My parents had high expectations for us kids. Dad was a Fleet Street engineer; mum was a force in the local community. I hate referring to the class system – it’s limiting – but you’d call us working-class, I suppose. It was a very ordinary upbringing. They were the anything-is-possible postwar generation. It was instilled in us that we could be whatever we wished.
I wanted to be an orthopaedic surgeon, but my maths wasn’t up to scratch. Then at Pontins, aged 14, I discovered music. I got on stage and sang Lady Madonna a cappella, and forgot half the words, but I came off to congratulations. I decided it would be my future.
I met Frank Sinatra at the Royal Albert Hall when I was 17. I’d snuck backstage and was being pushed aside by security when he asked my story. I explained I was in a band and wanted to sing just like him. He shook my hand and wished me luck. Six years later, Spandau Ballet headlined the same venue.
My younger brother and I were nearly killed as boys. We were stuck in a traffic jam. He became irritable. We went to walk on some railways tracks. Almost too late, I heard screams and shouts from the bank. Mum was in tears. We jumped off just as a train pelted past. It missed us by a fraction.
Our first appearance on Top of the Pops still feels like a dream. My God, it was so exciting. I’d worked day jobs right up until signing our record deal. Being in this business, with my background, it didn’t happen. But standing on that stage it hit me with full force: we’d made it.
Ringo Starr once asked me for my autograph. I can only assume he’d drunk a few too many.
Spandau had an aloof front in our day, but we were normal lads. People expected standoffish, super-cool blokes, because we dressed like futuristic Robin Hoods in ballet slippers. Actually, we were unbelievably ordinary.
Dad died 30 years ago at just 63. That’s the age I’ll turn on my next birthday. When I was younger, grief felt unmanageable. Ageing makes you more philosophical about the inevitable. You have to find acceptance and move on – it’s a part of life. The sooner you get there, the better.
I wish to God I’d never smoked. It’s the stupidest thing I could do as a singer. I burned through a couple of packets every day until I quit at 38, after my teary-eyed son – having seen an anti-smoking ad – made me promise to.
My nan made me swear to never do drugs. Forty-odd years later, I’ve still never touched an illegal substance.
Tolerance is the key to happy relationships; knowing how and when to accept your differences. And when it’s not plain sailing, remember your partner can be a best friend. Even with younger kids, we made time to pop out for a drink, just the two of us.
Walking away from Spandau in 2017 was tough, but I had no choice. The band’s behaviour wasn’t that of friends – I couldn’t do it any longer. I’ll never say exactly why. It’s on to them to be honourable and step forward to set out what they did. To take responsibility for their actions.
My oldest child is 39, the youngest 11. I was away a lot at the start – often for months at a time – and I know that was tough for the older ones. My approach to fatherhood hasn’t changed much with the younger two, – fun, disciplined, a little grumpy – but I’m certainly far more present.
Tony Hadley performs with the Ronnie Scott Jazz Orchestra at this year’s Cheltenham Jazz Festival, 26 April to 1 May (cheltenhamfestivals.com/jazz)
