Mods, Minis, and Madmen: A True Tale of Swinging London Culture in the 1960S

By D. Richard Truman

A nostalgic romp through the sixties that changed everyones lives forever, Mods, Minis, and Madmen presents a story of remarkable achievement during the twentieth centurys most significant cultural reboot. It celebrates a wondrous age drugged by the can-do attitude of youth.

Revolutionary London was the birthplace of the boutique, and Mary Quant introduced the mini-skirtnamed after a car. John Stephen introduced heart-racing male boutiques on Kings Road that soon carved out a global niche. Lesley Hornby also known as Twiggy, the Cockney dolly birdstrutted her popsicle legs while touting mini-fashions. East Londoner Vidal Sassoon gave new life to tousled hair with a look that is still with us today.

And of course, British sounds, led by the Beatles, hammered the charts in every country able to tune in. The lyrics spoke to us and seemed to sympathize with our turmoil, revealing an honest understanding of life as it would be, up to the age of sixty-four. It was a booster shot that pumped up everyone living in the sixties, and their tales would be told decades later.

Mods, Minis, and Madmen is the tale of a writer and his disciples from the New World arriving in the old, just as the explosion was about to take place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450267557

D. Richard Truman

D. RICHARD TRUMAN is an international Creative Director who plied his trade in the swinging sixties in London, then the global epicenter of advertising creativity. It was also the birthplace of industry giants like Ridley and Tony Scott, David Puttnam, Frank Lowe, Alan Parker, John Hegarty, and the redoubtable Saatchi brothers.The trillion dollar global advertising business titillates observers with controversy and don't-tell-all adventures starring heroes and swine in a profession perceived to be laced with cut-throat skullduggery.Advertising is a muscular force that damns us when we listen and shames us if we don't. This is Truman's 10th book. He currently resides in Kitchener, Ontario, Canada with his wife, Bev, and a clowder of moggies.

Book preview

MODS

MINIS

AND

MADMEN©

A True Tale of Swinging London Culture

in the 1960s

Editor: Professor Roy Wilson

Technical Adviser: Michelle K Stafford

Consultant: Geoff Hall, London

D. RICHARD TRUMAN

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Mods, Minis, and Madmen

A True Tale of Swinging London Culture in the 1960s

Copyright © 2006, 2010 by D. Richard Truman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is based on personal experience with a touch of fiction in an attempt to make the subject more interesting. Names have been changed (or become composite characters) in some instances to protect the innocent; events and times may have been altered to better suit a compressed period of activity. Attempts were made to contact all the key players, often without success. Apologies to anyone who might be slighted by a character description, timing or an event that might be interpreted differently than they might recall. Any omissions or changes will be altered in the next printing.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-6756-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-6755-7 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-6754-0 (hc)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 12/01/2010

Contents

Gratitude, Oh Yes!

The Incredible Mister Cronan

Preface

1. A Sense of Wonder

2. Awakening my Soul; Exciting Every Nerve

3. Can’t Buy Me Love

4. A Great Leap

5. A Hooker Loves Mayonnaise

6. The Big Break and Maxing It Out In Belgravia

7. Chasing the Sharks into the Net

8. It Happens All the Time

9. Secrecy and Losing It in Ireland

10. The Consequences of Losing It in Morocco

11. Joe Snags His Pet

12. Monte Carlo, Where Producers (from Saints to Wankers) Hang Out

13. Too Many Orchestra Conductors

14. The World’s Worst Script

15. Losing Our Heads in Paris

16. Enter Here, But There’s No Exit

The Author

Gratitude, Oh Yes!

A box of souvenirs, faded newspaper clippings and a head full of memories; that’s where it all began! Old copies of Fab, aging singles and LPs and the New Musical Express, even a menu from the Chelsea Bun, a hip little nosh-up on Kings Road near Sloane Square.

Bits of paper, yes, but they were the stepping stones at the beginning of this narrative. The timing was right, so the journey to write this personal recollection began.

Much to my surprise, thousands of good-intentioned friends and strangers offered advice because they too knew we owed so much to swingin’ London.

London was good to us and good to our careers: most of us fell in love with this palette of experiences that swept us along on our journey. Many became multi-millionaires and left us with music, fashion, lifestyles and cultural brands that still resonate. Yes, London left a mark on everyone who walked into the twenty-first century with children and grandchildren in tow.

The subject has been covered many times, but there is so much more that has to be said and digested by historians, particularly the little man caught in the middle, not the stars and icons who thundered to the stratosphere, but the little people who were part of this nexus. And it would be a shame to bury the funny things that happened along the way.

In the 1960s, sex, drugs and rock and roll were not at the heart of most people’s existence. It was beer, cigarettes, dolly birds, freedom and creativity that littered our stage. And not many have written about life during this colossal period from an outsider’s point of view: a Canadian’s, for example. Finally, this is a real life story I am honoured to share with the world.

So much is owed to so many, in particular historian, writer and research guru the late Geoffrey Hall of London, who unearthed the forgotten and unearthed the details. And to numerous Web sites stocked like candy stores with goodies from an era.

And to a dear friend and mentor whose impact on so many lives still lingers: the sagacious and lovable Brian Cronan now retired to Spain.

And to a long list of friends and associates like Camilla Armstrong, Tony Avery, Alison Ballantine, Hazel Beckford, Tim Brookes, Geoffrey Brookes, Tony Churcher, Sue Darcy Clarke, Brian Clare, Margaret Clements, David Climpson, Mike Cronin, Gaynor Davies, Julia Dawson, Terry Dixon, Richard Dunning, Brian Ennals, David Farrer, Lindy Faldo, Julia Gamble, Olivia Gavin, Barry Glazer, John Groves, Joanne Guiver, Shirley Hamell, Scott Hamilton, Shane Harrison, Brian Hatter, Rob Isted, Richard Krupp, Margorie Labow, Andrew Langmead, Bill Lovelock, Patrick Martin, Paul Miller, Tim Mortimer, Amanda Moxey, Susan Parkhurst, Jim and Pat Parrock, Les Payne, Mike Prevost, Karen Poole, Mike Quirk, Jim Rentell, Anthea Robinson, Bill Rook, Claire Russell, Jean Seago, Carol Setter, Kevin Shailer, Tony Simcox, John Stockton, Chris Thomas, Nancy Wells and Sue Wright. And to the principals: Joe and Diane Wren, Will C. Grant, Don Lander, Bob Dunbar, Geoffrey Ellison, Peter Middleton Smith, Gordon Pfeiffer, Terry Prince, Joe Stanton, Daryl Thomas, Mike Rowe, Terry Nolan and others I have been unable to contact, but remember fondly.

This book is dedicated

to the incredible Mister Cronan,

an engaging and informed individual

who enlightened

a new generation of admen.

The Incredible Mister Cronan

missing image file

Brian Cronan was more than an exceptionally good boss. He understood people and, even more, he understood humankind. His Anglo background and military experience gave him a totally different outlook than that I had hitherto experienced in the bizarre world of advertising. If he trusted you, that trust was implicit. If he disagreed with you there was always room for a compromise. If he vehemently disagreed with you, forget it. His charm and joie de vivre were manifest. He was great company both in the office and after work when in a more relaxed mood, a glass of iced Wolfschmidt’s Kummel in hand, he was happy to discuss any topic in the world that was of mutual interest. With me, he found a fellow traveller, since we were both ardent Monarchists, as a result of which he introduced me to an extraordinary group of people who were both otherworldly and occasionally quite surreal. I was aware that Brian, as a Vice-Chancellor of the Monarchist League, strongly supported its beliefs, if at times he thought the protagonists themselves somewhat weird.

In all his dealings he was totally fair, understanding and never obtuse. As a result, I believe that every one of his employees knew exactly where they stood and how to achieve his goal. All of this made for a very happy, relaxed and attractive atmosphere. Certainly there were disagreements, clashes of personality and the occasional fracas, but Managing Director and Chairman Brian was always able to smooth ruffled feathers and soothe bruised egos. He had that very rare knack of being able to direct a very complex operation with effortless ease. Proof of his very excellence can be felt today. Thirty-two years after the break-up of the Basil Street office of Grant Advertising a very large proportion of those people who worked there are still in touch with one another. They feel comfortable in one another’s company, they share confidences both past and present and to all intents and purpose they are, broadly speaking, still members of the extended Grant family. To prove that this is so, when Brian was recently taken seriously ill and hospitalized in Spain, cyberspace was alive with real concern. The suspense was palpable.

Now on the mend, one must say that this most remarkable man has in turn been totally supported and encouraged by his wife and soul companion Francoise, mother to his three children. I hesitate to say long-suffering, because I don’t believe Francoise would remotely see herself as a victim. And when I say encouraged, as a French Republican, this precludes much of Brian’s special interest in the Monarchist League. I believe that special thanks must be expressed to Francoise for all the care and love she has provided over many years which should never be overlooked, especially her devotion and nursing skills during Brian’s recent health crisis.

If Brian should ever need a motto to summarize his lifetime achievements, might I suggest, in view of his early upbringing Caraid ‘an am feum, meaning, A friend in time of need. And so he is.

Michael Prevost, Media Director, Grant Advertising, London.

Preface

A flit through the 1960s changed my life forever. Mods Minis and Madmen©, is the result, penned to celebrate a wondrous age when drugged by the can-do attitude of youth. It’s a story of remarkable achievement during the twentieth century’s most significant cultural reboot.

Before the 1960s, the outlook was gloomy for everyday tossers. Most parents agreed, saying that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Then the youngsters rebelled, triggering a renaissance from which they’d claim ground from the privileged. They rushed into a new and bewildering age in a journey that took them from hopelessness to incredible fulfillment.

The travellers in my story are from the new world, returning to the old, in search of the magic elixir that beckoned the world’s youth to the most intoxicating city on earth.

Encouraged by the call, they were convinced they’d fulfill their dreams. After all, the social and business restraints holding them back were falling away. The mice were moving up from the basement, to take charge of the household. But more was needed and we believed we had it.

Birth deals you a hand of cards you must play the rest of your life: features like intelligence, physical stature and appearance. But a few have a lucky coin that allows them to excel at something if given an opportunity.

In London, Leslie Hornby paraded her legs, a lithe body and a naughty smile to show she had the coin. Peggy Moffit flicked her false eyelashes to prove she had it. Then she dared the pundits and paraded the first topless bathing suit in the world, called a monokini. John Lennon rushed from art school and began to sing, to prove he had it. Mary Quant and Vidal Sassoon had it too, as did thousands of others across the planet. But without the juice they’d have run into a wall held in place by privilege, social ties, class distinction and big money. They’d have failed. But now they’d breach the walls because the changelings had opened the doors. They could rush through with giddy optimism.

Britain’s young created new looks and sounds while leading a twentieth century renaissance like no other. They reinvigorated freedom and would never look back.

And it would soon sweep the world, introducing new sensations in music, fashion, technological innovation, sexual morality and business practice, within rapidly disappearing class walls.

Yes, the fuse ignited by the innovators, dreamed in their garages until the public finally became aware of them, put a torch to the status quo.

As a child, if someone said, You’re so creative, it was a reason to hang your head in shame. The dark side description was a label meaning insane or lazy. Or society shamed you with that tired put down, You’ll never make a living doing that! Parents didn’t want their children labelled as fairies, nut bars or limp-wristed dreamers, until the revolution came calling and London shouted, The doors are open. Come on in!

Around the world, the sounds of the Beatles and other British groups were breeding a new reality for youth of the day. Now the dots between reality and dreams were finally being connected. Beatles’ songs such as I Want To Hold Your Hand, I Saw Her Standing There, I Feel Fine, A Hard Day’s Night, Love Me Do, She Loves You and Petula Clark’s Downtown opened zippers in the mind and energized everyone, as old ways faltered forever.

London was the most intoxicating city on the planet, because of the kick-start by those who fought the battles and suffered the most.

The cultural shift became a pandemic, quickly spreading to every corner of the free world. A previous sense of hopelessness dissolved as new possibilities jolted dreamers, trapped optimists and doers into action. Like the mice that came up from the basement, they blew up the house and rebuilt it in their own image.

Swingin’ London was the most trend-setting city on baby-blue. If London wasn’t stamped on it, it wasn’t new and, like cold toast, it wasn’t of interest. The spotlight had shifted from America to the old world and the young, brash and bold British had taken charge.

Although the travellers from the new world wanted to be part of London life, there were signs that we might not make it!

The West End was the in place, haunted by British pop stars and beautiful faces. The city gave birth to the world-famous London Mods. Class distinction defined by accents was setting like the sun. Low life was now high life.

Revolutionary London was the birthplace of the boutique! Mary Quant introduced the mini-skirt, named after a car, while Pierre Cardin sucked his thumb. Peggy Moffit paraded Gernreich fashion and encouraged millions to buy maxi-this or maxi-that. Scot John Stephen introduced the heart-racing male boutiques on Kings Road which soon carved-out a global niche.

Leslie Hornby, or Twiggy, the big-eyed Cockney dolly bird, strutted the runways with her popsicle legs while touting mini-fashions. Dolly birds were encouraged to expose as much of their legs as their body shape would allow.

East Londoner Vidal Sassoon gave new life to tousled hair with a look that is still with us today.

Barbara Hulanicki gave life to Biba in Kensington in ’64, the very month we arrived. Fashion was described as a heavenly mix of Art Nouveau and rock and roll.

But it was Carnaby Street and Kings Road that led the charge to bury Woolworths. When the boutique Grannie Takes a Trip started selling Victorian era clothing to a fashion-mad world, they reached back to bring something forward and used clothing leapt off the shelves. Nigel and his girlfriend Sheila along with designer John swung the doors open in late 1965 and pow, the idea took off! If London said it was good, it was red hot.

By now, British sounds hammered the charts in every country able to tune in. The lyrics spoke to us and seemed to sympathize with our turmoil, revealing an honest understanding of life as it was, up to the age of sixty-four. It was a booster shot that pumped up stars born with the lucky coin, who’d be around decades later.

Working class accents became popular and cultish. Movies like Silvio Narizzano’s Georgie Girl and Richard Lester’s A Hard Day’s Night became iconic hits overnight. British television burped out scores of hits the Americans simply photo-copied. New drinks, like Babycham, gave working class birds a social lift and a touch of class.

Social graces changed as a traditionally class-conscious society became classless. Eye catching graphic design leapt from subway cars and outdoor posters, zapping observers with split second humour and the new sense of pumped-up freedom. The advertising scene was now an art form that was more exciting than the TV shows sandwiched between. Admen demanded megabucks and created a following with more megastars bedded in London than in New York. Madmen as admen were soon the new superstars.

London catered to individualism by making style affordable. Londoners were drunk with power. With the best of everything, there was no longer an excuse for being badly dressed. Even if fashions changed every month, Londoners could still afford to parade in constantly evolving style.

Meanwhile, the rest of the world looked on with envy, including the young ruminating in far off places like Pittsburgh, Hamburg, Glasgow or the north end of Hamilton, Canada’s steelmaking centre, a grim urban landscape of industrial furnaces and smoke-belching towers.

The 1960s encouraged us like never before. If we ventured to London, the future would be ours, offering us opportunity previously denied.

The adbiz had fabulous appeal, particularly the creative side. This was where we’d spend our lucky coin. If we had it, we’d strike it rich at the cultural cash register. Yes, we were going to be admen in London.

This is the story of that dream, while standing shoulder to shoulder with other working-class heroes from around the world ready to shake society out of its doldrums.

And London breathed life into our minds and bodies, no matter where we came from because no one had a monopoly on opportunity in the 1960s.

1

A Sense of Wonder

The music purred like a Lamborghini. Pattie shifted her body to get closer, and then embraced me with warm welcoming arms. She sighed while in vacant thought, then ran her fingers through my long hair. Her ink-blue eyes sparked in the soft light, her complexion was smooth and pure, and her wet lips glistened as they met mine. If the mind had a thousand eyes, the heart has one. A kiss writes the secrets of the heart and mine had many this day.

Then George interrupted, Who’s this, Luv? just as we discovered each other.

She turned away almost embarrassed.

Starkey rushed over to join the table. Then Richard Lester, sitting next to me snickered, Three Richard’s, now that’s a crowd!

We were at Annabel’s celebrating the success of the film, A Hard Day’s Night. The club for new snooties at Berkeley Square was the high altar for the rich and famous and me.

Somewhere to party and pluck each others strings, grunted, I think, the club founder John Aspinall. Yes it was cool and elegant with walls covered with wild Birley paintings; that’s Annabel’s. Royalty, presidents, Greek tycoons and hordes from the film and entertainment world were scattered about tonight delighting in their olive soup.

George met Pattie while filming. She was the Smith’s Crisp girl first introduced to filming by Richard Lester, the lunatic director the Beatles had scooped up to film their first movie. For gangly George, who could have any woman in the world, this was love. The sweet, innocent and fabulously beautiful Pattie Boyd had plucked his guitar.

But tonight things were different. She was mine. She had wandered across the floor through a throng of admirers, removed her blouse exposing her firm but tiny breasts and simply said, Don’t stand up too fast, or you’ll bash your brains out!

After a poke in the shoulder, I was awake. Dammit, I’d dozed off during the long flight from Toronto.

With eyes wide open, I glanced up at two nostrils and soon realized the body attached to the nose had muttered a term I disliked, Don’t stand up too fast or you’ll bash your brains out! My immediate reaction was to cringe. I knew the voice and the expression. The stewardess was probably from my home town. Not only that, she was undoubtedly from Catherine Street in the north-end. And this young lady had all the mannerisms I disliked, but I didn’t react to her as it might indicate a prejudice I was about to discard. In retreat I noticed she had an ass like a bag full of bowling balls.

My nostrils flared when she withdrew, as I inhaled the scent of Evening in Paris, an aroma hiding in a thin blue bottle with a silver tassel. It was another reminder of the past I was trying to leave behind. The future lay ahead and it beckoned me.

My remarkably brief dream soon morphed into a fiery red eye, straight ahead. The DC8 purred quietly while dropping through the golden light toward London’s Heathrow Airport; the end of a journey this bird had made a thousand times before.

After a sure-footed landing I realized we denizens from the new world were about to meet the old world and its promise. Old ways would soon give way to newer ways as we were about to jump ahead to a new century where everything was turned upside down. The opportunity to succeed was just ahead, and we were about to enter a new universe.

Mindless muscles twitched as I pulled my body upright just enough to see my travelling companions heaving their bodies from economy class seats to the aisles. It was seven A.M., September 21, 1964, flight 806. I would soon learn that travelling across the Atlantic to or from North America is always a bewildering journey no matter how often you fly this route. You look ahead to the past, or back to the future, depending on which way you travel.

Because it was autumn, vibrant colour was drained from life. The landscape through the tiny windows was like a faded colour photograph. My eyes turned away from the headlights of BOAC, BEA, Pan American and TWA jets as the mass movers buzzed about in search of a lifeline at Terminal 3.

While sleepwalking through disembarkation I reflected on the team players who’d joined me and what lay ahead. Eddy and Betty, Dennis and I were the opportunists from the new world who’d been invited to London by the Beatles on what was to be an incredible adventure, metaphorically of course. The big question was, Will we make it?

Eddy and Betty Grant always appeared awake. He was a gifted Belfast lad of 26 who’d moved to Toronto with his wife a year earlier. Eddy’s sparkly blue eyes and Plantagenet good looks made him a celebrity in Toronto. Eddy always wore a dark pin striped suit, even if he was sleeping. Some said he dressed like a Beatle and drank like a whale. Throw in Cuban heels to raise his height to five foot, five inches, an endearing chuckle and a Paul McCartney hairstyle and everyone had a friend for life. His trousers were always pulled up to his breast, revealing his socks - not very fashionable though. Powerful short suspenders were guilty of producing this fashion injustice. Oh, he had talent too, as this creative genius would lead us out of the wilderness. Eddy, more than anyone, was determined to meet the Beatles and suck up the creative air that begged disciples. Someone in a Toronto bar said he looked like Paul McCartney. Although the resemblance was faint, it contributed to his Irish over-confidence when chatting up the birds. Betty, his wife, was a beauty consultant, with hair as black and shiny as a raven’s wings. Bet had well-formed lips, wide and generous, touched up by the faintest art. Her eyelashes were long enough to clean car windows. Her striking green eyes sparkled like grade B diamonds. She was a sultry five foot, eleven inches, with a Rubenesque body forever wrapped in pink. In wrestling, she’d win hands down. A beauty with striking Spanish features, she’d set Eddy’s spirits on fire. Half the men on the plane had noticed Betty. They made a handsome couple who spread warmth no matter where they went.

Dennis was also part of the group; a Paddy transplanted from Belfast to Oakville, near Hamilton, at the age of five, with the phoniest Irish accent. It grated; it snarled and turned my ears off. He was generous of heart; a wisp of a lad and a source of laughter and a sense of togetherness when the going got tough. Yes, Den was a ragamuffin of a soul who attracted wayward dogs and loose eyes while walking down sensible street. Someone once said he walked like a ballet dancer in army boots. No matter, our Dennis had a gait that provoked curiosity. He too was an artist.

I was the elder statesman, being a year older than the rest.

After completing a four year arts program at Central Art College in Hamilton, I’d pursued further studies to achieve graduate certification and had applied to McMaster University, also in Hamilton. Much to my disappointment, no financial assistance plan in the world could fund my ambitions. Poverty was a brick wall for many in my hometown. Therefore the pursuit of higher education went into the dream drawer. Life and experience would be my entrée to the adbiz.

Like the others, I was attracted to London by the sound of the four kids from Liverpool, and the creative and fashion freedom they preached. Otherwise destiny would have sent me into the driver’s seat of a garbage truck. So in our 1960s gang, creative ambition seemed to be the glue that bonded us and would allow us to board a career train together. To most of our friends back in Canada, chasing career opportunities in London seemed a hopeless dream at best. To us, like a world of others, it was an obsession we couldn’t overcome. The hypnotic appeal was more than a drug: it was a powerful beacon and our souls were drawn to the light. We would never make it in our hometown.

In my hometown my fashion sense was shaped by regular visits to Amity to buy clothes. Amity was a wonderful Hamilton charity store that sold used clothing to thousands of poor families who simply couldn’t afford to buy new.

The other personal failing was a lack of easy good looks, marred by disabled teeth that had been knocked about by poverty and salt, just like everyone else in England we were told. So we soldiered on to Mecca.

Messed up teeth was the result of pre-Victorian carelessness about cleaning teeth. Bad teeth discouraged people from smiling, up to about 1903, when Eton, a private English boy’s school, won a competition to encourage people to smile for photographs.

The solution was easy: ask people to say cheese when pictures were taken. That way it looked like they were smiling when the photo was printed. Smiling for photographs soon became fashionable; a magic tool for photographers bent on making their subjects look more attractive, despite many people having bad teeth. It is said that if Queen Victoria’s household had smiled for the camera, it would have been