Peter Maddick - Once Upon a Time in the Sixties: London, Chelsea and the Kings Road

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The right of Peter Maddick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Copyright 2013 Peter Maddick

The authors moral rights have been asserted.
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 9780956847676

Cover design by Donald McColl
Printed and bound by Lightning Source UK

For Caroline, Emily and Barnaby

The thing the sixties did was to show us the possibilities and the responsibility that we all had. It wasnt the answer. It just gave us a glimpse of the possibility.

John Lennon

According to my ticka-tick Timex watch its a little after 9am. Im in a building at St Jamess Square, London. The address is posh, and the names on the office doors include three double-barrels and, believe it or not, a triple-barrel. This is my first proper job and Im nervously hoping I dont bump into any of those names. They are ad men and as smooth as Roger Moore in The Saint. At least thats what Ive been told.

So far I havent seen a soul. Yet theres life somewhere as I can hear the click-click-click of a typewriter or two. I can also hear someone running, clattering along the linoleum floor in what must be leather-soled shoes with steel-caps, the kind ex-army people wear in homage to their old parade ground. I hear a grunt, a curse. Clearly the person is being chased and should be stopped. I stand around the bend, where I cant be seen, my arms spread open. Wham! Im flat on my face staring at a pair of highly polished black lace-up shoes, just the kind that would have steelcaps.

I see long burgundy socks leading up to a pair of gentlemens suspenders, and knees like rock cakes hovering below boxer shorts with vintage cars on them.

The man bawls at me, Have you seen my secretary?

I lift myself up without a helping hand.

Apart from the missing trousers hes immaculately turned out in a blue and white striped shirt with a stiff white detachable collar, red and white polka dot tie, and immaculately groomed jet-black Brylcreemed hair.

The wretched gal has gorn orff with m trousers again. All I asked her to do was press them! He shouts in disbelief.

I gulp and apologize for not having seen her, not that Id know her if I fell across her.

Well youre no bloody good!

He pushes me to one side and races off down the corridor, shirttails flapping like a character in a Brian Rix farce, where trousers are regularly dropped to get a laugh. But Im not laughing. I feel like running for it, straight to the lifts, down to the main entrance, passed the commissionaire and out the front door.

CAN I HELP YOUSIR?

Ive never been called sir before. Not sure I want to be, particularly when Im being shouted at by a commissionaire in a pseudo-army uniform.

I have a 2.30 interview with Major Millard. I explain and am ordered to take the lift to the fifth floor reception.

Its eerily quiet when I get out of the elevator. I take a deep breath, feeling suddenly aware of my new C&A suit. The one my father insisted Id grow into though it makes me feel like a cross between a refugee and a clown, especially outdoors when the wind blows and the jacket billows. I was a perfectly happy sixteen-year-old school leaver, leading a beatnik-inspired existence listening to R&B performed by my favourite new group, Mick and the Blue Boys, at the Ealing Jazz Club.

My parents, however, had other ideas. A golfing pal of my father said that his advertising company were recruiting trainees.

I tentatively push the glass doors and enter a large reception area. Three sides have floor-to-ceiling shelves that display well-known household products Weetabix, Mars, Colgate, Mobil Oil, Wilkinson Sword. Two women sit behind a long wooden desk. One is middle-aged with heavy white make-up and mascara. A prominently hooked nose gives her a haughty air, making me think of the eccentric poet Dame Edith Sitwell. The other woman is much younger and looks as if shes stepped out of the Debutante of the month page in Tatler a perfect serene brunette in twin-set and pearls.

Do take a seat, the brunette says. She has a particularly husky, velvety voice, like the breathy actress Fenella Fielding. Major Millards secretary will fetch you in just a few minutes.

She gives me a smile showing just a hint of immaculate white teeth. The haughty woman ignores me.

My eyes settle on some miniature bottles of Babycham, one of my mothers favourite tipples. The husky purr strikes up again.

The managing director of the agency invented that product. The client was so delighted with the sales they presented him with a personalized Rolls Royce. Wasnt that kind?

Before I can reply a stout girl with a ruddy complexion and frumpy clothes hurries in. She races me along a deserted corridor as if we are late for an important date. I ask why its so quiet.

The secretary clears her throat as if to make an important announcement. This is the fifth floor, the directors floor. Its generally quiet here, particularly at this time of day. She gives a knowing smile and whispers, Luncheon!

At the far end of the corridor we pause before a white wooden door. The secretary adopts her conspiratorial tone again. Youll love the major. Hes a real sweetie.

She cautiously opens the door.

Without bothering to look up Major Millard gestures for me to sit. My heart thumps like a sledgehammer. The personnel director couldnt be anything other than a retired army man: a plump well-fed face, slicked-back silver hair, a nose just a touch too purple and, beneath it, a small twitchy moustache. He studies the papers before him. After a few minutes he fixes me with a steely gaze and bellows.

So youve come to apologize have you? He slams his hand on the desk. What do you have to say for yourself, eh?

I manage to croak out my name adding, trainee job.

He looks angrily confused. So where the blazes is Mulligan then?

The secretary appears and hands her boss what must be my job application. He flicks through the form and grunts. Are you sure you want to work in advertising?

I nod but would love to give the honest answer.

And what part of the business interests you most?

My basic homework has come up with an astonishing conclusion: that advertising is all about pictures and words, very often not many words at all. Given the choice Id really like to go for the pictures side particularly as I fancy so many of the girls shown in the ads. The problem is that Im not very good at art.

I mumble about wanting to write advertisements.

Suddenly the major turns even more purple. He slams his fist on his desk for a second time. Are you mad, boy?

He waves my job application at me. Dreadful types the creative lot! Just look at that Mulligan fellow. Molests a girl in the lift and he hasnt even got the courage to come and face up to me. Irish I believe, like that Oscar Wilde deviant. Youre not Irish are you?