The True Stories Behind The Photos In Some Of The Vogue Magazine Adverts Of The Late 1960s And Early 1970s

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Grey Charm (January 1967)

Margaret found her first grey hair when she was 19. By the time she was 25 the horned god of the wild earth had lavished her with a whole headful. She gave zero shits, embraced the situation unreservedly, used the money she had recently embezzled from Lord Tollerton-Whitworth to splurge on various requirements, including the first sprawling, half-derelict Gothic house she could find, got her nails done with no expense spared, then headed directly to the rescue centre. “No, not that one,” she said, as a young volunteer fetched a bony tabby for review. “That one there, at the back. The great big wide one with the eyes redolent of a rectal bombshell.”

Babushka groaned. She had been doing her best to melt into the walls. They were always gunning for her, these keen-fingered witchy types. Relentlessly felting tiny pointy hats for her, forcing her into diets against her will and making her pose awkwardly for photographs nobody would ever see. Three of them it had been now, in as many years. Each equipped with an apothecary table, a tarot obsession and a cupboard full of dried herbs. Babs had escaped from them all, only to return here. And now the cycle was renewing itself. Already planning her getaway, she vibrated sarcastically as Margaret sealed the barely accommodating basket. “Ahwwww, isn’t that sweet?” said Margaret. “Fwiends already.” “I’m not purring with you, you sashaying Wicca catastrophe,” thought Babs. “I’m purring at you.” When they arrived back at the house the place’s ambience was exactly the cliche she’d predicted but as they entered the converted attic office Margaret spoke with a candour and passion that surprised her. “This is where I keep the books,” she announced. “You’ll be taking care of those. British Telecom are installing the phone line on Monday. Unlock the front gate for the cunts and don’t disturb me unless it’s absolutely necessary. I worked my fragrant arse off to put myself in a position where I could turn this ready mix cement business into a going national concern and I’m not going to be wanked around by any uppity little furbitch with ideas above her station. Just make sure you don’t cross me and you can neck as much chicken pie and clotted cream as you want to.”

Couture Jersey In Orlon (October 1968)

Delia bought the cottage with what for her was mere pocket change, bought it like it was just another big silly leather-and-suede belt she’d wear once then discard. She immediately announced big plans for the place but over the course of that first year Ethel spent far more time there than she did: cleaning, cooking, knitting jumpers for the nephews she saw once every two years, cursing over the nincompoops who put together the Times crossword. Meanwhile Little Miss Got-It-All was always somewhere or other, living it up with her cronies and parasites and erotic revolutionaries. Eventually she’d turn up, tail between her legs, eyes like pissholes in the sand, complaining of how “exhausting” it all was. You know, like in her tiny velvet-lined closet of a head she actually believed all of it - the drinking, the yachts, the (Ethel presumed) tantric sex - could genuinely be defined as “work”. Then there was the big comedown, its attendant questions - “But what am I FOR?” - and the 48 hours of trust fund-sponsored sleep. Keeping her opinions to herself, Ethel offered bread and generically soothing noises, accompanied by a multifariousness of soup. It wasn’t a bad existence overall, living here on the Somerset-Wiltshire border, rent-free, and it was about to get markedly better. The body swap paraphernalia was easy enough to sneak into the house and the operation - Delia, by her own admission, could “sleep through an army barracks fire alarm” - simple to perform. The following morning, she stood outside the front door, car keys in pocket, enjoying her new skin and £200 dress, dizzied by the day’s possibilities. Behind her, Delia limped over the threshold and squinted at Ethel and the treasured Aston Martin DB6 that was no longer legally hers. Neither woman spoke a word, having each been struck by a new frontier of personal contentment that defied language.

Assignation In The Sun (June, 1972)

The two of them had gone to India in search of lions. Hundreds or even thousands of them, if possible. They’d abandoned everything to do it: the kids, the Bee Gees concert she’d booked tickets for, her thriving rose beds. It was Max’s idea, as anything with any connection to lions invariably was. “Hey babe, how does my hair look? Would you say it has a manelike quality?” he asked Belinda as they left the hotel. “It’s definitely not… unmanelike,” she replied. “But I want MORE than that, goddamnit,” said Max. “I want strangers walking down the street to stop what they’re doing and say, ‘Oh cooooool, it’s that Lion Guy I heard about’. Maybe we should go back. I could try the other brush: the one Hugo bought me for Christmas. It’s got stronger bristles. He claims they’re made from zebra.” This time she put her foot down: she was not going to miss another dinner appointment, not going to put her life on hold, just because of his weird obsession with becoming a human version of Aslan. Mirabelle De Roth Fox would be there, as, hopefully, would Hector The Pipe. There were rumours of Warhol putting in a brief appearance. God knows what he was doing in Ahmedabad. Max tutted the whole way, dragged his feet like a big toddler in a stripey prat suit. He was sullen the entire time, ignored his chapatis, only perked up when some guy on the far end of the table, “Dougie” she thought she heard them say he was called, piped up and started yakking on about his time working as a zoologist in Kenya. Max tuned in, suddenly focussed. He touched his hair, nervously. “So what you are… saying,” he asked, in the disintegrating voice of the crestfallen, “is that lions are found in Africa, and don’t live in the wild in India… at all?” It was visibly too much. He excused himself, stepped outside and found a wall to support him. Noticing the sun was setting, she followed him. It was what she did, what she had done for close to a decade. But everyone, even the besotted, has their limits and she knew this would be the last time.

Get The Kayser Look For The Longer Look (March 1971)

“I’ve found another,” announced David.

“Oh my god, AGAIN?” replied Madeleine.

“I’m afraid so,” said David. “Fifth one this week. More purple and swollen than the last. Quite a cute little chap, really.”

“That’s what I love about you,” said Madeleine. “I mean apart from the manly good looks that sometimes prompt people to call you ‘The Brunette Greater Manchester Robert Redford’. You’re the only one of my seven boyfriends so far who has seemed completely comfortable with pinching deer ticks out of my flesh.”

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A New Breadwinner Deserves To Be Toasted (June 1972)

They said it would never work between Claire, Ted and Ruth. “Polyamory is so 1969,” a friend commented to Ruth when Ruth first instigated the situation in December, 1970. “Haven’t you heard? The free love communes are disintegrating. If you visit the ones that are left it’s like walking into a crusty tissue. It all seems brave and exciting at first, trying to love more than one person at the same time, but in the end the bitterness and jealousy will find a way to leak out.” Yet here they were, over a year on, as blissfully happy as ever - maybe even more so, since Ruth’s new small business selling rustic cravats to farmers had taken off. She’d even been featured in a famous magazine recently. Thoughtfully, Ted had gone straight out and bought sixteen copies on the day the mag hit the shops. “But who are the other thirteen for, you silly sausage?” said Ruth. “I’m going to hand them out to strangers and say ‘That’s my wife’ and if that doesn’t work I will give them to the hens and make them read them!” chuckled Ted. On the far side of the sofa, Claire laughed nervously, wondering when Ted’s lungs would be eaten up by the toxicant only she knew was in them, permitting her to finally be able to take full, exclusive ownership of Ruth.

Fleece The Rich (October 1970)

This, of course, was way back before Boris Johnson became Prime Minister of the UK, before the lockdown piss-ups, before Eton and David Cameron and the pig, before the cars he’d review for the men’s magazine then leave abandoned at various locations around Central London, back when he still had 12 or 13 years left of living with mummy and daddy. He knew he was destined for greatness from day one. “You mark my words, Chuffy,” he would say to his beloved Bassett Hound. “One fine morning this nation will find itself under the iron grip of my control. And when I do it, I will do it in warm coats. My style of coat will become so distinctive, and so synonymous with my rousing speeches and calmness in a crisis, it will be renamed ‘The Johnson’. Everyone will wear it, from rock stars to famous professional footballers, and naked women will arrive at my hotel doors wearing it and nothing else.” Being a dog, the Bassett Hound would merely look confused, wondering why Boris didn’t have any human friends to bore with his inane self-obsessed prattling, and why he’d called him ‘Chuffy’ when his real name was Pepper. Fortunately it would be less than a fortnight until he made his exit, slipping out the back door while the family were co-roasting a prize stag, then roaming the fields until eventually finding some less obnoxious new owners who had warmer floors in their house and far less stupid hair.