Keith Moon Stole My Lipstick

by Judith Wills

  As I left, he was chatting to Julie. And next time I spoke to her, I found out that he’d done the same number on her, at equal length – with the difference that at the end, he asked her out. She didn’t go. Of course.

  We all put up with Tony, because although he was a bit of an idiot in some respects, he was a lovable idiot, always.

  Around this time there was something much more important brewing – the visit to the UK by David Cassidy.

  By the time he arrived – on 7 February (a fact recorded in big letters in my diary, almost as if I was impressed by this myself) – he was the biggest star, in teenybopper terms, that the UK had ever seen. Through his role as Keith Partridge in the TV show The Partridge Family, and a string of hit records, despite being no great singer, as far as I could tell, he was massive – and the crowds at Heathrow and the hysterical fans who followed him round everywhere that week proved it. I firmly believe that if you want to be a teen idol, you can get a long, long way on great hair, a wide smile and a good set of teeth. As Mr Bieber knows today.

  I was with Cassidy most of the week, and quite puffed up with a sense of my own importance as I was not only the official Fab representative but had also been commissioned by a US magazine called Star to be their UK correspondent for the Cassidy tour.

  On the 8th there was a bus organised to take David and selected press, me included, round all the tourist spots of London for photo opportunities – but sadly we only got as far as Buckingham Palace and had to pack it in because the weather was dire and David didn’t want to get wet and cold.

  On Thursday 10th I had my proper private interview with him at the Dorchester in his suite and had to shove hundreds of girls, who were crowding the outside, out of the way in order to get there. Even after all these years on Fab I still found this something of a buzz. I guess it made me feel glamorous, that old stardust rubbing off on little old me again. The fact that they all hated me for going to the one place they wanted to go – David Cassidy’s bedroom – kind of didn’t matter.

  In truth, David Cassidy was quite unexceptional in every way, as far as I could tell, except that he had quite heavy pancake make-up on, which, in those days, wasn’t the norm apart from glam rockers on stage. This was, I daresay, an attempt to mask the spots which had broken out on his face due, no doubt, to the stress of the tour. The famous smile didn’t show itself a lot except when the photographer, David Porter, turned his camera on him; he was a bit grumpy and a bit taking himself seriously, and while he wasn’t the worst person I’ve ever interviewed he was not easy.

  But hey, I went away and wrote how lovely he was, because the truth wasn’t what the teenyboppers or the pop magazine editors wanted to hear, everything had to be wonderful.

  A year or two later it turned out that at the time the boy was seriously depressed about his career and looking for some proper meaning in life; he quit the business and his demeanour all that week made sense. He was just being truthful. He couldn’t pretend.

  Except, of course, he was supposed to be an actor.

  Mind you, he never won any Oscars. And I can understand that.

  1972 was also the year I was finally to meet The Osmonds. In March 1972 they had another minor hit in the UK charts, ‘Down by the Lazy River’. Meanwhile in America they were doing much better.

  One way or another (probably via Bill Sammeth’s powers of persuasion) they had managed to get a spot on our Royal Variety Performance in May. The group used the opportunity to spend several days in the UK doing press, radio and whatever TV they could get, which, as I recall, wasn’t a great deal. Thus they had to more or less make do with me – and my diary lists ‘Friday 19th, Churchill Hotel, Osmonds’ ‘Tuesday 23rd, Churchhill Hotel, Osmonds’ and ‘Wednesday 24th, 2.30pm, Osmonds’.

  Of all this, I recall next to nothing. I still don’t think I was convinced at that stage.

  By this time I had finished with doing beauty at Fab for good, and not a moment too early. The TV and film coverage had gone to Georgina, and I was concentrating virtually 100 per cent on music (loosely speaking, as much of it was by no means actual music as you may know it) which suited me well. I still had my coterie of music journalist friends – Julie, Richard Green (The Beast) from the NME, Nigel Hunter, who by this time was working for Music Business Weekly, and Roy Carr. Between us we always had a huge choice of freebies.

  One of our favourite haunts was the murkily lit, smoke-infested Ronnie Scott’s club in Wardour Street. I don’t remember ever once paying to get in, probably because there seemed to be a music business reception, or a showcase for a particular artist or band – Long John Baldry was one of the best – there virtually every night. In March we watched Slade launch their album Slade, Alive! which was to stay in the UK album charts for over a year, at the club.

  Ronnie Scott would get up on stage at the end of the reception and after a couple of polite attempts to get us to leave, would yell out, ‘Fuck off, the lot of you …’. In those days, hearing someone say those words still had an element of shock, unlike today. If we didn’t fancy fucking off, we’d just stay on all evening. But Ronnie didn’t really mind as we always ordered plenty of expensive drinks from the miniskirted girls who would roam the banks of dimly-lit tables taking our orders.

  Other haunts were the Revolution club, The Speakeasy, The Marquee, Scotch of St James and The Cromwellian – but I was never a great nightclub-goer because I always used to fall asleep while all around me disco danced until dawn.

  I was still living at 35 Avonmore Road – the bedsit was on the second floor and was pretty basic, with a kitchen partitioned off, a cubby hole curtained off for storage, and a room of about 18ft by 12ft containing two 2ft 6in single beds. One day in the spring of 1972 I was quite surprised when the doorbell rang and when I raced down the stairs, there, clutching a large, leather holdall was The Boss.

  ‘I’ve come to stay,’ he said. I was so surprised it didn’t cross my mind to say ‘no’, so he moved into the spare bed and thus began our live-in life together. He’d moved from a swish three-bedroom apartment in De Vere Gardens, Kensington W8 to a grotty bedsit in London W14. Well, that was his choice.

  One day in July an invitation arrived in the post to a press reception at The Savoy – and as soon as I looked at it I knew it was one I was not going to miss. It was for Andy Williams who was going to be based in town for a few days during a large European tour. I’d met all of my other heroes from my teenage years except Andy, so I wasn’t going to let this slip by. But it was more than just ticking him off, like a trainspotter does with trains. He’d meant such a lot to me.

  So at lunchtime I wandered over to The Savoy, which was only a short walk from the office on the other side of The Strand, down some stairs to the large reception room and there he was, right in front of me, it was that easy. The guy who had almost single-handedly saved my life by appearing, soothing, on TV every week when I was a depressed young teen.

  He was sitting in a corner surrounded by a few journalists all scribbling notes. So I grabbed a drink and sidled over, sat down nearby and watched and listened. Trying outwardly to look cool, inwardly stomach doing somersaults because that voice was so smooth, so good to listen to, even better here in The Savoy than it had been on TV ten years or so ago. God I wished he’d start singing …

  After a while, I realised he was looking at me as he was talking to one of the male journos. To run away, to blush, to ignore him or what? Well, I smiled. Just a small sort of smile, nothing too broad, I didn’t want him to think I was a member of the Andy Williams fan club or anything.

  I just really wanted to have his megawatt American smile all for me alone, just once. And I got it. He grinned at me and there I was, back in Weston-on-the-Green, looking at Andy Williams but this time he was in colour – and his hair was light brown.

  I got up and walked away, and downed a couple of drinks far too quickly through nerves. On an empty stomach, the first drink went straight to my head. I seem to remember it was cham
pagne. A few people I knew drifted in and I began talking to them.

  ‘Aren’t you going to go and ask Mr Williams a few questions?’ said one.

  ‘He’d like you.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, I think he likes the young ladies – and I do mean young.’

  ‘But I’m 23!’ God that’s nearly middle-aged!’

  ‘Ah but with that short skirt … and you’re skinny – you could pass for 16. Today, anyway!’ And he walked off, smirking.

  Williams was still surrounded by press – mostly from the nationals – and I just couldn’t bring myself to go and squeeze myself in and start asking teenage magazine questions, I just couldn’t do it.

  So as the party was nearly over anyway, I decided to call it a day and walked over towards the stairs up to the foyer. I glanced over at Andy as I went, thinking well, I’ve seen him – we didn’t talk, but we did smile. That would have to do.

  But at that moment he too got up; I heard him taking his leave of everyone and within seconds he, plus his record company minders, was also walking towards the stairs. As I climbed them, in probably the shortest miniskirt I had at the time, I was completely aware that right behind me, my Last Teen Hero was following me up the stairs and I could actually feel his eyes on my legs. I felt myself going hot and as soon as I got to the top I shot out the entrance of The Savoy and hurried back to the office.

  It wasn’t because of my skirt length, or the fact that the legendary Andy Williams had been looking at my legs that I had felt embarrassed – it was for the simple reason that I didn’t like my legs from the knee downwards. I was kicking myself for not wearing my over-knee suede boots. But it was mid-July and in those days you just didn’t do that Alexa Chung-boho-period kind of thing with your fashion. So I was quite sure that instead of admiring me and noticing me in a nice kind of way, Andy Williams had left The Savoy going, ‘Oh, hell, just look at that girl’s revolting legs …’.

  The next day I was sitting in the office gazing out of my first-floor window at the employees of IPC going in and out of the main building on the other side of Southampton Street when the phone rang.

  I picked it up and a male voice with an American accent began, ‘Hi – is that Judy?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Judy Wills here.’

  ‘Hi – it’s Andy!’

  That’s Andy Williams voice, I thought.

  ‘Andy who?’ I said.

  ‘Andy Williams’ the voice said, sounding slightly crestfallen.

  ‘Oh, hi Andy – how are you doing?’ I said, as if a) I had been expecting his call and b) I talked to him every day.

  I had finally sorted out my early telephone phobia and found it much easier to be bold and laid back on the phone than in person. God, if I could have done the Isle of Wight Festival on the phone, just think what wonderful scoops I could have got.

  ‘Well I noticed you at The Savoy the other day and I asked who you were, so they found me your number. Hope you don’t mind …’.

  ‘No, not at all …’.

  ‘I wondered if you’d let me take you out – I haven’t much spare time, they’re keeping me busy, but can we have lunch tomorrow? I could come and pick you up in the car if you give me the address.’

  So I spent the next minute giving Andy Williams my work address so he could come and pick me up next day in his car and take me out.

  ‘One o’ clock then – don’t be late!’ said Andy Williams in his best, smiley, familiar voice, and he rang off.

  Ten seconds later.

  ‘Mum! Andy Williams just rang me. He wants to see me for lunch tomorrow. He’s going to come here and pick me up!’ I squeaked.

  ‘Mum – and do you know what? He rang me and he said, “It’s Andy here” and do you know what I said to him? I said, “Andy who?”’

  My mother retold that story many times in the years ahead.

  Well I told The Boss – who, you will recall, was by this time sharing my bedsit in West Kensington – that Andy Williams had rung me. But I didn’t tell him that I was going to lunch with him. Well lunch wasn’t much, was it? Lunch wasn’t a date.

  Could have been work, anyway. Perhaps Andy Williams wanted to tell Fab 208 magazine all about his latest easy listening album. Perhaps Andy Williams felt that without Fab 208 magazine his whole European tour would be as nothing.

  Back at home several hours were spent trying on and discarding every outfit I had, then deciding on the one I first thought of – another mini dress, floral patterned I believe, and this time I would wear knee-high canvas boots and damn the hot weather.

  Washed and ironed hair, bathed.

  Next morning I was glad I wasn’t a bloke because I would definitely have cut myself shaving.

  And at the appointed minute, I looked out of my office window and a huge Roller was outside, and a chauffeur was getting out and making his way towards our office door. I sat and waited. A minute later the Ed’s Sec arrived at my desk.

  ‘Andy Williams is waiting for you downstairs,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, right, thanks,’ I replied, all nonchalance. The second she’d gone I gathered my handbag and scooted down the stairs, only slowing down when I reached the door to the street. At this point I took a few deep breaths and forced myself to saunter out towards the roller’s open rear door, as if Andy Williams came to pick me up every day of the week.

  I jumped in and there he was – I’d thought perhaps he had just sent the car to get me, but no, he was doing a personal appearance for a rapt audience of one.

  ‘We’re going to have lunch at my place,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a nice house in Knightsbridge and they’re doing us food. I hope you don’t mind.’

  And there followed some of the most surreal hours of my young life. We arrived at the address in Wilton Place, one of those classical gorgeous terraces tucked away between Sloane Street and Hyde Park Corner. Inside, a few hangers-on were sitting around drinking. I was introduced and Andy and I sat side by side on a squashy sofa tucked neatly into a recess. A couple of helpers buzzed around waiting on Mr Williams’ every whim.

  I can’t remember what we had to eat nor exactly what we talked about but an hour or two passed with no bother, some of the time him holding my hand. Andy only left my side to go to the loo once or twice and to take occasional phone calls.

  At one stage he remarked that I was uncannily like his great friend Shirley MacLaine both to look at and in personality.

  ‘That’s why I noticed you,’ he said. ‘She’s one of my favourite, best friends.’

  I told him that was interesting because my mother used to tell me I looked like her as a kid.

  During the first hour or two at that house, I became aware that there was a certain buzz in the room that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Apart from my tiny foray into the world of cannabis a couple of years previously with Jim Morrison, I still had little experience or knowledge of drugs but now looking back I am fairly sure that some of the party members were indulging in a particular illegal activity involving the use of the nasal passages and I am fairly sure that I was invited to join in – but not knowing what I was being invited to join in with, I said no, I’d stick to the alcohol.

  It was well past lunchtime and I was wondering if I should be making a move to leave, when Andy told me he was going to go and have a lie down because he felt tired and had a busy night ahead. No way was this an invitation to join him. He wasn’t making a pass, he was going to pass out. At least I think that’s the way it was.

  I felt kind of relieved about this – I didn’t want to sleep with him anyway, partly because of The Boss, partly because, although I felt that I should fancy him like crazy, I didn’t actually want to have sex with him, and partly because I knew I should be heading home. I didn’t want to have to fib about where I’d been. So when Andy said he was going for a lie down, I said I would just go to the bathroom then I would leave myself.

  ‘Oh come and use my bathroom,’ he offered. And so he led me i
nto his room and to the loo that ran off it. In I went and spent a few minutes in there freshening up.

  And when I came out, there was Andy Williams, lying flat out on the bed on his back, fast asleep, snoring very softly. He was in that special kind of a deep, dreamless sleep.

  I gingerly sat down on the edge of his bed and looked at him. I took in his high forehead, his hair, his mouth, half smiling even in his sleep, his eyelids, his strong jaw, his tanned good-quality skin with the wrinkles beginning to show. I took in all of it, trying to fix this very private view of my Last Teen Hero in my memory forever. Then I bent over and kissed his forehead and whispered, ‘Bye, Andy. Thanks.’ And I crept out of the room and left his house and his life.

  Was it a let down? Did I not want to be seduced? No I didn’t. I think originally that may have been his intention, but things changed, and no it wasn’t a let down. I just wanted my own close up, my own moment. And I got that just fine without the embarrassment of having to say ‘no’. It was a shame that he didn’t know I had thanked him, nor what I was thanking him for – but apart from that, it was perfect.

  Whether or not I had been with The Boss, and even if Andy Williams and I had ended up in bed together, we wouldn’t have had more than a fleeting relationship, a one-nighter. I liked him, I found him polite, warm and gentle – and he had fabulously holdable hands. But really, we didn’t have a lot in common and I am sure he found me too quiet, too silly and, in a funny way, too old fashioned, to be anything more than a day’s interest in his life.

  Next day in my handbag, I found the IOU note he had written me in return for me giving him my cigarette lighter. I can’t remember why he wanted the lighter, I don’t recall him smoking, but perhaps he did, or perhaps it was for someone else. I still have that note today. I never got the lighter back but who cares? The note’s much better.

  Early in August I received an invitation to go to the Park Suite at the Dorchester for a reception for a new West End show – Jesus Christ Superstar. The show was already causing controversy because of its subject matter. It had opened in New York in 1971 and made a star of Yvonne Elliman, who I had trekked all the way out to Great Yarmouth to see at the behest of impresario Robert Stigwood some time earlier. I’d found her pure of voice but a trifle boring.