Predator? Nöel Coward

 

OTHER diners at the Savoy Grill must have wondered what the famous guest that morning was drinking when he summoned the head waiter to his table and ordered a glass of Bullshot. The guest was Nöel Coward, and he wanted his favourite cocktail of broth and vodka with a dash of Worcestershire sauce, his favourite remedy for a hangover.

 

‍ He was brunching with a man he was obsessed with Sunday Express Theatre critic Michael Thornton. But it wasn’t Thornton who had his notebook out. It was the man at the next table, a private detective hired by Lord Beaverbrook, who was listening to every word the two men said. The eager Beaver wanted to know everything. And the detective followed them to all their meetings.

 

‍ Beaverbrook detested Coward, as I have said before, and he was anxious to keep his talented writer away from the sexual paws of Britain’s leading playwright and composer, renowned for his taste in pretty young men. And Thornton, no stranger to sexual advances was all of that.

 

‍ The road to get an interview with Coward, was long and tricky, but Thornton succeeded and later wrote about his experiences in the Mail Online a few years ago.

 

‍ He discovered that author Somerset Maugham was staying in London’s Dorchester Hotel, where Coward was at the time. The two men were known friends. Beaverbrook often partied with Maugham at his house, although their sexual preferences were wide apart. So Thornton persuaded a college friend to give him an introduction to Maugham, who was his Uncle Willie.

‍ Maugham was then 86, says Thornton, and “and already sliding into dementia.”

 

‍ Uncle Willie agreed and later Thornton was invited to Maugham’s suite.



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coward was obsessed with Thornton

 

‍ “He looked like a human lizard, with libidinous black eyes and incredibly wrinkled, parchment-like skin,” the Sunday Express critic says in his piece.

 

‍ “After his ancient hands had wandered where they ought not to have been, he stammered: ‘You c-can s-stay to dine with us if you wish, but you will be expected to s-sing for your s-supper.’ The author suffered from a stutter he could not control all his life. His meaning, however, was unmistakable.

 

‍ “I had no intention of ‘singing for my supper’ and I pleaded a prior engagement, says Thornton. But I promised to return if he would do me the kindness of introducing me to Nöel Coward.”

 

‍ He agreed, and Coward, universally known as ‘The Master’ later invited the critic to his suite, where he emerged in the hallway, tall, with a hairless dome of a skull, huge Toby-jug ears, nicotine-stained teeth and heavy-lidded eyes.

 

‍ “He was 60. I was 19, says Thornton. ‘Come here,’ he said, leading me to the bedroom. He patted the bed. ‘Hmmmm,’ he said, dragging on a cigarette as if his life depended on it and exhaling a cloud of smoke that seemed to engulf me.

 

‍ “‘You are younger than I expected,’ he observed in that clipped staccato voice used by a legion of imitators. ‘But you are very, very pretty!’

 

‍ “It was about the worst chat-up line I had ever heard, and I had by then heard a few.

 

‍ “We surveyed each other in silence. Was it conceivable that he expected me to enter into a liaison with ‘an ancient Chinese madam’ — his own description — and someone whose ears, from certain angles, resembled Dumbo the elephant?

 

‍ “Trying not to laugh in the great man’s face, I looked down. He mistook this for compliance. Embarrassed and irritated, I was forced to set boundaries between us. He nodded, sighed and walked into the drawing-room of the suite.

 

‍ “With time, I gained some respect and sympathy for him. I discovered, not from him, that two years earlier he had suffered a serious breakdown. He fell in love with a young American actor, William Traylor, then 27, who played a small supporting role in the Broadway production of Coward’s play, Nude With Violin.

 

‍ “Bill Traylor was a devout Catholic and not in the least bit gay. He found Coward’s physical overtures deeply repugnant. Urged by friends in the theatre to play along for the sake of his career, he became desperate. ‘I can’t!’ he said. ‘I’m a Catholic. I just can’t!’

 

‍ “Coward, attempting to overcome his objections, plied him with Stinger cocktails (a lethal combination of cognac and white crème de menthe).

 

‍ “The result was that Traylor took an overdose and was taken to hospital in a straitjacket. Traylor honourably never mentioned Coward publicly, nor sought to profit in any way from their disastrous relationship.

 

‍ “He married happily and had two daughters. He and his wife went on to run an acting school whose pupils included Sean Penn, Johnny Depp and Michelle Pfeiffer.”

 

‍ “Coward pursued me for six years, long after I had become London’s youngest film and theatre critic for the Sunday Express, under the inflexible editorship of the homophobic John [later Sir John] Junor.”

‍ *As for Beaverbrook, the only big mistake he ever made was persuading Maugham to write and publish his memoirs in the Express. He was suffering terribly from dementia by then and many found his writings a farce. How sad, for one of the greatest storytellers of all time.

 

Even Judy Garland wanted

to be a friend of The Krays



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ronnie (left) and Reggie on their East London streets near home. They adored their mum Violet who made tea for gangsters and the stars

 

The Kray twins created an empire formed by fear, extortion, protection, torture and finally, murder. Ronnie and Reggie, the most notorious British criminals of the 1960s, were sucked up to by celebrities and chased by the Yard. They were a compelling mix of glamour and danger who captivated Fleet Street.

‍ At the heart of their empire was a nightclub called Esmeralda’s Barn, a honeypot for gangsters, stars, corrupt cops, politicians and the public in Belgravia. The club made them international celebrities and the money rolled in.

 

‍ It wasn’t long before one club became two and then four and finally The Double R Club; The Hideaway; The Kentucky; The Regal; The Regency; Mr Smith’s, Esmeralda’s Barn and even the Tottenham Dance Hall. Some had gambling licences. The Krays were A-list owners and A-list stars rolled up to drink with them. Today Esmeralda’s is the site of the upmarket Berkeley Hotel in Knightsbridge.

In the Swinging Sixties, everyone wanted to be friends with the Krays it seems, even big names like Frank Sinatra; Shirley Bassey; The Stones; Diana Dors; John Hurt and Sonny Liston. And it was an honour to be invited to their East End home and have a cuppa with their mum.

 

‍ The Press lapped it up and the Paparazzi followed them all night. The Express was no exception and missed nothing. Even the iconic American gangster actor George Raft hung around their clubs. And the Krays gave singer David Essex his first big break by letting him sing for his dinner and their diners.

 

‍ We all know about actress Barbara Windsor and her gangster days of course but another fascinating Krays story is Hollywood star Judy Garland. One evening, she stopped by the Esmeralda’s to have a cocktail with the Krays. They told her that she was their mum Violet’s favourite Hollywood star and had seen The Wizard of Oz on TV many times. She wouldn’t miss it and loved Judy singing Somewhere Over Rainbow. So, they invited her back to their childhood home in Vallance Road, Bethnal Green.

 

‍ When the Krays’ customary entourage of black Marias arrived at her front door, Violet couldn’t believe her eyes and put the kettle on while Judy sang her favourite song at the kitchen table in front of a steaming teapot.

 

NOTEBOOK 1:

In an intriguing and revealing work our old friend Robin McGibbon undercovers the full story of the Krays’ rise to power and ultimate downfall in their own words on tape from jail in: The Kray Tapes: Amazon.co.uk: CDs & Vinyl

‍ In the four-hour audio book, the three brothers Ronnie, Reggie and Charlie talk confidentially about their lives on the tough streets of London’s Eastend and rise to high society.

 

Victoria made money for

the mourning newspapers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The funeral of Queen Victoria in 1901

 

“DESPAIR, yearning, and daily and nightly longing to die never left me for the first three years after my beloved Albert’s death,” said Queen Victoria And for almost 40 years, she taught the nation how to mourn.

 

‍ By the time she died in 1901, after Arthur Pearson got his Daily Express up and running the year before, mourning was big business in everything from women’s fashions in black to photographs of dead loved ones, carefully dressed and placed on sofas next to the living and brooches containing body dust. The Victorians left nothing private. They put mourning on display.

 

‍ By the time Victoria died at the turn of the century, three children out of every 20 died before their first birthdays, and those who survived infancy could not expect more than 42 years of life. No wonder spiritualism had gained ground too. Many people even welcomed ghosts. And police sometimes had trouble getting bodies out of homes.

 

‍ Victoria’s funeral was a massive newspaper sale. The public couldn’t get enough copies, so too were new stories of how she had lived broken hearted during her final time on Earth and heavenly love story. They read so much but still didn’t know it all. She took mourning to a new extreme and just how much is highlighted by this Express report, thought to come from one of her trusted attendants after her death.

 

‍ “Queen Victoria lived surrounded by mementos, photographs, miniatures, busts, and souvenirs in chilly rooms at the end of drafty corridors, down which one tiptoed past Indian attendants to her presence. Nobody knocked; a gentle scratching on the door was all that she permitted. Every night at Windsor Albert’s clothes were laid out on the bed; every morning fresh water was put in the basin in his room. She slept with a large photograph—over her head—taken of his face and shoulders as he lay dead.”

 

NOTEBOOK 2: This is a must have for the guys who counted the bundles of newspapers for the vans, it’s a special Evening Standard newspaper distributors’ knife for cutting the string they tied the papers up with in the good old days. It has a notch at the top of the blade they tied the string around — and they were not allowed to start work without one — oh, and a union card. Supervisors had to tick both off the list or they were sent packing.

*****

NOTEBOOK 3: From a newspaper letter published anonymously in the 1970s:

‍ “I always loved the regular cries of ‘Star, News ’n’ Staaaandard’ floating up the street in the 1950s and 60s. The voices seemed to epitomise the metropolitan-ness of the capital. A decade or so on – and this may or may not be a calumny – a friend told me that the van drivers, when off duty, were much prized by ‘the chaps’ as getaway drivers. No-one could weave such a sinuous path through the city’s traffic when getting away from robberies.”

Anon.

*****

 

TERRY MANNERS is taking a break and will be back with a new series of historical stories and anecdotes from Fleet Street’s past in January.