40. working a miracle
Wow.
What happened there? Fucking wow.
I think the Crutchfumblers did finish the show after us - but if so, we weren't listening. Too busy grinning like cheeseburgers, the applause we got.
We didn't drift to the back of the hall, where we'd spent the whole evening. Hung around near the stage instead, still by that right-hand wall - and graciously accepted people's congratulations. There were quite a few of those.
The biggest compliment, the one that really made our night (even though I didn't hear it till 2021!), came from one of Patrick's schoolmates, who'd shared his basement flat in Banbury Road. The day after the contest, he told Pat he'd watched our performance thinking 'he was genuinely in the presence of real stars in the making'!
As if, but hey.
Obviously this was the drink talking, plus Johnson's misogynistic quote about a dog walking on its hind legs: you don't expect it to be done well, you're just amazed to see it happen at all. All because this guy knew us at the start. Living in that basement, he'd sat through our first rehearsals and heard the toneless singer close up. His verdict mattered as much as any review, or what the judges might think - because it showed how far we'd come.
*
We didn't want the night to stop, so we stayed for the results of the voting. Far as I could see, so did the other acts and the entire audience. The bar didn't close till we all left the building.
The first choice for head judge had been Eric Idle, who went to Cambridge (boo) not Oxford. He wrote songs in Monty Python and beyond. Idle's reply, which Ivor showed me, went something along the lines of 'This song contest sounds a bloody silly idea. So I'd love to do it.' But previous commitments etcetera.
Instead we got Bob Sharples, which was fine by us.
He'll mean nothing to most people under a certain age, but in the 1960s he wrote the themes for a number of leading TV series and was well known as the musical director of Opportunity Knocks, clapometer and all. It had a huge audience, and the host kept referring to 'Uncle Bob' Sharples.
When he emerged on stage in the Newman Rooms, it was the first time most of us had ever seen him.
Lot of applause when he was introduced, an avuncular man in his sixties, glasses and receding hair. I can still see him waving modestly to the crowd. Then he began reading out the top three, in reverse order.
*
You could see a couple of the Magdalen Clerks wandering between the front seats and the stage, their all-white kit in that gloomy light. Bernie spotted two members of American Express close by.
There's other people on stage with Uncle Bob as he announces the winners. I can't remember who finished third, though I have a feeling it may have been the Goodall brothers. Now there's only one place to fill behind the Clerks. Nightshift and American Express are going to be disappointed, because Whiskers are surely second -
No, fucking hell, Humphrey Crick - which just goes to show.
First, I should never assume anything, because what do I ever know? Secondly, if you're an act, don't second-guess the judges, don't compromise. The Crick Trio played but didn't sing; they did their own thing and it worked.
The traditional dramatic delay before the big announcement, even though everyone knew Magdalen had won.
But then we're told there's a tie for first place.
Oh, right. Hadn't expected that. But with only five judges and marks out of five, I guess it was always a possibility. Marks out of ten and there's likely to be more of a spread.
So Whiskers are joint first. Means I was right about the top two after all. Applause as the Magdalen Clerks are announced. They move towards the stage.
In the seconds after that, there's no time to put thoughts into words, but a question crossed my mind. We were no better than fifth, then? Well, it was the best we could've expected, if we'd ever thought about it. But, you know, the level of applause we got...
So I wasn't completely shocked when I heard what came next. It almost felt like I was making it happen, me putting words in the announcer's mouth.
The joint winners are...Magdalen College...and the last entry of the evening. From Worcester and Pembroke.
That is emphatically not Whiskers. That is fucking well us.
Jesus, Bernie. We've won it!
Don't be daft -
What? Didn't you hear him?
Calm down, you fool. He said the last band of the night. That was someone else.
But either the Crutchfumblers didn't play after all - or if they did, they weren't part of the contest. Because I distinctly heard the man. The Clerks are sharing first prize with an act from Worcester and Pembroke. And we are an act from Worcester and Pembroke. Fucking YES!
Maybe Bernie was distracted. When the results had been called out, he heard the leader of American Express talking to one of the others in the band. That's the end of us, he mutters.
Blimey, bit dramatic. But they were ambitious - and if you can't finish in the top four of a contest full of dilettante funsters...
The next thing Bernie sees is me jumping up on the stage. It was quite tall but I'm going to claim I vaulted (school high jump champ, remember), sky-high on adrenaline. I'm crossing the boards to where the Magdalen mob are bubbling round Bob Sharples and Ivor and assorted other people.
Well done, guys. You blew us away.
The nearest one turns round, and starts beaming. No no, he says. We thought we had a chance till you came on. Fantastic. Our hearts sank.
Really? I nearly didn't wear my shades.
The others are shaking my hand too. Grins and hubbub -
Then it dawns on me.
I'm the only one up here. The only Milkin. Have the rest of them gone deaf? We won, idiots. I know I haven't got it wrong...
Bernie told me later that when he watched me get up on stage he thought 'The poor bastard. Wait till he finds out.'
But then Patrick brushes past him. Come on, don't just stand there. Bill and Harry are right behind.
I chat with Uncle Bob onstage. I go all modest on him, saying Nightshift were better musicians. That's when he mentioned they'd been a bit naughty singing two songs in one. I didn't tell him I'd thought of doing an encore!
We pocket our share of the cash prize and someone tells us yes we pushed the clapometer higher than anyone else. So we won the tiebreaker!
Decades later, I still can't believe I'm saying that. The word 'won'. Up on that stage, our grins hurt our cheeks.
Someone shows us the judges' cards. And me being the band's archivist, I collect them up and keep them, four of the five. Bernie groaned when I read one out loud.
The cards had spaces to fill in. The number of the act. The title. A bigger area for remarks. And category of music. For some reason, some of the judges took that to mean the college people came from. Bob Sharples didn't, but he called us Heavy Disco Rock! Another one wrote Woodstock, probably because he misheard Worcester.
That judge gave us four out of five. The others went higher, up to five plus. And it was Uncle Bob who made Bernie's eyes spin.
Same old chord sequence - but a good noise
Then the killer:
and the singer worked it.
!!!
Heh hey! Who'd have fucking thought. The man who can't sing a note. Singled out by a musical director from the telly.
Oh no, Bernie groaned. As if your head isn't big enough already.
Never mind that. He called me a singer!
Of course, it wasn't about me. At the bottom of his remarks section, Bob Sharples confirmed we'd been right to stick to our limits. He started with capital letters:
'THEY KNEW WHAT THEY WERE Doing all the time!'
See, Bernard. It was all of us.
I know -
But remember: the singer worked it!
Oh god. I think he got the spelling wrong...
*
Naturally we didn't want the night to end - but the place emptied soon after the prizegiving. Right at the end, we're near the exit with the last of the organisers, and I'm congratulating Ivor on playing guitar on stage. He's had a good evening, so his gaze is a bit faraway.
Same with the other people round him, including a girl. Full figure, piercing eyes. On the piece of paper with the running order, she's down as 'the incomparable Ludmilla Neudachin'. She peers at me, then gives Ivor the benefit of her opinion.
'He's orgasmic!'
Eek. I knew immediately this was going to join the list of Bernie's phrases. 'Yes that's very good. But it is orgasmic?'
She did a lot of work for BBC Radio Oxford. Andrew Burnham called her 'a natural broadcast journalist.' Then she became an anesthesiologist in New York. No jokes, Cook. Before that, we saw her at our next gig.
*
With no post-event party to go to, we had to organise our own.
So we picked a standard student activity. The Pak Fook on Cowley Road, after squeezing into Harry's car. It's past midnight and we're sitting in our suits and pseudo punk gear, going over the evening in fine detail, all talking at once because we're getting words out between gusts of laughter, our default mode since the result was announced.
Told you things were cheap in those days. Our half of the winnings covered an entire chinese meal. Five hungry young men for £12.50! Swear to god.
When we eventually went our separate ways, I ended up with Bernie at Howard Street into the small hours. Laughing, mostly.