No Tears for the Clown

by Les Dawson

There was so much love in their singing, it spread a canopy of peace over the sick in every ward and room that the nurses went into. In a strange way, I was glad that we were there that Christmas Eve to share the experience.

  On Christmas Day we helped set a long trestle table down the centre of the ward, and staff and patients alike sat down to enjoy a turkey dinner and pull a few crackers. When my agent came in even that hard-bitten old devil was visibly moved to see the patients – drips and tubes and all – toasting each other, the doctors and nurses, friends and loved ones, in the glass of wine we were allowed with the festivities.

  I was once again moved by the masses of flowers and all the goodwill cards sent to me, proving surely that I wasn’t forgotten. I realised just how much I had to live for, and I vowed that from now on, I would cut out of my existence the sham of ambition.

  Three days later I was discharged. The Iron Maiden came to see me before I left the hospital, and as usual the staff trembled when she appeared. I did, however, have a weapon that I hoped would find a chink in her armour: someone had told me her first name! A lovely, wholly feminine, moniker. ‘Don’t forget: no smoking! No drinking! No late nights! You have been very ill in large measure due to your stupidity.’ She was wonderful, there should be more like her – and believe me, I listened. We shook hands with her and as she reached the door I piped up: ‘Thanks for everything, I shall never forget you … dear Lavinia.’

  She stiffened like a ramrod, but then I saw her shoulders shake with laughter! To all the staff at Westminster Hospital, my gratitude for the care and the courtesy, and to those two paramedics who fought for me that dark night – many thanks, fellows. And to Tracy, my wife … words are simply inadequate. It was good to get home.

  After a New Year’s Eve celebration at my agent’s house in Highgate, Tracy and I drove home to our beloved Lancashire, and that little piece of paradise: Garth House, Lytham.

  The yawning sandy beaches of St Annes on Sea, the wide roads and clean air, the lovely vulgar mistress that is Blackpool, always beckoning with a saucy finger to the thrills she can offer.… Home at last.

  A Promise of a Little Sunshine

  * * *

  ‘An elderly couple, both in their late nineties, filed for a divorce. The solicitor couldn’t believe it! He asked the husband: “You’ve been married for over fifty years, and now you say you want a divorce … why?” The husband replied: “I never loved the old bag.” His wife glared at him and said: “I must have been out of my mind when I said ‘Yes’ to that silly old sod. I can’t stand him.” The solicitor shook his head and said in a voice of wonder: “You’ve never liked one another yet you’ve had five children. If you hated each other that much why on earth didn’t you get divorced years ago?” The old lady said: “We both agreed to wait until the kids died.”’

  ‘I made a big difference to my parents’ lives, because before I was born my father had a nasty habit of running off and leaving my mother for months on end; then, when I came on the scene, they both gazed at me in the crib, held hands – then ran off together.’

  ‘Although we were poor, my dad used to say to me: “One day, son, I’ll have enough money to take you to Venice, and we’ll ride up and down all day on the Grand Canal in a Gorgonzola.” I said: “But Daddy, dear, that’s a lump of cheese.” He replied: “Who the hell cares as long as it doesn’t leak?”’

  The little comedian was heartened by the laughter, but Fate was planning a surprise that would send all his anxieties running for cover.… The Gods had decided to give him a smile.…

  * * *

  The first step for me, under Tracy’s stern gaze, was to quit smoking … and every smoker will tell you what a task that is. One method of stopping smoking is to stand naked in a draught in order to catch a cold, which might turn to rheumatic fever and also give you such a sore throat it will be agony to drag on a fag. That should put you off puffing for a few days at least until you start chewing a Fisherman’s Friend and throw up. This is a good method and can be quite exciting if the woman next door decides to use it to stop smoking.

  Now, let us assume that a week has gone by and you haven’t touched a cigarette, and you hate everybody, and when friends visit you in a halo of gorgeous filter-tipped smoke, the first impulse is to club them to a grisly death with your noisiest offspring. To combat the smoking friends syndrome, drop each one of them a poison pen letter wrapped up in a section of lung, and keep them away by playing a Des O’Connor album.

  Healthwise, despite what they say, you won’t feel any improvement; in fact you may sustain concussion from banging your head against a wall when the craving gets too much to bear. Some well-meaning friends suggest hypnotism to help give up the habit. I went to see a certain Dr Hans Schemmingfester, formerly the head of a clinic for the chronically withered in Rhyl. Before the war he was a dressmaker in a Berlin flute orchestra and he once put a cow in labour to sleep. He was awarded the Iron Cross for opening an Arab dustbin in the heat of battle, and he was noted for having moved Rommel’s bowels. He hypnotised me into thinking that every time I fancied a cigarette I would start to howl like a bull terrier.… It worked all right, in fact Tracy nearly divorced me after I had a brief affair with the St Bernard. Weight becomes the next problem because you are forever raiding the fridge. I became so fat, every time I stood on a ‘Speak Your Weight’ machine, it yelled, ‘No coach parties!’

  Anyway, I have now kicked the habit completely and I must admit that I can now climb a flight of stairs without begging for an oxygen mask. I gave up drinking whisky, which shocked show business and the distillers, and now I drink wine, in far smaller quantities, I might add.

  Tracy also got me into the habit of going to bed early. The subject of starting a family cropped up again one night, and naturally I agreed to undergo rehearsals for it.… I was never ill enough to forgo that pleasure! However, there was another scare to face.

  Tracy was busying herself in the kitchen one blustery late February morning, and I noticed that she was not her usual radiant self. When I taxed her about her health, she smiled, a little tensely I thought, and replied that she was fine. However, I became worried about her – her skin seemed to lack lustre and she was terribly tired all the time.… Despite her protests, I made an appointment for her to have some blood tests and a thorough general check-up. Five days later I drove her to see the specialist. I had already made provisional arrangements to take her away to where there might be some sunshine, because she looked so washed out, perhaps not surprisingly with all the anxiety over my illness, and the fast tempo of our lives. I blamed myself for her condition.

  The blood tests were carried out efficiently, and the specialist, sensing my worry, told us to go and have a cup of coffee and come back in an hour for the results. I thanked him profusely, and off we went in a high old state of nervous tension to gulp down several cups of indifferent coffee.

  ‘What do you think is wrong with me, Lump?’ Tracy said quietly, but by the way she gripped her coffee cup I knew she was frightened. Normally she is as chirpy as a cricket, but now she was pale, very tired looking and dispirited.

  ‘Don’t worry, Poo,’ I chortled falsely. ‘You’re probably a wee bit anaemic … perhaps you need a tonic at your age.’

  She smiled dutifully and whispered back, ‘You are the only tonic I need.’

  Tears sprang to my eyes.… I prayed to God that there was nothing seriously wrong with her. I couldn’t live without her.… I’d lost before, please, not again, not now that I’d found another soulmate.

  Back at the hospital I paced back and forth in the tiny office like a rampant polecat while Tracy bit her lip. The door opened and three nurses came in with long faces. One of them held a couple of tissues and I nearly screamed out: ‘Christ, what’s wrong with my wife?’ The solemn-faced nurse holding the Kleenex said: ‘I thought you might need these … Tracy, you’re pregnant!’

  I jumped up and started babbling with sheer joy, and Tracy’s tiredness left her features
and within seconds she was her old self! WE WERE GOING TO HAVE A BABY.…

  I kissed my wife, I kissed the beaming nurses … I damn near kissed the walls of the tiny office. Never, since the miracle of the birth of my eldest child, now aged twenty-six, had I experienced such joy, such happiness! If ever a baby was wanted, if ever a child was conceived with love, it was that tiny seed in Tracy’s womb.

  As we drove home, so great was our happiness that we waved to surly motorists and tough-looking lorry drivers.… We thought of names for our baby. The doctor had told us there was nothing to worry about, tiredness was common in the early stages of pregnancy. Someone had heard my prayers, of that I’m convinced.

  Although we decided to keep quiet about it, I wanted everyone we knew to share in our happiness, and – old blabbermouth me – I was soon on the phone to our closest friends. Mo, my original Roly Poly, was the first! Tracy and I flew up to Aberdeen to see her sister Marion and husband David, and had a wonderful four days. When we arrived home, there was a message on the answering machine from a newspaper reporter. Somehow they’d found out, but this time I couldn’t have cared less if they’d heard about it in Borneo. I telephoned the paper and admitted we were going to have an addition to the family, and, yes, they could come round and take photographs, which they did, and every national newspaper carried the story of our baby-to-be.

  It is surprising what news like that can do to people. The press were absolutely wonderful, one tabloid sent us a case of champagne, another a superb basket of flowers and fruit. Total strangers beamed at us in supermarkets or on the streets. And goodwill messages came in bushels. It was as if our love and the child Tracy was bearing were something we were meant to share with others … and that we did gladly.

  The thought of becoming a father again took twenty years off me. I was feeling on top of the world and a lot healthier since I’d stopped smoking and moderated my lifestyle. (Did I really once stay out all night in search of excitement?)

  One more miracle to marvel at.… Tracy went to the hospital a few weeks later for a scan to ensure that everything was all right with the pregnancy, and there on a video screen, I saw the tiny being within her, a new life … our child.

  The Iron Maiden had informed my agents that on no account was I to go back to work until the summer, and with so much to look forward to I complied with her dictum.

  It wasn’t easy; I felt out of things. The telephone didn’t ring very much, there were no producers offering contracts, and I had to come to terms with my absence from the razzamatazz of show business. However, to stroll along the beach with Tracy, chatting about the coming birth, was a soothing balm to my ruffled feathers.

  One or two things clouded my vista of happiness; the death of Frankie Howerd and the shock demise of Benny Hill … two funny men who gave pleasure to so many. I was saddened to hear that another fine performer, Roy Castle, had contracted cancer. I telephoned him with what must have sounded a strange message of hope.… ‘Be angry’ I said to Roy, and I meant it. As I wrote earlier, I believe in anger as a therapy. Rail against the powers that be for inflicting pain and suffering on you; rage at God if need be, He’s big enough to know you don’t really mean it!

  I was due to play Bournemouth for a short summer season but would my health stand up to it? Only way to find out, buster – do it, and so I signed on for another run of the play Run For Your Wife.

  Within myself, I felt a return of the confidence that ill health had taken away from me. Quite often when I mixed with other comedians, I’d felt insecure and unable to compete with them, now there was a spring in my step, I was ready to pick myself up, dust myself down and start all over again!

  If I had one problem, well, it’s one that is shared by many others: weight. Having stopped smoking I found that my sense of smell and taste had returned and my appetite had blossomed. What to do about it? It gave me an idea for a script.

  Health Farm: The one I went to cost four hundred pounds, which was taken off you at the door by a shifty-looking Cypriot. What appealed to me about this health spa was that one could eat whatever one wanted, there was only one snag – they wouldn’t let you swallow it.

  The Celebrated Lancashire Seafood Diet: Very simple, all the food you see, you eat.

  How To Be A Light Eater: Once again, simplicity itself – as soon as it’s light – eat.

  The French have a superb method for weight reduction: 7 lbs off immediately – la Guillotine.

  I tried burning off the fat but it was costing a fortune in matches.…

  I tried to exist on vitamins B, C, D, E, and all that happened was I threw up alphabetically.

  I finally found the solution and I gladly pass it on to you free of charge:

  Find a backstreet tailor who can keep his mouth shut and order three suits (you should get a discount).

  The first one should be a little tight fitting, the second one should be too big and the third one absolutely massive.

  Put the first suit on and go to the doctor of your choice.

  Straight away, whilst he’s working out his golf handicap, he’ll tell you to go on a strict diet.

  Wait a month and then go back to his surgery in the second suit. The doctor will crow with admiration at the sight of you in the baggy suit. Weightwatchers will award you five points, and a highly trained team of specialists will examine your blood pressure and yell out that it’s never been better.

  Wait another month, then return to see the doc; this time garbed in the massive music hall suit.

  When he sees you waddle into the surgery, he’ll turn pale, grip you tightly around the knees and beg you not to overdo it, in fact he will insist that you start drinking again to help build yourself up, together with eating lots of hot pies and chips.

  Lastly, go home to roast beef and Yorkshire pud, put the first suit back on and everyone will tell you in the pub that you’ve never looked better.’

  I was realising just how much I owed Tracy. Apart from tending to my needs and scolding me to look after myself more, she was a tower of strength in trying times. When Stuart, my son, crashed his racing car on the track at Castle Donington and the ambulance sped him away from the burning wreckage, it was she who calmed me down when I tried to leap the barrier.

  Again, when we awakened from an exhausted doze by a frantic call from Julie, saying that Stuart (here we go again!) had crashed his racing car at Brands Hatch and was apparently at death’s door, it was Tracy who prevented me from jumping off the gable end, Tracy who calmly phoned the hospital to get the true picture of his injuries, which by the mercy of God, were slight.…

  It was Tracy who laughed at a certain newspaper story purporting that I had sexually harassed make-up girls in the television studio! Strange really, because I was told the girls always asked to be on my show. It was a load of journalistic tripe, and the girls were the first to wax indignant over it, but a thing like that does tend to make you feel unclean, not to mention giving rise to the ‘never smoke without fire’ attitude in some. Not Tracy, she knew it was a falsehood and her trust in me will never be broken.

  Despite worries about my future, it was nice to have time to have a social life. I was also finding that my capacity to hold vast volumes of alcohol had now shrunk with every passing day of teetotalism. This fact was borne out when we attended the opening night of Les Misérables in Manchester at the Palace Theatre. The champagne flowed and the conversation with fellow performers sparkled. The first half of the show was superb, although the wine I had drunk was making it difficult to focus on the plot. At the interval, we joined several members from the cast of Coronation Street in the private bar and my self-punishment began again. I glanced at my watch and saw that the interval was well over the stipulated fifteen minutes – odd, I thought. We took our seats and it was clear that something was up. Thirty minutes had now elapsed and the curtain was still down; one could sense an air of tension in the crowded theatre. I went back to the bar for a refill, then edged my way back again when I
saw the glare of disapproval on Tracy’s face.

  Suddenly the curtain rose and out stepped the man behind the production, Cameron Macintosh himself. ‘I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said apologetically, ‘but the performance cannot continue owing to a fault in the machinery that works the main prop in the production, the stockade scene.… I’m extremely sorry, but the show cannot go on.…’ There was a deathly silence, then the champagne boosted me from my seat and I shouted down to Macintosh: ‘In that case, can you tell us how it ends?’ The tension in the theatre was suddenly relieved as the audience exploded into laughter. At the party afterwards, Cameron Macintosh waited for me at the hotel entrance, shook me warmly by the hand and said with a grin: ‘Thanks, Les, could you come to all my first nights?’

  It was with some trepidation that I went to Victoria Hospital for a video cardiac check-up. Although I was feeling great, my narrow escape from death in London had damaged the valve on the old ticker.… The white-coated and sombre medic ran an instrument all over my chest, sides and back and there on screen was a negative film of my heart. After it was all over, he smiled and said, ‘Marvellous, Les, there is a vast improvement.’

  My time of recuperation came rapidly to a close and Bournemouth loomed large. The play was greeted with enthusiasm by the holidaymakers and residents alike and the newspaper reviews were quite flattering, in one of them I was referred to as ‘That Mancunian Marvel, a portly delight.’

  The season trundled along in a sunny and amiable fashion. Tracy and I had rented a house that overlooked the marina in Christchurch. At first we were happy with it but it was a three-storey dwelling and as Tracy’s pregnancy inched ahead, going up and down the stairs became an effort of will for her, but for me the stairs and the play plus the nightly trek up the pier, proved that my stamina was still capable of sustaining the gruelling pace of show business.