Former Mercury journalist Roy Croft recalls the time he met The Beatles in Stamford in May 1963
Roy Croft spent three years on the staff of the Mercury during the mid nineteen sixties, when Len Wainwright was editor and Ray Sykes was his assistant.
He later went onto become a photographer.
Now living in Australia with his wife of nearly 50 years Veronica, Roy recalls here the time he got an unusual call to the office...
Imagine a Knickerbocker Glory in all its ‘glory’ of layered fruit, cream, ice cream and maybe a field of strawberries, topped with a cherry. And that long spoon to dig into its delightful depths.
As you salivate over the sheer yumminess of the delicious dessert, picture a fried egg sitting atop this masterpiece. Yes, a fried egg.
If ‘Yuk’ is the response, you will be among many friends thinking the same. But if you find the recipe to be inviting then at least you’re in famous company.
For back on May 23, 1963, this was the fare being enjoyed by one of the music world’s most celebrated sons, Paul McCartney, bass guitarist with The Beatles, in a Stamford cafe when I found the threesome.
Sitting with his fellow musicians, John Lennon and George Harrison, Paul had balanced the egg upon the cherry pushing it further into the creamy topping.
As a young newspaper reporter answering the trill of the many phones in that smoky editorial room was a continual task. The ring joined the Imperial typewriters clicking incessantly. But the calls could range from anything to anyone from anywhere with a story to tell.
When the phone rang after lunch on May 23, chief reporter, Brian Gibbons, called me over. “This one’s for you, young Crofty. The Beatles are down at the Willow Cafe.”
The Beatles? They were the magical rock ’n ‘roll group rising so rapidly in popularity that they must have been just as awestruck as their growing band of followers.
Thursday afternoon was traditionally a wind-down from the busy week. The paper had been thoroughly proof read that morning and by lunchtime had been ‘put to bed’.
Normally the whole reporter’s room, without the editor and his assistant, retired to billiard hall The Poke above Burton’s, the tailor’s shop, opposite Boots the chemists.
For some reason, I was still in the office with Brian. So he held the fort, as I was tasked to hunt down The Beatles with a strict instruction not to be later back than 3.30pm.
It was now well past 2pm and I knew that the 3.30pm deadline was for the late news box attached to our sister paper The Peterborough Evening News. Any newsworthy copy would have a few lines ‘Gestetnered’ on to the blank back page box by Pixie who lived in the teleprinter room, winding copies through the ancient machine before the bundles hit the streets.
So it was a breathless 18-year-old who dashed into the Willow Cafe in St Mary’s Street almost slamming into a charming young lady sipping a coffee within swinging range of the door. Her face was not familiar, but her mother’s surname would certainly ring a bell.
Seated together under the stairs were the three mop-haired Beatles.
As Paul looked up from his Knickerbocker Glory, topped with that fried egg, John lowered his coffee cup and stood to shake my hand.
Having introduced myself, he graciously welcomed me and introduced George and Paul. ‘Just act naturally’, I said to myself.
“Well, what can we do for you? said, John. “Oh, can we get you a coffee?”
The story unravelled. Their bus journey from Ipswich to Nottingham had taken a break in Stamford. This was a welcome quiet few minutes on a very busy schedule during their third nationwide tour.
The uneventful arrival in the normally bustling market town, its streets empty during the Thursday afternoon early closing, must have been welcome. No screaming fans to interrupt their brief reverie.
As we chatted about guitars bass and rhythm and the amazing success of the latest LP Please Please Me, I only managed a few sips of coffee before asking the obvious question: “Where’s Ringo?”
“Oh, we think he’s next door with Rostill.”
Rostill? Who’s he, I thought?
Next door but two was Ye Olde Barn Restaurant and coffee bar. Again no streets crowded with autograph hunters. No screaming fans blocking doorways.
In the upstairs restaurant, other diners paid no heed to the young Liverpudlian laying as low as he could in his chair without slipping off. His multi-ringed fingers flicked ash from a cigarette as he chatted to John Rostill, then bassist for The Shadows, already famous.
(The coffee bar was locally known as The Bongo and run by Mr Reid McKecknie, who also ran the Willow and Olde Barn. An Australian connection immediately springs to memory. Reid’s brother, James, played the part of Dr Chris Rogers in the BBC series The Flying Doctor in the 50s and 60s with Bill Kerr. The Bongo’s nickname came from the 1959 film Expresso Bongo starring Cliff Richard and Lawrence Harvey.)
Again, introductions and small talk. And then the almost devastating query from Ringo: “Have you found Orbison, yet?”
Orbison? Roy Orbison, the singer whose voice covered four octaves, and already a worldwide phenomenon?
“He’s around somewhere. Oh, and Gerry Marsden and his mob are somewhere.”
What? And his Pacemakers? There was a whole busload of fame in Stamford and time was ticking away!
‘Don’t be late for the stop press’, Brian had insisted.
Oh God, why couldn’t I get the whole mob together for a photo? And then Harry or Bob from the photo department would need finding. They could be anywhere.
“Stay there, don’t let me down. I’ll be back soon!”
I rushed to the office only a few hundred metres away, dashed out a par on ‘the fabulous Beatles’ having been in town and returned to both cafes.
But they had, tragically for me, gone forever. Help! I looked here, there and everywhere. It was a mystery. They were nowhere and nothing in this world would get them back. They were now a long, long way away. I should have known better and found a phonebox. Please don’t pass me by. In my life I had never felt so tired. I was a loser. Well, I’d just have to let it be.
Hello and goodbye, Beatles. Their bus, with its precious cargo of priceless rock ‘n’ roll stars, was well on the way to Nottingham Odeon.
The tour was the third countrywide which The Beatles had made. They had come together on a double-billing with Roy Orbison, Gerry and The Pacemakers, The Terry Young Six, David Macbeth, Tony Marsh, Erkey Grant and Ian Crawford on the tour.
Then there was the charming Louise Cordet, best known for ‘I’m just a baby’, daughter to socialite Helene Cordet, who had embarked on a musical career. Among Louise’s claims to fame was having Prince Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh as her Godfather.
It was Louise sipping her coffee when I swept into the Willow Cafe, nearly knocking the cup from her grasp. Sorry, but thank you girl.
I have never figured out what John Rostill was doing with the tour. Maybe backing one of the groups, as his musical abilities were legendary. But John would never make old bones. Ten years later in his own home recording studio, he electrocuted himself when his own bass guitar a short-circuited. Shadows’ guitarist Bruce Welch found his body.
As the fame of The Beatles grew over the next few months, thrusting them eventually to heights of popularity shared by very few entertainers, they would return to Stamford in October 1963.
Not in a bus but this time by Austin Princess limousine complete with bodyguards and shrieking crowds anxious to see their heartthrobs. My fellow senior journalist, sports editor, Bob Feetham, was unable to get anywhere near the Fab Four, when they called into The George Hotel.
So what were the Beatles like during those early years when they could drop seemingly unnoticed into a cafe and enjoy a few minutes with a coffee - and a Knickerbocker Glory topped with the egg?
Firstly they were lively, joking, garrulous and charming, welcoming and gracious.
But for four blokes brought up in Liverpool’s tough streets and having performed in Hamburg’s red light Reeperbaum, they were also self-assured and very confident, too.
Their careers would eventually build to a pinnacle and vie with Elvis Presley as the world’s greatest entertainers. But they would remain approachable, down-to-Earth characters.
Over the years when I was an active reporter in Stamford, the flow of 60s stars who stopped ‘awhile’ amidst the charm of the market town also included The Kinks, The Mojos, The Dave Clark Five and The Who. They were the only ones we got to hear about,
But the icing on my cake occurred once again on a quiet Thursday afternoon when the shops had closed and only window shoppers walked the streets.
A call from the manager of The George Hotel put me on the trail of the greatest comedian of the 20th century. Admiring the shoes displayed by Freeman, Hardy and Willis in their St John’s Street shop was none other than Charlie Chaplin, and his wife Oona, on holiday from their home in Switzerland.
The notable quote he gave to me: “I’m never going back to the United States,” proved a little premature as he went there for the first time for 20 years in 1972 to receive an honorary award from the Motion Picture Academy.
And the story of the Knickerbocker Glory, topped with a fried egg? All true. Never been keen to try one, though. I wonder if Paul remembers?
