Holiday Camp - Part 1

In 1971, my flexi-disc record for the Esso Blue campaign was released. The Great Blue Singer!

They asked me how I knew it was Esso Blue

I of course replies

With lower grades one buys

Smoke gets in your eyes

The flexi-disc ended with the "Boom Boom Boom Boom - Esso Blue!" jingle, which I'd grown right fond of, and was always featured at the end of the ads.

I was as pleased as punch with the record. And I thought I sounded quite good.

Wilf, my manager, thought it might lead to more singin' work. I was keen and started to plan my debut single in my own right.

One day, Wilf phoned the shop and said: "Get down 'ere, lad, I've got summat for yer!"

"A record deal?" I asked, heart pattering away ten to the dozen.

"No, live singin'," said Wilf. "Come over an' I'll fill yer in!"

I went to 'is office, in the "better part of Salford", as my Missus called it, and he puffed on a Slim Panatella and said:

"I've got yer a week's work, lad, at the Silver Sands Caravan Camp in Caister."

"Where's Caister?" sez I.

"Norfolk," sez Wilf.

"Oooh, 'eck, that's miles away."

"Want fame, must travel," said Wilf. "Now, yer get a three berth caravan with black and white telly thrown in, there's a laundrette on site, and you'll be doin' a nightly spot at the clubhouse. Bit of singin', few jokes, that sort of thing."

"I were thinkin' of doin' Crying In The Chapel - the Elvis number for my first single," I said. "I reckon I could make a right good job of that live on stage."

"No, wi' your looks and voice you'd be better off doin' George Formby, that sort of thing," said Wilf - which I thought was a damn cheek coz I wasn't that bad looking back then and he was a little baldy weasle of a bloke with no shoulders to speak of.

When I got 'ome, I told the Missus. "Well... Norfolk..." she said. "I've always wanted to travel, of course, but I don't fancy a caravan camp. You know I like a nice little guest 'ouse or 'otel. You get a lot of condensation in caravans."

She wasn't keen. Wasn't keen at all, particularly when she found out it clashed with the opening of the new Astoria Bingo Hall in Victoria Street.

"I were so lookin' forward to it. Everybody who's anybody round 'ere's goin'. Oh, Joe, what a nuisance!"

"I'm sorry, love," I said - feeling a bit crestfallen, truth to tell. "Will your Florrie look after't shop?"

"Oh aye," said the Missus, with a sigh. "We can't afford to close for a week, that's a fact. If our regulars get used to walkin' to the Pick-A-Snip or Fine Fair they'll not be back coz both are cheaper than us."

Well, word got out in the family. They all reckoned I was a lucky blighter, and when I went to see Auntie Doreen, she was sat there as usual with her Senior Service an' her Michelin Man ashtray. "I've 'eard yer news," she croaked. "Eee, y'are a lucky lad. I've been that poorly. Doctor says a touch of sea air'd do me the power of good, but I can't run to that. Eee, our Joe, you should be right thankful them Esso people were daft enough to take you on. Some folk are lucky, some aren't..."

Well, I'm not daft - I knew she were 'intin', but I wasn't keen. It's true the caravan could sleep three, but I didn't want Auntie there.

I went to my Missus and she sighed and said: "It's no good, Joe. You'll 'ave to ask 'er. We'll never 'ear the last of it if you don't!"

"BUT..." I started.

"No, go on, lad," said my Missus. "Get back round there and get the deed done. It's the only decent thing to do."

Well, I thought this were right big of my Missus - she wasn't keen on the idea of a caravan site anyway, and with Auntie Doreen on top of that... well, I thought my Missus was a little marvel.

I went back to Auntie's. She weren't on't settee.

I 'eard 'er voice, floating down the staiirs, all weak-like.

"Is that you, our Joe? Come up, lad, come up."

I went up and she was in bed, curtains drawn though it was daylight, one hand laying all weak looking on the candlewick, the other stubbing out 'er Senior Service in 'er Michelin Man ashtray.

"Eee, our Joe, I do feel terrible," she said. "I wish our Beryl were here."

Beryl was Auntie's daughter. She'd run off to Australia and married a sheep farmer.

"Well, I 'ave good news for you, Auntie," said I.

"What is it, lad?" asked Auntie, her eyelids fluttering weakly open.

"You're to come to't seaside with us," I said. "It's all sorted out..."

Auntie stopped dying and started being Action Woman. It were amazin'. She sprang out of that bed, and at first I thought she was having some sort of convulsion, but no, she grabbed her jotter and ripped off the first sheet of paper. "That's a note for Sylvie to tell 'er I won't be able to make bingo next Wednesday," she said. "Pop it through 'er door on your way past, there's a good lad. And don't tell your Auntie Gladys I'm comin' with yer - I want the pleasure of seein' the look on 'er face meself! This'll sicken 'er chops!"

Although Auntie Doreen and Auntie Gladys were sisters, they never got on.

I went down the stairs, leaving Auntie packing. Now, you might think I'm daft, but it hadn't escaped my notice that Auntie had her note for Sylvie all ready before I told her she could come to Caister with us. But I didn't say anythin'. Not that I was scared of Auntie, of course.

But sometimes, in fact quite often with Auntie Doreen, it was best to keep your lip buttoned.

When I got 'ome, the Missus had just finished packing my suitcase.

"Not done yours yet?" I asked.

"I'll do it in't mornin'," she said. "I'm tired tonight. Now, eat yer tea and we'll have an hour in the Foundryman's before bed."

And a miserable hour it was for me.

"Eee, lad, a free 'oliday and gettin' paid for it?" said my pal Bert Pickering. "You're a luck devil!"

"Yeah, I know," I sighed.

The Missus was putting on a bright face - in fact she seemed quite cheerful.

But I was convinced we were in for a week steeped in grot.

I felt a real sense of forebodin'...

More soon,

JOE x

Life Of Fame

Here's me, back in my heyday. I had a bit of a sniffle when that was taken, but I don't think it shows.

I was right surprised when I was approached by the Esso Blue people to front their telly adverts. That was around 1957. They said they wanted an 'everyday bloke' as their public face and that's just what I was. The first advert was shown in 1958. I was so nervous during filming, that the first thing I said when the camera started rolling was 'I'm the Esso Blee dooler!' and that's not what I should've said at all.

But they liked it, and they put it in an ad later.

I suppose I was, I think the word is 'overawed', by it all - the lights, the cameras, all the people in that studio. I went all pimply and felt a bit uncle dick. I could feel my knees knockin' together.

But they were all very nice about it, and the first ad only took ten 'takes' - which is a technical term for how many times it takes you to get it right.

They didn't want anybody trendy, which was lucky because I was a bit too long in the tooth to be a teddy boy. Wouldn't've wanted to be anyway, because some of them round my way were a bit on the yobby side, to be honest.

But youth will 'ave its day.

They all turned out to be nice lads - Alfie Wainright retired in 1998 as manager of the Tesco's near us, after thirty-three years in the post.

But he was all margarine quiff and attitude back then.

Anyway, the telly adverts ran for years, I was on advertising signs and in newspapers and magazines too, so I got a bit famous - I was asked to open fetes in my neighbourhood, and people pointed at me in Fine Fare.

Of course, we heard a lot about the likes of the Beatles, Hank Marvin and Cliff Richard, who got carried away with their fame and went a bit wild from all accounts, but I always kept me feet on the ground and I never met people like that anyway.

I did meet Mr Mix from Nesquik, and he was a nice enough chap, off-screen.

Sometimes, I had requests for autographs, and I remember once on the Golden Mile bein' told I was a 'dish' by a woman in a psychedelic kaftan - but my Missus stepped in and said: 'Clear orff, you daft hippie bat - whatever have you been taking?!'

And that was that.

I got an agent called Wilfred, who was based in what my Missus called 'the nicer part of Salford', and he got me an audition. I wondered what I might be like at drama, but he thought I should try for Crossroads.

It was the part of a grotty old poacher who got on people's nerves.

I said to Wilf: 'Can you see ME as a grotty old poacher who gets on people's nerves?'

And he said: 'Yes'.

So, off I went to Birmingham.

But the producer said my nose was too big and kept going off-camera when I had close-ups.

I lost heart after that.

I got really excited when Esso told me I was to make a flexi-disc about going round the world. But it was all done in a recording studio in Warrington. Still, me and the Missus used the money I earned to 'ave a nice weekend in Llandudno, and the waitress at our hotel had seen me on the telly and warned us off the egg and bacon flan. So that was nice.

I remember being asked to open a couple of shops. One of them was what you'd call nowadays a vintage or retro clothes shop, but in those days we called it 'second hand'. It was called 'Az Nu' and was in Porrington Street, where the pork butcher's used to be. It's been boarded up for years.

The other was a branch of the 'Pick-A-Snip' supermarket on Commercial Road. When they opened their next branch, they got Ken Dodd to do it.

I don't think fame changed me. My Auntie Gladys said: 'You're as daft on telly as you are off,' and Mrs Potter next door said, 'Once a pillock, always a pillock.'

'I think there might be a touch of jealousy there!' I told my Missus.

'If you say so,' she said.

See you soon,

JOE x