Double Bill (Text Only)

Double Bill (Text Only)
Bill Cotton

Packed with anecdotes, sparkling insights into the changing nature of show business and the turbulent world of the BBC, and boasting a glittering cast-list, Double Bill is a fascinating read, unashamedly nostalgic and often hilarious.Double Bill is the revealing story of the legendary band leader, Billy Cotton and his namesake son, Bill Cotton Jnr who became Managing Director of BBC Television. One, a star performer who for decades was a national institution, the other, a talent spotter, TV producer and impresario who introduced to television many of Britain’s biggest stars and best loved shows.In his hugely entertaining autobiography, Bill Cotton not only looks back on these golden years, but on the loving relationship with another Bill – his father, the enormously popular and much loved band leader Billy Cotton. For it was during his childhood that Bill Jnr first experienced the thrill of showbiz, and encountered, in the heyday of variety, such stars as Will Hay, Max Miller, Tommy Trinder and Laurel and Hardy. And it was the charismatic Bill Sr who introduced his son to Tin Pan Alley and the music business, starting him out on a career that would later see him producing hit TV shows Six Five Special and Juke Box Jury and creating Top of the Pops. A high point of his producing career was being responsible for the Billy Cotton Band Show, he even took over the band for theatrical appearances when his father fell ill – despite not being able to read a note of music.

COPYRIGHT (#ulink_efb31592-07fa-587a-96d9-bf59ded5759d)

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Fourth Estate

Copyright © Bill Cotton 2000

The right of Bill Cotton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781841153285

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008219420

Version: 2016-09-20

DEDICATION (#ulink_fa5ff950-6a41-5292-ab2d-05bc08d39e8c)

This book is dedicated to my wife, Kate, for things too

numerous to mention, but above all for her love.

CONTENTS

Cover (#ue8f9295a-5496-5f62-80a0-7996ef601fee)

Title Page (#u09b20ac9-f858-5b16-9410-74d9aa0a275a)

Copyright (#ulink_e6b12e16-2827-5bb2-a946-92af3269d1f3)

Dedication (#ulink_4549d7b0-875b-595d-932e-5b1d61cb7d94)

Prologue (#ulink_852dbfb6-0d4e-5413-8ca7-e13ce4ba5c59)

One (#ulink_3297eaf2-7544-5ee1-9408-4c5da3964dc9)

Two (#ulink_56a5c7c3-aff3-5e37-8605-45ca2ef60e9f)

Three (#ulink_559d44f9-6183-5729-ae92-f46a5ed05134)

Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Index (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_8c75fd54-52d4-5d74-a94c-e217d408ded8)

On a crisp spring afternoon in 1969 I sat in St Margaret’s, Westminster, which is next door to the Abbey. It was my father’s funeral and, because he had been what one newspaper obituary called ‘one of the greatest entertainers of modern times’, the church was packed. My father was as usual playing to a full house, but this was the very last time he would do so. Celebrities like the great band-leader Henry Hall rubbed shoulders with hundreds of ordinary folk for whom Billy Cotton and his band had become over the years a valued part of their lives, on radio, television and in the theatre.

St Margaret’s is one of the most fashionable and beautiful churches in the land; MPs in particular cherish the privilege of being married or having their children baptised there. But it was the location for my father’s funeral not because he was famous or important but because he was born in the parish. When I went along to ask the rector if the service could take place there, he seemed dubious: Lent was a busy time; there were lots of services planned; the choir would be at full stretch; and so on. Beneath his expressions of regret, though, I detected just a tinge of scepticism at my claim that Dad had grown up in the parish and sung in St Margaret’s choir. Then a verger appeared and the rector explained to him what I was doing there and the difficulty of fitting in the funeral. ‘That’s a pity,’ said the verger. ‘He really loved this place. I often chatted with him when he slipped in to listen to the choir.’ That settled it. It was agreed that Dad should be laid to rest in his own parish church.

In fact, Dad had been born at what is now an exclusive address, No. 1 Smith Square, adjacent to the Conservative Party central offices. In 1899 it was a two up, two down terrace house (rent: seven and sixpence a week) and Dad shared a bedroom with three brothers while six sisters squashed into an attic room. Westminster was then a self-contained village within London. Like the other kids in the area, my father played in the streets around the Parliament buildings, hitched lifts on the cow-catchers of trams and swam in the Thames off Lambeth Bridge when the police weren’t looking. (If they were looking, Dad would often end up running home, naked and dripping wet, his boots tied by their laces round his neck.)

Dad’s father was a ganger in charge of a section of the Metropolitan Water Board, and looked splendid in a top hat with a badge on it. He was a huge man who could with one hand pick up his wife, Sukey, who was only four feet tall, and tuck her under his arm. He was once invited onto the stage of the Aquarium in Tothill Street to try his luck against George Hackenschmidt, the Russian world-champion wrestler. In a flash he was on his back, but went away with the ten shillings promised to anyone brave enough to go into the ring against the world’s strongest man.

I still use my grandfather’s malacca walking-stick which has a gold band around the top inscribed, ‘To Joseph Cotton: from X Division, Metropolitan Police in appreciation of help with violent prisoners. May 1925.’ He must have been sixty-five years of age when he came to the rescue of a couple of police constables trying to arrest a gang of thugs. So he knew how to take care of himself.

Grandad was mad on clocks. However complicated they were, he could take them to pieces and put them together again. He had three or four clocks in every room of the house – cuckoo clocks, chiming clocks, water clocks. It was bedlam to walk through the house on the hour or half-hour.

In the deep silence before the funeral service began, I gazed around the church to keep my mind occupied and my eyes off Dad’s coffin. As a choir boy, under the eagle eye of St Margaret’s legendary organist and choirmaster, Dr Goss-Custard, Dad had sat in one of those stalls practising every weekday at noon between morning and afternoon school-lessons. Apparently he had a beautiful voice, and besides enjoying the singing earned a few precious shillings for special services such as weddings and funerals. And so began a life dedicated to music. To the end of his life he could sing arias such as ‘I Know That My Redeemer Liveth’ from Messiah, though since that was composed for a soprano voice it sounded strange in his husky bass-tones. According to my grandmother he was a typical choirboy: cherubic in surplice and ruff collar but a tough, vigorous lad elsewhere, especially on the football field. His school played all their matches on Clapham Common, and they’d have to march the three miles there and back carrying the goalposts.

Tattered regimental banners, worn with age and damaged in battle, hung down from the nave of St Margaret’s, and I wondered whether the standard of the Second Battalion, the London Regiment, was among them. Popularly known as the Two-and-tuppences, this was the regiment my father joined in 1915. He’d volunteered as soon as the Great War broke out the previous year, but as a spotty fifteen-year-old couldn’t convince the red-sashed recruiting sergeant that he was ‘sixteen, coming on seventeen’. Twelve months later he enlisted as a boy bugler and was posted to Malta, where he was introduced to the seamier side of life in the quarter of Valletta the troops called the ‘Gut’. There were peep shows where for a penny you could see a naked lady, but Dad was perpetually hungry and preferred to go instead to the Salvation Army. They gave him a cup of tea and a fairy-cake in return for him standing on the roof of the building, bashing a tambourine and pointing at the red-light district. ‘That’s the way to the Devil,’ he’d shout, ‘and this is the way to the Lord. Come on in!’ And whenever one of the lads followed his advice Dad would get another fairy-cake.