One more tale of inspiration

Once in a while a column generates such a frenzy of response that I realise I have inadvertently plunged the nib of my pen into a social nerve. So it was last week. I wrote a simple and honest account of how a popular song was born half a century ago and the emails came flooding in.

‘‘What once was a family newspaper is now a bolt hole for hairy-handed perverts,’’ said one. ‘‘Repent or fry.’’

Others said what they really thought. I would quote from them but the fire brigade is still hosing down the computer.

But there were plaudits too.

‘‘Dear Joe, rarely have I read a more sober and authoritative account of early sixties popular culture. Thank you so much for the story. Have you got any more?’’

Have I got any more! Is the pope an affable old booby with three chins, a limp and the ticklish problem that his employees keep sexually assaulting his customers? Of course I’ve got more. My uncertainty was whether I should tell them. But I reflected that time is catching up with the gilded children of the sixties.

It has swollen their bellies and shrivelled their calves, has wrinkled their skin and bent their spines, has stolen the light from their eyes and the colour from their hair, and soon it will steal the breath from their frames and then who will be left to tell the truth?

We all of us have a duty to history. So here is one more tale, the last, unless I choose to tell another.

Even though I acted as midwife for one of Tom Jones’ greatest hits, he soon forsook me.

Elated with his success, he craved bigger names to consort with. Names like Bob Marley.

He went to find Bob in Jamaica. Within days the two of them were lying side by side on the beach on one of those inflatable airbed things, strumming their guitars, smoking the local materials and fending off the concomitant peckishness with spoonfuls of sweet fruit preserve.

All of which was hugely productive for Bob. His

was an international hit.

But for poor Tom, nothing. The harder he strummed the further inspiration receded.

He grew desperate. There was only one thing for

it.

When I got the phone call I could hear the distress in his voice, even with the static of an international line in those days. ‘‘Elvis,’’ I said, hastily pulling on my trousers, ‘‘I know I promised to find you a hit, and I hate to let a man down, but I’m afraid Tom needs me more.’’ ‘‘Oh, Joe,’’ exclaimed Elvis, ‘‘don’t be cruel.’’ But I was already out the door and bound for Jamaica.

On the drive in from Kingston airport Tom explained how, even though Bob had failed to find him a song, he didn’t want to hurt Bob’s feelings.

‘‘No worries,’’ I said, ‘‘I’ll just get strumming with the two of you and we’ll see what happens.’’ ‘‘But it’s only a two-person airbed,’’ said Tom. ‘‘Get a three-person one,’’ I said, and overnight Tom organised for the hotel staff to do just that.

And the following morning, when Tom and I strolled up the beach, there was Bob already installed on it with guitar and herbs and a jar of Craig’s.

‘‘Bob,’’ said Tom, ‘‘allow me to introduce…’’ ‘‘Whoa, just hold it right dere,’’ exclaimed Bob, and it was clear from his face that something was irking him.

‘‘First tings first, man. Why da wider lilo?’’ ‘‘My work here is done,’’ I said, and caught the first plane back to little Elvis.