Dave Cash

Chapter Two – The Pirate Revolution

 You live your life in the songs you hear on the Rock ‘n Roll Radio. And when a young girl hasn’t got any friends it’s a really nice place to go. (Helen Reddy - Angie Baby)

It started with an Irishman sticking two fingers up at the English Establishment. Nothing new there then, but this is no ordinary Irishman. Ronan O’Rahilly managed a singer named Georgie Fame. Not for the first time, the BBC had refused to play Georgie’s records. They quoted several reasons which I’m convinced were pre-written and filed in a convenient drawer within the producer’s desk. I can imagine the scenario:-
Manager: My artist has a great new single.
Producer: [Slyly opens an empty drawer to his right and reads from list taped inside] He sounds too Black.. er.. it’s not really within our programming perameters.. and.. er.. because of our needle-time quota we can only add one new single a week and Frankie Vaughan is released on Friday.
Manager: Can I come back next week?
Producer: You’ll have to talk to the Brian Mathews producer, I’m in Manchester next week with the Northern Dance Orchestra.
Manager: Thanks. [Thinks] Oxbridge Git.

Ronan did more than think. He founded Radio Caroline, the first real British Pirate Radio station.

His family owned a port in Ireland so he had access to ships and equipment.  He knew enough about the law to know he could anchor a ship outside the three mile limit and broadcast to Britain and the continent without fear of being boarded and shut down.  He equipped his ship with a transmitter, studios, and enough sleeping capacity for DJs and crew, then sailed to The Wash three and a half miles off Frinton, dropped anchor and started broadcasting Radio Caroline on Easter Saturday 1964.  Ronan was driven by the simplistic 60’s axiom:  If it’s right and there’s money to be made, go for it.  Ronan believed in Georgie Fame, and time has proved him right. 

I learned about Ronan late, as I didn’t meet him until summer 1965.  We were competitors – he was heading one team, I was working for the other. But we were united by the war babies’ attitude that just said ‘up yours’ to the establishment.  We still play the odd game of snooker at The Chelsea Sports Club.

Radio Luxembourg had been broadcasting night time pop music for years. They were the original ‘under the bedcovers’ station for the post war teens. The two big record companies, EMI and Decca, controlled most of the programming and they always played half the song because they feared if people heard the whole thing they wouldn’t buy the record.

Radio Caroline was different, very different. They played all the songs, all the time. And they sounded as if they enjoyed it. Others followed and within two years over half the population of the UK listened to Pirate Radio. 

There is a fundamental difference between radio and television in that people watch television programmes regardless of which channel they’re on, while, on the whole, people listen to radio stations. Once they find a station they like, they stay with it. With the invention of the web and listen again, radio is now going in a whole new direction, but the principals remain the same: instant communication, honest response, and great music.

My life in radio started in my eighteenth year. By day, I sold Ivy League clothing at Arnold & Quigley’s Menswear; by night I did unpaid odd-jobs at several Vancouver radio stations. I’d finally landed a paying job in radio writing and voicing commercials for the Arnold & Quigley summer sale. They were aired on Vancouver’s number one pop station, CFUN.  I loved the porridge smell of the valve-driven studios, the Rock & Roll music, the attitude of the people. I felt happy inside a radio station. I felt at home.

In July 1964, Bill moved back to England two weeks after hearing the Beatles. In December 1964 a telegram arrived:-

“I’ll take no excuses. Get yourself home to England. Beatles, Stones, Who, Kinks, Dusty Springfield, The Marquee Club. It’s a happy place. It’s all happening on Pirate Radio. We all listen. They need your help.   I repeat. Get yourself to England.”

I arrived in London on Christmas Eve 1964 and checked into the Washington Hotel in Curzon Street. Billy had married Norma who was about to produce the first of five offspring that were to bless their union. The three, almost four, of us ate a scrumptious roast beef dinner, and drank Don Perignon champagne at a very expensive Eight Shillings a bottle.

On December 27th it was mutually decided that I should look for a job. This was due to the speed in which our available capital was being eroded by our extravagant lifestyle. Billy had day time employment at an insurance company and worked most nights in pubs, clubs, or any venue that had need of a good, solid, jazz trio. I would need to contribute at least Nine Pounds a week to ensure we could rent a three bedroom something, somewhere nice, with the desired domestic comforts for myself, Billy, Norma, and the baby.

Joining Radio London was due to a stroke of luck that would be considered contrived if written in fiction. The weather was appalling: London rain mixed with snow and North-wind cold. Billy and I stood outside the hotel in Curzon Street, stamping our feet and clasping our hands in a vain attempt to withstand the elements, while intermittently discussing the proximity of the nearest hostelry. Bill pointed toward Park Lane. “Let’s go that way. Let’s see what’s going on at Posh Alley, and we pass Radio Caroline on the way.”

The walk up Curzon Street became a battle of wind, rain, and traffic. I remember slush. I remember putting my best black dress shoe into a huge wadge of the stuff at the intersection with Queen Street and then being splashed to the knees by a blonde girl driving a green Mini Cooper. My patience was running thin. I stopped outside number 17 Curzon Street and took refuge in the doorway. Bill tugged at my sleeve. “Come on. Radio Caroline’s office is around the next corner.”

“I just want to stop for a moment. Get a bit dry. There’s no hur…”

“GAWD DAMN!!”

A raucous American voice emanated from behind a white wooden door to my right. The voice sounded clear, determined, and very angry.

“I SAID GAWD DAMN!! DOESN’T ANYBODY OUT THERE UNDERSTAND GAWD DAMN FORMAT??!! ARE THESE DISC JOCKEY’S ALL MORONS??!!” The tone of his voice is only justified in capital letters.

The sign on the door said Rad Lon Sales. I knocked once, then immediately opened the door before anyone could answer. “I know about format,” I said in a strong, listen-to-me voice. “And top 40, and commercial production.”

When you’re young, wet, and looking for a job, you tend to do things off the cuff. Hair wet and leg drenched, I stood framed in the doorway. The owner of the voice stood in front of the reception desk on the far side of the room. He was well over six feet tall, had black hair and clenched fists.

“Who the Gawd Damn hell are you?!” he asked in a voice only slightly lower than his previous inquiries. “Do I know you? Are you from that Gawd Damn ship?!”

I stepped into the office. “I’m David Wish,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m from Canada, I’ve worked in format radio for two years.”

The Texan’s voice, attitude and height came down a size. A broad smile preceded bright, sparkling eyes. He strode across the room and vigorously shook my hand. “Gawd Damn, that’s great news. I’m Ben Toney. I’m Programme Director of Radio London and I don’t know what the hell is happening on that ship. They can’t seem to follow a simple format. They’re screwing up my Top 40.” He looked past me, at Billy. “Are you in radio?”

“I’m a jazz drummer,” answered Billy with pride.

“Hell, I can’t use a Gawd Damn drummer.” Ben dismissed him with a flick of his hand and looked back to me. “But I can use a DJ with format experience and some good Promo and Com. Prod. How fast can you get out to the ship? I pay Fifteen Pounds a week, everything on the ship, including the beer, is free, and you’re on for two weeks - off for one. Are you interested?”

“I’m your man,” I replied with all the coolness I could muster. Inside, I’d just scored the winning goal at Wembley.
Chapter Three.

The adventure began early next morning at Liverpool Street railway station.  Ben had given me mail, memos and ‘off-air’ tape recordings of KLIF in Dallas to take out to the ship. He’d also given me a new name. He’d said David Wish wouldn’t fit well with the jingles and that everyone on the ship had stage names just in case the Customs got awkward when we came ashore. David Charles Wish would remain on my passport, but something hip and groovy, with two or four syllables that sounded good when sung; something like Dave Cash, that would sound fantastic.

Dave Cash it was then. I stood on the empty platform waiting for the 6.40 train to Harwich and contemplated life as a two-syllable jingle. It was not too late to change it to something more romantic or unusual. ‘Domitrious Katcheturian plays more music, Doo Wap, Doo Wap, on 266 Radio London, Big L’. That would sound funny; but credibility, not humor, was the bench mark in choosing a good ‘On Air’ name. Last night Ben convinced me that Dave Cash would be the right choice.  Through a series of ‘Gawd Damn’ sentences he carefully explained how ‘Dave Cash On London’  would sound great in three part female harmony, how strong it sounded when spoken, and, given Johnny Cash was my favorite Country singer, how ‘at home’ I would feel with the name. Convincing arguments on a fire-warmed evening at the Red Lion pub; not so convincing on a cold morning at a drafty railway station.

Norma had packed two bananas, an apple, and three mince pies into a plastic Harrods bag and insisted that I carry it separately and not try and stuff it into my cramped suitcases.  Her advice was greatly appreciated as the train thundered through Colchester and I tucked into breakfast.

The antithesis of paradise is Harwich Harbor on a freezing winter’s morning.  The grey stone and concrete slabs of the jetty jut outwards into the murky water, black iron bollards hold thick mooring ropes that loop upwards and disappear through weather-worn holes cut into the sides of rusting coastal cargo ships. Middle-aged customs officers dressed in shabby officer uniforms shuffled official papers while huddled inside drafty brick buildings. And the rain; the cold, biting rain is everywhere.

No glamour here I thought as I stood on the quay side and shivered from head to toe: but wait!  Salvation could be at hand.  From a small brick, one-room building came the sound of rebellion;  “Wonderful Radio London” sung in three part female harmony, followed by a deep Australian voice, “Hull-lo, this is TW on Wonderful Radio London, 266 meters on the medium wave band. M’Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen; pray silence for the Beatles.”

I wondered if the customs officers listened in order to monitor the station or because they actually enjoyed what they heard.

Inside the tiny building an overwhelming feeling of warmth radiated from a large coal stove in the corner.  I dropped my bags just inside the door, nodded at the uniform behind the desk and walked directly to the stove.  I loosened my coat, stood in front of the black metal savior and let the healing heat restore my body to a livable temperature.

“Take your time, mate.  It’s even colder at sea.”

The voice sounded friendly and it made me smile.  I turned to face it.  For the first time, I saw the pirate DJ’s.

Earl Richmond, Simon Dee and Mike Ahern sat huddled around a small Formica-topped table holding hot cups as hand heaters, and looking in my direction.  I left my creature comfort and joined them.

“I’m David Wish, sorry, Dave Cash.  Are you guys with Radio London?”

“Perish the thought,” replied Ahern. “We’re from the ‘big one’, Radio Caroline.”

Just my luck.  Of all the brick huts in all the world I chose the enemy camp.

 “I’m with London,” said Richmond, much to my relief.  “We both use the same tender.  You’re in the right place.”

Mike Ahern was the first to offer his hand.  “Hell, it doesn’t matter who you’re with.  We’re pirates, that’s what counts and Uncle Bob over there makes sure we board the tug on time.” He pointed to a person of scruffy appearance propping up the oak wood counter. “Don’t you Bob?”  The man smiled but said nothing.  “They don’t know what to make of us,” Mike continued in a whisper.  “They think we do drugs and smuggle women out to the ship in our suitcases but they never search us.  I think they like the image of helping the illegals.  We play records for their wives and girlfriends.  It’s kind of a workable barter system.”

My first sighting of the tender was a white steel mast sticking six feet above the jetty.  As I peered over the edge and saw the full extent of the craft I had a sudden feeling that this was not a good idea, that me and my new found colleagues would surely drown if this rust bucket sailed more than ten feet outside the haven of the harbor.  It must have been a fishing boat in a previous life, or possibly a tug.  ‘Previous life’ is the key here.  The boat was named Offshore 1: Lazarus would have been more appropriate.   The newly painted white bow cover soon gave way to a black and rust combination that ran the length of the boat.  Water slopped about on deck looking for a way out.  The four windows that accounted for half the cabin area were dirty, two were cracked.  Even in the relative calm of the harbor it pitched and tossed, the gunwales scraped the stone slabs of the jetty like fingernails across a blackboard.

The harbor experience was frightening enough, the sea experience proved totally terrifying. No amount of inshore sailing, of which I had clocked up many hours, could prepare me for the North Sea in winter.  A ten foot wave swell, bitterly cold northerly winds and driving rain hit the Offshore 1 from every direction.  If it had all come from the same direction we could have sought shelter on the leeward side of the boat but, with the wind from the north, tide from the south and rain from the west, there was no escape from this continuous incursion of nature.  We all huddled in the creaking cabin and tried to ward off sea sickness by employing the theory of looking at the horizon.  The problem with theory is its transference into practice.  Most of the time the horizon wasn’t there, just waves the size of houses and that driving, cutting rain.

We survived what seemed an eternity of this hell at sea and still no sign of Radio London.  I began to believe Big L didn’t exist, and, if it did, it had sunk.  I asked the Dutch captain if he could turn on the radio. In barely audible, broken English he informed me that ‘we would be zare zoon unt pleeze not to deesturb’.

Then, suddenly, like a grey steel wall rising from a black sea, Radio London rose and fell off our port side.  Her radio mast seemed to disappear into the clouds, her cut down transom slammed against the swell sending white-capped waves in our direction, her bow was held firmly by two giant anchor chains.  Even in the chaos of a winter storm she looked awesome.

I had spent five years at Holbrook Naval School.  I knew all about Boatswain’s chairs, ship-to-ship transfers and the like.  I gathered my soaked suitcases, stood on deck and waited for the guide rope to cross our bows.  We were within ten feet of this converted minesweeper.  She towered over us baring her propellers and rudder as the waves thundered along her keel.  I saw two men standing on her deck holding on to the railings.  I waited for them to throw us a rope.  I longed to get on board this rebellious radio station, this mysterious metaphor, this defiant symbol of my generation.  I waited and waited, and waited.

The noise of the sea and the two ships coming close together was deafening. “Where’s the Chair?” I shouted at Mike who stood a foot away from me.

“What chair?” he shouted back.

“The boatswain’s chair to get us onto the ship.”

“There’s no chair. You jump.”

“Jump? Are you kidding?”

Mike smiled knowingly. “It’s the only way to get on board.”

I had signed up to be a disc jockey, not a circus act. At best, I could break my legs as I crashed onto the deck, at worst I could fall between the ships and be crushed.

The captain shouted to me from the relative comfort of the wheel house. “I pull ze ship alongside. When ze waves go up and down and ze two ships are level, you jump.”

I watched my soaking wet suitcases being tied to a small-gauge rope and hauled on board Big L. In a moment of divine inspiration I had an idea which I was sure would save my life. “Throw me a rope.” I shouted at the seaman on board the radio ship. He complied within seconds. I looped the rope around my waist and tied a bowline knot. I felt remarkably focused as I looked at the sailor holding the other end of the rope. “Tie it Off” I shouted, hoping his English was good enough to understand. He disappeared from view, returned a few seconds later and gave me the thumbs up. From my position on the deck I carefully weighed the movement of both vessels. I felt every muscle in my body tighten as I rocked backwards and forwards in preparation for the jump. I cleared my mind of all thoughts save the task at hand.  I felt more alive in that second than at any other moment in my life. I still remember with crystal clarity pulling on the rope to test its security, the fatalistic feeling as I ran the few steps across the deck of Offshore 1, jumped onto the gunwale and threw myself across the white-water chasm between the ships.

The years of track training at Holbrook finally paid a dividend. I cleared Galaxy’s gunwale by at least three feet and slid, face down, onto the deck. In hindsight, I probably could have jumped from gunwale to gunwale without too much difficulty, but, then, I’ve always had a flare for the dramatic.

‘You OK? You OK?’ I could just hear the seaman’s voice above the wind as it lashed across the deck.

“I’m fine.” I said as I dragged myself upright, first onto hands and knees, then after checking that nothing was badly damaged, to my feet. The sailor offered his arm for support. I grabbed on as if it were a life buoy. I blurted out.  “Can we go below now?” 

The interior of the ship was how I imagined. Nothing had been modernized. Grey, steel companionways interrupted by grey, steel bulkheads. No carpets, no ceiling or wall decoration; just a U.S.Navy minesweeper as commissioned some fifteen years earlier. I dragged my bags into a mess-room that I guessed was about amidships. A large table occupied most of the room. There was a small television on a shelf to the left, to the right a leatherette covered banquette extended the full length of the room. Perched in the corner of the banquette with knees tucked under his chin was the small, crumpled figure of a young man. The grayness of sea sickness shadowed his face. His arms encircled his legs, his eyes studied me closely.

“You’re new. What’s your name?” he said, remaining tucked in a ball. “I’m Maurice Cole, but they call me Kenny Everett. I do early evening.”

I moved around the table, stood in front of him and offered my hand. “I’m David Wish. They call me Dave Cash, pleased to meet you.”

He smiled. A warm, genuine smile that made me feel welcome. He unwound himself and shook my hand. “Are you a DJ?”

“Yes.”

“Experienced?”

“Two years in Vancouver.”

He stood up. The boat rolled. He nearly fell over. “That’s one year, eleven months, and two weeks more than me. Did Ben send any tapes?”

“They’re in my bags. Air checks from  KLIF in Dallas.”

 “Brilliant.” His face changed. Enthusiasm and interest replaced boredom and sickness. “I’ll show you to your cabin. Get unpacked and I’ll take you to the studio.”

The DJ’s were allocated the original officer’s cabins which were located in the bow section. Each small room featured two bunks, one upper - one lower, a metal basin, a wardrobe, a desk, and carpet on the floor. I would share with Paul K, Radio London’s newsman. He was asleep on the bottom bunk when I entered the room. I would sleep in the top bunk which had a clearance of about two and a half feet. Confined sleeping lesson number four.

“Let’s get the tapes out and go to the studio,” whispered Kenny. “Paul gets well iffy if you wake him up before his shift.”

The studios were located near the stern of the ship in the area formally occupied by the mine sweeping equipment.  With the ship moored at the bow, the studio’s position in the stern was the worst possible place to have the work area. The studios moved at least twenty feet up and down in the sea swell. Records could not be used as they would jump. The music was being played off cartridge and tape. The thought of any creative thinking, let alone production, seemed impossible. Staying upright was the only priority. Kenny had found a way by holding tightly onto the desk-frame with one hand and operating the equipment with the other. He laced up the KLIF tapes on the Ampex recorder and pressed ‘play’. We stood in the cramped, blanket-lined room, holding on to anything that was solid, and listened to the Charlie & Harrigan breakfast show.

We listened for over an hour. We laughed at their commercial for Bic Pens when Charlie said you could remove the pen cartridge and use the cover as a straw as long as you kept your finger over the hole, chuckled as they introduced the traffic reporter as being in ‘KLIF 11 29 Mini-mobile unit number two in downtown Dallas’, and we shouted back at them when they said the Beatles were two-hit wonders and would never replace ‘Good old American Rock & Roll’. 

Sadly, the tapes ended far too soon. We fought against swell-movement on our way back to the mess room where Kenny set about making a fresh pot of tea. Not an easy task given the elements of boiling water, a gas hob, a small tea pot and the lurching of the boat all blending into a potentially lethal scenario. He managed it without spilling more than a splash of boiling water into the galley sink.

‘Did you say you were a writer?’ he asked in an uncustomary whisper.

‘I want to be,’ I replied. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Can you write comedy as good as Charlie & Harrigan?’

‘I think so. What have you got in mind?’

He beckoned me to follow him into his cabin. Once inside the womb-like safety of the small metal room he locked the door and perched himself precariously on the edge of the lower bunk.. ‘If you can write some characters and sketches as good as them we could do a double show. How about Kenny & Cash?’

Several script revamps, overnight rehearsals, (the only time the studio was free), and many production sessions later the first Kenny & Cash show went to air in April 1965. It became the biggest show on the Pirates. It was also the most fun I ever had on the radio. Characters like Myra Creldge, J. Walter Beethoven, Un-tie Maude, and the beginnings of Captain Kremen and the Krells came to life in that moving metal box we called a studio.

We wanted a space adventure to mimic Dr. Who. I had written some characters in draft form and plotted a couple of sixty second sketches, but as yet we had no names. One day the tender arrived bringing some voice idents that had been recorded for us by Gary Owen in Hollywood. The note scribbled on the back of the compliment slip gave us great encouragement.

“Great show! You guys are pushing the boundaries - keep pushing.”

The first item on the tape was labeled “Show Opener”. It said “This programme is brought to you by the Kremen Snuff Company who invite you to stick their business up your nose”. Kenny & I looked at each other and said in unison. “Captain Kremen!”

The Kremen saga had begun.

Several years later, Kenny resurrected the Captain and his crew for Capital Radio. It was his biggest radio hit.

Radio production facilities on the ship, especially sound affects, were at best limited and at worst non-existent. We had a few tapes of basic boings, thuds and whistles, but anything special we would have to make ourselves. 

I was always searching for rolling sketches, a theme that could last for five or six records or even a whole programme.  People flashing their car lights from the coast as a symbol of support had become legend since Caroline sailed around the coast to take up its northern position and I wanted to reflect that phenomenon. I’d written five links, but I needed the sound of someone diving into the water, swimming ashore and back again. Kenny pondered the problem and decided we could make our own. We dragged the inaccurately named ‘portable’ Ampex tape recorder into the galley, filled the sink with water and recorded the sound of an apple dropping into it at a recording speed of fifteen inches per second and played it back at seven and a half inches per second. Human body hitting the water – nine out of ten. We employed the same technique for the sound of swimming by twiddling our hands in the water and adding echo. I played the hapless Seaman Marks. The sketch went something like this:-

Kenny Look at all those lights flashing at Frinton
Dave  I wish we could talk to them.
Kenny :Let’s get Seaman Marks to swim ashore and see what they want.
Dave  Good idea (shouts) Seaman Marks front and center on the DOUBLE.
Marks Good evnick, vat can I do for you?
Kenny We want you to swim ashore and see what those people want.
Marks No problem (Fx splash and swimming away – Play record - Fx swimming  back)
Kenny What do they want?
Marks (out of breath) They want a request.
Dave What do they want to hear?
Marks  I didn’t ask
Kenny Stupid man. Go back and find out. (Fx  Splash, swimming .- Play next record. – Fx swimming back)
Dave  Well?!
Marks  They want Frank Sinatra.
Kenny We don’t play Sinatra, Here, take a copy of the Fab Forty and tell them to choose from that. ( Fx Splash etc. – Play next record – Fx swimming)
Dave Well, Seaman Marks, what have you brought us?
Marks I’ve got it right here in my pocket. It’s all wet, I can’t read it.
Kenny You just can’t get the staff
Dave  I know
Kenny Take this waterproof plastic bag and put the request in it – before you swim back you silly Dutch dropout.
Marks  I’m so sorry boys. (Fx splash etc. – play next record)
Kenny The Beatles and Love Me Do. Where is that man? (Fx swimming) Ah, there you are Marks.
Marks (out of breath) They want Unit 4 plus 2 (which just happened to be the Kenny & Cash pick of the week) for John, Fiona, Sheila, Ken and Sarah.  I hope its OK because I’m knackered.
Kenny Thats fine, just fine. You look terrible. Why don’t you go for a nice relaxing swim? (Play Unit 4 plus 2)
 
There were several characters, sketches, and one-off jokes that never made air due to fear of legal action and a bit of common sense. They caused much laughter in the mess-room and many chuckles in the writing, but we both knew there were some things even Pirates shouldn’t broadcast.

One such character was a gay cabin boy we named Camp Danny. In 1965, Kenny was unsure of his sexual preferences, if any, and he was reluctant to do ‘camp’ voices unless they belonged to a female character. So it fell upon me to voice Camp Danny the cabin boy.

I loved it. I drew from Kenneth Williams, Frankie Howard, and Tommy Cooper. Imagine a floating studio crammed with tape recorders, cart players, props for live sound effects, and two young men trying to keep their balance, work the equipment, and remember the lines.

Kenny  Camp Danny, you look worried.
Dave  Oh boys, I’m soooo annoyed. Has anyone seen my willie?
Dave (own voice) What ?!
Kenny  You mustn’t say that on the ..
Dave As Danny  Stop it. I’m serious. Willie’s the little black cat my friend er.. Daphne.. gave me when we were last ashore. Lovely lady, Daphne, such a large, expansive…
Kenny  (shouts) You can’t…..
Dave  Large, expansive mind……… Silly…
Kenny I think  . (pause) Didn’t you roast it for dinner, Cash?
Fx Banging.. crashing, punches, general mayhem.  Fade to music.

Another one of my favourites was Henrietta Dog. The clue is in the name, in fact, Henrietta ate just about anything that came her way. Because of her vast bulk, we couldn’t get her through the studio door, so all her dialogue was shouted from the hall. In reality, that’s impossible, so Kenny mastered the art of cupping his hands to form a megaphone and shouting directly at the steel bulkheads that formed the studio wall. The second microphone was pointed up to the ceiling, and I lowered the volume of microphone one and delivered my lines close in. It worked !!!

Unfortunately, the script didn’t pass the Tony Windsor stage. His actual comment was “Very fucking funny, but no fucking way”.

See what you think.

FX water rushing in.
Dave  Oh no, the ship is sinking,,
Kenny (own voice) Relax, Cash, it’s just Henriette Dog on her nightly prowl
Dave  Not that forty stone, foul mouthed, monster the captain took on board as ballast in rough weather. Quick, hide the cakes..
Kenny as Henrietta  I can see you, you scabby-nosed, two-faced degenerates. Gimme those cakes. I haven’t eaten for three minutes. I’m bleeding starving. FX: trying unsuccessfully to get into studio.
Dave  Stop it, you fat, hairy beast. You’ll sink the bloody ship
Kenny as Henrietta  I’ll sink you, you colonial fag-wort. Now, throw me those cakes or I’ll sit on you.
Dave  You don’t scare me. Go waddle off to the bow and balance the ship, you’re a Moby Dick look-a-like and your breath smells like petrol and garlic.
Kenny as H   AAAAHHHHH !!! FX. Thuds, timbers breaking, water rushing in. AAAAHHH !!!
Dave ( in gargled voice) Play the record, Kenny. Let’s get outta here. 

RECORD.

Dave  (Back announce record) Hey Kenny, that was close. She nearly sank the ship.
Kenny She bashed a hole in the side. Thank God we had Seaman Marks to plug it up. Do you think he minds?
Dave  Not really……Just feed him twice a day and he’ll be fine.
 
RECORD

My favourite of all the ‘never made it’ characters was Mr. Fact To-Bront.  He had a monosyllabic voice and said everything back to front. His mates included Betty Broadside, the girl with the barge lum, and Dickie Doo the man with the wig billie. Sadly they never saw the light of day on Radio London, although Kenny did bring the idea back, wearing a dress, on TV as Cupid Stunt.

For me, life ashore was totally opposite to life on the ship. Billy and Norma had rented a small cottage in Croydon. Marina had arrived safe and sound and, apart from the odd crying jag in the middle of the night, was very well behaved. I had my own bedroom that didn’t move, home cooking on tap, and enough pocket money for us all to go out at least twice during my week off.

The arrangement worked well for a few months, but as time progressed I began to feel that Norma, quite rightly, wanted a place of her own without my intrusion into their family life. Nobody said anything, but I could feel it. Big L’s Breakfast jock, Pete Brady, came to the rescue. I did the breakfast show for him when he was ashore which meant we were never off the ship at the same time. He had a flat in Lower Sloane Street and he said he could use some help with the rent. It was a perfect solution. I moved into Flat16, Bristol House.

The flat was a bed-sit plus kitchen and bathroom. With the bed down there was just enough room for a two-place dining table at the foot of the bed and a small chest of drawers to the right. We always kept the bed down except when we cleaned, which was at least once a month.

The stories regarding Chelsea girls and Pirate DJ’s are now legend. I’ve read several ‘paid for’ accounts of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll in swinging sixties London. Most of the stories I’ve read were much more colorful than the reality I encountered, but apart from an overdose of adjectives and the mandatory ‘we did it all night long’, they did reflect the general feeling of the time.

To me it was a matter of my need for female companionship and King’s Road cool. The dress was outrageous and simple: colored, flared trousers and a Big L T-shirt. Being suitably showered and dressed, I would leave Bristol House and stroll the half mile to Kings Road. Once there, a plethora of neon signs pinpointed the dozens of cafes and clubs available for visiting. Guys and Dolls, which was conveniently located behind John Lewis, was always my first port of call. The club was small, dimly lit, and alive with music, mini-skirted girls, and West End promise. I’m ashamed to say that names, addresses, and phone numbers have long since left my memory, but flashes of well-formed breasts, stocking-tops, and outrageous sex still linger.

There is one story worth telling as it proves every silver lining has a grey cloud attached. I was being entertained by four girls who were having a night out at Guys and Dolls. I was having fantasies of five-in-a-bed sex and lesbian lovers. One of the girls, I think her name was Carole, had other ideas. She promised a trip to paradise if I dumped the other three, and gave me a glimpse of stocking top by way of invitation.

Back at the flat she lived up to her promise. Her breasts were full and inviting, her body shapely and firm. Her sexual prowess was extraordinary. She blew my mind without the use of any drugs whatsoever. I left for the ship the next morning with a wall to wall smile on my face and her phone number clutched firmly in my hand.

Two days on the ship and I started to itch. Day four and it was driving me crazy. I went to the ship’s captain with my problem. He took one look at my genitals and burst out laughing.

“I hope she was worth it” he said opening his medicine cabinet. “You’ve got crabs.” He handed me a jar of purple ointment. “Shave your pubic hair, put this cream on three times a day, and within a week they’ll be gone. Don’t worry, most sailors get them, they’re just a ….” At this point hysterical laughter took over his speech and I left his cabin as quickly and as quietly as I could. I soon acquired an on-board nickname that had nothing to do with my Cancerian birth sign. 

Outside the Kings Road, my favorite on-shore haunt was Trader Vic’s in the London Hilton hotel in Park Lane. It was there I met my first serious girlfriend, who became my first wife in England, Dawn Lane. She worked as the personal assistant to the manager, Alan Watt, and she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was Eurasian, her father being English and her mother Chinese. I fell in love with her beauty in an instant, and with the person on our first date. Within two months I had given up the flat in Bristol House and moved into Dawn’s flat in Ovington Square.

The summer of ’65 was, on the whole, glorious. Life on board a radio ship divided into two weather-based seasons. When the weather turned bad life is insular and confined below decks. The criteria for doing the programmes and production was to stay upright and injury free. If a ship is underway in a storm it can power into the weather; when it is anchored at the bow it is at the mercy of the elements. The DJ’s and crew suffered countless bruised shins and cut heads during the winter and spring of 1965.

In complete contrast, when the wind dropped and the sun shone, life on board Radio London could resemble a Caribbean cruise. The studios were still, the metal decks became sun traps, and the smiles returned to the faces of all on board. The food tasted better and the beer seemed colder. Best of all, we had visitors. On a weekend it was not unusual to have a dozen small craft moored alongside the ship. From Pop stars on promotional trips to families on a day out; it seemed everyone wanted to be a part of this radio revolution. Marianne Faithful, Gene Pitney, Susan Hampshire, and Tom Jones all visited during that long, hot summer. 

One visitor was Jonathan King, whose hit record, ‘Everyone’s Gone To The Moon’, was riding high in the charts.  We did not know his sexual preferences then, but in hindsight I think he wanted to become ‘good friends’ with Kenny.  We were prone to playing practical jokes on our visitors and the one we thought up for Mister King was a cracker.  We told him he must learn the safety drill on board in case of fire or attack from the Navy.  We gave him a life jacket, showed him how to tie it on and pointed out his on-deck muster point (in his case at the bow of the ship next to the anchor chain).  We told him that if there was a problem and he heard the alarm, he was to put on the life jacket, go to his muster point and wait for further instructions.  Paul K had an old fashion alarm clock, the kind with two bells on the top with a hammer in between.  We hid it JK’s cabin and set the alarm for 3am.  He stood on that cold and windy deck for over an hour before he realized he had been set up.

Male visitors were fun.  Female visitors were divine.  The Queen of Pop for me was the lovely Marianne Faithful.  She was Mick Jagger’s girlfriend, a star in her own right, and the top of the ‘A’ list.  When I heard she was visiting the ship I ironed my T-shirt, shaved twice, splashed on my best aftershave and waited with bated breath for the tug to arrive.  I knew it would be silly, if not downright dangerous, to hit on Mick’s lady, but I stayed as close to her as I could, smelling her fragrance, taking her hand as we walked down to the studio, leaning over her shoulder as she did her interview.  Years later, in the 70’s, she visited Capital radio, walked into my studio and planted a long, lingering kiss on my lips.  “I’ve owed you that since 1965,” she said.  

Evening poker games with Tony Windsor were a ‘must’ on board the ship. Tony was twenty years older than the rest of us and the mentor to every novice DJ on the station. This tall Australian with his catch phrases, whiskey drinking, and odd sleeping habits became the soul of Radio London. He would play poker for bottles of beer, not money. We all had a free ration of three bottles a day. On a good night Tony could win a week’s worth off everyone. I never figured out if he was one of the great poker players or if we just lost to him because we loved him so much.

His on-air work was legendary. He gave everything, all the time. The one problem he could not overcome was having to operate his own desk.. In Australia, he had had an engineer. All he needed to do was talk. On Radio London he was faced with an electronic monster for which he had no sympathy whatsoever. He would introduce a record, then realize he had to start the turntable. There would be a seconds pause then an almighty thump as he hit the on-off switch. His heavy handedness would make the record jump so he would start over again. He used to gesture with his hands as he spoke, raising them above his head as he delivered his famous ‘Hul - lo’, spreading them to either side as he commented on how ‘Marrr velous’ the Beatles sounded, and clasping them tightly together in prayer as he wished Sally from Ilford a ‘Happy BIRTH-day’.  One evening, after a particularly sloppy show, Kenny told him that he really should learn how to work the desk. He looked at Kenny in total disbelief.

‘My dear, dear boy,’ he said in a voice that brokered no recourse. ‘I need my hands for other things.’

Getting Tony up in the morning required a unique ritual. He always slept completely covered by his blankets.  He was due on-air at 9am. After the half past eight news bulletin whoever was on breakfast put on a five minute record and ran to Tony’s cabin. Tony always left a bottle of beer, unopened, on his desk before retiring. The sound of the bottle being opened would prompt a grunt from under the covers. A hand would appear. The bottle would be placed in the hand which instantly disappeared from whence it came. Not a word was spoken. No ‘Good morning’ or ‘Are you all right?’ Some tried; they received no answer.  The wonderful thing about Tony was that no matter how much he had drank the night before, at five to nine he would be standing in the studio, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, smelling of beer and ready to perform.

One morning I asked him how he did it. He just smiled and said ‘Ten thousand times I have given of my best. All’s to do again today’.

I once took him to the flat I sometimes shared with my girlfriend, Dawn, in Ovington Square. We had been on the ship for three weeks and by the time we reached London Tony was into his tenth double. We took a cab from Liverpool Street and on arrival at Ovington Square I paid the fare and poured him through the front door of number five. In anticipation of seeing Dawn after twenty-one days of celibacy I had refrained from all but a glass of beer on the train. I knew Dawn would have a bottle of Jack Daniels waiting for me so I invited Tony in for a couple of drams. Dawn had other ideas. She met us at the flat door, let me pass her, thanked Tony for bringing me home and shut the door in his face. My protests lasted about ten seconds and then the world took on an entirely different perspective.

On our return to the ship Tony lived off the story for days.

‘Don’t EVER take Dave Cash home,’ he would announce to anyone broaching the subject of shore leave. ‘That girlfriend of his won’t even let you through the door. It’s out RAA geous!! No sociable drink, no using the kazzie, NOTHING!! Just the door slammed in your face and you fall down three flights of stairs to find the taxi’s gone. UNBELIEVABLE!!’

I kept in touch with Tony until his death in 1993. He became a continuing mentor, critic, and advisor on my work. His last job was as a medical records clerk at, what is now, the Fulham & Chelsea hospital. During the last few years of his life he became a serious alcoholic but it never seemed to impair his judgment regarding what was correct or ‘out-RAA-geous’ in broadcasting. At least once a month I would meet him after his hospital shift at the Somerset Pub in Fulham Road. The routine would always be the same. I would arrive five minutes early, order a treble scotch and a pint of lager for him and a pint of Guinness for myself. He would be five minutes late, sit down opposite me and, without saying a word, down the scotch and half the beer in one flowing movement. He would close his eyes and smile as the essential fuel fired his body.

‘My dear boy, how are you?’ he would say without a word of thanks. ‘I’ll just have another scotch, don’t bother about the beer.’

At subsequent meetings I would buy two treble scotches on arrival to save myself the extra trip to the bar.

‘You were very funny this morning,’ he would say in a voice loud enough to be heard three tables away.  ‘Great bit about walking down Harley Street in a jelleba so you wouldn’t look out of place. Good bit about Tony Blackburn  not  singing for charity.’ He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. ‘But the second weather was crap. What happened? You totally screwed it up. What have I told you?  Brain in gear before mouth in motion!!’ He would pause, reach across the table and place a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘Get it right tomorrow, there’s a good boy.’ A slight pause.  ‘I’ll have another scotch.’

Two things could always be counted upon when Tony reviewed your work. One, he would have listened to every detail of your presentation, nothing would have escaped unnoticed and, two, no matter how much praise he lavished upon you there would always be at least one point, one item, one nuance, with which he would find fault.

‘No such thing as a perfect programme,’ he would say in his deep, Aussie accent. ‘No one gets it totally right. Not you, not me, not Johnny Bloody Carson.’

Try as I may, I can find very little about the first thirty-five years of Tony’s life. I know his real name was Tony Withers and he was a DJ in Australia. He was bi-sexual which couldn’t have been easy in fifties Australia.

Tony Windsor was a funny, astute, and caring human being. I miss him to this day. 

On the ship, I shared a cabin with Paul Kazarine. Known on air as Paul K, Radio London’s newsman and the only real journalist we had. A veteran of BBC World Service, the Suez Crisis, and Indian Independence, Paul took great pride in delivering the perfect newscast. Every hour on the hour he would record the BBC news bulletin, rewrite it, and deliver it, word perfect, on the half hour. Although not in Tony Windsor’s league, Paul liked the odd beer or seven after a long day of plagiarizing his ex-employer.

Even though we shared a cabin, I knew very little about the man. When we went ashore he would leave us at Liverpool Street station and meet up with us a week later for the return trip. He didn’t volunteer any information about his time off and we never asked. On more than one occasion my suspicious mind offered the possibility of Paul being an ‘Establishment’ man who had been ‘placed’ on board to spy on us. If he was, he carried it off perfectly.   

He was the first onto Radio London and the last off. His was the last voice heard on the Big ‘L’ on the day it shut down.

‘The time is three o’ clock and Radio London is closing down.’

Those were the saddest words I’d every heard, but I thought it very fitting they be spoken by Paul. He had given the station class, authority, and a perverse respectability. We were proud to have him as part of our radio revolution.

Kenny, Tony, and Paul are now all dead. What of the living? What happened to the ones who have survived these forty years of post-pirate radio? My ex-flatmate and fellow breakfast presenter, Pete Brady, has embraced the new technology and makes a  fair few ‘bob’ from some of this country’s biggest firms.  After several years at Radio Hallam in Sheffield, Keith Skues now works for BBC regional radio. His cultured voice and stoic presentation fits their criteria perfectly. I always thought he should have been a BBC career man. His love of Pirate, and later commercial radio, precluded him from following that path, but he’s still going strong and doing a good, professional job of everything he touches. Mike Lennox left the radio business to become a stock broker in Vancouver, Canada. The chocolate-voiced Duncan Johnson worked for Radio One, Capital and Invicta while voicing a string of commercials covering a multitude of products. For years Mark Roman invaded my living room every other night as the voice-over for a hair coloring called ‘Just For Men’. As he is now a grey-top himself and bares no resemblance whatsoever to the actor in vision, this can be quite a traumatic experience after a few glasses of claret and a large Bourbon.

Dave Dennis, or as Kenny labeled him ‘The Double D from twelve to three with a cup of tea on his knee’ died in December 2007. His real name was Neil Spence and his vocation was teaching. After the pirates he found gainful employment as a lecturer at the National Broadcast School. Many of today’s producers, journalists, and presenters owe their start in radio to this gangly six-footer with a mercurial mind, a caustic sense of humor, and a catch phrase I know he’d like to forget. ‘That’s a lovely one there’ would follow most records on his show, but woe-etide anyone who reminded him of it while under his tuition at the NBS. One student, having blurted out the phrase during one of his lectures, told him that I had told her the story. ‘Dave Cash,’ came the curt reply. ‘That colonial catastrophe. If you listen to him you’ll end up working in Gibraltar with monkeys for an audience.’ Could this be the same man who lent me his drivers license so I could hire a car during my weeks ashore? The same man who came to visit me every day in hospital when my kidney packed up because of lime deposits in the ship’s drinking water?

All I can say in reply is:-  ‘That’s a lovely one there!!’ 

Let’s get back to the floating music machine in the sun-drenched summer of ’65.

Except for time spent ‘on air’ or in production, boredom was the number one enemy on board the Big ‘L’. A three hour programme and two hours in production still left ten hours of spare time to fill each day. An hour or two could be occupied answering fan mail, reading three-day-old newspapers, script work and the like, but for breakfast jocks like myself the afternoons seemed to drag. We invented daft and sometimes dangerous games to help pass the time. I look back on one particular game with abject horror when I think of what might have happened.

On air, we played 45r.p.m. singles. Most of them arrived on the ship with the center in place for small spindle turntables. We used Gates large- centered turntables which meant we needed to remove the perforated center from the records before we could play them. Applying thumb pressure would have removed the plastic center, but that was far too easy. A member of the crew kept an air rifle on board and when we persuaded him to lend it to us it was ‘Game On’.

The obvious way to do this would have been to prop the record against the side of the ship, lay down ten feet away on the deck  and, hopefully, remove the center with one clean shot.  That was far too simple for the likes of us. We played in pairs. One would stand on the flying bridge with the rifle, the other would stand on the fore-deck, next to the anchor chain, and hold the record. The distance between gun and target was at least thirty feet. Extra points were awarded if you held the record close to the body; the maximum being a five pointer for holding it between the legs. Add the movement of the ship and the odd beer before proceeding and you can see how precarious or even downright stupid this game could become. How no one got shot or badly hurt during our games of ‘Shoot the Center’ is one of the true miracles of the Pirate Radio days. We thought we were untouchable, protected, even immortal.

I know better now, but in the summer of ’65 I felt invincible. I could dot an ‘i’ at forty feet. I never missed. A number of offspring fathered by our cast and crew probably owe their lives to my ballistic accuracy.
 
Good weather also signaled frequent visits from the management team. Managing Director, Philip Birch, Programme Director, Ben Toney, the sales team, Dennis Maitland and Alan Keen, and the Press Officer, Mike Stone took it in turns to come out and ‘check on the lads’. Our biggest problem was we didn’t know when they were coming. Our only warning was from the tender’s regular ship to ship radio contact ten minutes before it arrived.
 
Philip Birch gave words of encouragement and praise, Mike Stone gave news of press articles and features about us and the other pirates, the sales team, usually with clients in tow, spent most of their time showing Mr. Persil the studios. The only one we really feared was Ben Toney. When he came to the ship it usually meant something was seriously wrong or one of us had pissed him off, big time.  On shore, at 17 Curzon Street, criticism from Ben was always post-event. Did you break format last Friday? Did Tony Windsor do the sponsored coffee break on Monday? Did you & Kenny rubbish the World Tomorrow? could all be answered by saying ‘I can’t remember, I was asleep, or didn’t hear it’. Ben on board the ship was altogether different.

Following my birthday party on July 18th, I did the breakfast show on the 19th with the mother of all hangovers. Just before noon came word that Ben was on board the tender. With head still pounding and eyes bleary I fumbled about my cabin in search of the empties from the night before. Beer was allowed on board, spirits were not. I eventually found two empty bottles of vodka, one of gin, one of scotch, and a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Being a believer in the hair of the dog theory, I drained the J.D. before gathering all the empties and dumping them unceremoniously out   the porthole. A gulp of mouthwash, a comb of the hair, a spray of air-fresh to cover the smell of stale booze and I was ready to face the boss.

As I lay on my bunk and thought of all the mistakes I had made that morning I felt the tender thump against the port side of the ship. The worst mistake I could recall happened after the eight o’ clock weather when I called Mick Jagger and Co. the Rolling Shtones.       

‘Gawd Damn, where’s that Dave Cash?’

I heard Ben’s booming voice reverberate along the ship’s steel corridors. I knew I was for the high jump; maybe even the sack. In Ben’s book being hung over on air was the same as being drunk, and that he wouldn’t tolerate. A birthday was no excuse. There was no excuse. Paul was off the boat, I was alone in the cabin. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and waited for the axe to fall.

Within a minute Ben’s large bulk filled the cabin doorway. I slowly sat upright and faced my inquisitor.

‘Dave  Cash, Gawd Damn.’

‘Ben Toney, God Damn,’ I replied in a feeble attempt at humor. I expected a scowl, a face like thunder. Instead, I was on the receiving end of a broad Texan smile.

‘That was a great breakfast show today,’ he said, stepping into the cabin. ‘So laid back and relaxed. Not as frantic as usual. I liked it a lot.’

I wasn’t about to argue, or own up.

From behind his back Ben produced a bottle of Champagne and placed it on the desk. ‘Happy Birthday, kid, keep up the good work.’

The next day when I retold the story, Kenny said I was just a lucky bastard and Tony Windsor said he didn’t understand my concern, after all, it was common knowledge that everyone did a better breakfast after a naughty night. I think Kenny was closer to the truth.

Life ashore during the summer of ’65 was exciting, financially rewarding, and well worth any irritations suffered on board the ship. We were feted from the time we touched land at Harwich. All the British Rail staff on the train to London knew us. They stopped short of buying us drinks, but they always had a question about the ship, an autograph request, usually for a sister, brother, girlfriend etc., rarely did they admit is was for themselves.

On arrival at Liverpool Street station it was not uncommon to be greeted by a gaggle of giggling girls dressed in mini skirts and tank tops and wanting autographs on various parts of their anatomy and a hurried snog in front of their friends. We were treated like Pop stars which was not only unprecedented for disk jockeys but also difficult to handle as we thought of ourselves not as celebrities, but as radio rebels. We were hard, macho, anti-establishment, one of the lads and definitely not gratuitous snogging material. Well, not for the first ten seconds at least.

As part of the Big L promotion campaign we were all expected to participate in the Radio London live gigs which were held at the Marquee Club on Saturday afternoons and the Wimbledon Palais on Saturday nights. We were paid fifteen pounds for each show which meant we could treble our weekly earnings in one day. The shows were a disco format with lots of small spot prizes and guest appearances from record artists who would mime to their latest single. Everyone wanted to be involved. Tom Jones, Lulu, The Kinks, The Animals, Sandie Shaw, Unit 4 + 2, The Walker Brothers, Dave Berry, Chris Farlow; if they had a new single they were on the Big L Road Show.

The giggling gaggle would be there but as we were under the watchful eyes of Ben Toney or Mike Stone and as no one was allowed backstage, we could only dream of what might be.

I love riding on double-decker busses. Sitting top-front is my favorite position. I could see the sights of London unfold before me, I thought we were bound to hit a lamp post or the underside of a railway bridge but we never did. Most of all I loved jumping off the bus before it had fully stopped.

One Saturday, after the Marquee show, I walked to Oxford Street and boarded a bus for Knightsbridge. The top-front seat was taken by two young girls so I sat behind them. To my surprise, and delight, they started talking about the show.

‘What did you think of Kenny & Cash?’ asked the blonde with the Essex accent.

‘Kenny’s so cute I want to cuddle him,’ replied her friend. ‘Dave Cash though, well, I don’t know, he sounds much taller.’

I quickly removed myself downstairs and out of earshot for the rest of the journey in case further revelations dented my ego beyond repair. I told the story to Dawn on my return home and she agreed with the East End pair.

‘When I first heard you I thought you were well over six feet tall. I’m glad you’re not,’ she said, pecking my cheek. ‘I’d get a crick in my neck.’

Time ashore felt precious, intense, special; like a first date, a cup final, or a new Beatles record. We met pop stars, actors, and politicians all with their stories to tell us, all with their points to make. Mainly, we were objects of curiosity, especially with politicians who wanted to know why we would spend so much time in such a dangerous and unwelcoming place as the North Sea just to play pop records to a few youngsters.  I concluded that most politicians of the era hadn’t a clue about the people they purported to serve, and even less of an idea about the music culture that was sweeping the nation. Forty years later my opinion, although pleasantly dented on several occasions, remains basically unchanged.

Charlie knew why we did it. Charlie knew everything. Charlie worked for Bill Street’s uncle repairing and servicing cars at the family business in Hayes Mews. Charlie had survived the East End, the Second World War, post war rationing, and Fifties Jazz. His proudest moment had been driving two American Generals to the South Coast on D Day. He would divulge no further details save a muttered “Bloody Nazis” or “Corr ‘kin ‘el”.

Charlie hated Cabbies. The hatred stemmed from the Taxi Rest Station situated half way along Hayes Mews. If the cabs entered the Mews from Chesterfield Street they would have to U-turn inside the Mews in order to park beside the latrine. Unfortunately, this tended to occur outside number six where Charlie could often be found with his legs protruding into the Mews from under a Rolls Royce or Daimler Sovereign. He’d whip them to safety at the first sound of a taxi turning, and hurl a broadside of abuse at the offending driver. ‘Parrot-nosed, scaly-backed, line-jumping, fare-grabbing Bastards!’ was his favorite curse.

What he hated most was not being able to listen to his radio. When he worked inside on the pit-bay his portable, brown and cream, Sharp transistor radio held pride of place on the workbench between the red tool box and the timing light. He had to turn it off when he worked in the Mews in order to hear those Parrot-nosed, scaly-backed, leg-breaking bastards.

Billy and I would visit Charlie at least once during my week ashore. We arrived at the Mews one sunny afternoon and, to our utter amazement, the radio was tuned to Radio London. Charlie was a Home, Light, and Third listener. He loved the comedy of ITMA, Round The Horn, Take It From Here, and The Goons. He spoke with such fondness and admiration about Vera Lyn, Tommy Handley, and Edward’s abdication. “We  ‘erd it first on the radio. Right as it ‘appened. Bloody marvellous!”

‘Oi! Charlie!’ shouted Bill. ‘You’re listening to Pirate Radio there, my son. You’re liable to get a visit from the Old Bill, most likely CID and all!’

“Shut up, you Bastards!” came the sharp retort from below ground level. Charlie called everyone Bastard regardless of whether he liked you or not. A socket wrench flew from under a black limousine, bounced twice on the cement floor and came to rest next to Billy’s feet. “ ‘Ow can I bleedin’ listen wif you screaming your bloody ‘ead orf? ‘sides, if the Bill come ‘round ‘ere I’ll turn you two in for starters.” I half expected another wrench to follow the first. Silence. Then raucous laughter as Charlie slid from under the car atop the custom made sliding mat he had designed and built out of four sofa casters, a length of plywood, and a pillow he’d gaffer-taped to one end. “Bill. Dave. Bastards! Lovely ta see ya.  I’ll clean up and we’ll down a swift half.”     

In the sixties, pubs closed at 3pm.

“Bollocks,” said Charlie when we mentioned it was half past four. “If that barmaid-molesting, short-changing, slow-pouring, Arsenal-supporting bastard at the Coach and bleedin’ ‘orses don’t open up, I’ll punch ‘im up the phroat.” Charlie had been a Tottenham supporter since birth.

With Charlie dressed in dirty blue overalls sporting clean hands and Billy and I in Ivy League suits, we stood like Fagan and his two apprentices outside the side entrance of the public house. Charlie opened the letterbox and placed his ear to the hole. There were sounds of bottles being clinked, of work being done. Billy and I were standing up and we could hear it.      

Charlie put his mouth to the hole. “Brian, you bastard. It’s Charlie.”

A pint of ale and a sausage roll later the conversation turned to radio. I asked Charlie why a Light Programme listener would chose to listen to the Big ‘L’.

“I listen ‘cause you’re on it,” he said, a slight grin preceding my answer.

‘Bollocks’ I shouted in the best Charlie accent I could muster.

He laughed. A stomach-turning, lung-bursting, arm-shaking, eyes-watering laugh and nearly choked on his sausage roll. “You Bastard. Fank Gawd you still got a sense of humor.” He settled himself down, took a long, slow drink of ale and gained our complete attention. “I listen ‘cos I want to find out about the new music, you know, keep up to date.” He placed his hands under his chin and leaned over the table. “I listen ‘cos you boys talk to us as mates. You don’t give us all that <I’m up ‘ere and well posh and you’re down there on the dole> crap. Tommy bleedin’ Handley could do that, so could the lovely Vera. The music’s a bit iffy for my taste, but there’s some nice tunes.” His eyes flashed open and he stared at both of us in turn. “Them Rattlin’ Bones, the Bastards. You don’t call that music, do ya? Bloody ear-bashing, sick-making, fart-causing, racket.”

A couple of years later, when I was working for Radio One, he held the same opinion of Jimi Hendrix. “Bloody Jimi Bendix.” He said, after downing half of beer in one swallow. “I got a washing machine sounds better than that.”

From that illicit moment in the Coach and Horses I knew Radio London would succeed. One to one people radio had arrived. It is a belief still with me today. Wherever we have used the Big ‘L’ format and philosophy we have succeeded.

Bill and I last saw Charlie on a cold winter’s afternoon at the Prince Of Wales pub in Wandsworth Road in the year of our Lord, 1983. He greeted us like soul brothers and cried when we left. He admitted to being eighty eight years old and went everywhere by bus “ ‘corrs everyfink’s for free and I ‘ate them bloody cabbies.”. Charlie is now either dead or one hundred and twelve years old and living in Battersea. I would put neither past him, but of one thing I am sure. If Charlie met St. Peter at the Purlies he would have called him a shabby-winged, dirty-clothed, poncy-hairdo, gate-guarding…. Bastard, to which would come the reply, ‘Charlie - Ya Bastard - Come on in.”