Legendary Huddersfield journalist and author DENIS KILCOMMONS is a natural storyteller who brings everyday subjects to life in his own inimitable style. Denis wrote a hugely popular column in the Huddersfield Examiner for 34 years until his retirement in 2023. Now he’s back from a break and writing for Huddersfield Hub.
My initial role at The Blackpool Gazette was covering courts in the morning and a smorgasbord of stories in the afternoon. Showbiz visited Blackpool as well as appeared there. Jayne Mansfield, who switched on the Illuminations in 1959, paid a return visit in the 1960s and stayed at The Imperial Hotel.
Al Thomas, my flat mate and a renowned ladies man, was sent to interview her. A good piece, as always from Al (he went on to the nationals) and the interview spoiled only by the presence of Ms Mansfield’s husband, Mickey Hargitay, a former Mr Universe, which cramped Al’s style.
Me? I was sent to an old folk’s home where Gracie Fields was making an appearance (lovely lady) and despatched to have an in-depth chat with American actor Billy de Wolfe at the Norbreck Hotel.
Billy was a legend in the musical comedies of the golden age of Hollywood, a close friend of Doris Day and as camp as a row of scout tents. We shared afternoon tea and a laugh-filled hour of his reminiscences.
Al may have been face to face with Jayne Mansfield and the problem of where to look but I got a great piece from Billy and still remember my intro started ‘The face that launched a thousand quips …’
Bird’s-eye view of Blackpool taken by Anthony Audiodubz Oliver on free photo website Pexels
I also became roadie for reporter Mike Berry who was moonlighting as comedian Lennie Bennett and playing clubs all over the north west. I drove him to gigs and carried his mohair stage suit to the dressing room.
He carried a briefcase that contained the sheet music for the song with which he finished the act, in case the audience had stopped laughing, and a can of hairspray. The perm came when he was famous.
He went on to star at The Palladium, appear in 12 Royal Variety Shows and become a TV game show host.
But, back then, we were driving all over Lancashire, sometimes doing split gigs; early appearance at one club, drive another 10 miles and late night spot at another.
The furthest was Barrow-in-Furness. Drive to Lancaster, turn left and hope. No motorways. Then I would drive us back to Blackpool in the early hours and we would both be in the office at 8.45am the next day. I loved it.
The conference season in late autumn and early spring in Blackpool was good for making money from lineage payments. The Times, Guardian, Telegraph, Mail and Express would want four or five hundred words for the bottom of a business page but couldn’t be bothered to send a staff-man from Manchester.
We covered by proxy, everybody from the annual gatherings of accountants to the Socialist Workers Party.
To capture the keynote speech at some of these totally boring events a reporter had to attend a two hour dinner, attempting small talk with directors of industry discussing the latest development in concrete while facing five courses of indifferent food. The glamour of journalism.
Only once did I enjoy such an assignment when the young chap acting as PR suggested I skip dinner. He met me in the foyer of The Savoy in time for the speeches and escorted me to a private alcove within sight and sound of the top table, equipped with chair, table and my own waiter.
“Order what you like,’’ he said.
Such a civilised way to do business. Back in the office I bashed out the requisite number of words, phoned the copy to the nationals and got him a decent show in the next day’s papers.
The political party conferences were the biggest, of course, and I discovered some top TV political journalists had larger egos than ministers.
I met Ted Heath when he was Prime Minister (nice chap) and attended a Press briefing from Harold Wilson under escort. This happened by chance.
The briefing was announced at short notice. I borrowed Lennie Bennett’s Cooper S which was parked outside the Gazette office, hurtled down Victoria Street to the Prom and waited for a break in the traffic to turn right to The Imperial Hotel. Not that you need much of a gap in a Cooper S.
A space appeared in traffic coming from the right. I took it, braked and slipped into an even smaller space in traffic coming from the left.
During the manoeuvre my eyes caught the quizzical gaze of the back street passenger in the limousine behind which I slotted. It was Harold Wilson.
Oh dear, I’d joined the police protection unit escorting Harold to the Imperial. The convoy never slowed and when we turned into the hotel car park his car and convoy went to the front and I peeled off to park near a side entrance.
Our timing coincided again when I entered the long corridor that led to the entrance foyer. Harold was striding along from one end and me from the other.
The briefing was held in a room midway. He nodded to me and we entered. A small room with half a dozen political journalists from the Downing Street beat, plus me and local freelance Roy Watson.
He knew everybody else and greeted them with familiarity, shared a joke, then asked Roy and me to introduce ourselves. He was friendly, gave me a grin and never mentioned my unorthodox arrival.
Harold Wilson always impressed me. He was the ultimate professional and a man without pomposity.
NOTE: In case you were wondering that photo of me at the top was indeed taken in Blackpool but some years later, of course. It was when I was sent by the Examiner to spend the night in the House of Horrors at Madame Tussauds.
