No Tears for the Clown

by Les Dawson

  Yet I had the love of one of the finest women who ever lived … Meg had been a wonderful wife, admired by many men, and sought by quite a few in marriage, and yet she’d chosen me. (The only physical difference between the Les Dawson then and the Les Dawson now was my waistline – that’s one thing about ugliness, it endures through the years, unlike mere beauty that withers and dies.) And now I had gained the love of Tracy – at some stage I must have done something good in my life to deserve this!

  Meg’s mother had once loudly remarked: ‘I don’t know what she sees in that little bugger,’ and now history was repeating itself. Tracy was hearing the same thing. The secret to a woman’s heart is always to show her that you love her.… And remember, although there may not be many female comedians, women like laughter, and the man who can make them laugh has a great advantage.

  In this day and age, the emphasis on sex is quite ridiculous; of course sex is important, but true love also includes a heady mixture of friendship, understanding and companionship. Compromise, despite what some say, is necessary for any marriage to work. It takes experience and discipline to be able to compromise, and it isn’t taught in this competitive ‘sod you’ society.

  I have never forgotten the words spoken by the Vicar of Wakefield in that marvellous novel of the same name.… ‘I chose my wife as I choose my clothes, for qualities that wear well.’

  Tracy and I had a hectic social life at this time. Many of the functions she didn’t want to attend, but I insisted because I wanted her to meet people from all levels of society. I remember her expression of awe when we walked into the House of Commons on our way to dinner with Margaret Thatcher, who was charm incarnate when we met her.… The night was splashed with a burning sunset over the Thames as we sipped champagne and nibbled caviare and canapés.… I couldn’t help thinking, and not for the first time, ‘You’ve not done so bad for a slum kid!’

  It’s times like that when I wish my parents were still alive. I’m sure that, with a few reservations, they would have been proud of their little son.… I like to think so.

  I took Tracy to all my favourite haunts in London, and enjoyed the old city more by seeing it through her eyes. The only cloud on her horizon was that we were not spending enough time at home, and she loved home life passionately. However, there was work to be done. Apart from televising Blankety Blank, I was booked for that year’s Royal Variety Show, which would be my seventh appearance before Her Majesty … still a nerve-racking occasion, and all for charity – not even expenses for putting your career on the line.

  For sheer panic and bedlam there is nothing to compare with appearing on a Royal Variety show.

  The producer has to weld a show together from visiting egotistical Hollywood celebrities, fussy nervous European ‘speciality’ acts, and ashen-faced comedians and singers. There is never enough dressing-room space so you are crowded into anything that is available and you wait like a modern-day gladiator to do battle for the Emperor’s approval. In that interim period twixt rehearsal and performing, you make small talk, you smoke a lot, drink a lot (at least I always did), go over your script again until it begins to sound about as funny as a back issue of the Radio Times. At the rehearsal you stand alone on the stage with men banging hammers and doing things with scenery behind you, in the stalls a bored producer listens to your patter without a flicker of emotion, and you desperately want a pee. At the last minute you find a stain on your dress suit and the collar of your shirt has a smudge. Your voice is going and in its place is a raspy drawl and your nerves are as taut as banjo wires.

  The Royal Variety Show of 1987 was a variety show in every sense of the word … Rosemary Clooney, Dolores Grey, James Galway, Johnny Ray, George Shearing and Mel Tormé, Shirley Bassey, Harry Secombe, the new alternative comedians, Hale and Pace, and others too numerous to mention. The show was a hit, and after my spot the Roly Polys joined me in a mock Tiller Girls routine that broke the Royal party up.

  Tracy looked divine in a beautiful evening gown and she was the object of a lot of attention at the party afterwards in a famous Mayfair show business hangout. It was an evening of enchantment nearly spoilt by street photographers chasing us as we sped away in a taxi. The difference now was that we could laugh at the silliness of it all.

  Pantomime that year was to be in Southampton at the Mayflower Theatre. Once again it was to be Babes in the Wood with John Nettles as Sheriff and as principal boy the ex-Miss World beauty queen, Ann Sydney, instead of Ruth Madoc who was appearing in the West End. Allan Stewart, the likeable young Scots comic, and Aiden J. Harvey were joining us as the robbers. The show was being produced as before by Paul Elliot, and we were all looking forward to it immensely, until Paul telephoned me with the bad news that we hadn’t done as well with the box office advance in Southampton as in previous years. Frankly, the advance was so small it wouldn’t cover two nights’ profits; it looked as if we’d bitten off more than we could chew.

  It turned out that there had been no publicity and no handbills distributed in the town. We were such a secret, a taxi driver asked me what I was doing in the town. It didn’t look good.

  John Nettles and I appeared on the local television station in an effort to drum up some interest. I did countless radio interviews and press calls and grinned a lot at passers-by. Slowly the advance bookings crawled up, but it was far from satisfactory and I was opting for a four-week season to grab what there was and head for the hills.

  Opening night was packed – not surprising really. It was an ‘invited’ night for the civic overlords and their guests but I had insisted that a charity be included. The show went well; I ad-libbed more than usual and the crowd loved it. From that opening night the business shot up – good old word of mouth did the trick among the people of Southampton, and we went on to break all records … it was also the happiest pantomime I have ever worked in. Apart from the cast, who were marvellous companions, there was an atmosphere about the theatre that gave us all a nightly shot in the arm.

  Tracy and I made arrangements to become engaged during the run, and New Year’s Eve was the date we agreed on. A big party was being thrown for the cast and we thought it would be great to announce our news then. Unfortunately the press got to hear of our intentions and three of them gatecrashed the party. They were thrown out, but we instantly postponed the planned announcement.

  In my heart I had a desire to do something special on our promise to each other. I decided to hold a secret party for Tracy but in a tightly-knit company of show business performers, keeping a secret is about as easy as finding Martin Bormann for This Is Your Life. We were staying a couple of minutes’ walk away from the theatre in the Polygon Hotel, better known to a generation of travellers as ‘The Dead Parrot’. Over the days that followed, ample amounts of booze were hidden in the kitchens of the hotel; pretty dancers organised the decorations, and one of the boy dancers who was a marvellous cook took care of the food. All was set, and Tracy had no idea of the plot afoot. For my part, I’d bought the engagement ring and paid for it with love and a much depleted bank balance. I’d forgotten how expensive these trinkets had become – so long since I’d been involved in the purchase of one. The night of the party arrived and somehow I had to get the entire cast and crew over to the hotel to await Tracy’s entrance. The way I did it was a bit cruel.

  I lied to her that I had to wait behind in the dressing-room for a phone call. She, poor lamb, was dressed up ready to be taken out, as I’d said that I was taking her to a restaurant and once there, I’d put the ring on her finger. I knew she wasn’t exactly thrilled at this; she never said a word in protest, but her wonderful eyes were moist.

  The cast left the theatre; only the stage door-keeper remained. Most of the theatre lights had been turned off, my dressing-room alone was still illuminated.

  I got the stage door-keeper to come into the dressing-room and say there was a call for me, and he played his role to perfection. When I came back Tracy was sitting with her hands clasped lo
oking a little forlorn.

  ‘That was the restaurant, darling,’ I lied. ‘Apparently they’ve had some trouble in the kitchen and all reservations are cancelled for tonight.’ I saw her lips tremble and at that moment I hated myself for what I was doing.

  ‘Tell you what, love,’ I chirped, ‘we’ll go over to the hotel and I’ll put on a jacket, then we’ll go down to the bar, have a quick drink and perhaps a sandwich or a bag of crisps, and I’ll put the ring on your finger, angel, and maybe later on we can do it properly.’

  Her enormous eyes spoke volumes, and I knew what she had in mind for me and the proposed bag of crisps – and I don’t think it was anatomically possible.

  We trudged over to the hotel; no one was in sight. I crossed my fingers. It seemed to take an age for the lift to take us to the penthouse suite … not a sound could be heard from within and I got Tracy to open the door. As she switched the light on, there stood the whole company, cheering and toasting us both, and Tracy’s face was wondrous to behold: like a child’s upon seeing a Christmas tree. She shed happy tears, and there and then, I went down on one knee, and placed the ring on her finger.

  Regretfully that season’s pantomime had reached the end of its run and I think I can safely say that each member of the cast was saddened by its closing. We had worked hard and played hard. I had my Tracy and now we could look forward to marriage and a life together.

  The following day, we drove away from Southampton and headed for the north and home.

  A new chapter was about to open, and I pondered on what it might hold. One thing was for sure, whatever came to challenge me, at least now I had Tracy in the lists with me, and with that knowledge, I knew that I could face any further tribulations.

  Just being together was enough for the pair of us, whether in a car or a theatre or at home … we were a team, and when I kissed her in bed the night we arrived home, I said: ‘I’ll always love you, forever and a day.’ Romantic? Why not, the world would be a better place for a larger helping of it.

  I had another book published, a little light soufflé called Giving Things Up, and it was time to peddle the book from radio station to radio station and TV station to TV station.

  Macmillan were my publishers and they did a very efficient job of getting us from one venue to another. The only trouble was, the book wasn’t in the shops at the start of the publicity drive and therefore it was all a bit of a waste of time and energy. These book tours can be quite tiring; one doesn’t mind if it’s going to be of value in selling the work, but in this case it didn’t help one iota and the sales fizzled out like a damp squib. There was also the beginning of a worrying recession in show business. Club dates were drying up as venue after venue closed down. The rise of the cult ‘alternative comedy’ meant that character comedy was now being looked upon as old-fashioned; in so-called comedy stores, the use of bad language in patter was the norm, and the odd-looking audiences attracted by this sort of entertainment seemed to love it.

  To these performers, the lavatory, sexual organs, tampons, body smells were all acceptable subjects for humour, and I could see bad times ahead for the older comedians. I’d noticed with regret that I no longer packed ’em in when I did the odd cabaret date, and even to myself, I sounded ancient.…

  ‘My act is so old, I get fan mail from Aesop.’

  ‘I said to my wife, “I’m looking forward to working again, after all there isn’t much of it around for comedians.” The wife said, “There you go, worrying about other people again.”’

  ‘My act has done for comedy what Julie Andrews did for Deep Throat.’

  The answer was clear: I had to bring the act up into the modern day. I mean – Deep Throat – a film long forgotten except by a very few.…

  We needed a holiday before the summer season reared its head, and so at the last minute we booked a fortnight in a villa in Lanzarote. I should have known that the imp who besets every holiday I’ve ever had would make damn sure that this trip to the Canaries, too, would be fraught.

  The aeroplane that took us out was so old it ran on Grecian 2000. I don’t know how long the plane had been around but we had to take out flying reptile insurance. The pilot couldn’t sleep, he kept on having dreams about Zeppelin raids.

  We finally bumped to a halt at Lanzarote where the rain was coming down in buckets. The gentleman who was renting us the villa met us at the airport and looked every inch a villain. He pointed out the car we had hired, and I thought it must have featured quite heavily during the week of Comic Relief. It was so small I had to take the windscreen wipers off to get in it. I don’t know how old the car was but it didn’t have a heater – just a fireplace and a pair of bellows.

  The rain intensified as we crawled behind our man from the villa. We inched out way up a slag heap that passed for a mountain, and eventually shuddered to a halt outside a white-painted building.

  Behind the villa stood a volcano and the whole area was thick with black volcanic ash, now delightfully waterlogged. It was still bucketing down, and it continued to do so all night as we enjoyed a blazing row as to who was to blame for booking this holiday, the whole purpose of which was to sleep in the sun, swim, and eat health-giving foods.

  Now we both realised that it was going to be a battle for survival against a hostile nature. I became morose and started drinking heavily to take my mind off the intense cold and the driving rain. Tracy became morose and started drinking heavily to take her mind off the intense cold and the driving rain.

  On the Wednesday, the rain stopped to allow a wind of typhoon proportions to stun us into submission, and Tracy threw her engagement ring at me. It was clear that we were cracking up. I bought more bottles of harsh bootleg alcohol to help us to sleep during one of the periodic hurricanes. By this time Tracy was babbling with hysteria and I, ill shaven and suffering from weight loss, was crying for my mother.

  When Saturday arrived, I decided to curtail our vacation. I took this decision after removing a carving knife from Tracy’s hand when she attacked me.

  I was feeling stronger after my bout of dysentery and eating solids once more, so I asked Tracy to take the bottle of raw spirit out of her mouth and run me into Puerto del Carmen in order to beg the travel agent for a flight home. It was still raining buckets upon the hapless resort.

  The nice travel agent said she’d do her best to get us on a flight on Monday, and Tracy tottered into a shop whilst I telephoned home to share my grief with the kids.

  Julie answered, and she was tearful. ‘Oh Dad,’ she whimpered, ‘I’ve crashed the car and I think I’ve got whiplash.’

  I gripped the receiver, trying to ignore the rain dripping off my nose and the love-smitten poodle that was doing something rude with my right leg. ‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’ I managed to croak.

  ‘Yes.… Here’s Pamela.’

  Now, Pamela is a drama queen of the highest ham. ‘How is Julie?’ I asked her, as I nearly kicked the poodle in the jaw.

  ‘HOW SHE WALKED AWAY FROM THE CRASH I’LL NEVER KNOW,’ Pamela thundered.

  My bowels nearly gave way; I had to get home to my stricken daughter.

  We drove the crumbling hire-car back up the slag heap, tumbled into the villa and drank deeply to escape from reality. Tracy had broken out in a rather peculiar rash and I feared that I had contracted cholera and a bit of beri beri.

  Time became confused because it was pitch black at noon as the volcanic ash swirled around in the cyclonic winds … and yes, it was still bucketing down with rain.

  We tried to force a slice of Spanish bread through our blistered lips, and Tracy fried some eggs then had a seizure and threw the pan at a wall.

  We clung together under a damp blanket and eventually dropped off to sleep, which was just as well because the need for protein was making me imagine that Tracy was a chicken and I had to battle the temptation to shove her in the oven with some Bisto granules.

  However, as I surfaced on Sunday morning, I felt an alien sensation … w
armth. I rose, trying to call Tracy from unconsciousness, but words wouldn’t come from my cracked lips.

  ‘Oh thank you, God.’ I croaked and the tears fell as I grovelled on the floor. ‘Thank you for letting us live through this holiday.’ God had heard our prayers and the sun was shining down on our sodden villa. We pranced out into the garden like pagan children, naked and emaciated, but alive.

  At that moment a car bounced to a halt outside the villa, and out climbed the pleasant travel agent with a telegram. I told her that we were now going to stay on for the other week, we shook hands, and the car bounced away. As Tracy and I lounged on deckchairs, getting rapidly braised, she said, ‘What was in the telegram, darling?’ I passed it over to her.

  ‘Oh dear.… Something’s wrong back home,’ she cried and handed me back the telegram. I read it and my heart stopped, ‘PHONE HOME IMMEDIATELY … STOP … VERY URGENT … YOUR CLEANING LADY,’ it said.

  I panicked as is my wont and immediately assumed that Julie had either been rushed into hospital after the car crash and was now on the critical list, or that she’d died as a result of her injuries. Tracy caught me as I fell off the deckchair.

  We tried all night to get through to England but we couldn’t contact anybody at the house, and when I attempted to ring up friends, the line sort of spluttered and once I got faint response from Gibraltar.

  Sleep was out of the question and I spent the night pacing to and fro as Tracy lay slumped in a chair, jerking fitfully in a troubled doze. At eight thirty she drove me down the slag heap into Puerto del Carmen and the heat was blistering, but my blood was as cold as chipped ice.

  I banged on the door of the travel agency, which seemed to possess the only telephone that worked. Reluctantly a Spanish cleaner let me in.