No Tears for the Clown

by Les Dawson

  ‘Esta muey importante,’ I shouted down her ear in my awful Spanish. ‘Yo tengo telefono England … comprende?’

  She came close to me and said, ‘There’s no need to shout, Mr Dawson, I’m not deaf and I’m not Spanish, I’m Miss——from Ilford.’

  I laughed lamely. ‘Sorry, you look very sort of … Spanish … I must phone my home.’

  I dialled our number; my hands were clammy with foreboding.

  The cleaning lady who had sent the telegram answered the call. I held myself in readiness for whatever bad news she was about to impart. For Tracy’s sake, I had to be strong in the face of whatever tragedy had befallen.… Here is a perfectly true account of the ensuing conversation:

  ME: ‘Hello, it’s Les here.… Yes, Les Dawson.… Yes, yes, the weather’s fine.… Yes, yes, Tracy’s fine, we’re both bloody fine.… Now, what’s the matter at home?’

  CLEANING LADY: ‘You know that carpet you ordered for the hall and stairs? Well, the fellow who’s fitting it wants to know are you going to pay before he fits it or after?’

  Had the admirable cleaning lady been at my side at that precise moment, I would cheerfully have hacked her to death with a blunt machete. I’d been on the rim of a nervous breakdown, fearing the worst, and she’d sent a telegram over a sodding carpet.

  Julie was all right, and oh, Pamela wanted a word with me.

  What my daughter had to say made me seethe.… Apparently a newspaper reporter had called at the house and told her that he had heard that I was in Lanzarote with a woman who wasn’t Tracy! So they were at it again, hey? We decided to barricade ourselves in the villa in case the press decided to come to the island and look for us.

  We resumed our deep sun bathing, both in our birthday suits, and for two days the sun cooked us and only the plaintive mew of a seagull disturbed the silence, and then a small light aircraft came circling over … getting lower and lower. Once again I jumped to a hasty conclusion – it was the press! We’d show ’em.… We’d give ’em something to photograph. For the next fifteen minutes Tracy and I went through a series of obscenities with our naked bodies that would have delighted the Marquis de Sade.

  The plane came down lower and Tracy and I mooned our bare rumps as a sort of grand finale. The wings of the aircraft wobbled, and the thing nearly collided with our volcano. ‘That’ll teach ’em,’ I chortled and we hugged each other like naughty children. Then we sobered up, looked at each other, and with enthusiasm proceeded to do what comes naturally as a sort of encore … if you see what I mean.

  As a postscript to this story, we heard from a resident Britisher on the island that a light aircraft on a training flight had been forced to abort its mission after the young pilots lost concentration whilst watching two naked people engaged in an orgy. The authorities had been informed and word had it that the police suspected a witches’ coven.

  The last incident to affect this ‘holiday’ involved a Spanish farmer who had been spying on our nudity for three days from behind a scree mound on the slag heap. Although the brochure on the villa extolled its utter privacy, it forgot to mention that not all the walls around the place were over six feet in height: the one which ran at the side of the swimming pool at the far end of the property was only two feet high.

  The only thing that gave our Peeping Tom away was the sun glinting on his telescope.

  I gave vent to a bellow of rage and ran towards him in my bare state shouting ‘Bastardo!’ He ran like a mountain goat up the black heap and I fell into the swimming pool.

  It was with mixed feelings that we left Lanzarote. The weather we were leaving behind was now absolutely glorious and we could have done with another week of it; on the other hand, what we had endured in the name of tourism would probably take years to fade from our minds. But Lanzarote hadn’t quite finished with me: my luggage disappeared. I like to sit some nights sipping a Mint Julep and imagining that I have just planted an atomic bomb on Lanzarote, and they have just twenty-four hours to find my suitcase – if not … no, with my luck the rain would defuse the damn thing.

  Once home, we embarked on a hectic schedule. There was a television commercial for toothpaste, some long-haul cabaret dates, and once again, I had another book on the go. I also had to find time to write a couple of newspaper articles as well as be a guest television critic. Finally, there was a frightening income tax problem facing me. At the same time Tracy and I started to talk in earnest about a date for our wedding – a most pleasing task.

  I was still contracted to the BBC but I had an uneasy feeling that such was the change taking place in light entertainment generally that it wasn’t an alliance destined to last. My agents, Norman and Anne, also saw the signs, and so I started trying to save money as never before. There was the smell of a slump in the air … unemployment was rising, some smaller businesses were going under in the financial uneasiness, and people weren’t going to the theatre so often.

  For the summer, I was to headline at the Opera House in Blackpool, which meant that we could enjoy life at home and enjoy a season without having to pay for digs – we could save a bob or two!

  Tracy’s two children, Samantha and Richard, two fine kids, got on well with Julie, Stuart and Pamela, and although we didn’t see them every day of the week, when we did it was wonderful. They’d come to grips with the prospect of having a stepfather who was a bit of a celebrity and indirectly, I think, that fact helped to alleviate any pain that their parents’ divorce may have caused.

  I signed for another series of Blankety Blank and started drafting out an idea for a novel, a spoof on Gone With The Wind. I got the daft idea after meeting the film actress, Jane Seymour, during Prince Edward’s It’s A Royal Knockout, which was staged at Alton Towers. During one of the lulls in activity owing to heavy rain, Jane told me that she was in line for a sequel to Gone With The Wind. Somehow this sparked off my imagination and I spent the next hour or so mulling over an idea for a send-up of the romantic classic, set in this country. The Confederate States would consist of Lancashire, Cheshire and Yorkshire plus Cumbria, which would break away from the rest of Britain, invade Watford, and start a civil war.… It was a barmy idea: I mean, who the hell would want to invade Watford?

  At any rate, I began work on that book, hoping that this time I might produce a bestseller. Up to then, my books had sold only marginally well, and I’d have to sell a lot more if I was ever to achieve my ambition of being a full-time novelist – not to mention keeping a roof over my head.

  After Lanzarote, we were kept busy with local social events, and one of the most pleasing was to see the scanner installed in the hospital. Peter Isaacs and I had put a lot of hours into this project and had finally seen his dream come true.

  Some months after the installation of the machine, Tracy and I were in Blackpool for the opening night of a play at the Grand Theatre. We were making our way towards the theatre when a small, untidy-looking man grabbed my hand. ‘Excuse me, Les,’ he said shyly. It turned out he had been under the scanner and whatever it was that had been detected, it had been found in time, and he was now fit and well.

  The cabaret work was rapidly drying up; it was things like conferences in London that kept the money rolling in, and I badly needed it because the Inland Revenue were demanding far more than a pound of flesh.

  Being in love again was marvellous for me.… I felt ten years younger, and having someone to look after once more was a source of deep happiness. I knew by the look in Tracy’s eyes that she was just as happy and contented as I was. We went everywhere together. The long nights in bars with hangers-on and drifters were now over, although to be honest my drinking hadn’t abated that much.… I was merely enjoying it more! Tracy hated my habit of smoking over fifty cigarettes a day so I tried to cut down and did partially succeed I think, although I don’t imagine for one moment that Tracy would agree on that.

  Everything was going great, and the icing on the cake was that I was to top the bill at the Opera House in dear old Black
pool for the summer season. My cup runneth over … only to be kicked out of my hand by fate.

  When the Laughter had to Stop

  * * *

  The audience would soon see the little fat man wheeze on to the enormous stage and after pulling some silly faces he would launch into a string of hospital and medical jokes.…

  ‘My doctor is very old-fashioned. He’ll retire soon, he’s running out of leeches.’

  ‘He doesn’t believe in pain killers … he makes you bite on a bullet. If you haven’t any teeth, he’ll rent you a pair – his brother is an undertaker.’

  ‘I was in hospital recently … hospital, that’s a place where they wake you up to give you a sleeping pill.’

  ‘One nurse gave me so many enemas, they had to weld an extension on the bedpan.’

  What the audience didn’t see was the scene in the dressing-room before the little comedian went on stage: his wife watching him cough his heart up over the sink; the anxiety in her eyes as he tried to rub some colour into his grey face. He tried to make a joke about his condition, but he didn’t make her smile.

  The Opera House, Blackpool, is possibly one of the largest theatres in Europe. It seats over three thousand people – that’s a lot of backsides, brother.

  Over the years, the old place has seen some of the greatest variety shows ever staged. George and Alfred Black used to take the audience’s breath away with lines of gorgeous dancers, wonderful costumes and extravagant sets. However, of late, owing to cash flow problems and increased costs, much smaller productions had been staged and they hadn’t done so well. Like Max Bygraves and Ken Dodd, I had done many Sunday night concerts there and had always packed them in, and so I looked forward with eagerness to appearing there for eighteen weeks.

  My agents assured me that they had been assured that the company putting on the show would spare no expense, and that we’d give the ghosts of George and Alfred Black something to haunt about. I was content to let them take care of things whilst I finished my television commitments.

  I arrived at the Opera House for the first day’s rehearsal and sat next to my producer and friend from television, Stewart Morris. Together we watched six young dancers go through a routine. I turned to Stewart and whispered, ‘Isn’t the full dance company rehearsing?’ He looked at me strangely and replied, ‘What on earth are you talking about? That’s it, six dancers, that’s the company.’

  I froze. The Opera House stage is so vast you could service two Boeing 747s on the apron of it and still have room to build some bungalows – and a day-care centre as well. Six dancers would be lost in that gigantic area.

  The bill consisted of, apart from myself, the Roly Polys, Frank Carson, Keith Harris and two unknown performers who had only just started in the business. Jerry Allison, the bandleader, a nice guy who was to die tragically soon afterwards, worked with me in an effort to instill some life into the production. We did our best. I had managed to get two more dancers, but that was it … and here we were on opening night. Jerry and the boys struck up the overture, I walked on to the stage and pretended to be the bandleader as the curtain went up. It is a strange anomaly in show business that rehearsals always seem to be dispirited, and yet once the curtain goes up on opening night a magic seems to fill the theatre and every artiste appears to take on a newer, fresher persona.

  ‘Good evening. May I say what a thrill it is to be in Blackpool – which as you know is Morecambe with “O” levels.’

  ‘It’s so healthy here – that fresh air – a mixture of ozone and chip fat.’

  ‘They say the sea here at Blackpool is polluted – rubbish … mind you, there’s not many places where you see fish swimming with surgical boots on.’

  ‘I live in St Annes – so posh – when we eat cod and chips there we wear a yachting cap.’

  The opening gags went well enough, but I was conscious that there were empty seats … and believe me, dear reader, there were a considerable number of them. The Roly Polys were a sensation; I’m always proud of them. Frank Carson brought the house down with his Irish blarney, and Keith Harris with Orville the Duck and his other inventive puppets had the audience in stitches. The other two less experienced performers had a struggle to overcome their nerves as well as their awe of working in such an august theatre. Nevertheless, despite the valiant efforts of all the performers, I knew by the reaction of the crowd at the opening night party that we’d laid an egg. The critics cut the show to pieces, and me they shredded.

  I began to have misgivings about my ability to top a bill any more; I ignored Tracy’s protests and took my self-pity to a bottle of Scotch. I think I caused her a lot of worry during that season; little did she know that without her support I would probably have walked out.…

  Whom had I let down? Instead of acting like a pro and making the best of it, I brooded over the lack of interest from the public and my own performance – which had come in for a lot of comment, ‘old-fashioned’ being about the kindest.

  I was hurt, and I felt stress taking over my every sinew. Walking on to the stage night after night was not a task I looked forward to. One or two reporters were still peeping at us and taking secret photographs, which was irritating to say the least.

  One Sunday morning my son nearly killed himself in my ‘E’ type Jaguar. God only knows how he escaped from the tangled mess of metal.… As he lay in the hospital bed I thanked God for a miracle.

  I was smoking cigarette after cigarette and I simply couldn’t relax. The poor business at the theatre was common knowledge and I felt that every artiste in the town was gossiping about me. I was becoming paranoid.

  Sunday morning, and it was a hot one. Tracy and I are sitting by the small swimming pool in our back garden. I sip my drink and try to take my mind off the problems, but it isn’t easy and I can’t completely, because there is a slight burning sensation in my chest … just an irritation, but it won’t go away.

  Friends and family come and go and occasionally Tracy will dive into the pool and call to me to join her. I shake my head. This burning is getting to be a nuisance, and it’s making me feel sick.

  It is a warm day and I am sweating profusely … try another drink, hey? Ah, that’s a bit easier, I’ll light up a fag, stuff the income tax and sod the show … grab the money and run.… It’s like a hot ball of acid in my chest … bloody uncomfortable, must go in the kitchen and swallow a couple of Rennies, perhaps that will shift it … Tracy’s asking me if I’m OK, she says I look a bit pale.

  Darkness, and still can’t sleep with this infernal burning. Might as well get out of bed and let Tracy sleep.… I like to watch her when she sleeps. She has the face of a child and her tumbling hair cascades around her on the pillow.

  I walk in the garden. It’s creeping on towards dawn – the best time to be out.

  I draw deep on a cigarette and try to ignore the acid in my body, but it will not be ignored.… It’s burning, burning in my chest.

  All day the burning is still there, and we go to the theatre earlier than normal because I’m uncomfortable in the house. I don’t feel right, I need space.

  The company manager comes into the dressing-room, looks at me and asks if I feel all right.… Of course I’m all right.… It’s this bloody indigestion. Showtime, open the show, not many people in the theatre.… Christ, it’s so hot.… Come off and slump in dressing-room. Tracy is suddenly looking worried and she’s firm.… What’s that she’s doing? No, Tracy, don’t send for the theatre doctor.… He’s here, but I’m due on stage again in ten minutes.

  The doctor, Bob Wells, looks concerned, says I should go to Victoria Hospital for a check-up.… How can I go? What about the show?

  Suddenly there’s a different Tracy, this one is angry … what’s she saying? To hell with the show? She’s making me take off my stage suit and don my jeans and T-shirt. Frank Carson and the Roly Polys gather round with Keith Harris and they’re being pros and altering the programme.… Seems stupid, it’s only indigestion.


  Sitting on a trundle bed in the hospital, someone is injecting me.… Hey? There’s Stuart and Julie and Tracy and Pamela.… Hi, everybody. Can’t seem to speak properly.… God, I feel so tired.…

  I awoke the following morning to learn that I had suffered a heart attack. Tracy was at my bedside where she’d been since I was admitted. Now I felt great and wanted to be up and about, but the young doctor restrained me. ‘I know, Les, you don’t feel ill, but believe me, although the heart attack was a mild one, it is a warning, my friend.… You’ve got to slow down.’ He said it in such a way, I knew he was right.

  Tracy gripped my hands and looked deep into my eyes ‘I love you, Lumpy, but from now on you are going to do as you’re told,’ she said softly but firmly, and kissed me.

  Me, do what I’m told? Me, the old hell-raiser who never went to bed before dawn and drank everyone around me under the table? Matt Monroe, Dave Allen, Tommy Cooper, I’d caroused with the best.… Me, do what I’m told? I didn’t argue, I simply nodded to Tracy and muttered, ‘Whatever you say, angel,’ and dropped into a black lagoon.

  I don’t think I’ve ever slept so much and for so long. All the years of push and push, making do with a catnap, all those years of being eaten up with ambition – well, sleep got in the way, it was a waste of life, wasn’t it? Now, my worn-out and abused body had stated that enough was enough, buster.

  I lay in that hospital bed with wires poking out of my chest and machines going bleep and I felt depressed and useless. I couldn’t believe a heart attack had happened to me – I wasn’t old enough, surely – cardiac arrests were something that occurred in old men who wore panama hats … but here I was. The artistes dutifully trooped to my bedside and Mo, from the Roly Polys, played merry hell with me for overdoing it and worrying; so did Russ Abbot, and Frank Carson, whose voice could warn shipping in the Solent, told me a stream of old Irish jokes at which I laughed loudly, hoping by doing so to get rid of the old ham.