The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (29 page)

Shaking off my initial shock, I took charge of my emotions – and then I took charge of the situation.

You have to be pragmatic at times like that. It was too late to do anything for John, and I could take care of his family later. Right now, damage limitation was the name of the game – and the first threat was the police. I briefed everyone in the house: keep your mouths shut and make sure the cops confine their investigation to the guest room. They must not be allowed to nose around the rest of the house! I didn’t know what they might find but whatever they turned up, I was sure it wouldn’t do the band any good. And once the press got wind of it they’d have a field day, especially since Bonzo was the second visitor to have died in one of Jimmy Page’s guest rooms in just over a year. In fact that earlier incident served as a sort of rehearsal for this latest tragedy …

On 24 October 1979 Paul McCartney’s company, MPL Communications, hired us to provide men to check the guest list and handle the overall security at a very prestigious award ceremony that
The Guinness Book of Records
was holding at Les Ambassadeurs nightclub just off London’s Park Lane. Everybody who was anybody was there, including the press, paparazzi, liggers and jibbers (jibbers are people who blag their way into gigs,
receptions
or backstage without a pass or invitation), largely because Paul was being presented with a medallion cast in rhodium (which is a very hard, silvery platinum-like metal element) by a government minister. I was just checking out the members of Pink Floyd when one of my men said that there was a call for me upstairs (obviously this was a long time before the advent of mobile phones!). At the reception desk I found the call was from Ray Washbourne – and it wasn’t the best of news! They’d just found one of Jimmy’s guests dead at his home at Plumpton Place, Sussex. Predictably, he wanted me to get down there and take care of things.

“I think someone may have phoned for an ambulance,” he said, “but that’s all I know.”

“Leave it to me,” I said before telling Gerry Slater, my business partner, what had happened and taking off like a scalded cat.

I arrived at the same time as the police. Obviously that was because they’d been called out by the ambulance crew – which is standard procedure. Their presence meant that I couldn’t clear up the way I’d have liked to. All I could do was confine their
investigations
to the guest room where the guy, whose name I later found out was Richard Churchill-Hale, had popped his clogs. And that annoyed the cops intensely! If I’d arrived ten minutes later they’d have been all over the house like a rash – so I was very lucky, timing-wise.

I didn’t get a chance to clear up completely so they did find “substances” by his bedside. It transpired that the poor bloke had overdosed – but because he was a guest, staying in a guest room, I was able to limit the police’s snooping to the room he slept in.

Anyway, going back to Bonzo, I knew that the press would hound his family pitilessly, and that simply wasn’t an option. I had to keep a lid on it for as long as I possibly could, at least until Peter Grant turned up and started throwing his weight around – and, as
demonstrated
, that time at the Singer Bowl, that was a lot of weight to throw!

The police weren’t happy about being stymied at every turn. But what could they do? It was apparently an accidental death: nothing suspicious about it. A drunken man had seemingly inhaled his own vomit – period. There was no good reason for them to snoop around, no matter how much they’d have liked to. Anyway, it was the law; they knew it and so did I. Funny how rock ’n’ roll makes lawyers out of everyone involved – just like crime!

Sure enough, by the time Peter and Ray arrived and John Bonham had “left the building” for the last time in the ambulance, the road had filled with reporters and the mob was growing by the minute as the circling vultures homed in on the smell of death. The three of us discussed all the angles, analysed the kinds of problems that might ensue, made contingency plans and decided how we would box for the next few days. That resolved, Peter and Ray went off to console the boys in the band. It was only after his unusually subdued
departure
that it dawned on me that Peter hadn’t been in his normal control-freak manager mode. Far from it – he was obviously deeply shocked by the event and, after our preliminary talk, left the whole affair to me to deal with.

At least I didn’t have to worry about the rest of the band. They’d made a hasty departure minutes after John’s body had been
discovered
and I’d arranged for more of my men to go and look after them until they were safely ensconced in secure retreats where there would be no intrusions. That may sound callous. It wasn’t. It was, again, standard procedure. When there was a “death in the family” unwritten rule number one was to make sure that the band members were as far away from the action as possible. It meant fewer
questions
for them to answer. But, more importantly, it allowed them to grieve in private, protected from the press.

The platoons of press and police set up camp at the Old Mill House for days. So I did, too. I hardly left Jimmy’s place for the following few days. Keeping the hounds at bay was a full-time job and a hard one, with the more dogged photographers climbing over the walls – and driving me and my men up the wall in the process. There were a few little incidents, but nothing I couldn’t handle, and I managed to contain the situation as effectively as anyone could. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered. They’d caught the whiff of a story that was a tabloid hack’s wet dream: rock star, booze, drugs and death – and if there wasn’t any sex they’d find a way to work some in. So, if they couldn’t get the story from the horse’s mouth they’d let their imaginations – and Led Zep cuttings archives – run riot. Predictably, they added Ol’ Black Magic to the lurid mix, concocting ludicrous fantasies involving Jimmy Page and his
admittedly
strong interest in the occult in general and Aleister Crowley in particular. For example, he owned a house that had formerly belonged to Crowley and in which there had allegedly been a
terrifying
catalogue of murders and suicides. The place was also
apparently
haunted by the spirit of a man who’d been decapitated there some 300 years earlier – all lurid grist to the newspaper mill!

Having been so close to so many famous people whose lives had been blighted and hacked to pieces by the lies and sensationalism of the gutter-press hacks, I knew exactly what they’d do to John’s memory, given the chance. They didn’t care whose feelings they hurt as long as they could drag up enough dirt to muddy the issue – because they know mud sticks. Any little association, any name, any snippet of gossip or unsubstantiated innuendo would do if they could cook it up into a tasty dish for their hungry public. I wouldn’t mind so much if what they printed was true – but in my experience they get it wrong most of the time and hurt people more than they’ll ever know. But they never, ever apologize. Worse still, they never, ever, seem to care. Luckily enough, because John was so well-liked by his friends, there were very few new revelations about him. In fact, it’s a tribute to his friends’ loyalty and integrity that all the press could do was dig up and rehash old stories.

Despite the press, I at least partially succeeded in controlling the way the whole tragic affair was perceived by the public by keeping a lid on everyone involved and ensuring that they didn’t disclose anything. And now I faced another, far more unsettling, task: to make sure John looked his best for his swansong show for all the family and friends who wanted to pay him their last respects. To do him justice, the mortician needed to know what this vacant frame had been like in life – larger than life was what Bonzo had been. I found a photo that captured that free spirit we’d lost and made an appointment at Kenyon Morticians in Kensington – at which I duly arrived, full of trepidation.

After polite introductions in the office, I was ushered into the area where the bodies were stored, silently awaiting their burial or cremation. It was cool like … well, like a morgue really. I, on the other hand, wasn’t just cool. I was chilled to the bone when the mortician reverently drew John out of what looked like an
oversized
filing cabinet – the one where they file your life when it’s no longer current. Desecrated by the autopsy and horribly discoloured, this wasn’t the Bonzo I’d known and loved. John’s wasn’t the first dead body I’d seen and wouldn’t be the last, but that didn’t make that “death mask” any less horrifying. I was calmed, though, by the mortician – a kind, congenial and fascinating man. It’s a tribute to his professionalism and integrity that when he looked at John’s body, having talked about John with me and examined the photo I’d brought along, he saw him through my eyes. He explained the way he would use make-up and style his hair and assured me that by the time he began his quiet sojourn in the Chapel of Rest, John would look peaceful and serene – and no one would see any sign of the autopsy or the discolouration that had so disturbed me. Bonzo, peaceful and serene. That’s a first, I thought.

A consummate professional in the art of sending people gracefully to their final rest, he was just as skilled in bringing peace to the living – and, having put my mind at ease, he shared some of the intimate and touching aspects of his craft. In another “file” was another body – that of a sixty-one-year-old Greek or Cypriot woman. She was fully clothed and looked as if she’d just fallen asleep. But it had been a very long snooze because, amazingly, she’d been dead for nearly two years. Evidently her husband had requested that they kept her there, perfectly peaceful and preserved, until he died – which he apparently would be soon – so that they could make their final journey together; go home to be buried in their own country. And this wasn’t a one-off. He told me he’d once kept the body of an exiled African head of state for more than six years because his family was waiting until their country’s political climate changed before they could take him home and bury him in his native soil. I found myself moved by the reverence with which this gentle man accommodated people’s last wishes in God’s departure lounge. There couldn’t have been anyone better to administer this art to John: a great and talented artist performing his art for another great and talented artist.

A few days later I returned to see his handiwork and my faith was fully justified – John had been transformed. He looked lifelike – perhaps better than he’d looked for several years. All his confusion and conflict was resolved; the stress and strain relieved. He just looked bloody handsome and, finally, the wild man of rock was completely at peace.

I phoned Peter to tell him that the funeral arrangements could go ahead and also that people could now pay their last respects. John was to be buried near his home at Rushock in Worcestershire, where he had lived with his wife Pat and Jason, his son.

My involvement in John’s demise had been a tragedy in three acts. Act One: the death scene at Jimmy’s house. Act Two: the Chapel of Rest. Act Three was the funeral – and again my own grief had to be put on hold because my team and I had been employed to ensure that it would be a dignified and respectful occasion,
unsullied
by intrusive press or fans. It was the last meaningful thing I could do for John – and I was determined to do that sad duty well, despite the irony that “quiet and dignified” were hardly what the wild man would have wanted. What he definitely would have wanted, though, was for Pat, his beloved wife, to be spared any more stress and strain than she was already suffering. And this, I would ensure – for Pat, for Jason and for John. Appropriately, my lads and I met close friends and family at John’s favourite watering hole just opposite the graveyard where he was to rest, and toasted him the way he’d have wanted us to. In fact Pat made a remark that June (my wife) and I will never forget: “From his grave, John can see this pub, so he can see us celebrating his life as he would have wanted us to.”

With that deeply moving thought in mind, I reluctantly left John’s close family and many other friends – many of whom were my friends too – to say their final goodbyes while we prepared to fortify the church against the inevitable onslaught.

Security was just one aspect of the operation. There were more sensitive duties to deal with too and I’m proud to say that the busload of my men I brought in did an admirably discreet and respectful job, and behaved impeccably. You’d never have known that their background was in the rather less formal world of rock ’n’ roll, but it was clear that their solemnity and dedication to the job was inspired by the fact that most of them had worked with Zeppelin at one time or another. They acted as ushers for the collected family and friends and were invaluable in helping to receive and lay out with due solemnity the innumerable floral tributes that poured in. Of course, I made sure that the men were strategically placed and blended in – the last thing we wanted was for them to look
oppressive
, like a bunch of bouncers. And to their credit they blended in with considerable diplomacy and aplomb. In the pub, and then before, during and after the service, they kept the hordes of press, autograph collectors and souvenir hunters at a respectful distance with nothing more dramatic than a wagging of fingers, a
meaningful
look and a shake of the head that said, “That’s a no-no!” The respect with which the onlookers treated the proceedings was impressive – particularly the national press boys, who aren’t renowned for their sensitivity. Mind you, they weren’t behaving themselves out of any sense of decency! Just to make sure they behaved, we had quietly pointed out that if they took any liberties on that day they’d pay dearly for them in future. They knew we were the boys in charge of most major rock ’n’ roll happenings they’d want to cover and took the warning to heart – as well they might – and were on their best behaviour.

That day a cornerstone of one of the world’s greatest bands was lowered into the ground – and the lack of Bonzo’s unbeatable beats undermined Page, Plant and Jones. Soon they announced that they felt they couldn’t go on without him. It was the end of an era. Yet another rock legend had succumbed to the lethal cocktail of
self-doubt
, temptation and adulation that only the great stars ever sample. When you’re very, very high there’s a very long way to go down. John was history – and so was the band. History in the real sense of the word.