Nightclub king made sure he had at least as much fun as his guests
Peter Stringfellow, who has died aged 77, ran the eponymous London nightclub that became a haunt for celebrities (from A-listers all the way down to Z), rubberneckers, excitable businessmen and people on the make.
The son of a steelworker, Stringfellow began his career as a rock music impresario. In 1980, having deduced that London was where the money was, he opened Stringfellow’s in Covent Garden. The decor was Dynasty-glitz, and Stringfellow presided in leopard-skin suits, gold medallions and pink shoes, topped off with a bleached blonde
Peter mullet. (His holiday beachwear
Stringfellow included a leopardskin thong.) The waitresses wore Nightclub owner tutus. b October 17, 1940
His guiding d June 6, 2018 principle was that people should have fun, and he himself did not intend to be left out. He claimed to have had more than 2000 lovers – many of them during the course of his first two marriages – before settling down with a ballet dancer 42 years his junior, and fathering two children in his 70s.
But if his moral compass had difficulty locating true north, most people warmed to his affability, natural charm and refreshing lack of pretension. In his autobiography, he wrote: ‘‘I pride myself on being a gentleman; I’m certainly not vulgar or tacky.’’
Peter James Stringfellow was born in Sheffield, south Yorkshire, and brought up in a one-up, one-down, sleeping in the attic with his three younger brothers. After school he tried an array of jobs, including tie salesman and cinema projectionist. He then joined the Merchant Navy and, after returning to Sheffield, had spells as a photographer and sewing machine salesman.
By 1961 he was sales manager for a firm selling goods door-to-door. Their items included carpets, and Stringfellow began taking stock to sell for himself. He was rumbled, and jailed for three months.
On his release, determined to go straight, he saw an opportunity in the music scene. In 1962 he hired a church hall, christened it the Black
Cat Club, and booked likely acts. In February 1963 the Beatles agreed to play after Stringfellow phoned their manager from a call box. The fee was £85, more than he had ever paid for a band, but he sold so many tickets he had to hire a larger venue.
Stringfellow was now on the up. By the early 1970s, he was so successful that for the first time in his life he felt financially secure: ‘‘I changed my red E-type Jaguar for a black and white Jensen Interceptor Marque III, which quickly became a boudoir on wheels. The E-type had been a little cramped for extramarital sex . . . If the girl was tall, I’d open the windows and put her legs through them.’’
But he always wanted more, and leased an office block in Covent Garden, central London, that became Stringfellow’s. His next project, in 1983, was The Hippodrome, which he billed as
‘‘I pride myself on being a gentleman; I’m certainly not vulgar or tacky.’’