Viv Nicholson was the filthiest-mouthed woman I ever encountered, and of course because she was 'a Yorkshire lass who made good', her puerility became a source of amusement--pretty like the trio of elderly reprobates who were making vulgar fools of themselves last week on 'OAPs Behaving Badly'. like them she would not use a ladies powder-room if there was a gutter available, and like them her behaviour put her in the same class as the likes as that other revolting creature I had the misfortune to work with: Lynn Perrie.
Back in the 1970s when I was performing in the clubs, I happened to have an engagement in Castleford, where Viv was celebrating her birthday with friends--she acquired quite a few of these after winning the football pools, then squandering away every penny. After my set, Viv clambered on to the stage and attempted to sing 'My Way'--stopping halfway through to break wind down the mike and then bark at the pianist, 'Fuck me, I've just shit myself!' The lady had class, and proved this later in the evening when she barged into the gents' toilet and used the urinal.
A few years later when I was living and working in Wakefield, she came into the shop trying to sell us copies of 'The Watchtower'. She had become a Jehovah's Witness, a movement which in my eyes equates to being a member of the Pro-Homophobia League or the BNP. She started spouting about Jesus and blood-donors, and was shown the door when she told an assistant that his friend's wife who had recently had a life-saving operation would not go to heaven because she had been transfused with Satan.
Even more years later, Viv augmented the Morrissey set and our paths crossed again--this time in London, where she was still spouting God. Mozza had used her picture on a record sleeve and the NME, not the kindest of music-rags, had mistaken her for Myra Hindley. Her language and behaviour was no less profane than it had always been, save that now she had an excuse--The Lord, she said, had accepted her as she was.
I last saw her two years ago. She was in a nursing home, still effing and puffing--and bashing that Bible. Still a mucky old woman.