Starry Nights

Be whisked back forty years to the smoky clubs and rising talents of the Las Vegas of the North...

- JULIA DOUGLAS

So there I was, 1972, in the Friday night queue of a mill town chip shop. Chestnut hair under a scarf. Factory clothes under my coat. Getting the chips in for me mam. Steam, chrome and formica. Flat caps and donkey jackets. Hearty Yorkshire accents.

"Addock and chips, m'love."

"Whose was the mushy peas?"

"How d'ya think Leeds will do tomorrow?"

The bell jangled. I glanced round, ready to budge up and make room. My mouth dropped open. Through the steamed-up window, I could see a white Rolls Royce.

Coming through the door was a man in a tuxedo and bow tie. Thick black hair neatly Brylcreemed. Jimmy Corrigan. Owner of the Batley Variety Club.

On his arm was the most glamorous woman ever to don a mink jacket and cocktail dress. Shirley Bassey, the Queen of Tiger Bay!

You could have heard a pin drop as they headed through the crowded shop to the seated part that us locals seldom used.

"I thought you were taking me to a fancy restaurant," remarked Shirley as they disappeared from view.

"Trust me, Shirley, you'll never taste a better bit of plaice..."

"Was that Shirley Bassey?" someone whispered at last.

"No, it were Bernard Manning, you daft 'a'p'orth!"

With Shirley's perfume filling my nose, I think that was the moment I decided that I wanted to be in showbusiness.

From the outside, by day, the club didn't look much. The long, low frontage might have been a factory. Built on an abandoned sewage works on the edge of town, it was surrounded by green hills, black slag heaps and row upon row of sooty terraced houses.

But by night, the huge neon sign lit up, glinting off the roofs of the cars and coaches parked bumper to bumper outside and it really did look like what they called it: the Las Vegas of the North.