From the very beginning we knew we were going to make it. And make it big. There was no doubt in our minds. We knew exactly what to do. We'd seen it at the movies!

First, we'd put on a show, get discovered by a man with a big cigar and be signed by a giant record company for a small fortune. Next we'd cut a record so hot they'd have to sell it off the back of pick-up trucks to keep up with the demand. We would watch as our 'disc' zoomed to the top of the 'Hit Parade.'

Then we'd play a thousand concerts, sign a million autographs and, for the grand finale, we'd ride off into the sunset in a Cadillac with tail-fins the size of Texas. A breeze! Nothin' to it! And that, believe it or not, was pretty much the way it happened. At least for a little while . . .

Johnny Foster didn't smoke cigars. A packet of Senior Service cigarettes on a Saturday night was more like it. Each cigarette lovingly removed from its silver and tissue paper nest, placed firmly between the lips, then slowly and thoughtfully lit with a Bryant & Mays red-tipped Swan Vestas match, a cupped hand shielding the flame from an imaginary breeze. The match having been stylishly extinguished with a flick of his wrist Johnny would lean back satisfied, exhaling a glorious plume of blue smoke into a grey, post-war world. Result - instant cool!

And Johnny was cool. A handsome six-footer with a shock of dark curly hair, a wonderful sense of humor and a deep-throated, hearty chuckle to match; Johnny had more "front" than Woolworth's and, best of all, a black leather jacket with the collar turned up. He even had his own telephone! In those days that was like being the first one on your block to be on the Internet.

That's Johnny Foster on the right with Ian, Terry Smart and a couple of fans

At the tender age of nineteen Johnny still lived with his parents, Carol and Alfred, in the village of Hertford Heath just a short bus ride from Cliff Richard's home in Cheshunt. Johnny's mother was very supportive, but his father thought this rock 'n' roll music was all a "lot of old tommy-rot."

Johnny had taken a job in the sewage industry. Years later after having become a senior executive for the Walt Disney Corporation, he wryly observed that it had given him a great grounding for a job in the entertainment business.

Of all the people who ever discovered Cliff Richard, Johnny Foster was the first. It happened one night in March of 1958 at the Five Horseshoes Pub in the village of Hoddesdon, Hertfordshire. I wish I could have been there.

Now, before we go any further, you might as well know that now that I have finally made the decision to put pen to paper (or at least fingers to keyboard), I want - once and for all - to tell the real story of those long ago early days of British rock 'n' roll. So in the interests of truth and accuracy, I decided to do some research. I would telephone Johnny Foster!

It was three o'clock in the morning in Sacramento, California and just about time for "Elevenses" in jolly old England. I picked up the phone and called Johnny's office in Manchester. "I'm sorry," said a very charming voice, "Mr. Foster isn't here at the moment. May I help you?"

I explained who I was. "Well," said the voice, "Mr. Foster is on holiday in Spain, but I am his secretary, Chris. I could take a message if you like, or you could Fax him, or perhaps you would prefer to call him on his cell phone."

Cell phone! Johnny on a cell phone!! Johnny on a cell phone in Spain, probably brunching on Huevos Benedict washed down with champagne and orange juice!!! It was irresistible. It had been so long since we'd last spoken that I felt quite sure Johnny would fall out of his deck chair. I had to do it.

"Good Lord," said Johnny (I listened carefully for the sound of collapsing deck chairs, but there was none). "How are you?" he asked. "Where are you? What have you been doing?" He seemed to be in a very good mood and obviously had time to talk.

Suddenly I realized that I was on the verge of my very first interview without having prepared a single question. Finally, with the pleasantries over, I explained as best I could that I wanted to ask him about that first fateful meeting with Cliff and his early days with the Drifters.

"Well," he said, "you remember the Horseshoes. It was quite modern for a country pub, lots of white paint and window panes to let the daylight in. There was no stage. The Drifters had set up their equipment in a corner near the entrance, just the three of them . . . Harry Webb, Terry Smart and Norman Mitham.

"I was out having a few drinks with some mates. That first night the only person I really remember seeing was Cliff. I thought he was great, so I simply walked over to the group after the show and asked if they needed a manager."

Johnny, of course, being the coolest cat in that tiny country town, had already been 'up West' to the 'world famous' 2 i's Coffee Bar in Soho in the West End of London. When he mentioned that he might be able to get the band a gig there, he was immediately and unanimously elected.

A good thing too because if he hadn't become their manager they might never have gone to the 2 i's, I might never have met Cliff Richard, Cliff might never have signed with EMI and I might never have written Move It.

Without the success and the sales generated by Cliff Richard and the Shadows, EMI might not have felt sufficiently enthused to sign the Beatles, Decca might not have signed the Rolling Stones, and Led Zeppelin might never even have met!

I told you Johnny was cool.

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