Paul Raymond found fame with his 'Raymond Revue Bars. In 1958 he discovered a loophole in the law that allowed him to open a 'private club' thus allowing male and female 'strippers' to entertain the customers. They became popular, especially with the rich and famous! In spite of opposition from officialdom business boomed and Raymond built an extensive property chain in the centre of London, eventually owning 60 of Soho's 87 acres. He also bought the 'Windmill Theatre,' famous for it's nude 'performers,' and comedians during and just after the war. Many of these became the stable of British comedy for the next thirty years, the comedians that is, not the nudes. Later Raymond added famous magazines such as 'Men Only,' and 'Razzle,' which became became top sellers. I used to buy mine for the gardening tips you know. During the great heatwave of 1976 I ran about the city on a Suzuki GT185, like I worked for 'Hari Kari' motorbike messengers. Quite how I survived I will never know. Our job was to deliver photographic material to a wide variety of, mostly pig ignorant, customers. Among them the magazines just mentioned. To deliver these meant entering the 'Windmill Theatre' stage door, the place now having become 'The Raymond Revue Bar,' and climb endlessly to the top floor editorial suite. Here in a windowless large room I expected to see a stream of buxom beauties being photographed, I was disappointed. The nearest thing was a scatter brained blonde who having failed to measure up for the photographer was forced to work, it looked as if the whole enterprise was beyond her, I wondered how she kept the job? The 'revue' downstairs consisted of naked male and female dancers romping over the stage to the delight of the audience, or so the 'Evening Standard' would have me believe, I never went myself. Package delivered I returned down the twisting stairs, passed the group of male dancing boys who clearly would not be in danger of troubling the lassies, unless they pinched their clobber for a night out. I would squeeze past and ignore them, hoping they wouldn't come too close!
A few years later again I came across Mr Raymond. This time a once only trip to his penthouse to deliver the groceries! This expensive St James block, just behind the 'Ritz,' where he never offered to take me to tea, was graced with a marble floor at the entrance and both I and the driver, it takes two to deliver when you expect to meet gorgeous dumb blonds, stood expectantly at the door. It was opened by an ageing Spanish woman with a hair lip and poor English! How disappointed were we? Very! All men, even porn merchants, realise that looks are not everything, and when it comes to keeping the house a dumb blonde is of no use whatsoever!
Raymond's personal life was not a success, he had a son by his partner in a previous stage act, for whom he paid £1 a week in maintenance, and his wife bore him a son and a daughter. He became estranged for his son, his wife divorced him after one of his longer affairs and his daughter, the heir to his empire, died of an accidental drug overdose. Something he never got over, some believing he blamed himself for her death.
In recent years he rarely ventured from his penthouse, his ex wife claiming he had said 'He felt people only wanted to know him because of his money,' his property business alone thought to be worth £650 million. Paul Raymond's life had started in impoverished Liverpool but ended in an expensive penthouse alone and embittered. Here was a man who had everything but a life! It just left me so sad that there are so many more out there just like him, filthy rich, and powerful. Men who consider themselves the movers and shakers of the world, but in the end they all to often end up like Paul Raymond, alone.
What a waste of a life.
