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THE MAN WHO WOULD BE BING
- The Life Story Of Michael Holliday
Ken's book, The Man Who Would Be Bing - The Life Story of Michael Holliday, was published by the Book Guild in April 2004. Visit their website here.
Book Synopsis
Ken Crossland’s book on the life of Michael Holliday fills a gap in the history of British showbusiness. It tells the story of Norman Milne, a Liverpool-born sailor who became “Britain’s Bing Crosby” and with it, one of the biggest stars in the business. It was to be a brief stay in the spotlight. Holliday’s stardom lasted only eight turbulent years, from his breakthrough on television in 1955 to his suicide in 1963. For the first time, this book recounts the rags to riches story of Holliday’s rise to the top and the tragic inner turmoil that led him to take his own life.
Michael Holliday was a household name in the Fifties and truly, a big star. His records outsold those of his contemporaries such as Alma Cogan, Dickie Valentine and Frankie Vaughan. He topped the charts twice with “The Story Of My Life” and “Starry Eyed” and enjoyed a string of other hits. He was just as well known on television, his lantern jawed face as much an icon of Fifties TV as that of Tony Hancock or Richard Dimbleby.
When Michael Holliday sang, he sounded like a Bing Crosby clone. Crosby had been the most popular singer in the world since the 1930s and by the late Fifties, he was a living legend. For thirty years, British singers had competed for the label of “Britain’s Bing Crosby” but until Michael Holliday came along, none of them was more than a cheap imitation. But what started out as an accolade became a millstone around his neck.
He made it all seem so easy. At a time when formality was still the order of the day, Michael Holliday was casual, cool even. BBC newsreaders might wear dinner jackets but Holliday sang his songs in a sweater and open-neck shirt. His TV ‘set’ was a make-believe flat, his props were a rocking chair and a sofa and the mischievous wink that he gave to the camera suggested that he thought it was all just a bit of lark. “Life’s a breeze” seemed to be his message and the public in the ‘never-had-it–so-good’ days of Fifties went along with it.
Holliday
saw his dreams come true. Crosby went from being an idol to a friend. They
met in California in 1959 and when Crosby turned up unexpectedly to make some
recordings in London, Holliday was there. He swapped the terraced house in
Liverpool, where he was born, for a mansion in the Surrey hills. The newspapers
caught him strolling in his orchard or riding his white palomino, “Shadow”
across the downs. With a beautiful wife and son, he was everybody’s
ideal next door neighbour. “In tune with life, in tune with song”
said one TV announcer. No-one on the outside would have doubted it for a minute.
But when Michael Holliday walked into the night club run by his friend, ex-boxer Freddie Mills in the early hours of October 29th, 1963, he had already decided that he could take no more. His marriage was in tatters, his taxes were unpaid, and he had convinced himself that he was through. “You’re late” laughed Mills when Holliday appeared around 1.30 am. “You’ve missed the show. Come back tomorrow night”. Holliday looked him deep in the eye. “There won’t be a tomorrow night” he said.
“Drugs Kill TV’s Michael Holliday” screamed the morning papers. The inquest revealed another side to the enigmatic star. The fairytale had become a nightmare. Michael Holliday was two people in one body.
One part of him loved the limelight and the adulation of stardom; the other wanted the anonymity and solitude of his days in the merchant navy. He looked so relaxed on stage, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but before every appearance, he was a shivering wreck who had to be virtually pushed onto the stage. He loved his wife Margie and leant heavily on her in his darker moods, but couldn’t resist the girls that came his way. His homely, family image was a world away from the man who disc jockey, Pete Murray called the “number one crumpet man of all time”.
They buried him by the wall of the Catholic chapel in Anfield cemetery. Three thousand fans turned out to pay their last respects. The Beatles, Cliff Richard and a host of other stars sent their own floral tributes. But when the crowds had gone, society turned its back. The Swinging Sixties were just around the corner, but suicide like homosexuality, was one of society’s last taboos. It was as though he had never existed. Within a matter of months, showbiz had erased Michael Holliday from its memory.
Forty years on, the Catholic chapel is long gone. The black
headstone stands incongruously alone. Even that maintains the anonymity –
“Dear Mike – Beloved By Many” is the only clue to the alter
ego of Norman Milne who lies there. This book tells Michael Holliday’s
story, untold for forty years – the story of the likely lad from the
‘pool who had a dream come true but who paid a heavy price.