No Tears for the Clown

by Les Dawson

  We saw the shows and sailed down the Seine on our actual anniversary date; the weather held its breath in a respite from the elements, and the waxy moon threw back the quilt of dusk and probed our little vessel as we toasted our love in champagne, which cost nearly as much as the boat.

  Looking back to that May, I’ve often pondered on the possibility of suing God.

  We had to walk along the city streets in a hunched posture hoping to stop the blustery wind from spinning us into windmills, that physical position also helped to allow the rain to cascade into a sort of funnel down our backs, which after drowning one’s trousers gurgled happily down the drains.

  The final indignity came the day we were thawing out in the hotel bedroom. As Tracy’s teeth chattered I gave up trying to force broth down her cramped throat, so instead I wrapped her up in the blankets and sent her down for a bucket of hot coals. I turned the television set on and a panoramic view of a beach shivered into focus on the screen … and what a view it was! Golden sand dunes baking under a torrid sun, graceful sand yachts speeding along a glittering seascape where timid wavelets ran ashore then swirled into retreat.… ‘That’s where we should be, Poo,’ I said over my shoulder. I lit a cigarette, which was so damp it not only failed to ignite, but turned into a mess of bits that clung to my front teeth. Almost in tears I watched the sand yachts tack and veer, then I looked again. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I blasphemed. ‘Poo, come and look at this.’

  The pile of blankets jerked. ‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered, her voice beginning to crack with flu.

  ‘Look at the telly,’ I screamed. ‘Sand yachting.… Look.… It’s bloody Lytham St Annes.’

  It was true. The beach and the sea and the sand yachts belonged to the place we’d left two days ago … our home.

  The flight home was uneventful for a change and as soon as we both shrugged off our mildewed clothes, we jumped into a hot bath and swallowed anti-pleurisy tablets, so ended another unforgettable sojourn, but it gave me some material.…

  ‘What a flight! the plane was an early jet, a bag of charcoal and an oven.’

  ‘I said to the pilot “Do these planes crash often?” He said “No, only once.…”’

  ‘The weather was so bad in Paris they had lifeboat drill on the buses.’

  Back home once more, there was no time to relax, it was off to the Midlands where I had an after-dinner speech to make, then on to London for another hotel conference. It was well into the early hours when we got to bed.

  I wasn’t sleeping well. Apart from troubled dreams, my chest was tight and I spent half the night hawking up mucus. I took pills and antibiotics but the chest condition didn’t get any better, and Tracy’s blue eyes were clouded with anxiety. But me? I was immortal, wasn’t I? Twice I had cheated death, so they told me, that must mean I’m going to go on for ever, hey?

  Quo Vadis, Clown?

  * * *

  The audience laughed at the little comic’s jokes and shook their heads in disbelief at the outrageous faces he pulled.

  ‘I took the wife out the other night.… I take her everywhere with me, it saves kissing her goodbye.’

  ‘I had a nightmare last night, that the wife’s mother was chasing me with a crocodile on a lead.… It was awful. I could feel the hot rancid breath on my neck.… I could hear the snap of the giant teeth and the murderous look in the dirty yellow eyes.… If you think that was bad enough, wait till I tell you about the crocodile.’

  ‘I’ve always kept a photograph of the mother-in-law on the mantelpiece … it keeps the kids away from the fire.’

  ‘The wife’s mother’s been married three times. Her first two died through eating poisoned mushrooms, the third one died with an arrow in his back. I said to her: “How terrible! How come he was killed by an arrow?” She said, “Because he wouldn’t eat the bloody mushrooms.”’

  What the audience didn’t see was the comic’s body rebelling against all the abuse it had sustained; and what he didn’t know was that there would have to be a day of reckoning.

  Tracy and I went on a book signing tour which was fun.… I enjoyed sitting behind a pile of books chatting and signing them, but fatigue was now getting to be a menace; it was as if we couldn’t stop our helter-skelter pace of life, and on top of everything else, Tracy told me she wanted to start a family!

  Naturally, I told her, I would like a baby, but I didn’t tell her that I was worried about my ability to father one. After the book tour we went to a specialist for a mutual check-up. After all, Tracy was over forty, she’d had three miscarriages, and I didn’t intend risking her life simply to have another child – we already had five between us. But every time she saw a baby her eyes would soften, and well … what can a man do?

  Tracy was given the all-clear with her health, and the specialist turned his attention to me.… He went on at length about giving a sample of semen and I tried to wriggle out of that one. Many many years ago, I had been deeply embarrassed in a Manchester hospital trying to do a sample in a bottle whilst sitting on a lavatory seat with my right foot jammed against the door because there was no lock on it. If that wasn’t bad enough, a man waiting increasingly impatiently to get in the loo finally shouted through the door: ‘What the bleedin’ hell are you doing in there, mate – having a wank?’ He could never know how true the gibe was. Now I was being asked to do it again.

  I looked at Tracy and in her eyes. I saw her willing me to do it. I was frightened that I would not prove man enough to father a baby; after all, I was over fifty years of age; I had a weight problem; I’d had a mild heart attack; I no longer had a prostate gland, which meant that my flow of semen probably wouldn’t be strong enough to fertilise the egg; I was a heavy drinker and smoked like a kipper-curing shed. A nice young man in a spotless white coat led me through a labyrinth of sterile corridors and eventually closeted me in a room with a bottle, a towel and stuff in a phial to wash my thingumajig with. In the spartan room was a trundle bed, painted grey, a hard upright chair, a shelf, and two brightly covered books depicting sexual positions that only a trained gymnast could get into.

  ‘Er, these books,’ said the Nice Young Man in the Spotless Coat, ‘just in case you need them … well, you know … let me know when you’ve finished.’

  With that parting shot he almost ran out of the room. I was alone. Have you ever tried to think about sex in the early afternoon in a hospital room with a sinister-looking bottle? I partly undressed and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. I looked closely at the naked ladies in the book. They were about as erotic as a flock of homing pigeons, and one huge lady with a mat of pubic hair that grew up to her chin looked as if she’d be more at home in a Sumo training camp than lying on a mattress. I got into a position and started to masturbate, but my foot got hooked between the bars of the bed head and I fell off and cannoned into the radiator. I hoisted myself up on to the bed once more and tried to imagine I was about to make love to every film actress in the world, but the only image that kept recurring was that of Donald Duck – and that’s the truth! Perhaps some psychiatrist will one day explain to me why I kept on thinking about Donald Duck, but I had to give the film actress idea up and look again at the National Health dirty book.

  One position intrigued me. A rather thin gentleman with a quite outrageous penis was lying on the bed with one leg stuck up in the air and his other leg curled under his buttocks. The woman was lying on top of him with her head bobbing about somewhere round the gentleman’s groin.… Purely in the interest of research I tried to imagine Tracy and myself in this position, and in doing so I developed severe cramp in the right calf muscle which caused me to bellow aloud with agony. The door burst open at the very moment my body decided to roll off the bed again – a young nurse took one look and ran off emitting shrieks of horror. As I clambered to my feet, my left shoe got trapped in my braces and twanged me into the wall just as the Nice Young Man in the Spotless White Coat entered the room to tell me that he’d explained to the horrified nurse th
at I wasn’t a pervert or a lunatic, and therefore there was no need to send for the police. Already I’d been in the room for well over an hour, and the bottle remained empty.

  I lit a fag and looked out of the window at the passing parade of hospital life, but there was no inspiration from that direction. I sent out for a cup of tea. That didn’t help, and I started to get an attack of the giggles by imagining Donald Duck in black knickers and a garter belt.

  Two hours gone, and still nothing to show for the tortuous positions, nothing to show for the mental sex orgies, and my heaving, sweating bulk, with tendrils of clothing still adhering to it, ached in every cramped sinew. Once or twice somebody knocked but went away hurriedly as my coarse breathing rose in a series of wild pig grunts and snorts.… I was losing my marbles. Finally, I stood naked on top of the bed and gave vent to a loud animal cry.… There was a blob of semen in the bottle. Swiftly I parcelled the bottle in layers of tissue, determined that no living soul should see the result of my infamy.

  I rang a bell and a large triangular nurse opened the door, took the bottle off me, unwrapped it and boomed down the corridor: ‘SO YOU’VE FINALLY MANAGED A SAMPLE, HAVE YOU? ABOUT TIME.’

  If I’d had a scalpel I would have plunged it deep between her shoulder blades, then turned it on myself.

  Tracy looked tired after her prolonged wait, and remarked that I looked a trifle peculiar.

  I was summoned into another room, a small laboratory, where an earnest young boffin gazed at me owlishly. I felt certain he was going to tell me that my sperms had long since passed away with age and alcohol. Instead, his face creased into one huge smile and he said: ‘Wonderful result, Mr Dawson, your sperm count is one of the highest I’ve ever seen. Congratulations!’ I walked out of that hospital on a cushion of air. I was for the moment, a king.

  As soon as we arrived home, I poured out a glass of champagne each, we drank, and then I put forward the motion that an early night was indicated.… Tracy readily agreed.

  The year was speeding into early autumn … just where does time go? There were one or two engagements to fulfil; the first was an invitation to speak at a Variety Club Charity Luncheon that was being held in honour of Frankie Howerd at the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane. Cilla Black was one of the other speakers at the celebrity-studded occasion and the veteran comedian was flushed with the accolades heaped on him. I was proud to speak because I had always admired him … a unique humorist, sadly missed.

  The other big event was to be the after-dinner speaker at a Co-operative function at the Tara Hotel in Kensington. I enjoyed that date mainly because of nostalgia, I suppose. When I left school at fourteen my mother had urged me to ‘get a job with security and a pension’. With hindsight, it’s an appalling thought that a fourteen-year-old boy should be choosing an occupation for the pension, but my parents, who’d never known security, looked upon a job like that as manna from heaven, and so after two interviews I gained employment as a junior drapery warehouse operative. The job entailed pulling large skips of merchandise from one big sorting warehouse into another one where people stood and packaged the goods for shipment. It was the most boring job a youngster could have, running half crouched and crabwise, backwards and forwards, all day long, and all for the princely wage of twenty-two shillings and ninepence.… But it had a pension!

  Tracy and I spent a lot of time in our London flat in Buckingham Gate, round the corner from the Palace. Our favourite pastime was walking through St James’s Park, mixing with the characters and feeding the ducks. Sounds nothing, doesn’t it? But with the hectic life we were living, this simple pleasure was divine for us, and our companionship was complete; no false friends, no favours to be demanded … just a man and his wife and the park.

  Often, as we strolled round the park, I would see Tracy look longingly at proud young mothers pushing prams containing loved little ones, and I knew how passionately she wanted a child of our own.

  I was concerned about my future in show business. There was the panto coming up in Wimbledon, but my television career looked to be on the rocks, and having lived through bad times I didn’t relish the idea of going through them again, especially with a baby on board. But, just look at the longing in my wife’s eyes.…

  The following week we managed to go back North to the home we adored but seldom saw. For a few days we became domestic recluses, and all else was put to one side. Although being at home was a time for peace and serenity, I still had hoped that somebody from a television company would phone and offer me something, but no offers came. I’d heard nothing from the BBC after the Fast Friends débâcle, and Yorkshire Television had dropped an idea they had for me, so the future was looking bleak.

  After years at the top of my profession, I now felt unwanted and old, as if somebody had pressed an abort button on my life. Never having saved much money, financially I was far from secure, and for my sanity I simply had to work, but there was nothing in the conduit whatsoever. The world recession was biting, as everybody who went under will tell you, and work was hard to find.

  I read one morning that the Queen had stated privately that in her considered opinion the annual Royal Variety Show was far too long, and if steps were not taken to tighten it up and shorten it, she would not grace it with her presence. Without her, the show would be quite unthinkable.

  I had performed in ten royal shows, and every one was a nerve-racking experience. I’d appeared alongside such stars as Yul Brynner, Rosemary Clooney, Red Buttons, Bill Haley, Tony Bennett, James Mason, Dolores Grey, Jerry Lewis and hosts of other big names … and no matter how big, they all had knots in their stomachs.

  Tracy and I went back to London to do a show for the BBC, Children In Need, a fine programme that raises a lot of money for all deprived and handicapped kids. My youngest daughter danced with Bruce Forsyth and I danced with his television hostess, Rosemary Ford … it was a good spot and a lot of laughs.

  Whilst in London, my agents told me that London Weekend Television wanted me to appear on the Royal Show. I said thanks but no thanks – it was too nerve-racking. Norman informed LWT of my decision and that, I thought, was that. It wasn’t a question of being ‘big time’ or anything like that; I turned it down because it can break a comedian’s career if he doesn’t go down well, and I didn’t have the confidence to face another setback when my career was already hanging by a thread – or so it seemed to me.

  Again and again I was urged to change my mind but I refused. Then one day I received a phone call from a reporter on a London newspaper. ‘How does it feel to be a royal favourite?’ he asked. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I responded. There was a short pause, then he said, ‘I thought you might have heard, when the list of acts was presented for approval, Prince Philip asked especially for you. Apparently you are well favoured by the Queen and Prince Philip.’ I gulped and put the phone down. I found out later that the reporter was telling the truth, and so I readily agreed to be on the bill. What else could I do? If I was a falling star then I’d go out before my Queen. The die was cast.

  London Weekend had gathered an awesome bill together. Top of the bill was singer Diana Ross, together with the great American humorist Jackie Mason. He was good, I’d seen him work. Ned Sherrin, David Frost, Elaine Paige, the entire cast of Les Misérables, up and coming funnymen Billy Pierce and Mike Doyle, Eric Idle, Wayne Sleep … so many big names! It got to the stage where I was the only one I’d never heard of.

  As the long days’ rehearsals dragged on, I sat hunched in my seat in the darkened auditorium of the Victoria Palace. I watched all the performers go through their paces and their confidence and stage presence made me feel more and more inadequate. The younger comics seemed much more ‘with it’ both in style and material. Their jokes were simple and easy to understand, whilst my approach to comedy was a long-winded series of word pictures. Over and over again I mentally went through my script, and each time I did so it got less funny. There was a pub across the road from the theatre and it
was open all day – and I used it all day.

  Tracy kept reassuring me that everything would be fine, but her concern only served to increase my melancholy.… I felt doomed. On these occasions, the tension in a dressing-room is sometimes quite unbearable but Eric Idle and Ned Sherrin were witty companions. Soon the day became the BIG NIGHT.…

  Tracy had to get me ready – for two pins I would have leapt on to the stage waving a white flag. My confidence was at rock bottom and I kept making alterations to the script: as far as I was concerned, it was about as comical as a dung beetle on a lump of ox shit.

  The show opened with David Frost, who made the audience roar with some clever patter before introducing the cast from the hit musical Buddy. They brought the house down and I was feeling so low I could have crawled under a pancake and never caused a bump.

  Young Billy Pierce was excellent, and so was Mike Doyle, who turned out not only to be a comedian but the possessor of a fine tenor voice … Christ! Where did they get so much talent?

  Pop star Beverley Craven was a hit, and she made way for Ann Howard, the opera singer, and as if rendering ‘One Fine Day’ in a magnificent voice wasn’t enough to sandbag any courage left in me, Eric Idle popped up and turned the whole thing into one huge exercise in laughter.… David Frost went on again to introduce some youngsters from an East European state and they played balalaikas like seasoned veterans. It was my turn to walk on to the stage and all my failures flashed before me … my career, or what now passed for it, was in the hands of fate. Would the audience remember my triumphs, or would they just remember the many flops?

  The lights hit me as I tried to saunter nonchalantly towards the centre stage area. Her Majesty had a smile on her face and Prince Philip looked as if he was hoping for a good laugh. I only hoped that I wouldn’t disappoint them.