What Fresh Lunacy is This?

by Robert Sellers

  Before a foot of celluloid was exposed, the entire album score had to be re-recorded for the film at The Who’s private London studio. When Ollie arrived for his first rehearsal, a disturbed Townshend was pacing up and down, swigging neat brandy from a beer mug. Russell was waiting in the control room. ‘OK, Ollie, grab a mike and start singing.’

  ‘I don’t know any songs, Ken.’ Then, turning to Townshend, he said, ‘Listen, Peter, all I can give you is “The Wild Colonial Boy”.’

  Townshend’s face was vacant, as if a ‘To Let’ sign had been hung up on his forehead, but he was game and sat down at the piano. Clearing his throat, Ollie gave it his all but still sounded like a prop forward singing ‘Nellie Dean’ in a pub toilet. Townshend stopped playing, downed the remainder of the brandy, and announced, ‘Are you fucking joking?’

  Ollie was dispatched home, along with a tape of the musical score, and ordered to learn all of his songs by heart. David remembers driving his brother back up to the studios a few days later with the music of Tommy blasting out of the car stereo’s speakers and both of them singing along to it. In the end Ollie approached his role rather like Rex Harrison did with Professor Higgins in My Fair Lady, in that he performs the songs rather than sings them. This led to a highly endearing but also a broad comedic performance, and initially Russell was worried that it was straying into the realms of caricature. Confronted about this, Ollie yelled, ‘Me, over the top? Have you ever seen any of your films?’

  Keith Moon wasn’t present at Oliver’s recording session. Nor was their first meeting his notorious helicopter landing at Broome Hall. They had first bumped into each other at a hotel in Weymouth on the south coast during Tommy’s first week of shooting in April 1974. ‘We were shown into Keith’s room,’ Jacquie recalls. ‘And we were only there about fifteen minutes when he started complaining that he couldn’t get his television to change channels. He phoned down to reception, who of course had never come across anyone like Moonie before. “I can’t change channels, bring another television set up here.” And the guy said, “We don’t have another telly.” And Moonie picked up the set, opened the window, and chucked the television out and it smashed to pieces. Can you imagine that poor hotel?’

  While Jacquie was dismayed by such behaviour, Ollie immediately responded to it. Curiously, of all of the members of The Who he might have befriended, Jacquie thought the most obvious candidate was Townshend, a man of equal intelligence. ‘But no, Oliver gravitated straightaway towards Moonie. He was another child to play with.’ And very quickly Jacquie sensed that she was no longer welcome on the Tommy location. ‘I was only there for a very short time because obviously Oliver wanted me well out of the way so he could play with Moonie. And it wasn’t until the film was over that I really saw him again.’ And play they did.

  In order to prevent global catastrophe, Ollie and Moonie were separated and housed in different hotels. The plan backfired because Keith and his entourage simply decamped over to Ollie’s hotel, and within a few days, as word spread of the drummer’s wild all-night parties and groupies, the rest of the crew moved in with them. It was like Sodom and Gomorrah. ‘The place was full of crumpet,’ recalled Ollie. One night he was besieged in his bedroom by six bunny girls pressed up against the glass fire escape door, all waving dildos at him. When Ollie had to go away for a couple of days he invited Keith to use his room if he wanted. On his return he walked in the door and there was Keith with girls attached to every orifice and he just stood up, ‘Hey, Ollie boy, make yourself at home.’ As Oliver later told his brother David, ‘I knew right there that things are very different in the music world.’ Indeed they were and Keith was a very different kind of hell-raiser, heavily into drugs. ‘Ollie only dabbled in drugs very, very infrequently,’ claims David. ‘But Keith did drugs in a big way.’

  About the only thing Ollie dabbled in was smoking weed. He used to grow it in the greenhouse at Broome Hall and dry it out in the attic. ‘I grew up around marijuana constantly,’ admits Sarah. ‘I knew how to toast marijuana before I knew how to toast bread. I was rolling joints for them all at quite an early age, not very well. It was completely normal.’ Mark got into trouble at school once for bringing in weed. When the teacher asked where he got it from, he said, ‘From my dad.’

  As for that Weymouth hotel, it did seem to have a pipeline running from the Playboy mansion in Beverly Hills. David recalls visiting Ollie there and going out together for the evening. On returning, they discovered a party of dolly birds in Ollie’s room brazenly ordering champagne. ‘Good evening,’ said Ollie. ‘What can I do for you?’ They told him in no uncertain fashion. Slamming the door shut, Ollie and David went down to reception, only to be told, ‘Look, it’s not our responsibility.’ So they trudged along the passageway to Keith’s suite, knocked on the door, went in, and there was Keith in bed with two of the most stunning blondes you’ve ever seen in your life.

  ‘Hello, Ollie, what’s up then?’

  ‘We’ve got all these birds in our suite.’

  ‘What’s the problem, then?’ replied Keith.

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ollie.’

  Keith got out of bed stark bollock naked and strutted down the passageway, opened the door and yelled, ‘Right, you lot, OUT! Out! Go on! Get away with you!’ All these girls stopped doing whatever they were doing and said, ‘All right then, we’ll go and see Reg,’ and they all trooped out. God knows what Reg did with them. ‘There must have been twenty of these girls,’ recalls David. ‘Ollie and I ended up hiding downstairs under the reception desk out of sight in case any of them came down.’

  During a break in filming, Ollie retired to Broome Hall and a temporary respite from the insanity of Moon’s universe. It didn’t last long: Keith arrived for the weekend with a new girlfriend, Joy Bang, a ditzy blonde American actress who made quite an impression on the young Sarah. ‘She used to go into my mother’s wardrobe and help herself to anything and I admired her, she was a complete hippy. I remember I used to jump into bed with her and Moonie in the morning and sit in between them and we’d just laugh, all three of us, like children, because they were probably high by that stage. That kind of thing was my normal as a child, so I would go to school on a Monday morning and the teacher would ask, “What have you done this weekend, Sarah?” And I’d say, “Oh, I jumped into bed with Keith Moon from The Who.”’

  Filming continued on Tommy in the Lake District and at Southsea, where Ollie and Moonie almost killed themselves when they pinched a boat and went off in it, no doubt trying to row to the Isle of Wight to see Gus, who was entertainment manager at a holiday camp there. ‘Well, it capsized,’ remembers Mick Monks. ‘And they both somehow managed to swim ashore – pissed. Amazing they got back alive, just terrifying.’ Interiors were completed at Shepperton Studios, where Monks was working, and he’d often meet up with Ollie to talk over old times. Driving home one night, he saw Ollie’s car parked outside a pub near the studio and went in. ‘He was in there with Moonie. “Tractors, come and join us.” And Moonie asked for this exotic type of liqueur but the barman didn’t have it, so Moonie just picked up a chair and threw it through the optics and screamed, “You better fucking get some in then.” A lot of people wouldn’t stay the course. If Ollie said, “Come on, we’re going out on the piss”, they’d run away because they couldn’t keep up. Not Moonie.’

  During another journey home from the studio, Bill Dobson, Christensen and Reg were in the car when Ollie announced that everyone had to make up a dare for each other. It couldn’t be dangerous but they all had to do it. ‘Should liven the journey up a bit,’ he said. The first dare was for Reg. Stopping outside a normal suburban house, he had to go and knock on the door and insist on a cup of tea and a biscuit and be seen from the window partaking. Sure enough, a couple of minutes later there he was at the window. Next up was Christensen. His dare was to go into the saloon bar of a pub, order a pint of whisky and pour it over his head. This he did and his eye
s stung like mad, and there was Ollie and the others sitting in the next bar saying to the customers, ‘Is he some sort of fucking nutter or something?’ Bill was up next. Just by chance Ollie’s chauffeur had a pair of yellow washing-up gloves in the boot that he cleaned his car with. Bill had to put one of these on his head, go into a pub and walk around in a circle clucking like a chicken. So successful was his performance that this became something of a party piece for old Bill. Ollie even got him to do it naked once in a crowded pub.

  Back in the car, Bill turned to Ollie. ‘Right, your go.’ Knowing they were going to drive past a golf club, where a four were usually teeing off somewhere, Ollie had to run on to the course and go up to the bloke about to tee off and say, ‘No, no, no, you’re holding it completely wrong,’ take the club off him and drive his ball into the rough somewhere, then bugger off. And it happened exactly like that.

  Tommy marked the last time Ollie and Russell worked together for sixteen years, not counting an uncredited walk-on in Ken’s very next movie, Lisztomania, a gloriously ripe biopic of the Hungarian composer starring Roger Daltrey and with Ringo Starr as the Pope. Again payment was in the form of champagne, this time a whole case. Working with Russell nearly always produced Ollie’s best acting, and the reason for that was simple: Ollie believed in Ken. ‘And there were very few people that Ollie believed in,’ says Simon. ‘He tolerated some, didn’t tolerate others, liked some, but he really did rate Ken and trust him.’ There was a shared lunacy and sense of the ridiculous that came across in the work they did together and also in life. Here’s a good example. Dropping into a pub on the way back to his hotel after a day’s filming, Russell ordered a bottle of wine and a plate of whelks. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the landlord, motioning his head across the saloon bar. ‘We’ve just sold the last whelks to Mr Reed.’ Ollie raised his glass, a big soppy grin on his face.

  Annoyed, Russell left and got back into his car. He was about to drive off when an object hurled itself onto the bonnet – it was Ollie. Undeterred, Russell revved the engine and manoeuvred his way onto the main road, with Ollie still lying spread-eagled before him. ‘Since when do you refuse to take a drink with me?’ Oliver screamed through the glass.

  ‘Since you ate all the whelks,’ Russell shouted back, nursing the car up to forty miles per hour.

  ‘You want whelks,’ Ollie roared. ‘I’ll give you whelks. Turn back.’

  Now approaching a roundabout, Russell went round it and returned to the pub. There, as he hit the brakes, he watched Ollie shoot off the bonnet, fly through the air and land in a heap in the car park. ‘You want whelks,’ said Ollie, dusting himself down and marching over to an estuary that adjoined the pub. Open-mouthed, Russell saw his leading man dive into the water, fully clothed, to emerge seconds later with a fistful of seaweed and undetermined gunk. ‘Here’s your fucking whelks.’

  ‘Thank you, Oliver,’ said Russell as he examined the rather unappetizing shellfish that had been hurled unceremoniously on to the bonnet of his car.

  ‘Now, what’ll you have?’

  ‘Half of shandy,’ said Russell, borrowing a knife to prise open the shellfish. As he later recalled, ‘It was worse than swallowing two globs of phlegm soaked in sump oil.’

  Boxing Clever

  With Tommy in the can and destined to become a great success, Ollie and Moonie drew up plans for another collaboration, a theatrical venture that, had it come off, would have been among the most unusual shows ever to hit the West End. It was called ‘The Dinner Party’, and that’s exactly what it was going to be: Ollie and Keith having dinner on stage with some of their celebrity friends popping in. There would also be a snooker table on stage, so Alex Higgins could play a quick game when he felt like it. During the meal, catered by the best restaurants in London in exchange for a credit on the programme, all manner of topics and conversations would take place, all impromptu; every night would be different. Ollie also planned that five members of the audience would be invited to join them on stage for each performance. The poster would ask: ‘Have you been to the Dinner Party?’ It was an inspired idea, but just how successful it would have proved is another matter.

  Having reached the pinnacle of his profession, Ollie was now considered a suitable candidate for that doyen of broadcasting institutions, Desert Island Discs. It proved to be a troublesome recording. He arrived at the BBC’s Broadcasting House with his gardeners, having insisted none of them change their clobber of jeans and dirty wellies. ‘There were quite a few raised eyebrows when my agricultural entourage traipsed after me, swigging gin straight from the bottle and depositing mud and horse shit all over the carpets.’ Again it was Ollie aiming a swipe at convention, putting two fingers up to what he called ‘po-faced traditions’. His musical choices ranged from Frank Sinatra to Claude Debussy, but, when asked what luxury item he’d take with him, he chose an inflatable woman. Afterwards the normally placid host, Roy Plomley, was heard to mutter, ‘The only island that man should be cast away on is Devil’s Island.’

  After the broadcast Ollie took his gardeners to the White Elephant in Curzon Street for a slap-up meal. As a joke he got the filthiest gardener to go in first and ask for a table. Of course, the maître d’ told him to fuck off. In walked Ollie wearing a big smile. ‘Ah, Mr Reed, I should have known it was you. But can they leave their boots by the door?’ Christensen remembers ordering tournedos Rossini, a portion of fillet steak on toast with pâté, and when it turned up Ollie stared at the waiter. ‘What the fuck’s that?’ The waiter began to get nervous. ‘It’s what the gentleman ordered sir, it’s a tournedos.’ ‘I know what it is,’ said Ollie. ‘But look at the size of that steak and look at the size of that man. Go and get another five.’

  As a rule Ollie preferred his local curry house in Dorking to posh restaurants, and always sat with his back facing the room, as he didn’t like facing out because people would recognize him. There he often played the ‘hottest curry’ game. Ken Burgess, aka the Admiral, an old rugger bugger from Rosslyn Park, loved his curries, the hotter the better, and was a regular visitor to Broome Hall. One lunchtime Ken ordered the hottest curry on the menu but when it arrived a look of disappointment flooded his face. ‘This is pathetic, Ollie. It’s not nearly hot enough.’ Oliver called the waiter over. ‘Excuse me, this man likes a hot curry. What you’ve presented here a girl could eat. Take this plate of food away.’

  Ten minutes later the waiter returned with a new plate of food, all swimming in red and shit. Ken took a couple of mouthfuls. ‘That’s better,’ he said. By the third mouthful he started choking. But he ate the lot. Christensen was there and when he put his finger in the curry it physically hurt, and it burned his lips. ‘They’d obviously just ground up some chillies and said, “Right, have that on us, clever bastard.” Anyway Ken was sitting in the back of Ollie’s Roller, moaning and groaning and farting. We got to the bottom of Ollie’s drive – it’s a long, long drive going up to Broome Hall – and Ollie shouted, “Right, get out of the fucking car, Admiral, I’m sick of your moaning and farting. Sit on the bonnet and hold on to the lady.” So Ken was sitting there and as we got to the bridge there was a speed bump, we hit it and old Ken went flying off the bonnet. Ollie just managed to stop in time. After that Ollie renamed Ken “the Tumbling Admiral”.’

  Moonie was by now a regular visitor to Broome Hall and Christensen met him on several occasions, arriving at the opinion that if such a thing were possible the drummer was even crazier than Ollie. One afternoon they’d been drinking in Dorking and had come back, and Moon said to Christensen, ‘Hey, Norse, do you happen to have such a thing as a twelve-bore shotgun?’ He had several. ‘Could I have one, please, and some ammunition?’ Christensen answered, ‘No fucking way. I’m not giving you a gun under any circumstance, pissed or sober.’ Moon looked at him and said, ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport.’

  Usually Moonie arrived with a new girlfriend in tow. ‘He always had these Swedish blonde bombers with him,’ recalls David. ‘And he got
girls walking naked round Broome Hall.’ On one memorable occasion Ollie and Moon dressed up as clowns and cavorted around the gardens and boated on the lake for hours. Ollie adored clowns, owning a huge collection of watercolours of them bought from a Wimbledon artist. ‘I think he saw himself as a clown,’ says Jacquie. Ollie’s humour wasn’t so much telling jokes as physical comedy, pulling funny faces and doing silly things to make you laugh. ‘There’s also the pathos and the crying, the tears of a clown,’ notes Jacquie. One of the very few things she still has from her time with Ollie is a painting called The Clown and the Dancer that he bought for her. The picture must have spoken to him the second he saw it, because the faces of the two figures are almost identical to the way he and Jacquie looked when they first fell in love.

  Jacquie has also kept some of the poetry Oliver wrote for her. ‘He wrote lovely poetry. They were very strange and whimsical, much like Lewis Carroll. A lot of them were love poems, to me.’ Much later Oliver wrote poetry for Josephine. ‘It wasn’t necessarily very good,’ she admits, ‘but he did enjoy writing poetry. Often he’d say to people, give me a word, any word, and then he’d make up a poem using that word.’

  Mark also used to come down to Broome Hall, mainly on weekends and school holidays, and spent much of his time there driving the Land Rover and tractors. Oliver did up one of the mezzanine floors like a disco, with music and lights and a glitterball, and Mark would have his mates round for parties. At the time Mark was at Millfield, a top public school in Somerset. Perhaps remembering how he was abandoned in such places by his parents, Ollie was determined not to make the same mistake with his own son. Mark remembers, ‘He used to come down from time to time, arriving in a jet ranger helicopter that he’d chartered, and we’d go off for lunch somewhere, or he’d pick me up at the end of summer term and we’d fly back to Broome Hall.’