The band had a posh booking at a posh Hotel. We had to play the interval at a Strictly dancing type of competition. Ballroom stuff, but we didn’t even know what a strict tempo was. However Bram, our leader, said we will just do what we usually do – I am sure it will be OK.
So we accepted the booking and waited to do our bit. The place was heaving with glamorous dancers the likes of which we were not used to. Village halls were our usual bread and butter.
The interval came and we did our best at strict tempo with a couple of rockers stuck in. The floor was not really packed as food and gins were on the go.
The big band returned and we were ushered to the main kitchen for the bands supper. It was manic at the time and we were directed to a long folding table that reminded me of school dinners.
We sat along one side and were surprised when a waiter came along and placed four bottles of whisky evenly spaced along the table. Before we could say we haven’t ordered them. Three somewhat out of place hippy types came and sat opposite with one stunning girl. They didn’t talk but got stuck in to the whisky.
Bram kicked me under the table.
“Can’t you see who it is?”
It was a strangulated loud whisper.
“It’s the Rolling Stones – or most of them.”
I nearly fell off the bench – he was right.
We never managed to talk to them and they did not offer to speak to us.
We were struck dumb.
It didn’t last long though and we were ushered to a separate table.
The Stones had been playing in Stockton before their escalation to Superstardom. This Hotel was their secret hideaway for the night.
That was it, over and finished, a small glimpse at the stars.
Unfortunately I recounted the tale many years later in my local pub.
Even now I can be greeted by;-
“Here’s Ossie, he knows the Stones, you know!”