Typical for the area, the streets were wet and the air damp, as I walked up the once familiar street. I considered just how much it had altered over the last twenty odd years. Not a startling revelation for the High Street of an English market town. Most of the buildings remained the same, though just about all were showing discernible signs of age with peeling or fading paint proliferating. Then, of course, was the ubiquitous graffiti, showing that the idiotic youth of today knew how to spell a very shortened version of their name.

The people looked the same, sturdy weatherproof clothing and brandless shoes rather than the designer labels I’d been used to seeing. No tans were discernible, with body shape covering the whole spectrum. Not the buff, physically perfect bodies that abounded in L.A., though even there obesity flourished. L.A. streets seemed to offer no middle ground. The other major difference was here, people walked to get somewhere, not just to shop.

One of the things that appeared unchanged was the Old Castle pub, at least from the outside; that is, if you ignored the muck that covered everywhere. It still had that traditional, though not original, Georgian look to it, perfectly symmetrical and proportional. The other drinking establishments that half filled the area looked more like old houses crammed into whatever space was available. I say half filled, as the other half seemed to be charity shops. Thankfully, no 1960s built monstrosities had infringed on the town centre. Gone were all the retail names of my youth that once occupied the town centre, now either moved to out of town retail parks or just failed to keep up with the times and folded. The pub name was ‘The Old Castle’ which was a complete misnomer as the ‘New’ castle had long disappeared before the pub was built, let alone the ‘Old’ one.

A brief memory of a happy time in the pub flitted across my mind, so on a whim, I decided to enter.

Inside had changed, almost beyond recognition. The three rooms of my youth had been opened up into one large space and, of course, the décor had changed, and I only say that because it did not look twenty years old. I was a teenager when I was last here and décor was not on the list of things I noticed.

I also noticed the clientele which seemed predominantly female. No, a second look around told me it was totally female. Unusual I thought but didn’t dwell on it as I approached the bar.

The barmaid was watching me approach and had an amused look about her. She looked in her mid to late thirties, with short almost black hair and looked quite smart in a masculine sort of way.

“Lost?” She asked with a grin.

“Nope, just refreshing old memories,” I responded.

“They must be old ones as I’ve been here over ten years and I know I haven’t seen you before.”

“That good a memory for faces is impressive.”

She laughed before responding. “Not really, we only get about half a dozen men in here a year. This is a Lesbian bar.”

“That explains your customers and the dirty looks some gave me. Still, makes no difference to me, so if I can, I’ll have a...” I paused to check out the draught beers on offer, “ pint of Bass.”

The barmaid also paused, I assumed whilst she decided whether to serve me or not. “Sure why not, it’s not too busy this early in the week.” She then very professionally pulled a pint and set it on the bar before looking at me expectantly.

After almost twenty years in California, I’d forgotten that over here you paid for each drink as it was served. “Sorry! Too long in LA,” as I swiftly put a £5 note on the bar watching her reaction to see if it was enough. She quickly scooped it up and turned to enter it up on the till. She turned back and put the change on the bar beside my glass.

“Keep the change,” I said hesitantly as I tried to calculate the correct tip and whether the change covered it.

She actually giggled which I found amazing. I say that because she was a big girl and I’d guess not much of it was fat. She was also heavily tattooed, which made the giggle incongruous. She was smartly dressed in a trouser suit, enriched with waistcoat and a colourful bow tie. After a brief examination I could tell it was a proper one too, not just a clip-on. Now that was something that I’d never been able to master.

“You have been in the States too long, I rarely get tips. Anyway, what’s this old memory you talked about.”

“Well ... my first girlfriend lived here. Her father was the landlord.”

“How old were you?”

“16. I had my first kiss over there,” I said, pointing to one corner, “of course it was the snug then, a little room on it’s own.”

She laughed. “First kiss eh? First anything else?”

It was my turn to laugh. “Sorry, kissing was as far as we ever got. It may have been the swinging sixties but it never swung my way. At least not then. Anyway she moved away before we got even close to that stage.”

“Still happy memories though?”

“Absolutely! Thinking about it, they were the best.” I mused.

“The best? I find that difficult to believe. Why’s that then?”

“She was the only girlfriend I had that never cheated on me.”

“Shit! That’s bad. But how many did you cheat on?”

“None. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had more than my share of sowing my wild oats, but I never did it when I was in a relationship of any kind. Actually,” I said with a grin, “that’s what’s great about this place.”

The puzzled look on the barmaid’s face was question enough.

“It may be that, at the moment, I don’t want another woman in my life, but I do enjoy them in a social setting. Here, there are plenty of opportunities for the latter with no misconceptions about the former.”

This time the laugh was pronounced enough to get the other customers to look our way. “Now that is the truth. Not sure how much socialising you’ll get given the number of man-haters that use this place but you should get some if you continue to come in.”

I smiled. “Are you saying that I’m welcome?”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far; let’s just say you won’t be unwelcome.” She grinned.

“That’s more than enough. I’m David.” I said holding my hand out.

“Den!” She responded whilst shaking my hand with a firm grip.

“Denise?” I queried.

“It is if you want that beer over your head.” She stated with a smirk.

“Den it is then”

As with every good bar person, Den easily pried out most of my secrets over my next few visits.

The big one, at least as far as she was concerned, came out the third evening I was there.

“You’re fucking joking me,” she screamed. “You were in Mow Cop?”

She looked around the pub until she spotted someone. “JIN!” she shouted, with the same volume as our Marshall speakers used to produce. “Jin, come over here.”

The woman, who I assumed to be the said Jin, stood up and walked over. I recognised her as someone who frequented the place, but that was all. Jin was one of the very feminine patrons, slim with shoulder length hair which was predominately auburn but showing early signs of grey. Her face, unadorned with make-up, had Crow’s Feet as the only clear sign of age, which I guessed to be mid forties. I couldn’t recall seeing her with any specific significant other. Like I’d come to expect of the pub’s clientele, she was wearing a dark trouser suit.

When she reached the bar and threw a questioning look at Den, the barmaid gushed. “David here was in your favourite band.”

The look Jin gave me was full of incredulity. “Mow Cop? I don’t recall any David in the group ... although I think one of the original guitarists was a Dave something or other.”

“Guilty. Dave Powell. I was with them from the beginnings around here, right up until the end of the first American tour.”

“That’s right! Then Zak took over. So what happened?”

I may have been in her favourite band but she wasn’t star struck or anything.

“Yea, what happened?” Added Den.

I then spent the next few hours telling the basics of my tale with more following over the next few evenings. There were a few pauses as Den attended to her customers, a time I took to recollect things either not for public consumption or just too boring. Occasionally a few other pairs of ears hung around to listen and I got to know some of the regulars slightly better. All were dedicated lesbians, with not even a hint of bi. Fortunately, the majority were not man haters, so conversations were usually quite interesting. A couple of times I was asked if I wanted them to set up a blind date with one of their straight friends. I always declined, repeating my reasons for being ‘off’ women. As they too were into women, I don’t know if I was that surprised, when they accepted my reluctance with a nod, smile and occasional verbal agreement.

My parents were financially poor but otherwise quite happy. This changed when I was 12 and my mother died of Leukaemia. Dad became a different man, and all happiness disappeared from our house. Now, anything I wanted I had to earn myself. I started working at the local Mothers Pride bakery a year later, initially as a Saturday van lad. This progressed to holiday relief lad during school holidays and even the odd night shift loading the vans. All my wages had to go unopened straight to my father. If I was lucky I’d get 10-20% back as pocket money. If, for any reason, I failed to go to work, I was still expected to pay my way.

At school I loved Music, English and cross country running. Like many my age I did well in what I enjoyed, less well in everything else. In English I particularly loved poetry, more writing it than reading. I did have a slight difference of opinion with my English teacher, in that, to me, poems should rhyme. In running I was very fortunate to have an ex England football international as a coach. He played alongside our local hero Stanley Mathews. Stan was the first top professional to really look after his body and preached no alcohol, no smoking and a good diet to all around him. My coach was one of his disciples and passed the philosophy down to me. I stuck to this with the exception of the odd pint of bitter.

I left school at 16 and continued to work down the bakery. As soon as I was 17 (the minimum age for a driving licence) I had the opportunity to purchase one of the smaller bread vans. A quick word with the bakery mechanic, who informed me which one to go for and also a promise to help me with maintenance, and I had my first vehicle, an Austin LD 1 ton. Little did I know how that would change my life.

As I preferred to work the better paid night shift, I often went running during the afternoons. I had a number of routes that I used according to how I felt. One of these was around Mow Cop Castle (Mow rhymes with Now) which was actually a folly built in the nineteenth century to resemble a ruined castle. It was built on a hill and could be seen from miles around. It was the hill and steep roads around that attracted me.

On one of the few sunny days of Autumn I was sitting on one of the large stones, recovering from my run, when three lads around my age appeared and after a short while we got to talking about girls, football and music. The latter was especially dominant in our conversation as they were in the process of forming a band. Names were exchanged but as all three wore jeans and a black tee-shirt and all had long dark hair, those names were instantly forgotten, as far as who was who anyway.

When they realised that the van was mine, a life changing question was asked by one, and I can’t remember which.

“I don’t suppose you play the guitar?”

“Yes, though not very well.” was my response.

A few hours later and we were a band. Autumn 1968 saw the founding of Mow Cop.

I gave up nights and worked the 6 – 2 shift. We then spent a year practising and abusing the ears of the few people that attended our even fewer gigs. We got better and like most top artists we became famous on pure talent ... well 10% talent 90% luck. We were at a local venue performing to our usual dozen or so crowd when Johnny Talbot came up to us. Johnny owned and ran our area’s premier live venue ‘The Club’.

“Good, I was told I’d find you here. The bastards that are supposed to be performing at my place haven’t turned up and given what I’ve heard, aren’t likely to. It’s bloody Friday night and I have no act, so do you think you’re up for it.”

A series of positive answers screamed out until I injected. “What about this place? We’re booked here for the night and we can’t just leave.”

“Leave that to me.” He stated, before heading off to talk to the pub’s manager.

That one question of mine turned out to be crucial to our success. We were a good band but nowhere near the best, but my question showed that we were professional. Apparently, that was rare. We did well that night, no doubt aided by the buzz of suddenly being on the big stage. (Well big for us at the time). That led to further bookings, initially at ‘The Club’, then further afield.

It was not all good news, as my then girlfriend Jenny, decided that she didn’t want to wait in for me on the weekends I was away. The first of a long list of cheaters I had for girlfriends. She didn’t think that way because she’d never actually said we were exclusive, I’d just assumed and we know where that leads. I didn’t mind that much, as even for a band of unknowns there were just about enough groupies to keep any sexual frustrations at bay.

From day one I’d always been the band’s songwriter. I could read and write music, though predominantly using a piano. It was something I enjoyed and it proved to be something I was good at. One of our songs was heard by someone, who told someone, who told ... well, you get the picture. Anyway, we managed to get a record deal. As Anthony’s father was a company lawyer, specialising in contract law, we got a very good deal for a new band. Anthony, never Tony in front of his parents, was our lead guitarist and easily the best musician. For me, the best part of the deal was that I got to keep all the rights to everything I wrote.

The record company released a single, of their choice, to test the waters. It crept into the top 40 so they tried another single, this time our choice. This reached number 7 in the charts and a visit to the Top Of The Pops studio followed. We had made it and as both were my compositions I felt as if I had made it too. Coming as a total surprise to everyone, the latter record charted in America. Most record companies of the period were quite small in comparison to today’s giants and quick decisions were the call of the day. Thus, with two singles and an expediently released album, we found ourselves on a three month tour of the States, which extended to eight months.

My father wasn’t keen about the tour. He wanted to know how he would know how much I owed him. I tried telling him that as I wouldn’t be living at home, I wouldn’t owe him anything. In the end he told me that if I wasn’t prepared to pay my usual 80+% of my earnings then he wouldn’t be prepared to hold my room and I shouldn’t bother coming back. It was to be the last time that I saw him.

Apart from the first one, those eight months were the worst months of my life. The ever available sex was initially amazing with every type of girl up for grabs. A smile from on stage was usually all it took for whoever took your fancy to be waiting to hook up immediately after the gig. Most of the time, even that wasn’t required as the roadies always had a queue of volunteers lined up.

About four months in and all the faces and bodies were blurred but one image of the previous gig was burnt into my mind. A ring, a plain simple wedding ring. Given my history, cheating was something I detested, but there I was having sex with a married woman, one I didn’t even know the name of. I knew that Steve, our drummer, went out of his way to actively select married groupies, saying that it showed that he had made it when he could wave a finger and take another man’s wife.

That was the last woman that I had sex with on that tour, much to the amusement of those around me. It actually paid off big time, financially that is. With time to kill whilst the rest of the band ‘relaxed’ after a gig, I set about writing something I’d always wanted to try, a Christmas number one. The eventual result was ‘Crazy Xmas’ which was released in time to fulfil my ambition and has gone on to be one of Britain’s best selling Christmas songs ever. It still earns me enough each year to retire on and today is probably the only hit people can name of Mow Cop.

The US tour had shown me that I wasn’t cut out for the rock ‘n roll lifestyle. My band mates couldn’t really disagree, so it was decided that whilst I would continue to write for them, a replacement was called for in the line-up. Enter Zak Hughes. It soon became apparent that he was a far better musician than I’d ever be; he was also a far better fit with the other lads.

I decided to stay in America, to see if I could make it over here. A minor celebrity I was often the ‘C’ lister who made up the numbers on various shows. A chance remark I made whilst appearing on one of the myriad chats shows America TV started the next phase of my career. I can’t remember exactly how it came about but I mentioned that I’d love to write for other performers. Whitby Dean, another guest, was an ex TV star. She’d started in the industry aged just eight in a popular children’s show, soon rising to become its star. Now aged 17 she was too old for kid’s shows and too set in viewers minds for anything else. Well, that was the opinion of the current crop of producers, that and she was too familiar with their ways to put out in order to get a role.

She had a reasonable voice and decided to branch out and give the music world a try.

We discussed what she wanted, other than the obvious stardom, and we came up with an American ‘Lulu’. Lulu was a British little dynamite who already had a number of hits in Britain. Whitby thought she could match the energy and that would hide her lack of real talent. Amazingly she was right, at least whilst she was in a studio.

She was an attractive young woman, tall and blonde with fabulous long legs, usually on show below a short skirt. The amount of time I spent with her ended with us, first dating before becoming a couple. At least, that’s how I saw it. Whitby only saw me as a stepping stone. We lasted until her second record failed to make the top twenty, though only just. In hindsight, that was probably down to my writing as much as her performance, as I was still learning my new trade. It still came as a surprise when she was photographed in the arms of her producer. She freely admitted that they had been carrying on virtually from the start. I learned one important lesson from her though; never get involved with someone from the industry.

The next decade brought me writing credits for many top 40 hits by varying artists, including three number ones, state-side at least. It also brought a few romantic interludes all of which ended with cheating on their parts. It seemed that if there wasn’t a ring involved that they didn’t see it as cheating, more like checking out other prospects. From what I saw on an almost daily basis, was that a ring didn’t count for that much either. For most, their only fault lay in being caught, with the regular comment of ‘it was only sex’.

Only one didn’t actually cheat, but we broke up when I wouldn’t condone her desire to try other men, which given my past I actually thought warranted some weird kind of respect.

The final nail in the coffin of my American dream was Janice. We had been seeing each other for almost a year and I was wondering if I had found the one. I made one of my regular calls to her, in order to plan that weekend. Her answer stunned me; “Oh no, it’s over now that Jimmy is back.” She then hung up. I discovered later that Jimmy was her fiancé who had been away in Navy. I had been a stopgap for her. One of her friends actually laughed when I was trying to find out what had happened. “She wasn’t cheating on you, she was cheating on Jimmy!”

That was when I put up everything for sale and planned to head home. I had three US homes, East Coast, West Coast and Nashville, along with numerous cars, all of which had to go. Most of my clothes went to Goodwill along with any furniture the property buyers didn’t want. I worked out that it was probably cheaper to buy anything I needed new back in England than to ship it over and put it in storage whilst I found somewhere to live. I did pack most of my personal stuff along with one of my sets of recording equipment. To help promote my songs, I’d started hiring session musicians/singers to show what I could do. These were then recorded and sent to record labels and artists I thought they might suit. It was a plan that worked well, so I could still be earning even when not writing on a commission.

It took several months to close my life in America, but I finally made it back to my homeland, richer both in experience and financially. My initial thoughts were to live in, or at least near to, London, where I expected I could continue to earn as I had in the states. Whilst the theory was probably true, I soon discovered that I hated London. Far too many people crowded into a relatively small area. As for travelling on the tube, forget it, it appeared that eye contact was considered a social disease and, god forbid, anyone that dared to actually speak or even just nod.

Despite my differences with my father, I had still sent him the occasional money, though all I had ever heard from him was that it was never enough. He died about six years ago, cirrhosis of the liver. I managed to get back in time for the funeral after being contacted by a neighbour. The house was a mess and there were numerous debts, it seemed every penny I sent him went on booze.

With nowhere better to live, and my father no longer an issue, I decided to head back to check out my home town. So here I was, checking out local Estate Agents (realtors) for somewhere to stay, or even buy, when I wander into this pub.

“So, have you found anywhere yet?” Den asked on my third afternoon visit, after I finally reached the end of my tale.

“No, still staying at Clayton Lodge,” I replied.

“That’s got to be expensive.”

“It is, but I have little choice.”

“Tell you what. There are a couple of flats upstairs that are empty if you fancy it. It would have to be short term, as the landlord of this place doesn’t want anyone too permanent in case he needs them for someone. You’ll need some furniture but we could help with that.”

“Can I check them out sometime?” I asked, deciding that looking couldn’t do any harm and not wanting to feel ungrateful to Den.

“Sure, just hang on a sec.” Den said as she went into the small room behind the bar, returning a few moments later tossing me a set of keys. “Help yourself, stairs are through the blue door near the gents. The flat is the one on the right, the key is the one with the red tape on it.”

“Cheers,” I said to her back as she moved to serve a new customer.

Unlocking the door, I switched on the old fashioned light switch, before moving swiftly up the dingy staircase, I surveyed the equally manky landing. Two tired 40 watt bulbs showed a door either side and a set of stairs at either end was its sum. The second set I assumed to lead to the rear and a private entrance.

Not an impressive start I thought as I fiddled with the keys to find the appropriate one. Even though I knew it to be above the large pub, I was still surprised at the size of the living room. It had two bedrooms, though one and a box, was probably more accurate, a smallish kitchen but a large bathroom, in which was no shower unit. After so long in the States, that would have to change if I was to stay here for any length of time.

The place was pretty dismal, but I thought that that was all cosmetic. It was obvious that it had been empty for some time and why was something I needed to know; was I missing something. I considered the layout and realised that the bedroom was at the back, over the cellar area of the pub, so noise shouldn’t be too bad.

I locked up and went to check out the rear. More fiddling with the keys before I opened the rear door. A large yard, that I had never known existed, was largely empty apart from an old Ford Cortina and the crates and barrels that you’d expect behind a busy pub. There was a large gate, I guessed opened onto a service road, which offered some security for both the flat and any vehicles parked in the yard. The entire place showed a lack of maintenance and an aroma of stale beer added to the dismal feel of the place.

I headed back inside, locking the outside door behind me, then up to the corridor and down again into the pub. I didn’t need to lock that door as it had a Yale lock.

I gave the keys back to Den and returned to my seat without comment.

Definitely not a long term home, partly due to the décor, though mainly because there was no place for a studio. I’d briefly considered that the second flat could fulfil that role but a sound studio above a busy pub was an obvious worry. The question in my mind was whether it was a better short term bet than Clayton Lodge.

My mind was still miles away when I felt something wet against my wrist. Snapping out of my contemplation I looked down at the rather large German Shepherd. Its eyes seemed to demand my attention, as if it knew how gorgeous it was and was just waiting for me to give it its due worship. As a dog lover I was more than happy to oblige and began stroking the long hair of its coat. Long haired Shepherds were rarer but in my eyes, far more appealing.

As soon as my hand started stroking it, the dog rested its head on my lap. I felt at peace with the world as I scratched behind its ears and just lost myself in its big brown eyes. Oh why couldn’t a woman bring that feeling?

“Bloody hell, Jess!” I heard.

Reluctantly, I looked away from those eyes to the woman standing in front of me. She looked my ideal woman; petite with long and straight hair, darkish in colour with sun, or maybe artificial, dyed streaks of blonde. Piercing blue eyes completed the perfect face. I knew that I hadn’t noticed her before.

To avoid staring, I looked back to the dog. “So this beauty is Jess,” I said, comically holding out my hand, “pleased to meet you.”

Jess placing her paw in my hand brought a slight surprise to me and a howl of laughter from the woman.

“That’s one of her tricks,” I was told, “but I’ve never known her do it to a man. In fact, she usually avoids men altogether, unless it’s to growl if they get too close.”

“Given where we are maybe she didn’t actually realise I was male.” I grinned.

“There is that! Talking of which, WHAT are you doing in this place, and looking quite at home here?”

My attractive visitor pulled out the chair opposite and sat down facing me, whilst dropping what sounded like a very heavy handbag onto the table.

“David!” I said, introducing myself, before giving her a very brief rundown of my story, missing out my band days, concentrating on the faithless women in my life.

“Strange,” she commented after my diatribe, “you have a pretty low opinion of women yet you seem to frequent a women only pub. By the way I’m Lyn ... with one ‘n’.”

“On the contrary, I like women, it’s relationships that I’ve always struggled with, which is why I now avoid them.”

“So you plan to spend the rest of your days alone ... and celibate?” Lyn asked with a grin. “Now, nothing personal, but I find it pretty hard to believe you’ve been with as many women as you imply.”

It was my turn to grin. “Ah! I forgot to mention that I was once in a rather successful band.”

With raised eyebrows, she asked. “And who might that be then?”

“Mow Cop.”

“I’m impressed, even I’ve heard of them, though apart from Crazy Xmas, I couldn’t name anything they’ve done.”

Before I could respond, a nose pushed at my arm reminding me that Jess needed attention whilst I talked. I was happy to oblige.

“So you had loads of groupies chasing you. My what a hard life!”

I explained my take on fidelity and the wedding ring that had brought it to the forefront.

“You weren’t celibate after that though?” Lyn stated, though it was an obvious question.

“No, not then, but it didn’t take long to avoid those in the industry.”

“Ooh, anyone I’ve actually heard of?” Lyn asked with a fair amount of disbelief in her voice.

“Whitby Dean.”

“She is fit, I’ll give you that. A bit too glamorous for you. She your type then?”

“Go stand over by that wall and you’ll see my ideal woman, physically that is.” I responded with a laugh.

Lyn looked puzzled, then it clicked that I was referring to the full length mirror that adorned the wall.