THE DIARY I DIDN'T KEEP

Good morning, Everyone!

We have now reached episode 14 of The Diary I Didn't Keep. Huge thanks to you all for following Tommy's twice-monthly adventures so far. Some of you have also kindly chosen to support my writing by contributing a small payment to my Substack every month (£6 – less than a coffee and a piece of cake, these days!). Please consider becoming a paid subscriber yourself, if you are not one already. Believe me, I will appreciate it more than you can possibly imagine.

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Having made his peace with Toolie and Vera, Tommy has been given 'resident' status at Toolie Towers. He is now ready to head back into the heart of London, seeking fame, fortune and fun. The stylish ice-blue linen shirt he wears to do this comes courtesy of Marion and Graham (Tommy sends them a very big thank you!). Had I had the benefit of such a shirt back then, my life might have turned out quite differently.

Warm greetings from sunny Edinburgh, Ron

Short Glossary:

In the film world, 'it's a wrap' means the scene just shot is perfect.

'Granny's footsteps' is a children's game that involves the players moving as slowly and soundlessly as they can.

THE DIARY I DIDN’T KEEP 14

No need for the long trek through the basement wetlands of Toolie Towers. Down to the main hall, pick a window, open it and step outside. Piece of piss after all that roof-clambering back in Dumfries.

My birthday must be any day now. With so much happening since I left Mr. Giles’ yesterday morning, I don’t even know what date it is. There’ll be no cards, of course. No one knows my new address, not even me. I’ll phone home soonest. But just in case today is the big 17, I head to the nearest cafe to celebrate with a mug of tea and two birthday bacon rolls. 15-minute walk to the Cairns and Banks HQ. Reg'll be out keeping the wheels of Britain turning so I've written a note to push through his letterbox.

Approaching number 21, I hear my latest lyric, 'I'll Bring You Flowers’, battling it out with Reg's old piano. Sounds good. I wait for silence, then knock.

Footsteps. Door opens. Reg.

'Tommy! You're here! Far out! Just in time.’ Through to his bedroom / music studio. ‘Had to take the day off work to…'

My words must’ve really inspired him.

He sits down and plays a heartfelt melody, all love and longing. 'Soulful, or what? The thought of seeing the dentist this afternoon got me going big time.'

And my lyrics? I sit down on his bed. 'Sounded great out in the street.'

‘I’m going to try for a wrap. Fingers crossed. Yours, that is, not mine!’

‘Go for it, man!’

'Ssssh. Don't speak, don't move. Not a sound.' He reaches down to the reel-to-reel tape recorder at his feet. Presses RECORD. Then, like he’s playing Granny's footsteps, slowly straightens himself back into position, hands poised above the keys.

Then he starts to play and sing ‘I’ll bring you flowers / To weave into your hair' into the microphone he’s fixed to the piano. Two verses with chorus, middle eight, and final verse. A moment’s pause. His hands relax.

About to clap, I remember not to.

Granny’s footsteps again, Reg leans down, presses STOP. Loud click. A big Phew! from him and loud clapping from me.

'Fabbie, man! Right on!’ And it is.

Whoosh of a quick rewind. He presses PLAY.

‘Fucking wrap, or what?' he grins. We both do.

'Busy this afternoon?' He removes the reel of tape from the recorder. ‘I’ve to get my tooth yanked out. Fancy going to Denmark Street and get us a record deal?

‘You’re kidding! Me?’

‘Has to be you. I’m at the toil every day.'

'What's Denmark Street?'

'Tin Pan Alley, man. Everything that’s music is there, or it’s nowhere. Hip music publishers, record companies, agents, studios, guitar shops... See a publisher you fancy, ring their bell and…'

‘No way, man.’'

‘… Say you want to play them a tape. Say it's new and it's hot. They'll say to leave it with them. You’ll say there's other publishers wanting it.'

‘But –'

'It’s what you tell them. It's business. Say you want them to have first option. Hand over the tape and say you’ll be back tomorrow.'

'But –’

'Tommy, they won't be able to hear it otherwise.'

Sure enough.

'Of course they might say to leave your address...'

'Don't have an address, not anymore.'

‘Thought you were in this fancy footman house.

‘Well…’ I fill him in about quitting Mr. Giles’ and moving into Toolie Towers.

‘You’re in a squat? Cool! Chicks giving out peace and love.'

Vera, her chaise-longue, her tartan blankets?

'Mmm… Sort of,' I mutter.

'Fucksake, I'm stuck here with my parents and my wee brother, and grinding away 9 to 5. You're a free spirit. Plenty chicks, dope, no rent, no hassles. Man, you're living the dream!'

Toolie Towers?

'And what an angle for the music papers!'

'What?'

'A great story, man! Struggling poet, living in a ruined house, chicks everywhere and ... NME and Melody Maker’ll lap it up.'

'I'm not sure that – '

'In a garret, are you?'

'Well, we need to use candles to –'

'You write your lyrics by candlelight? Fucking cherry on the top, man! Oscar and Hammerstein, Lennon-McCartney and now – Cairns and Banks!’ He hands me the tape. ‘‘I’ll Bring You Flowers’ is on track one, ‘Welcome to the End of The World’ on track two.

Then he stares at me, and I mean stares hard. ‘You’ve got to look Carnaby St. or California or something. No offence, but you look nothing. Look the part and you’ll get the gig. You’re in luck. You and me are about the same size, and Mum’s just washed some of my band gear.’

It's early afternoon. An Evening Standard someone's left on the tube tells me I spent my 17th birthday trying not to throw up over lorryloads of rotten fruit and vegetables. That was yesterday, today’s Denmark Street and the Top Ten.

Me, my ice-blue linen shirt, white linen jacket with embroidered rainbow flowers, orange loon pants and two-tone shoes get off at Tottenham Court Road station. Two-minute walk down Charing Cross Road. The street is opposite Foyle's, said Reg. Can't miss it.

I don’t. So far so good. Denmark St. is mostly old-fashioned brickwork and modern shop windows crammed with guitars, drum kits, guitars and more guitars, music publishers. Mills music, Essex music, Southern music. Three guitars and a double bass walk past me down the middle of the street and go into Regent Sounds Studio. Wow! That’s where The Stones recorded 'Not Fade Away' and the Kinks laid down 'You Really Got Me' in the basement next door. Holy ground, Reg called it.

All right for him and his tooth getting doped up and woozy at the dentist, relaxing even. Cruise up and down, he said. Feel the vibes. Pick a publisher and get us a record deal.

Half an hour later, I'm still cruising.

And freezing with no coat.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Right, here’s Bell’s Music. Sounds cheerful, at least. Street door’s open. In I go.

I'm halfway up the narrow stairs when –

A fucking bouncer? Six foot easy, and charging out of Bell’s door. Lumpy red hair that dangles like tassels round a lampshade. Slamming the door behind him. Really angry, and really wide. Like narrow-staircase wide.

'Fuck do they think they are?’

Not a bouncer, then.

He glares down at me. 'Fucking peace and love. What about Vietnam? What about the bomb?' He starts down the stairs.

Pressing my back hard as I can into the wall.

He stops a few steps above me. Bared teeth, garlic-breath.

‘See me? See my axe? We've got something to say. Something that matters.' Like a Viking rocker he slashes at the air above me with his guitar. 'Do I look like peace and love to you?'

'No, no…'

He pushes past, stamps down the stairs and out into the street. 'Fuck all that peace and love SHIT!'

I’m up the stairs so fast I walk straight into Bell’s Music.

Not into a normal office, though. Every inch of every wall is plastered with posters of pop singers and groups instead of wallpaper. Same with the ceiling. The three guys sitting there look shocked, but seeing me and not the Viking, they return to being so much hair, beads, T-shirts and kaftans spread across a couple of sofas. Their low table’s a litter of crisps and beer bottles. They look stoned. A girl who’s almost Dusty Springfield, sits behind her desk with a telephone, typewriter, coffee cup and efficient smile. Her hair is more bird's nest than beehive.

'Hey there, man!' says one of the kaftans.

'Hello!' Stretching it out to include everyone at once.

'Mr Fielding is booked solid, I'm afraid,' says Dusty.

'She means David, man. One cool dude. Pull up some crisps and a bottle. Chill out.'

I go up to Dusty's desk. 'Can I leave a tape, please?' And that’s me and my pitch. I’ve said it, and done it. ‘I can call round tomorrow.’

She leans back in her chair, canting it on its hind legs.

'Is it a band, or just you?' She's looking straight up at me through her mascara. Like she’s gazing at me. I forget to speak. To keep her balance, her knees are pressed against the top edge of her desk.

I’m trying not to glance down at them, and at her leather micro-miniskirt…

'A band, or is it you solo?' Her voice has gone softer, like she senses I'm nervous.

'David's the man,' sings out another kaftan. 'Come on, Amber, give the guy his big break.'

'I write the words, my friend Reg the music. He's singing it, with a piano.'

'Piano? Solid groove, man. Old school, but good.'

I keep trying not to gawp at Amber’s thighs. And…

Fuck, fuck! To steady herself on the chair, she's having to slide them further apart. While still gazing up at me.

Kaftan number three says something, but I hardly hear it. Can't hear anything anymore.

'Is it a romantic ballad or…?' breathes Amber.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Her knees are now wide enough apart to offer me a look up her miniskirt. A very lingering look at her dark blue panties.

Several long seconds pass. I stop breathing.

'... Or hard rock?' she asks. With a sudden jerk, her chair is back level on the floor, her knees, thighs and miniskirt once more out of sight. Efficient smile back on her face. 'Which would you say?'

Which what? Say what? Does she realise that I’ve just seen…? Fucksake. Even worse, I can feel it, stirring down below.

A door along from her desk opens. Fair-haired man in white shirt and jeans.

'Any calls, Amber?'

'Yes, David. Regent Sounds confirms three-thirty tomorrow.'

'Excellent.' He turns to the kaftans. 'Down to the Gioconda with you. I’ll join you shortly.' He looks at me. 'And this is…?'

'Don't know the gentleman's name.' She gives me a smile. 'He's brought you a tape. Not sure if it's a ballad or hard rock.'

I can feel a beamer coming on. Digging my fingernails into my palm. Just in time, I remember the Viking rocker.

'It's a ballad. All peace and love.'

'Your lucky day! I can give you 10 minutes. Come on through.'

Amber gives me a thumbs-up as I turn to follow David into his office.