My one chance to see the Beatles play live was cruelly dashed when my girlfriend, who was queuing in Leeds to get tickets, was knocked over in the crush and taken to hospital with a broken arm. I was heartbroken, but my devotion was total. My attempts to grow my hair Beatles-style became a battleground with my father and the school. When my father came to collect me at half term and saw that I had a Beatles fringe he fumed in a silent rage for the entire three-hour journey home. As a prank I wore a Beatles wig at the annual parade of the Army corps, when 600 boys in uniform were inspected by a General. I was marched off the parade ground and a Master put a basin on may head and shaved my scalp around it.
But if I couldn’t get to see the Beatles, the Stones would do. As soon as I heard that they were coming to play at the Granada cinema in Rugby I started a campaign for me and my friends to be allowed to go. I can’t remember what threats, bribes or blackmail we used, but we got permission, and seats on the second row. In a documentary film shown on BBC 2 tonight, called ‘Crossfire Hurricane’, its made out that every gig was mayhem, with hundreds of girls screaming and wetting themselves with excitement before rushing the stage. In fact it was nothing like that. No-one got up from their seats and the only act of rebellion, as far as I can recall, was when I threw my school cap onto the stage, with a note in it, intended for the lovely Brian Jones.