Lyndall Hobbs - A Girl From Oz: Fifteen Minutes with Warhol, Breakfast with the Prince and other tales from the Hollywood Highlife

Contents

This book is dedicated to my exceptionally wonderful mum and dad, Pauline and Norman Hobbs, who loved me unconditionally. It is also dedicated to the two wonderful kids Im lucky enough to have, Lola and Nick, who I likewise love and adore unconditionally.

My parents were so staggeringly good-natured, kind, supportive and selfless that not once, by word or deed, did they make me feel guilty for leaving home, never to return. (They didnt have toI have enough guilt for a large village.) I, on the other hand, must warn my kids that I am not that selfless and if they stray too far, I will most definitely attempt to guilt-trip them into a swift return.

H E DINED OUT on the story for years, which was wildly unfair as it made me out to be an absolute floozy. But when Michael White, theatre producer, glamorous Rocky Horror Show impresario and man-about-town, swung into raconteur mode, folks tended to sit up, listen and roar appreciativelyignoring my noisy protests. Michael, my boyfriend, was probably the most prolific party-giver in London and a big deal, and thus very few would contradict him to defend me. I just had to grin and bear it.

The occasion for said tale was Michaels big West End premiere of Aint Misbehavin in 1979which Prince Charles was to attendand it was the epitome of a full-on day of fun and excitement that, looking back, I can only marvel at. I worked at Thames TVs Today Show as an on-camera reporter and host, and Id already pitched an idea at the morning meeting that had received a speedy green light. Andy Warhol had just arrived in London for an exhibition at a gallery on South Molton Street, and I would attempt to get an interview.

Frantic phone calls and a mad dash to the library to retrieve a file of Warhol newspaper cuttings followed. No Google or Wikipedia to help you back then. This was before computers! I wrote a piece-to-camera and worked on questions that might get the famously tight-lipped Andy to open up. I called Michael to ask a quick question about a Warhol show wed seen in New York, but he was in meetings planning the big night ahead. No mobile phones in those days so I was truly flying solo. I sped off in my yellow Volkswagen Bug and parked illegally as close as I could to South Molton Street, with the interview still unconfirmed. But Id been told that Andy might be hanging pictures and it was worth a shot. Lying, I called the boss from a phone box to say it was a go and to send a crew in an hour.

Smiling with grim determination as I wait for the Thames TV crew to arrive and set up, having finally gotten the shy, tight-lipped Andy Warhol to agree to an interview before a gallery opening on Londons South Molton Street.

Well I found Andy, he of the ghostly eyes, and reminded him wed met several times in New York at parties and at The Factory. His vague monotone responses just trailed off, but as soon as the crew arrived, my terror at failing to deliver was transformed into what I now think of as Manic Hyper Focus Mode and I did manage to wrangle him for a few amusing minutes. It was like getting blood out of a stone, but Id paid the little dog he was holding a lot of attention and, perfectly amiably, he mumbled his answers like someone whod very recently swallowed twenty-two Valium.

Interview over, the union crew was ready for lunch. They were always insisting on a bloody lunch break at some random time of their choosing, dependent on when they had clocked in for the day. It was only 11.30 am, for crying out loud. I begged them to come inside to shoot some cutaways (shots to cut to during the interview) of the art.

Not enough light, love, they happily insisted.

But its an exhibition. We need to show some of the art, I pleaded. Stupid bastards, I wanted to say, but I knew well they didnt much like the idea of a woman reporter and could make life difficult for me. However, by hovering close and smiling nonstop, I usually got my way. Eventually, lights were slowly retrieved from the van after a long, leisurely tea break, and my cutaways were obtained. Then it was back to the Thames TV studios to wait for the film to be processedthe miracle of instantaneous video playback still a long way off in what I now realise are almost prehistoric timesand to nervously field calls from a few after-show dinner guests who were asking, in a roundabout way, about our royal seating arrangements. At least no one then could hound you with texts or emails!

After I cautiously told the boss that it was a decent interviewnot wanting to oversell it but I had to ensure it made its way onto the shows running orderthe film was brought up from the basement labs and wheeled into a stuffy room where the editor seemed to work in slow motion as he methodically threaded the film through the Steenbeck (an ancient machine used in the 70s, kids, to edit actual film). Finally, we had a pretty good four-minute piece completed but, moments later, were told the running order was very full and that it had to be cut back by a minute. By the time we trimmed it down to three minutes, it was 4 pm already. No time to even hit the dry-cleaners to pick up the dress I wanted to wear. Id have to squeeze into the gorgeous but very tight black velvet Bruce Oldfield strapless dress with a matching short jacketand hair washing was probably out.

Luckily, I was not needed in the studio that night for any on-air interviews and I finally made it out, driving like a bat out of hell to Egerton Crescent, where Michael and I lived, right next door to the famous British TV interviewer David Frost, in a fabulous white five-storey house. (Egerton Crescent is still one of the most beautiful streets in Londonwith its curved row of gorgeous, identical all-white housesjust between Knightsbridge and Fulham Road.) Shortly after arriving in London with only two friends to look up, I was living an incredibly glamorous life with a sweet, kind but quite distant man, who never wanted to spend a night in with me but instead thrived on going out or entertaining virtually seven nights a week.

Michael, chic, handsome and dressed in a black velvet double-breasted jacket, was livid I was late. Nothing new. Definitely no time for a shower. I resorted to lifting my fringe and patting on some baby powder. Some mascara, lipstick and a squirt of Joy and it was back downstairs to the dining room for a gulp of Michaels vodka tonic as I breathed in so he could zip up my dress. Truly, it was a bloody tight squeeze.

Youve put on weight, he said.

Big rib cage, I retorted as we scanned the freshly laid table and the seating plan sketch. We made the fateful decision that Sabrina Guinness (now deliriously happily married and more correctly known as Lady Tom Stoppard) should be on the Princes right. Me on his left.

Then it was off to the theatre. We had to be there in time to greet the Prince. Bows, curtsies, the whole nine yards. The show, with its original all-black Broadway cast, was a gem and His Royal Highness seemed to be thoroughly entertained as my sideways glances at his twinkly-eyed countenance confirmed. I could barely think straight, I was so uncomfortable in my frock. It dawned on me that perhaps I had packed on a few pounds. Shit.

Outside, a very polite version of todays paparazzi, relatively well behaved and firmly ensconced behind a barrier, greeted our exit from Her Majestys Theatre with shouts of, Your Highness. Over here! Fortunately for Michael, the presence of royals always ensured plenty of press the next day. Then we made the mad scramble back to Egerton Crescent to make sure the champagne was chilled and the waiters ready to pour. Michael asked me to promise I wouldnt whip out my camera and take any photos. He knew that I couldnt give a stuff about what was and wasnt the done thing, but this was different so I promised. Well, half-promised. After all, for strictly sentimental reasons I loved the royals, having grown up in a country where God Save the Queen was played every morning as we girls all stood to attention in school assembly, not to mention before the start of the movies at every single cinema in the country.