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  Was this on his mind, I wonder, when he wrote the article I would find in his desk entitled Two Old Men in Deckchairs? Beneath the title it says ‘By an Ex President’, confirmation that this was written for the Lord’s Taverners charity, of which Eric was President for three consecutive years. It is a charity that mostly works for young deprived people through sport, fundamentally cricket. Also the material itself bears out that this is the charity in question, especially as Eric himself makes an appearance in the little tale. The story also refers to a

  certain well-known radio and television presenter who was a friend of Eric and a fellow Taverner.

  Two Old Men in Deckchairs

  There were two old men sat in deckchairs. One old man was the son—he was sixty—the other old man was the father—he was eighty-six.

  ‘Are you comfortable, father?’ the son asked.

  ‘What? Eh?’ the father asked.’

  Are you comfortable?’ the son repeated.

  ‘I can’t hear you: speak up!’ the father shouted.

  The son knew why the father couldn’t hear him, so he leaned over and turned up his deaf aid a shade (a portable one, about the size of Wisden’s 120th edition). The father looked down on what the son was doing and hit him.

  ‘Don’t you dare turn that thing off so you can’t hear me!’ The son smiled at one or two people around him, as if to say ‘Don’t worry, this always happens’ then put a cushion at the back of his father.

  ‘Should be a nice day for the game,’ remarked the son. The father looked about wondering who it was who’d spoken. It was half a minute before he realized it was the son.

  ‘Put my cushion at the back of this deckchair, there’s a good boy,’ said the father. The younger of the two old men knew that his father was playing silly sods with him for the benefit of the people around. But the son was up to his father’s tricks.

  ‘Pardon?’ he said to his father.

  ‘What?’ the father said to his son.

  ‘Alright, what?’ said the son to his father. The father then realized that the son had realized that he was playing silly sods, so he went quiet.

  ‘Would you like to see the programme, father?’ The father ignored the last comment completely. The people around them giggled behind backs of hands. The father looked at the people and giggled too.

  ‘He’s my son, you know!’ He said this to all and sundry putting his hand up to his head and, pointing one finger to his temple, made a whirring motion which suggested his son had lost his marbles. Then, with his watery grey eyes dripping acid, looked up at his son and laughed. The son didn’t look back because he already knew what was going on. The father was in the mood for entertaining the crowd at his son’s expense. ‘I come here every year,’ he said to a young, bigbreasted woman of about fifty-five. (Well, she was young to him.) ‘Have you been here before?’ the old man asked. The young bigbreasted woman of about fifty-five smiled a smile reserved for old men, and in a very loud voice (as all old men are deaf) shouted, ‘No!’ straight into his deaf aid. The old man’s eyes spun around while he shakily turned down the volume control.

  The son noticed what the old man had done and while the older man’s eyes were still swivelling in their sockets quickly turned the aid up again. The people around giggled, so the unknowing old man giggled, too.

  ‘It’s a nice day for cricket,’ said the son.

  ‘Where’s the Gents?’ asked the father loud enough for all to hear. The crowd dutifully giggled again.

  ‘You’re wearing it!’ the son said. His father went quiet for the next few minutes.

  In the distance you could see the back of Blenheim Palace. It’s an enormous building; almost as big as Northampton. The deckchairs, ringed around the cricket pitch, were filling up nicely. To the left of where the two old men in deckchairs were sat two men dressed in their cricket whites emerged from a wooden dressing room. They walked slowly towards the crease to toss a coin.

  ‘Which is Oxford University?’ asked the old man.

  ‘The one in white!’ teased the son.

  ‘They’re both in white!’

  ‘No, father,’ said the son. ‘The one from Oxford is in white.’ He pointed to the two captains. ‘The other one used to be white.’

  The old man turned to the big-breasted woman of about fifty-five and said, ‘I used to know Pelham Warner as a boy.’ He blinked his damp eyes at her.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she replied loudly. ‘Was he a nice boy?’ Everybody laughed, and the old man looked uncertain as to what they were laughing at, so joined in with them.

  ‘Who won the toss?’ the son asked his father.

  ‘The banking people are going to field,’ came his reply.

  ‘What banking people?’

  ‘The Lloyds Taverners!’ said the father.

  Everyone giggled even more, except the young big-breasted woman of about fifty-five. She was talking to her husband, asking if he’d heard of Pelham Warner. Her husband said he was sure it was somewhere near the end of the Northern line.

  A ragged line of Lord’s Taverners walked to the middle of the playing area, and stood motionless a moment like scattered washing hung out to dry. Four ex-England players threw the ball at each other while the stars chatted to each other. The ex-England players threw the ball about like it was a magnet and their hands made of metal; under arm, over arm, a flick with the wrist, out of the back of the hand. It was great to watch. One of them threw the ball to a star who caught it very well, but had to go off for attention to a badly bruised hand. Two ambulance men, both dressed like Benny Hill, dashed around the enclosure where the star was enclosed watching his guitar fingering hand throbbing and turning from a bright red to a pale blue.

  ‘That’ll be stiff in the mornin’,’ said the older Benny Hill.

  ‘It’s bloody stiff now,’ said the guitar playing star.’ Will I be able to play?’

  ‘Should be all right, but don’t field too close to the bat.’

  ‘I mean, will I be able to play the guitar?’

  ‘Oh!’ said the older Benny Hill.

  ‘I’ve got a gig tonight.’

  ‘Oh! Well,’ said the older Benny Hill scratching his head, ‘you’ll never be able to drive one of them things tonight.’

  ‘Ice!’ exclaimed the, until now, silent younger Benny Hill. ‘Ice’s what that wants!’

  ‘OK, well can you find me some ice?’ said the guitar playing star trying to stifle his anxiety.

  The younger Benny Hill turned to the older Benny Hill. ‘Got any ice, George?’

  ‘No,’ replied the older Benny Hill.

  The younger Benny Hill turned to the injured guitar playing star.

  ‘No we ain’t. Sorry ‘bout that.’

  ‘You see, sir,’ said the older Benny Hill through an expression that suggested latent wisdom, ‘we don’t carry ice packs with us as they would melt!’

  ‘Yes, that’s what ice does,’ agreed the younger Benny Hill with a brief nod.

  ‘There’s a bar over there,’ pointed the injured guitar playing star with his good hand. ‘Can you ask them for some, please? Tell them it’s an emergency.’

  The Taverners’ team were now standing in a group waiting to have their photo taken for the local paper. In their midst stood an ageing ex-President with pads on the wrong way up and pretending to hit a ball with the handle of the bat. He wore an old England cap with the peak facing the wrong way, and his glasses askew so they pointed to one side. The photographer called out, ‘Look this way!’ and everybody looked his way. ‘Now, can you think of something else funny to do?’ he asked, and the ex-President picked up one of the stumps and placed it in his mouth like a cigar. One of the other stars picked up another stump and made to stab it in to the heart of the ex-President, which if done for real would have made him a very ex ex-President!

  ‘Great!’ said the photographer, and he and the ex-President waddled off the pitch together. As they walked, the photographer asked the ex-President if he
wouldn’t mind dressing in women’s clothes and doing something funny with two cricket balls and a stump. Meanwhile, the players moved into their allotted positions in the outfield. One or two are doing stretches as way of warm up exercises. The stars stand and rub their hands together as if they’ve heard they’re going to be paid. The umpire walks out with a shooting stick and plants it in the ground and sits on it. As the game progresses it seems possible the shooting stick is sinking further and further into the ground.

  ‘The game’s started,’ said the old man’s old son.

  ‘I can’t see what’s going on for that fella there!’ grumbled the father. He pointed to a cricketer parked in front of the old man’s deckchair. The star cricketer turned around and smiled and said, through a soft Irish brogue and immaculately polished teeth, ‘You ought to be thankful: I have to watch it!’ And with this, he moves like a panther—albeit a very old and rather tired panther—out of the old man’s view.

  ‘Cheeky sod!’ said the old man to his son.

  ‘Shh! Father. That’s Terry Wogan.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Terry Wogan, father.’

  ‘Oh, I remember him. Saw him just before the war at the pier theatre, Yarmouth. Yes, Wogan and MacShane. He used to dress up as an old woman. That’s it—he was Old Mother Riley.’

  Mr Wogan heard nothing of this as he fell down to a ball at the same time turning a similar colour in his attempt to prevent a boundary. By the time he’d managed to throw the ball back to the approximately correct vicinity, the two Oxford batsmen had run Five!

  The tannoy boomed out the score and followed through with a ‘Thaaaank yoooouu, Mister Wooooogannnn.’

  Terry, as everyone called him, waved a jovial arm.

  ‘Good shot!’ called the old man’s son as the Oxford batsman facing hit a mighty drive. Wogan turned and gave him a quizzical stare.

  ‘Yarmouth, 1938!’ said the old man catching Mister Wogan’s eye.

  Mister Wogan smiled the smile that has captivated at least a dozen TV viewers down the years, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, ‘Yes, and I waited for you, but you didn’t show up!’

  The old man, who hadn’t heard a word, turned to his old son and said,’ You see, I was right.’

  The over ended and Mister Wogan waved to the crowd who cheered everything he did, as he moved off to another field placement.

  The tannoy blared out the fact that the Polaroid Enclosure was now ready, and some of the stars of the greatest magnitude were waiting to have their pictures taken with the public for only one pound.

  ‘What’s the score?’ the old man asked his son.

  ‘Oxford are one hundred and ten for three.’

  ‘They’ll walk it. That Lloyds Taverners lot won’t get anywhere near that score.’

  ‘LORD’S Taverners,’ corrected his son. ‘And they’ve got some pretty good players, Dad.’

  ‘Then where are they hiding ‘em? Good God, that Old Mother Riley fella’s over ninety.’

  ‘Terry Wogan, father.’

  ‘Yes—saw him back in 1938…’

  ‘Terry Wogan’s with Jimmy Young.’

  ‘In those days he was Kitty MacShane.’

  The tannoy told everyone that actor Patrick Mower was in the Polaroid Enclosure and waiting for photos to be taken with the public.

  ‘Who did he say was there?’ asked the old man.

  ‘Patrick Mower.’

  ‘Oh yes, I like him. The Sky at Night. Good TV, that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having a picture taken with him,’ said the bigbreasted woman of about fifty-five. Her husband looked at her for about the first time in two weeks.

  The game ambled on.

  The Duke and Duchess wandered around and waved to everyone. The guitar playing star left the ground because he couldn’t get any ice for his swollen hand. He went home in his chauffeur driven Bugatti to his mum in North Acton.

  The younger old man looked to his left and saw something that made him turn to his father and whisper into his deaf aid. The old man looked up as quickly as any old man could, and they both closed their eyes as two ex-England players and two stars (one female) walked by them carrying a large sheet full of notes to go to the charity.

  The game was going well. Tea was taken. The other side were put in. The game ended with the Taverners winning by one run. It rained. The sun came out. The wind blew. It froze hard. It thundered. Fog came down. The sun came out again. It was a perfect English summer’s day. Nearly everyone had drifted away except for the two old men sat in deckchairs.

  ‘Well, father. Did you enjoy that?’ asked the son.

  ‘Bloody awful!’

  ‘Yes, I’m looking forward to next year, too.’

  ‘And me, but I won’t be coming here if Old Mother Riley’s playing!’

  My Lords and Gentlemen

  I try not to think what I’d do if he [Ernie] wasn’t around. I expect I’d take six months off, then try another show with another partner, another straight man. No, not exactly a straight man, because Ernie’s not a straight man: like Tony Hancock had Sid James, someone like that…it wouldn’t be another double act: it wouldn’t be The Eric Morecambe-Charlie Smith Show. But I need a partner; on my own I just prattle on. Ernie senses this; he knows when I’m going off and he brings me down to earth with exactly the right line, and that’s marvellous.

  The Lord’s Taverners took up much of my father’s time, particularly during his three-year reign as President during the late seventies.

  When I found a segment of one of the many speeches he made during his life, I assumed—erroneously as it transpires—that it was one of his addresses to his fellow Taverners at a charity dinner held at the Café Royal in London. But the

  content suggested otherwise, and it quickly became apparent that it was made to a male gathering of governors and staff of my own former school, Aldenham. I never knew a thing about this event until I discovered the following:

  MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN. I think that takes in most of you. Now I suppose you are all sat there wondering why I’ve sent for you. The answer is simple: It’s to say thank-you on behalf of the guests—whoever he is—for a most delightful evening—so it says here!

  You are all probably saying to yourselves, ‘I thought he was taller than that?’ Well, I’m not. ‘If he’s only that tall his partner must be small.’ As a matter of fact, he is small. So small, he is here tonight and we haven’t found him yet.

  When I was first invited to reply on behalf of the guests, I said, ‘What shall I talk about?’ They said, ‘About three minutes!’

  Now it’s very difficult for me to stand here and talk about a subject I know very little about—Education. Because the school I went to was different: you had to be sent there by a Judge!

  Of course, the secret of a good speech is to be sincere—you must be sincere, whether you mean it or not.

  I’m told that if I make a good speech I can return next year. I’m also told that if I make a VERY good speech I can return next year and won’t have to eat the meal.

  Not that there is anything wrong with the food or the service at the Café Royal. As always, it’s first class. You might have happened to notice there are three waiters for each person. Simple, really. One gives you the bill, the other two are there to revive you!

  There was a little trouble here a few weeks back. The waiters went on strike for three days. But they had to give it up as nobody noticed the difference.

  And please, I beg you, don’t be disparaging about the coffee. You may be old and weak yourself some day.

  The committee, who had the problem of organising this evening for you, wanted to do something a little different. At a given point, a great big six foot cake was to be wheeled into the room, and a naked girl was going to pop out. But when we took the cake out the oven this afternoon she didn’t look too good, so we scrubbed around the idea.

  I have two children. One goes to Aldenham, but the other one has fortunately kept o
n the straight and narrow. My son tells me that the school was founded in the year 1597, in the reign of Glenda Jackson. And according to him they still have the same cooks!

  It’s a pity, of course, that none of the original buildings exist anymore. The earliest building there dates from 1825—which as you all

  know is 25 past 6. The New Chapel was 1937, which is almost 20 to

  8. If you work that out, it took them 2 hours and fifteen minutes to build the chapel.

  The beauty of a school like Aldenham, apart from Mrs Wallace-Hadrill [a housemaster’s wife] is that nowadays, with education being the way it is, your son has the opportunity of growing up and becoming Prime Minister—which is one of the chances he has to take.

  Everyone has the same opportunity as the next person. All men are created equal. The man who said that was a fool. The man who said all men are created equal has never been in a footballers’ dressing-room.

  I asked my son if he’d like to go into politics. I wouldn’t object—he has a great sense of humour! I myself don’t belong to any organised party—I vote Liberal! But you take the state of the country today. People are complaining there aren’t enough houses. I say Rubbish! That’s just a vicious rumour started by people with nowhere to live.

  My brother-in-law built his own five bedroomed bungalow last year, very close to London, for £1,800. He found the plot himself, drew up the plans himself and economised by stealing the bricks!

  The Common Market is proving a problem. We have our own customs in England—we drink our wine out of glasses. In France they drink their wine out of doors. It’s not nice, that. And what about their driving? Over there they all drive on the right hand side of the road. Over here only the women do that.

  Does the government know that there are more TV sets in this country than bathrooms? Which proves there are a lot of dirty people watching the Morecambe and Wise Show.