You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone Page 15

  ‘I used to think it was so important in my life to make a decision as to which of them I thought was funniest. I’d spend hours on long journeys contemplating this.’

  I pointed out to Lee that it’s funny the way kids can think like that. A twinkle appeared in his eye as he said, ‘Kid? This was two years ago on my way to gigs!’

  He settled on Eric as his all-time comic hero because of his longevity. ‘Longevity in this business is so special, remarkable and, once acquired, permanent by its nature. But if you said back in the mid-1980s that your favourite comedians were Morecambe and Wise, you’d have got strange looks. It was the era of the alternatives, and the immediate past comedians suffered more than the black and white ones of the 1920s who were revered as high art. Frankie Howerd,Tommy Cooper, Cannon and Ball, Benny Hill, Les Dawson and Morecambe and Wise were out of favour.Yet look at Morecambe and Wise now all these years on.’

  In my father’s last days, as they turned out to be, he made an interesting observation which initially shocked me but on reflection sort of demonstrates what forty-three years of any partnership can create. ‘If Ern and I stay together and carry on making shows for the foreseeable future,’ he told me, ‘then I’m going to end up hating him, and he’s going to end up hating me. It has to be that way:

  it’s too long to be doing the same thing. All the little faults and irritations will become massive and destroy us. I wouldn’t want that.’

  As someone who has doggedly analysed his father for twenty-five years, I constantly racked my brains while writing this book to make sure that he made no other observation or suggestion immediately before or after this comment, and that my declining memory is recalling things with 100 per cent accuracy. The reason for my thoroughness is that although it would have been natural for him to have added ‘therefore we must stop doing Morecambe and Wise shows’, he genuinely didn’t. I’ve imagined that he went on to say that, but I know that he just smiled and walked out the living room, bringing to a close one of the occasional yet enlightening conversations we were prone to, especially in the last months of his life for some reason. None of it was to matter, of course, because

  within a fortnight he was dead. Death overcame all considerations, including what might have been.

  My father died suddenly on 28 May 1984 in the wings of a theatre in Tewkesbury, Gloucestershire. He had being doing a solo show—a Q&A for his old friend and former variety-hall stalwart Stan Stennett—during which he covered the many aspects and times of his remarkable life. Strange really that he should have gone over his whole life story and then died at the completion of its telling.

  I think he recognized very profoundly that everything about this physical existence was transient, and possibly not as important as we like to think—or that we’re not as important as we like to think we are within it.We certainly can’t take anything with us when we leave, which makes a mockery of the idea of ownership. My father’s entire fame—the attention, the money, the plaudits, and even the illnesses—were rendered meaningless, and he knew that was how it would be. He also knew that it was OK: so long as we, in some familial gesture, continued to watch the shows, then all else was fine.

  During our many walks across the fields at the back of his house we would talk about the books we both wanted to one day write.Although the fact that both he and I were keen to write could be a thorny issue between us at times, it was a subject never avoided. Actually my father never avoided anything if it was there to be discussed.Without any direct connection to the books we were talking about, he said, quite suddenly and almost dismissively, ‘You can write what you like about me when I’m dead and gone.’ What struck me—and at this particularly juncture I had no plans to write anything at all about him—was that he really meant it. It was said in that ‘It’s not going to be my problem’ kind of way.That conversation made me start to evaluate many things in my own existence. If this man with all the trappings of success following a huge and at times very hard career could evaluate it with a half-smile and a dismissive shrug, then what was there really to worry about? None of it, of course, is that important beyond the importance we allow ourselves to imagine.

  Paradoxically, I sensed that my father hid behind the trappings of fame, and behind the material rewards and comforts it had brought him. I’m sure this reaction was fear-based, and it was certainly contradictory to those moments I’ve just described.While accepting that his mortal life was a blink of the eye in the history of humankind on our planet, he still was comforted by having things he couldn’t have had as a kid, and equally fearful they might be taken away. In several conversations with my mother when they were discussing the purchase of something one would hear him say, ‘Can we afford it?’

  I’m so thankful he never took himself or his image too seriously (unlike many from his own era and the current era that I’ve stumbled across).And when you consider how fêted, how loved and adored by a vast public he was and remarkably still is, it is truly admirable that he resisted believing the myth of his worth.

  Ernie Wise died of heart failure on 21 March 1999 after several years of illhealth. A couple of minor strokes and two heart attacks had left his memory impaired. Personally I found this very tragic, considering his enthusiasm and effervescence of just a few years earlier, during which I’d had the opportunity to meet up with him on several occasions, mostly to discuss work on what would one day become The Play What I Wrote.

  Ernie’s passing was the final chapter in a long and entertaining story: two boys who had dreamed of one day becoming big stars, but who never really believed it was likely to happen: that was how Ernie once described it.

  The polished, clog-dancing discovery Ernie Wise that fate had brought together with the singing, all-round entertainer Eric Bartholomew had gone to join his partner—at least that’s how the media depicted it in both words and cartoon. Having to accept that the story really was now over was one of the hardest things to take on board. While Ernie had been alive the double act sort of still existed as a living entity.

  The years have ticked by.As well as this being Eric’s twenty-fifth anniversary, it is also Ernie’s tenth, and I’m sure this book will be only one of many celebrations to mark the passing of both of these giants.

  Reminiscing with my mother not long ago about Eric, I told her how sad and frustrating I felt it was that my father, while reaching the top of his profession, had been allowed so little time to enjoy it; that mostly he had been on the journey getting there. But my mother saw it differently. ‘Since his first heart attack,’ she told me, ‘your dad understood that every breath he took could have been his last. Nearly dying at forty-two gave him a sharper sense of the moment, and the recognition that it must be enjoyed.’ And she added, ‘As well as living more in the moment, he would also tell me with genuine delight what a wonderful life he had lived; that there should be no regrets if anything happened to him.’

  As for Morecambe and Wise the industry, this still appears to tick on. At the time of writing this book, as well as the documentaries and various TV film projects under discussion concerning both of them, I am also in discussion with the local MP in Lancaster about setting up an Eric Morecambe museum in Morecambe.This excites me greatly, as there is no better place for all the various bits of memorabilia to be displayed for the benefit of the visiting tourists and local people.

  As with Laurel and Hardy before them, as the years pass by there will be ever fewer who can recall them as a living act. Slowly, therefore, Eric and Ernie will be become a part of our psyche—two familiar names and faces that instantaneously conjure up an image of brilliance combined with daftness, and will guarantee a smile on everyone’s face for generations to come.

  That’s not a bad legacy.

  Even today people say to me that they can’t believe Eric has gone. I just point out that by now he is returned—reincarnated and probably sitting in some classroom, unaware of his previous life, yet biding his time before letting his comic mayhem run riot ag
ain.

  Two of a Kind

  Two of a kind,

  For your information,

  We’re two of a kind.

  Two of a kind,

  It’s my observation,

  We’re two of a kind.

  Just like peas in a pod,

  Birds of a feather,

  Alone or together, you’ll find.

  That we are two…Two of a kind.

  PART TWO: Wit and Wisdom

  In Eric and Ernie’s Words

  An Extract from ‘Morecambe and Wise in “Double Trouble”’

  Extracts from Morecambe and Wise’s ‘Live’ Touring Act of the 1970s

  (Both Eric and Ernie walk on from stage right to loud applause from audience, both take a bow from the right hand side of the stage, and then one from the left. All this done to the theme of Bring Me Sunshine played by the Johnny Wiltshire Sound, who are on stage behind them.)

  E.M.: Everybody. Ah, marvellous.

  (Eric takes another bow.)

  E.M.: Thank you.

  (Ernie dances around.)

  E.M.: Marvellous. (To Ernie) Have we got time for anymore?

  E.W.: Yes, I think so.

  E.M.: Oh, lovely.

  (Eric straightens his glasses.)

  E.W.: Lovely, that.

  E.M.: Lovely.

  E.W.: What a place.

  E.W.: I’ve never worked in an aircraft hangar before.

  E.M.: No.

  (Eric says this with hands in his pockets looking around as if inspecting the place.)

  E.M.: Are you gonna take off?

  E.W.: I think so.

  (Eric turns round to face the band behind him and puts his thumbs up.)

  E.M.: And John, I think that was great.

  E.W.: That was great.

  (Johnny raises his hand in acknowledgement.)

  E.M.: You did that superbly, you really did.

  (Pause and Eric turns to audience with his hands still in his pockets.)

  E.M.: Which is sad when you come to consider. However, you can’t have everything in life.

  E.W.:There’s a terrible fracas going on at the side of the stage.

  E.M.:Yeah…Eh?

  E.W.: I said there’s a terrible fracas going on out there.

  (Eric turns his head away from Ernie and looks side stage.)

  E.M.: Can he say fracas?

  (Pause.)

  E.M.: No. Fracas.

  E.W.: Fracas.

  (Eric nods his head at side of the stage.)

  E.M.: No, but you were close.

  E.M.:They’re looking it up.

  E.W.: Looking it up?

  E.M.: But then again, they always did!

  E.W.: They’ll let us know later will they?

  E.M.: They’ll let you know later, yes.

  (Eric touches his glasses with one hand, and drops it a second later.)

  E.M.: It’s a lovely place, isn’t it?

  E.W.: Yes, beautiful. Beautiful, isn’t it?

  E.M.: It’s like a sauna bath with ants.

  E.M.: (Pointing towards audience) Have we got a show for you tonight folks. Have we got a show for you tonight. (Laughs nervously) Hey, have we got a show for them tonight?

  E.W.: Just.

  (Eric slaps his hands together excitedly, then shakes them as if they hurt.)

  E.M.: (Pointing to audience and laughing) I tell you what we have got. We’ve got a fella who’s going to come on in a few minutes’ time, he’s really clever ‘cos he swallows…oh yes, folks!…he swallows a four foot sword!

  E.W.: What’s clever about that?

  E.M.: He’s only three foot tall!

  (As audience laugh, Eric and Ernie both talk under their breath to each other for a second.)

  E.M.: He’s back there at the moment like that. (Bends his leg at funny angle and leans to one side) It’s agony for him! He doesn’t know where to put his hat.

  (Eric grabs Ernie’s arm.)

  E.M.: (Quietly) But he has found a place, I’m told.

  E.M.: My god, it’s all going on…you’re working well, Ern.

  (Ernie stands there, arms crossed.)

  E.M.:You’re working well…you can’t see the join. (Points to Ernie’s hair) that’s one of the best you’ve ever had that. It’s a beauty!

  (Ernie proudly tapping his hair as Eric says this.)

  E.M: It arrived this morning all the way from Axminster…on its own. You should have seen it climbing up those steps!

  (Eric uses his hand to help visualise the image.)

  E.M.: Like the beast with five fingers. Aaaahhghgh!!!!!

  E.W.: I’ve shampooed it.

  E.M.: Eh?

  E.W.: I’ve just shampooed it.

  E.M.: With what?

  (Laugh from Ernie and then from Eric.)

  E.W.: (Suddenly serious) You’re using the wrong approach.

  E.M.: Who is?

  E.W.: You is.

  E.M.: Oh! Am I?

  E.W.: Yes. You’ve got to get friendly with the audience.

  E.M.: Oh yes, I suppose you have. I’m not a complete fool, you know.

  E.W.: Why, what part’s missing?

  E.M.:We allow him one…and that was it. It’s uphill from now on.

  E.W.:You do it by facing them, making a funny remark about someone in the audience, then they’re on your side.

  (Eric slaps Ernie’s chest and leaves his hand there for a few seconds. He then puts his arm around Ernie and with the other hand slaps Ernie’s face repeatedly.)

  E.M.: Make fun about them, laugh about them and everybody does. Everybody laughs. (Eric laughs aloud) There’s some funny people about, ain’t there? Everyone in the front row is saying to themselves, ‘I hope to God they don’t pick on me’.

  E.W.: It’s true!

  E.M.: You can see it in their eyes, they’ll all going…

  (Eric imitates someone desperately trying to mind their own business and not be noticed.)

  E.M.: However, I’ve got one.

  E.W.: Haven’t we all?

  E.M.: You dirty little devil.

  E.W.: I…

  E.M.: Hello lady!

  E.W.: Hello lady!

  E.M.: By golly, aren’t you fat!

  E.W.: (Putting his hands on his side and walking around in disbelief) No!!!

  E.M.:What a fat woman you are.

  E.W.: Don’t say that.

  E.M.: Did you come on a lorry? How did you get in?…More to the point, how’re you gonna get out?

  E.W.: I’m sorry madam, he’s just pulling your leg.

  E.M.: I couldn’t even lift it! Have you seen it? It’s enormous, Ern! There’s a big, enormous woman over there. (Takes glasses off, worriedly) It’s a fella!

  E.W.: I’m perspiring freely here.

  E.M.: (Facing the audience) It’s the heat you know, the lights and everything.

  E.W.: Yes. (Pause)The difference between you and I is I perspire and you sweat.

  E.M.: I suppose so, yes. (Pause) I wish I had the nerve to do that.

  E.W.:The nerve to do what?

  E.M.:Well…in public like that.

  E.W.:You’ve got a handkerchief in your top pocket.

  E.M.: (In a low voice) It’s me shirt!

  E.W.: It’s your shirt? A shirt in your top pocket?

  E.M.: Yes, yes.

  E.W.:You’ve come all the way to the Fairfield’s Hall, Croydon—this classy joint—and you had the…You’re making us look like a cheap music hall act.

  E.M.: We are a cheap music hall act, whaddya mean?

  E.W.: They don’t know.

  E.M.: (Genuinely laughing) I’m sure they do! (Ernie laughs too. Then he pulls on Eric’s ‘handkerchief’ and Eric’s left leg rises) Don’t do that. It’s my shirt! (Ernie does it again.)

  E.W.: (Turning away from Eric and looking searchingly out into the audience) I’d like to give a warm welcome to my fan club here tonight.

  E.M.: Oh, lovely. Where’s he sat?

  E.W.: (Pointing) Just over there.


  E.M.: (Giving a small wave) Hello sir, nice to see you again. (To Ernie) Follows you everywhere doesn’t he?

  E.W.: All the way from Carlisle.

  E.M.: On a handcart. Marvellous. Fabulous that. (Nods his head and then adjusts his glasses.)

  E.W.: Nice to see you again, Rodney.

  E.M.:Who is it this time?

  E.W.: Rodney.

  E.M.:What happened to Esmey? (Pause) Not a lot, I’m told. (Ernie laughs at this.)

  E.W.: (Suddenly) You don’t think I get fan mail, do you?

  E.M.: (Looking shocked and grabbing Ernie’s arm) Good Lord, no!

  E.W.: (Impersonating American film star James Cagney) Well, that’s where you’re wrong, you dirty rat, you!

  E.M.: John Wayne?

  E.W.: No…(Moves closer to Eric) You dirty rat!

  E.M.: You’re on me foot!

  E.W.: Freddie Starr! (Pause) I’ve got a fan letter here.

  E.M.: That’s a relief.

  (Ernie produces a letter from his pocket.)

  E.W.: I’d better read it. I’m getting nowhere with my…

  E.M.: Impressions.

  E.W.: Impressions.

  E.M.:Your Freddie Starr.

  E.W.: My Freddie Starr. It says—it’s so small I can’t see it. Can I borrow your glasses?

  E.M.: Is that all it says? You see, I can’t class that as fan mail: ‘Dear Mr Wise, can I borrow your glasses,’ signed a well-wisher. I can’t…

  E.W.: No, no. Can I borrow your glasses so I can read this fan letter to the gathered assembly?

  E.M.: I didn’t realise that. Of course you may.

  (Eric hands his glasses to Ernie, but not where he is standing. Ernie sighs, takes them and puts them on. Ernie looks at Eric and Eric laughs loudly at him.)

  E.W.: I’ll read this fan mail.

  E.M.: Yes, do that.

  E.W.: (Reading) ‘Dear Morecambe and Wise, I like you very much, but my favourite is the one with the glasses.’

  E.M.: Thank you, thank you (then expression changes as he remembers Ernie has his glasses).