I would like to express my profound sympathy and condolences on the tragic death of John Davis. I only heard about it during the week in a phone call from Ron Dovey who is the organiser of the Who Convention which was held in Shepherd's Bush on April 1st. In that event John organised an excellent exhibition of Who memoribilia which I had the honour of contributing to. I first met John in Pete Townshend's front room back in 1974 in Twickenham. We were playing later that evening at Charlton Football Ground. I had called around to get a lift to the gig. Whilst in the front room to John's astonishment and amusement I began to pummel Pete's chest with my fists in a ritual that had me shouting the words...'Ho Ho Ho-Chi Minh, Ho Ho Ho-Chi Minh'. It was Pete's birthday the next day the 19th May and as usual he took my eccentric twist of Irishness in good fun. He turned to John and informed him (as I continued to pummel) that the reason for this strange ritual was because it was also going to be Ho Chi Minh's birthday the next day. I always found John to be a kind, unassuming and deeply educated man who showed respect for his fellow man. I shall miss good old John Davis and his artistic talents very much indeed.
Irish Jack
The first sketch on this page was drawn by John Davis at the memorial service held for John Entwistle on
The second sketch was drawn to accompany a story written by Irish Jack about the time The Who played for Lord Ashfordly, a character in the British television series 'Heartbeat'
Everything on this page is copyright Irish Jack and John Davis and must not be reproduced without written permission.
'I'M REALLY bored with this tour!'. It was Keith Moon drummer of sixties pop band The Who complaining about the lack of activity. Booked to play the town hall in Scarborough in north east Yorkshire with an exciting single riding high in the charts in 1965, the Who found themselves at a loose end when without warning their gig was cancelled by the town hall authorities. No official reason was forthcoming but the four members of the Who: Pete Townshend, Roger Daltrey, Keith Moon and John Entwistle had the distinct feeling it had a lot to do with an earlier appearance at the very same venue when the manager dropped the curtain on them halfway through their act.
There followed a hell of a row in the dressing room when the town hall manager decided that the Who's wild stage act was too rowdy for the decent, law abiding citizens of Scarborough's select society. 'Select society?', echoed singer Roger Daltrey. 'All I saw when I looked into the audience was a crowd of mods and rockers.' 'Yeah,' Pete Townshend chimed in agreement, 'and they were ready to tear the building apart.'
As a consequence of the local town hall's last minute decision the Who were now stuck in Scarborough, the heavenly light of north east Yorkshire. And also stuck in dreary bed-and-breakfast.
'So what now, then?' John Entwistle, a man known for having an extremely low threshold on boredom, asked of the others. Roger Daltrey was looking at the entertainments page of the Yorkshire Evening Post. 'Well, there's bingo on at the local church hall tonight.' Pete Townshend keened over the singer's shoulder and exclaimed..'Yeah, but look, it say's 'tonight's bingo caller, Miss Yorkshire 1965, will be topless !' Bass guitarist Entwistle put his instrument to one side and returned an interested look. 'A topless bingo caller? Now that I'd like to see.'
Roger Daltrey saw something that caught his attention: 'There's a great band playing in Scarborough tonight...' 'Who?,' enquired Pete Townshend with more than a tiny element of curiosity in his voice. 'Well, they're booked to play the town hall but there's a big notice running across the ad....' No sooner had Daltrey finished his sentence when the four voices of Britain's number one pop group shouted in unison..'CANCELLED !'
The next morning the four members of the band wiped the sleep from their bleary eyes and trooped down for breakfast. It certainly wasn't the Ritz. Mrs. Pomphrey, the landlady of the Ocean View B&B, had provided her London guests with the freshest of Corn Flakes and the creamiest of milk. This was followed by a large plate of buttered toast and boiled eggs. The problem was that guests were habitually running off with her salt and pepper cellars and she was forced to lend out her own cellars from upstairs. Pete Townshend was about to spray a generous helping of pepper over a boiled egg harder than concrete when Mrs. Pomphrey suddenly whipped the container from his hand, 'I'll just take this away and refill it for you.' Townshend was left gasping for breath, his hand still stuck in mid-air minus the pepper cellar.
John Entwistle enquired of a diner at a table nearby, 'Mind if I borrow that?' The old gentleman leaned across and handed Entwistle a large cellar. John held the container over his boiled egg and unloaded a liberal quantity of.....'I think that one is the sugar,' advised the elderly man as Entwistle watched the thick grains of sweet crystalline smother his egg.' Townshend didn't laugh but sneered, 'Hope I die before I get old!' It was a bit of an apocalyptic comment to make and one that would have far reaching consequences for the band later on in the year. But that's a different story.
Right now, the band were wondering how they might spend another idle day holed up in Scarborough before moving on for the next date of their tour of the north of England. Keith Moon, the Who's drummer, was in the hallway of the Ocean View B&B searching for a telephone directory. He reached under a hall stand, came up with book in hand and found himself face to face with a notice pinned on the wall. He read the following: 'AUCTION OF THE CENTURY at Aidensfield Monthly Auction, a rare selection of musical instruments on offer to the highest bidder. Grand piano (Steinway); original Highland bagpipes; Victorian clavier complete with pedal; single bass drum kit (once owned by the famous American entertainer Buddy Rich). Auction held under licenced permit by Ashfordly County Council.'
Keith Moon stared at the notice in disbelief. A single bass drum kit once owned by one of the world's greatest drummers.. Surely there had to be a mistake somewhere? He read the notice again and again with breathless excitement. He went into the diner's kitchen and found landlady Mrs. Pomphrey pouring a liberal amount of sugar into what looked like a salt cellar. Having checked with her on the veracity of the Aidensfield Monthly Auction, Keith Moon went in search of the rest of the band and they were soon squeezed into the front seat of their ramshackle van heading for Aidensfield.
The Aidensfield auction was usually a popular date on the social calendar, drawing buyers and collectors from miles around. By the time the Who's van screeched to a halt outside and the four members took their seats at the back of the packed room, the Victorian clavier complete with pedal was going to some well-to-do squire in houndstooth. Next up was the drum kit. The auctioneer looked about him, 'Now, ladies and gentleman. We come to a very attractive item. A single bass drum kit, once owned by the well known entertainer, Buddy Rich.' Keith Moon felt a lump in his throat.
No sooner had the bidding opened when a hand shot up in the front row, 'One hundred pounds !'. Keith Moon's jaw dropped. The fifty pounds in his pocket had just become redundant. A few quick whispers with the others realised the total sum of £150. Moon held his breath. Over to the right of the room another hand was raised and a young lady in an afghan squeeked, 'One hundred and fifty pounds,'.
Keith Moon felt dejected. Since he was ten years old, every drum roll, every syncopation, every paradiddle had been in homage to the great Buddy Rich - king of the drums. He looked at the others who returned expressions of consolation, they understood. He might go overboard from time to time but he was still their friend.
Another hand went up as a collector-type in the front, offered..'Two hundred pounds.' It was useless. Moon's spirits sank to the ground. The others had heard enough. 'C'mon Keith. It's a lost cause,' Townshend said, disappointed. Keith Moon stood up - then suddenly, as if by some divine force from within he felt his hand go up and a shout spat forth from his mouth in a posh accent he certainly hadn't been born with..'THREE HUNDRED POUNDS !' The band looked at him, stunned. Roger Daltrey whispered in a hiss, 'Have you gone mad? We haven't got that kind of money.'
The entire auction looked around in surprise. The auctioneer held his hammer in suspense in a lifetime of seconds, before bringing it down on the table with a resounding crash. 'Sold,' he cried, 'to the gentleman at the back for three hundred pounds.' Everyone stared at the 'gentleman at the back' in the trendy clothes and Beatle hair style.
Keith Moon stood up (again) with a silly grin on his face unsure of what to do next. A tap on the shoulder caught Moon's attention. He turned to find a stout, frazzled faced individual wearing a creased-up suit, standing before him. 'Vernon Scripps at your service, sir. May I be of some assistance in the transportation of the item to your place of residence? I have a truck.' It suddenly dawned on Keith that even if he HAD £300---which he didn't---the van was already bursting to the ceiling with amps and speakers and there'd be no room for the drums. Keith Moon studied the gentleman before him and his assistant, a young nervous type called David who had a penchant for grabbing his cap off his head at every nervous twitch.
Moon was a shrewd judge of character. He liked this stranger Scripps though his cheesy business patter singled him out as some kind of rogue. Inside the auction room the helpers were packing away the items sold. The auctioneer and head steward of the Aidensfield Monthly Auction was wondering where the young man with the £300 had got to. Vernon Scripps, he of local removals and entrepeneurial schemes, laid a friendly hand on Keith Moon's shoulder and escorted him outside where they continued to talk in deep conversation.
Keith Moon was in a quandry. 'You see, the thing is Mr. Scripps...' 'Vernon, please. I think we can dispense with the formailities, don't you?' 'The thing is, Vernon---I'm Keith, by the way---Thing is, I haven't got a penny on me to pay for those drums.' Vernon Scripps looked at him in astonishment. One did not mess around with auctioneers. Even a rogue of Vernon's calibre was wise to that one. Moon took Vernon further into his undivided confidentiality..'Look Vernon, I'm a drummer and Buddy Rich is my hero. I just have to have those drums.'
The three members of The Who stood waiting around for Keith. 'He's hardly giving an interview on his own, is he?' John Entwistle muttered. Nobody replied. They just stood around waiting like they had done so many times before.
Over the years the band had been exposed to the unforgiving thunder of their Marshall gear. And this had rendered them to a partial deafness. But had they been blessed with optical hearing as in the mind's eye, they might have heard the closing business transaction between the drummer and his new found friend, one Vernon Scripps.
'So, in a nutshell, Vernon,' Keith Moon said, cautious not to raise his voice, 'You buy the kit of drums for me and The Who will play for you tonight.' 'Then it's a deal, Keith. Here's three hundred pounds and I'll just give Lord Ashfordly a quick ring. He likes rock and roll, y'know !' 'Fine. And I'll just go and explain a couple of things to the rest of the band. They both shook hands. Then Keith Moon of the Who walked towards his chums.. 'I say, chaps !!'
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