KIT LAMBERT

FROM MY BOOK 'YOU DON’T HAVE TO SAY YOU LOVE ME’ (AVAILABLE ON AMAZON AND AS AN AUDIOBOOK FROM AUDBLE). ABOUT LONDON IN THE 60S WHEN I MANAGED THE YARDBIRDS AND MY FRIEND KIT LAMBERT MANAGED THE WHO.

Kit Lambert called me up and said, 'You're always buying me dinner. It's time I bought you one.'

Four hours later, at the Mayfair Hotel, we were still lingering over our brandy when the bill arrived. Kit didn't even look at it. 'Blank cheque, please.' 

The waiter shook his head. 'I'm sorry, sir, we don't take cheques so we don't have any blank ones.' .

Kit got pompous. 'Don't be so foolish, of course you do.’

A broad-shouldered man in a dinner jacket appeared next to us, pulled up a chair and sat down. He had the manner of a sergeant-major. 'Now then, what's all this about not having enough to pay for your dinner? I'm the manager.’

I offered to pay but Kit interrupted me. 'How dare you say I don't have enough money. Who are you anyway? You're not the manager, you haven't got enough manners.’

The big man sat tight and scowled heavily but Kit wasn't intimidated. He calmly leant back in his chair, lit up a cigarette and exploded into a tirade of abusive contempt - a magnificent display of sheer upper-class authority.

He blamed the man and his social class for everything that was wrong with England, with Europe and with the world. For bad service, lost test matches, late trains, dirty streets, high prices and poor quality. For not coming to fix his plumbing, for losing two shirts at the laundry and for cancelling the 8.45 from Victoria last time Kit went to visit his mother.

By the time he'd finished the band had stopped playing, people had stopped eating, and the man in the dinner jacket had stood up and backed off three paces. He told Kit, 'Just write us a cheque and leave.'

But it wasn't enough for Kit. He wanted to trample all over them.

'Blank cheque, please.'

The man was almost desperate. ‘Look, we don't take cheques so we don't keep blank ones. If you don't have a cheque, just leave us your address.'

Kit was having none of that. `I'm not in the habit of not paying my bills. I insist on paying it now. If you don't have a blank cheque, I'll have to write it on something else.'

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out an old envelope. He scribbled out the address on the front and turned it over to write on the back: 'Pay the Mayfair Hotel thirty pounds.'

He signed it and handed it back to the man, who looked at the tatty bit of paper disdainfully. He wanted nothing more than to see the back of us, but he couldn't resist telling Kit, 'You forgot to put the name of the bank.'

Kit paused. He was completely caught out. `Well you see, there's a bit of a problem. I just changed it this morning. I put the account with a new bank and I can't remember if it was a Barclays or a National Westminster. I'll tell you what, though, I know exactly where it is, I'll draw you a map.'

He took the envelope back and started drawing a map where the name of the bank should have been. As he drew, he explained, 'You see, it's down Shaftesbury Avenue on the right, just opposite the Queens Theatre, round the corner and it's just ... there!'

He marked X.

'See?'

It was too much for the heavy in the dinner jacket. He picked Kit up from his chair, and with a firm hand round the back of his neck he marched him to the exit and pushed him out the door. Kit was thrown into the street and I had to follow.

Suddenly Kit had a total switch in mood. All the bounce went out of him and he collapsed into a deep depression. He sank into the front seat of my car and started telling me he couldn't cope any longer. There was always too much money going out and never enough coming in. There were too many salaries to pay, too much equipment to buy. The Who never understood his financial problems and nor did the bank. He was miserable.

I started to drive him home and eventually he lapsed into silence. I noticed him reach for the handkerchief he kept old-fashionedly sticking from his top pocket. As he pulled it out a bit of paper fell on to the floor beside me. I picked it up. It was a cheque for seven thousand Australian dollars.

`What's this?' I asked.

He took it and looked. `Good heavens, that must have been there since the tour of Australia last year. I haven't worn this suit for ages.'

He started to giggle. It was rather like a racing car revving up - little throaty bursts that slowly built into a full-throttled roar of laughter. `That's wonderful, absolutely bloody wonderful, I'm going out to celebrate. Come on, I'll take you to the Crazy Elephant.'

CLICK SUBSCRIBE, LEAVE YOUR EMAIL, GET A PIECE A WEEK, IT’S FREE