Isle of Wight, 1970

This is the TRUE story of how it all began. I am hoping it will result in the resolution of a lifelong quest to find the original "Wally." An innocent music fan who may never have been aware of his legendary status.

As a young, fresh faced seventeen year old rock fan, I arrived on the Isle of Wight with my two school pals, Roger "Scratch" Hatch and John "Frank" Parry, aka "Windmill". We had travelled the short distance across the Solent in a yacht owned and skippered by Roger's father. We arrived at the festival site early on the Friday evening, 28th August, and pitched our tent near the turnstiles, in the hope of making an early entrance to the arena on the following morning. We only had tickets for Saturday and Sunday, but enjoyed the distant strains from Friday's artists, including; Taste, Family and Chicago.

Roger "Scratch" Hatch c.1970	John "Frank" Parry c.1970

After a disturbed night and little sleep, we arose on Saturday morning and made our way to the turnstiles. A huge bleary eyed crowd had already formed around the grossly deficient number of ten gates that were the only means of entry to the arena. There was no orderly queue so it was everyone for themself. Funelling an estimated 250,000 unwashed excited fans through this grid could be likened to a huge beast ejecting its offspring into a fresh new world, but the experience was more akin to forcing fresh meat through the proverbial grinder. Being quite tall, I slowly managed to barge my way through the masses until finally bursting free from this mechanical womb. I then waited for my pals to follow, but they appeared to have been absorbed into the entrails of this extraordinary creature. After five or ten minutes, I could see the front of the arena was filling fast and so decided to find a spot in the crowd where I could claim a space and wait for them to appear.

Walking through the compacting mass of bodies, I noticed a gap. A large blanket had been spread out, occupied by just two fair maidens, standing in guard of their idylic territory. A visual paradise island in a vast ocean of hair and denim. I explained that I was waiting for my friends and asked if I could join them until they were spotted. They said they were also waiting for their friends but I could stay with them if my pals did not appear. I realised from their accent that they were American. They were shortly joined by two fellow Americans and then more, gradually forming into a group of about eight or ten. My pals had disappeared, but I was quickly accepted by my newfound comrades from across the Atlantic.

They were all a few years older than myself, and probably aged between nineteen to early twenties. Most were white caucasion but believe there were also about two black females and one black male. I seem to recall that some of the group had only met on the plane coming over. With the passage of time, they have all blurred into one ensemble, but there was one who stood out and has forever remained in my memory. His name was WALLY.

Ai generated image of Wally, from memory.

Wally was white, slim built, a little under six feet and had some facial hair on his chin and upper lip that had not yet developed into a full set. He had light brown, slightly ginger, hair that was tied into a pony tail and wore round rimmed glasses similar to those worn by John Lennon. He was wearing a light blue or possibly yellow t-shirt under some faded green denim bib and brace overalls that were a little short, although I can't recall his footwear. The "bib" had a large yellow flower embroidered in the centre, surrounded by one or two decals, including a "ban the bomb" badge.

Over the years, I have made several attempts to draw a visual portrayal of him, but could never transfer the vivid image from my brain onto paper. After recently playing with ChatGPT, I thought I would see if it could produce something better. After a few trials and some additional editing, I was amazed at the final result. It was exactly what I had envisaged for over fifty years. The face is probably wrong, but appears to capture the overall character of my faded recollection.

Our small group had settled for an hour or two, when Wally got up and said he and his girlfriend were heading off to buy some beer. They then stepped through the crowd behind us, aiming for the path that separated the front and rear halves of the arena. The path was closer than the more direct route to our right, were the refreshment stalls were almost hidden behind a line of hedgerows.

At around midday, and about an hour after Wally and his girlfriend disappeared, one of the girls uttered "Where's Wally? Has anyone seen Wally?" I believe it was one of the black girls. After further enquiries, someone behind us started repeating the phrases, imitating her strong American accent. It was a slow, possibly West Coast or South American drawl, rhyming with Carly or Barley, but without the "r". I can't recall if the Americans reacted to the British "echo" from behind, but as they repeated to ask for Wally's whereabouts, the echos soon spread all around us. The chant "Where's Wally?" gradually spread around the whole crowd and announcements were even made on the stage. The story had begun.

Later that evening, the lack of sleep had caught up and I dozed off until awakened by Keith Emerson igniting the two cannons that spanned the width of the stage. I had assumed that was the start of their act but the film shows this later in the set. I recall him demonstrating his new toy, a long stick which he erotically stroked producing amazing fresh orgasmic sounds never previously penetrated by the virginal ears of the receptive audience. He said he had bought it in Woolworths for thirty shillings. I told the Americans that I would be buying one immediately when back on the mainland, not realising that he was joking. I assumed it was a new version of the Rolf Harris advertised Stylophone. It was, of course, the ribbon controller remotely attached to his new million dollar Moog synthesizer module system.

The munchies had now manifested, so I dug into my goodie bag to find a large packet of sausage rolls, bought a few days earlier. Most were quickly demolished by our party and gratefully received. However, in the light of Sunday morning, I could see large blotches of green mould on the remaining pastry "treats." I decided not to mention this observation.

Despite being asked to leave the stadium, most of us in the front half of the arena decided to spend Saturday night where we were. We had settled into our own plots and nobody was prepared to lose them. We also had no desire to re-experience the traumatic episode at the turnstiles. This caused some upset to the bands on Sunday morning when they planned to perform their sound checks in privacy. Even Joni Mitchell's heartfelt pleas failed to move the sitting occupants, which did cause an uncomfortable feeling of guilt when she ultimately burst into tears.

Sunday's performances went ahead and we were glad to have kept our personal plot, but there was still no sign of Wally or his girlfriend. After the last performance, we slept again in the same spot until waking Monday morning to find that Wally and his girlfriend had finally returned, along with two or three small crates of Watney's Pale Ale. They had apparently met some fellow Americans and stayed with them. I can't recall if he was aware of the crowd chanting for him, but I'm sure we must have discussed it.

We slowly headed for the few waiting buses, but the huge queues appeared to be forming faster than we could walk along them. We did finally join a queue, but after standing in the same spot for an hour or more, soon realised the small amount of buses available were insufficient and we would likely have to wait all day. I decided it would be quicker to walk the fifteen miles to the ferry at Fishbourne, near to Ryde. The Americans decided to wait, so we said our goodbyes. Wally gave me four bottles of the Pale Ale, which I secreted into the four pockets of my black leather jacket. Another chap from the queue had joined us and said he would walk back with me, so Wally also gave him a couple of bottles. He was a saxophonist from near Hastings, East Sussex. I told him I had thought of getting a sax, but he put me off by explaining all the difficult mouth techniques. I did eventually buy one but never mastered it.

A month later, I saw Emerson, Lake and Palmer at Portsmouth guildhall and was quite stunned when a familiar chant erupted from the audience. "Where's Wally?" The legend had begun. The chant was repeated at many festivals and concerts, but gradually died off after about ten years. I probably bored my friends rigid, when I took delight in explaining the origins of this unexpected phenomenon. I always wondered what became of Wally and if he was ever aware of his fame. One of the girls took some photos, some of which include myself and hopefully of Wally, although he was absent for most of the weekend. I would love to see copies and to see how close my image of Wally is to the original person. His attire was quite distinctive, but I have not found him amongst the hundreds of available photos online.

I wrote a small article about Wally in a magazine about mid eighties. In 1987, Martin Handford published the first "Where's Wally?" book. I am sure he must have been inspired by the chants, but was probably not fully aware of it's origins, although he is said to be fascinated with crowds.

I have seen many amusing claims on the internet, mostly agreeing that it started at the Isle of Wight, but their explanations vary. One comment on the following page HERE by Ernie Cole, claims he was Canadian, and that he helped two of Wally's pals look for him. I guess the whole group could have been Canadians and I may have just assumed that the accent was American, but I'm sure I must have asked where they were from. I also vaguely recall that one of the girls was waving a small American flag to attract the attention of the others. That would explain how they all managed to meet up.