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.
With a wedding to Maria on the horizon in November 1967 I bought a sports car – an obvious decision in 1967 to assert our commitment to love and peace and looking cool.
I bought a red Triumph Spitfire, brand new, and yes, we did look cool. The price was £715 brand new.
I also received an unexpected proposal a few weeks before the wedding when comedian and friend Ray Martine called to see me at the Blackpool Gazette office where I was working.
Ray was a London comic who fronted the TV show Stars and Garters, was a regular panellist on Jokers Wild with Les Dawson and was openly gay before it was legal.
He hosted his own show at The Sands nightclub in Blackpool for several years. I got to know him, of course, through my friend Michael Berry who you’ll all know as comedian Lennie Bennett.
We were chatting on the steps of the office, the Winter Gardens just up the street. He was a big, good looking bloke and flamboyant in an immaculate bright green velvet suit. He looked like a cockatoo.
Maria arrived from work and she and Ray exchanged a kiss. We got in the open topped Spitfire which was parked nearby and I started to drive off when Ray leapt in front of the car with his arms out.
A squeal of brakes, holidaymakers stopped to see what was happening, and Ray flung himself on the bonnet and pleaded: “Don’t marry her, Denis. You know it’s me you really love. There’s still time. Our love was meant to be.’’
“Get lost, Ray,’’ was not effective.
He milked the situation and, even though gay sex was still frowned upon, started getting sympathy from the crowd that had gathered who added their own comments.
Eventually he allowed us to drive away leaving him in the middle of Victoria Street blowing us kisses.
Thankfully, my stag night went without incident. Drinks in a few Blackpool hostelries and a late night meal at Nicky the Greeks.
The wedding was November 4, the first weekend after the Lights had finished. We couldn’t arrange it any earlier. Half the guests were Blackpool business people and wouldn’t have been able to attend.
I spent the night before at the home of my best man Michael (who was now very close to becoming Lennie Bennett full-time) and his wife Margaret. Breakfast was toast and a large vodka.
I was resplendent in a morning suit although that had almost been a disaster. We had placed a rental order for the necessary number of suits and mine was so big we could have held the reception in it.
Quick thinking Michael switched bags with the one meant for my future brother-in-law Tony, who was about 14 at the time. This suit fit perfectly. Tony’s needed concealed safety pins and extra stitching. We didn’t tell him we’d switched it.
We had nuptial mass for the sake of our families and Kath, another relative who was a brilliant nightclub performer, sang Ave Maria, even though I was a card carrying atheist.
The reception for 200 was at the Norbreck Hydro Hotel, followed by a dinner for 200 in the evening. Michael provided the cabaret.
In the early hours Maria and I drove to our flat in St Annes which was, I have to say, rather swish and had a living room made for parties. We had furnished it ourselves with swinging 60s furniture, goatskin rugs, my record collection and a white television.
Alone at last until Michael and a few friends let themselves into the flat and began to dismantle the bed just as we were about to get in it.
Amusing at first but not when they said they intended to carry it outside. They relented, put it back together and left us in peace.
Our honeymoon did not turn out as planned. I’d booked two weeks in Tunisia but the holiday company cancelled the week before. So we stayed at a boarding house in Camden with two friends, Mick and Maggie.
Maria on our honeymoon
They stayed for two days before returning north and Maria and I had a brilliant week on our own: the British Museum (yes, really), shopping in Carnaby Street and the King’s Road, The Prospect of Whitby, a screening of Camelot the day after the premier at the Warner Cinema in Leicester Square, and a day out to Stonehenge.
This was when it was open to anyone. A clump of big stones in a field off the A303. The world famous monument was unprotected and uncluttered by fences, kiosk, guards, restaurant, signs saying keep off the grass and with no entrance fee.
We were the only visitors on a cold November morning, free to wander and caress the stones and discover ancient graffiti from past centuries.
We were not tempted to add our own. Afterwards we enjoyed the warmth and hospitality of a coaching inn and had a ploughman’s lunch. He wasn’t very pleased.
It was also the week I almost lost my bride.
I was not a novice to London but it was Maria’s first visit and the Underground can be a confusing system. Camden Town Station was reasonably quiet mid-morning but, while I studied a map on the platform to work out a route, Maria got on the train and the door slid shut. She was wide eyed with panic as she pressed her face against the window looking out. So was I staring in.
“Get off at the next station and wait,’’ I shouted. “I’ll get the next one.’’
The train went, our eyes locked like Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter. If she had misunderstood she could end up at the Elephant and Castle or a dozen other stations.
Her sense of direction was always non-existent and she wouldn’t know the address where we were staying.
I had visions of her lost, emerging at Kings Cross and becoming prey to the owners of houses of ill repute who were rumoured to haunt the place looking for innocent girls from the north.
She would enter a life from which there was no escape while I would be doomed to roam the streets of London as decades passed and I turned 80 with white beard and bent back asking strangers: “Have you seen my wife? She’s 19 and gorgeous?’’
The next train came, I boarded and urged it to go faster. We arrived at the next station and there was Maria, sitting on a bench and clutching her handbag like it was a grip on life and reality.
Relief? That doesn’t come close. I was determined never to let her out of my sight ever again and, on the whole, I largely succeeded, over most of our life together for the next 57 years.
