy’s sudden appearance and the fact that he was wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt - which sort of indicated he lived in the apartment - asked the obvious question, “who the hell is he?"

Her reply was jaw-droppingly unexpected not least because she was nibbling Mac’s ear when she replied, “my f-ing husband”.

Mac sat bolt upright. “Your f-ing what...?"

“Husband”.

“Your husband…? You gotta be kidding me." Mac jumped to his feet, “Jesus, man, I didn't realize…I – uh …”

And here's where it all gets clouded by the mists of time…the way I remember it was Mac's ‘girl’,  incensed that he was going to leave, screamed at her hubby to get the  F--- out. (some words were the same in Afrikaans as they are in English). When her husband refused she grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed him in the shoulder.

As soon as that happened we were out of there in a heart beat. The three of us leaped out the apartment window which thankfully was open and on the ground floor - legged it to the combi and drove off into the night.  

The next day we nervously scanned the newspapers for a report of a stabbing... to our relief none carried the story.

I remember the girl  stabbing her husband but maybe that has been added to the mix over time...maybe she had just threatened her old man with the kitchen knife. But whether she stabbed him or not it was eye-opening introduction to the big city for three small town boys. 

5 b. Filling some of the pot holes in 'Memory Lane'. 1952-59. Our plan for a museum doesn't get off - out - the ground.

If this tale is a ramble down memory lane then it is a lane peppered with pot-holes ... this latest blog goes some way in filling them in. 

                                    1952-59

The old Crambourne R.A.F. barracks the Heather clan moved into in 1952 had been converted into family units and renamed Crambourne Hostel.  Each unit had two rooms, Neil, Lea and I slept in one,  mum and dad in the other. There were separate bath and toilet blocks. We had no running water so took it in turns to fill the kettle and Mazoe bottles from a tap set at the end of the block. All in all it was pretty Spartan.

I have often noted how place names can be singularly misleading. For example there are any number of “World’s Views”.  It seems to me 'Word's View' is only applicable if you find yourself orbiting our planet then, and only then would you actually have a view of the world.  Rhodesia had its fair share of misleading place names (including it's very own "World's View at Inyanga) but one in particular springs to mind, "Glass Rock" situated next to Crambourne Hostel. Now I don't know about you but to me “Glass Rock” conjures up an image of a large shiny marble or quartz rock glittering in the sunlight. Well ‘Glass Rock’ glittered alright...it positively shimmered. The reason being was it covered with literally thousand …possibly millions of shards of broken glass. During the Second World War RAF airmen and ground crew billeted at the Cramborne Barracks would congregate around this large bolder for drinking sessions. When they finished they would simply chuck the gin, rum, vodka, brandy, whiskey, wine and or beer bottle at the rock – no recycling in those days... and so, many years later and after countless drinking bouts, the place became known as ‘Glass Rock’...I wonder if Mum’s relation George paid any part in its creation?

The vast majority of newly arrived immigrant families ended up at Cambourne Hostel and it would be our home for the next year or so. While there Neil, Lea and I attended Nettleton School. That was 1952 a year before the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasalnd came into being. Fast forward seven years to Christmas ’59.  Things had moved on a pace and in the interim the Heather family had left Crambourne Hostel and moved home twice. First in 1953 to 'Hilton' a sprawling pioneer style bungalow on Quorn Avenue in the suburb known as Mount Pleasant, and very pleasant it was too.

Me, Neil, Dad & Lea + kittens outside our mosquito-net covered stoep.

Not only did the house we rented from David Henwood, the proprietor of Henwood’s Chemist, have internal ‘stable doors’ which we thought fantastic but it also came with two living, breathing horses, ex polo ponies, Mouse and Patches.  Unfortunately in Patches' case the 'living breathing' only extend for a couple of weeks as she died shortly after we moved in and was interred at the bottom of our six acre garden...a six acre garden sounds very grand but at least five of the six acres was bush. I should add Patches demise had nothing to do with us, the horse simply died of old age. But his or her passing – I don’t know if Patches was male or female – prompted an ingenious plan. We would set up our own commercial museum...by which I mean we intended to charge an entrance fee.  It was Neil, Lea and my belief, mum and dad were not privy to our plans,  that the good folk of Mount Pleasant and possibly beyond would flock to see our main, possibly only exhibit, Patches’ skeleton which we decided we would piece together with string. The National History Museum in London has dinosaur skeletons, the Heather's Museum would have Patches’. 

There was a large open garage next to the house. A real barn of a place which would be perfect for the museum, not least because it had open roof beams from which Patches’ skeleton could be suspended. In our imagination it was a done deal, the good people of Mount Pleasant and beyond were already queuing up.

As Patches had been buried a full two weeks we guesstimated that ample time had passed for the carcass to have been stripped clean by insects, grubs and such-like... leaving gleaming bleached white bones just waiting to be threaded together with string. So, armed with budzas (adze) and spades we headed down to the bottom of the garden to Patches final resting place and started digging.  We got down no more than six inches and stopped. We had to. The stench was overwhelming, absolutely disgusting...and it wasn’t just the smell either, the ground was literally crawling with maggots, blue bottle flies and every other insect that is attracted by decomposing flesh. The upshot was our ‘museum project’ ended up on our discarded pile of brilliant money-making ideas that didn't quite get off the ground... or in Patches’ case, out the ground. Yes, our 'museum project' joined such brilliant commercial endeavours  as ‘making and selling Mulberry wine made from our very own Mulberries from our very own Mulberry trees and crushed in our very own zinc bath with our very own feet...which remained stained purple for months…our feet as well as the zinc bath.

Brother Charlie came into the world while we were living at Hilton but he wasn't the only new arrival. Apart from the surviving ex-polo pony, Mouse, who actually danced – well, swayed to Eddie Cantor records – we had acquired four cats and four dogs including Tina. Actually that is not altogether true; we had three dogs including Tina. The fourth ‘dog’ was a goat who thought he was a dog, christened Anthony.

        Newly arrived Anthony being restrained for the photo

Anthony arrived at Hilton only a couple of weeks old, a skinny little ‘kid’ and was mothered by our Alsatian Tina. Anthony grew up with our dogs and considered himself a member of the pack... a canine with horns so to speak...and very territorial canine with horns he was too. If Anthony spotted a neighbour’s dog straying into our garden...well, it wasn't pretty. He would circle behind the unfortunate intruder and attack from the rear. An Exocet Missile with a pair of horns best describes Anthony as he charged his target at full tilt. You couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor mutt as Anthony ploughed into it, sending it spinning high into the air. The victims of Anthony wrath rarely returned... once butted twice shy. 

In the winter months, and it could get surprisingly nippy in Rhodesia, Anthony would be discovered curled up in front of the fire with Tina and the other dogs. Looking back now it seems pretty odd having a goat in the house, sharing the log fire with the family but at the time we thought it quite normal.

After Quorn Avenue we moved to 146, Victory Avenue, in Greendale, opposite the quarry and the Greendale cemetery. Dad had left the Prudential and along with an associate of his, Roger Stone, had started the Salisbury branch of Pearl Assurance... which brings us neatly back to Christmas morning 1959...and blog 6...oops blog 5c. has been added!

52. The Chequers Rogues Gallery

                                       The Chequers Rouges Gallery

Lea

Johnny (Me)

Mac

Nicky

John Milner

 Alan

Verlaine

Hodge

Jack

Frankie

Billy

Charlie Peterson


A number of people are missing namely bass guitarist Butch Bennet, Mike Westcott our 1st vocalist - Tommy Coulter our 2nd vocalist and Duncan Harvey our very 1st lead guitarist. I will try and locate photos of them.

I guess Lea, me, Mac, Alan and Duncan were, for want of a better term, the founding fathers of The Chequers...for a period in the early part of 60's The Chequers was our thing, our focus, our raison d'etre and as such will always hold a special place in our memories and hearts. 

At some point in the not too far distant future I hope we can all get together, from the across the globe and play a session...it would be a laugh if nothing else.

Unfortunately since writing this Jack McGroarty has died. RIP Jack.

51. A last gasp session then off to England

To set the record straight the Chequers did play one more session...a last gasp, death rattle of a gig at a private party in Salisbury. The band who had been booked had pulled out and we’d been asked if we could cobble something together, which we did. If I remember rightly there was Ernie Mindrey on bass, Jack sung, Duncan Harvey our original guitarist was on lead and Lea and I, on drums and rhythm guitar. But that’s all I remember about it...though I believe there’s  a couple of photos knocking about somewhere of us playing. (Found photo below...what happened to the long hair!!!)

        'The Chequers last stand' - rhetorically speaking.

In South Africa Lea and I had tasted success with The Chequers. Maybe tasted isn't the right word. Tasted implies greater success than we actually achieved. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say we had 'sniffed' success with The Chequers. After all photos of the band had appeared in the teen magazine ‘Debonair’, we had played a live set on S.A.B.C. radio and in a crowning moment performed to seated audiences at Cape Town's Alhambra Theatre...very prestigious... and at a cinema in Sea Point before the movie, “Gonks go Crazy”...not quite so prestigious.

Yes, I think it is fair to say we had definitely sniffed success in South Africa and I guess we liked the aroma and hankered after more.  And where better to achieve success than the land that in the first few years of the 60's had given the world The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, The Who, The Animals, Gerry and the Pacemakers, The Searchers, Herman and his Hermits, to name but a few...England. 

Yes, England, the land of our birth, was where it was happening. With the advent of the Beatles the epicentre of the music universe had shifted from America to England. England was where it was at and where we were going. We sold all our instruments; drums, guitar and amp, the Meazzi sound system, mics, mic stands, we even sold our trusty old VW Combi and booked two one-way tickets to England. Jack had decided to stay in Rhodesia after all.

Lea, Neil, Charlie and me a few days before Lea and I  left for the UK

Within a month of us driving up from Cape Town we were on the move again...hanging out the window of a Rhodesian Railway carriage waving a sad goodbye to family and friends as the train pulled out of Salisbury Station on its way to Lourenco Marques in Portuguese East Africa. 

In Lourenco Marques we caught a Swiss Air charter flight to Amsterdam – a bus to the Hook of Holland - and a ferry across the channel. 

It was a cold, dank unwelcoming January morning in 1966 when Lea and I stepped back onto English soil at Harwich... 

...thirteen years after we had sailed out of Southampton with Mum, Neil and Tina aboard the P& O liner, The Winchester Castle.

In Rhodesia we had become the proverbial biggish fish in a small pond. 

In England, to continue with the aquatic analogy, we found ourselves in an ocean of talent. Rock groups and singers abounded. Every London pub we went into had a group playing and most were pretty damn good. 

                                    Trafalgar Square soon after we arrived

                     Tottenham Court Road Tube 1966

Bedsit land, Penywern Road, Earls Court - we lived on the top floor

So there we were in Earls Court - a bedsit in Penywern Road... around the corner from the Overseas Visitor's Club -  if not actually floundering then treading water in this sea of rock talent, hoping against hope that somehow we would get ourselves a record contract. But why would record producer sign Lea and I, two guys from Rhodesia when they had so much talent to choose from. Well, as hard as it is to believe that’s what happened. Lea and I got lost and wandered past EMI House in Manchester Square. Parlophone the label the Beatles recorded on was part of EMI, so we thought we'd try our luck. We walked in and asked the receptionist if we could speak with a record producer. The receptionist wanted to know if we had an appointment. When we said we hadn't we were told to sling our hook. But on the way out we noticed a board listing A & R men (Artiste and Repertoire) the fancy title for record producers. For some reason the name Tony Palmer jumped out. We waited a week or so and then returned to EMI House clutching our guitars. Hurrying in we rushed up to receptionist and told her we were late for an appointment with Tony Palmer. She immediately directed up to his office on the 2nd floor. We knocked on the door. It opened by a guy who asked who we were and what we wanted. We told him we were "Split Image", a name we had thought of that very morning, and that we were a singing duo and had come to see Tony Palmer about signing us and making a record ...adding we were quite big in South Africa...well, Rhodesia...Okay, well we were quite big in Salisbury. It turned out the guy was Tony Palmer and thought we were party to some kind of  departmental wind up, a joke concocted by his mates. We assured him we were no joke (that's debatable) and came clean as to how we came to be there. Tony Palmer thought it hilarious and to his credit didn't sling us out but instead took us downstairs to an audition room in the basement and auditioned us there and then. He liked what he heard and signed us to Columbia...a month later we were in Abbey Road studios in a vocal booth singing our hearts out to an Aurther Greenslade arrangement of a Cook and Greenway song backed by the Ladybirds singing group and a thirty piece orchestra. ...oh, yeah, and The Beatles were recording in the next studio ...what a crazy turn around. Lea and I looked at each other...'this stardom malarkey's a breeze, a total breeze'. Then from the speaker Tony Palmer's voice rang out obliterating our self-satisfied smugness in an instant, "Oi, you two down there! You're singing as flat as arse-holes!" We came down to earth with a bang.

When I decided to try and record for prosperity the rise and fall of a little known sixties Rhodesian rock band, The Chequers, I thought I’d struggle to fill a single blog...but as soon as I put finger to computer keyboard it was like I started a game of memory pinball. 

One memory lit up another and another and and another and before I knew it I had written down 50 odd blogs.

Much has been left out so if anyone's interested I will start adding stuff and filling in the gaps.