NOTES
There are no notes for this chapter yet. Some of the notes on other pages are based on info YOU send me. |
Of course, I soon began to feel that being a mere hostel warden (or Project Leader, as I no doubt called myself) was a long way short of the status I deserved, even though I now had absolute power there. In fact it was this lack of any restraints upon my actions (even Carolyn Holland now took practically no active interest in the Hostel) that enabled me to appoint someone to take over my job while I followed my expansionist instincts. The man I appointed was Dave Braybon, the son of a well-known local builder. He wasn't, of course, going to be paid anything - all surplus funds were to continue to find their way into my pocket. He volunteered to do it for a year or so, living-in, doing his bit for society before joining his father's business. Dave was a gentle, intelligent and earnest person, eager to help people. He must have made a far better warden than I, in every way, but the residents had latched onto me, and were disturbed by this delegation of responsibility, especially the super-loyal Jock. |
| So where did I go, when Dave moved in? Nowhere, for the time being. I remained in my state apartment, with the brave new title of 'Chairman', while Dave dossed down wherever he could. In my dreams it was not merely the Hostel of which I was chairman. I was the leader of a projected chain of such 'units' all over Britain. The fact that only this one existed thus far was neither here no there. This was the era of the great charity 'whizz-kids'. Des Wilson, founder of Shelter, was an example. These people were turning charity into big business - and show business. The arsenal of gimmicks, the razzamatazz, the celebrity chairmen and the hyper-paid executives were all suddenly part of the charity biz. I saw my future in that direction. |
| I realized that the first thing I needed on the road to charity power was a smart office in the centre of town. Now that Dave was running the hostel I had even more time to stride about the town, usually in the company of Hank (thus getting him off Dave's back), looking up just about everyone I knew in Brighton who was still around - apart from the Beats, that is. Among those I started dropping in on again were the founders of the Archways Project (see Chapter 51, especially Dr Klein and Barry Biven). Barry was running a business called Solid Gold Ties. He and his girl-friend Dolores Hart rented substantial business premises in fashionable Duke Street, in the centre of Brighton. They made high-quality ties in workshops upstairs and sold them in the shop below. They had a large unused room on the first floor. I told Barry about my scheme to run a great chain of units all over the country to cater for the different 'levels' of social inadequacy, and mentioned that I was desperate for free office space for a national headquarters. He was sufficiently amused to offer me the spare room at 19 Duke Street, rent-free. He stipulated, however, that I was only to be allowed on the premises when he himself was there, which was between 9am and 6pm most days, and he didn't give me any keys. However, by great good luck, I soon found a set of keys hidden in some unlikely place and forgotten about. So, having left with Barry and Dolores at 6 o'clock I took to letting myself in again for the night, at any time of the evening I pleased. Except for Sundays, when they didn't work, I had to be out well before nine in the morning, then return after they'd arrived. In this way, I was able to move out of 105 Islingword Road altogether. It seems extraordinary that I got away with this, night after night, for months. I even gave 19 Duke Street as my home address. |
| Sometimes, my lieutenant and drinking companion, Hank, stayed overnight with me. Hank and I soon set up an impressive enough office. I had a telephone installed, and someone gave me a good wide-carriage typewriter. We commandeered any useful items of office furniture from the jumble, which the hostel volunteers were still bringing in every week. Barry allowed us free use of his big Roneo-Gestetner for duplicating forms, leaflets and circulars. It actually had a motor in it, so there was no need for hand-cranking! It seemed frighteningly modern to me at the time, so I left it to Hank to use it. |
| Hank boasted that he was an expert at finding out where celebrities lived (many lived in Brighton, in fact). This gave me the idea of writing to celebrities asking for donations. I had a stock of letter-heads printed and drafted a begging letter. Before long, Hank had come up with a substantial list of names and addresses and we sent our begging letter to all of them. To my surprise, most of them replied. However, the usual response was a fairly long and heartfelt letter expressing great approval for our plans, but containing very little or no money. I stupidly failed to realize that, in many cases, these handwritten letters from some of the most famous people in the world were themselves intended as valuable gifts, as there were no restrictions as to what we could do with them. I've now largely forgotten who gave what, but I remember that Jack Warner's letter was accompanied by a fiver, which was at that time a considerable donation, and Sir Laurence Olivier sent £2 with his letter, as did Spike Milligan. Peter Sellers sent no money, but a long and emotional letter, in which he said he sometimes wondered how it was that he had not ended up a dosser. He had certainly experienced terrible loneliness in his life, he said, and had some idea of what it must be like to be homeless and rootless. He ended by offering to open a fundraising event for us one day, but warned that he would be filming in America for some time to come. It was a powerful and fascinating letter, rather at odds with what I have since read about Sellers. It would no doubt be worth a lot of money now, but I lost it, along with all the other celebrities' letters, somewhere along the way. |
| At about this time, I had a call from a drop-out student by the name of Nik Powell, asking if I would like to go round to his flat to discuss a mysterious 'business proposal'. I accepted the invitation and was greeted by a very self-assured but pleasant enough young man, who plied me with good Scotch and a huge cigar in his spacious flat. He explained that he and a friend were running a bootleg record stall in Gardiner Street Market and that things were decidedly looking up. With just a little more capital, they might be able to think of opening a small shop. What about the Hostel buying into the business, for a very modest sum? His friend's name, he said, was Richard Branson, and they were thinking of calling the proposed shop Virgin Records. I went away and thought about it, then called him back to say that I didn't feel that the bootleg record business was a suitable thing for me and the Hostel to be getting involved in and, in any case, I couldn't imagine a shop working out. Shortly after this, I saw that they had opened not a small shop, but quite a large one in what had been the Green Room café, by the Clock Tower. They had strung a big banner across the front - "VIRGIN IS OPEN". It occurred to me that I might have made a slight mistake in rejecting the offer of what amounted to a partnership, so I went in and spoke to someone who I suppose was Branson, and asked him if he still needed financial assistance. "Not now" he said, but I can offer you a job in the shop if you like. "No thanks", I replied contemptuously, and added "I've started something that is going to be really big". Those exact words of mine are etched on my memory. I wonder why? |