Common As Muck!: The Autobiography of Roy 'Chubby' Brown

by Roy Chubby Brown

  When Lou was buried and everything had settled down, I sat at my piano and wrote a little ragtime two-step called ‘Louvane’. I thought a ragtime suited Lou because she was always jokey and giddy and full of fun. It was mainly instrumental. At shows I’d introduce it as a song dedicated to a girl who lost her life on holiday in Malta and at the end of every sixteen bars I’d just say ‘Louvane.’ Norman was dead chuffed with it and the audiences loved it, so I put it on my first album, Fat Bastard.

  I paid for a plaque to be put on the wall near where we’d last seen Lou. Ten years later, I went back to Malta on holiday. Norman died five years after he lost Lou – he’d started drinking heavily after her death and had a heart attack. I went to have a look at Lou’s plaque. It was corroded and filthy. The lettering was impossible to make out. The next day, leaving the rest of the holiday party sitting by the pool, I went to an ironmonger’s in Valletta. I bought some steel wool, a wire brush and some black paint. I cleaned the plaque up, repainted the lettering and planted a flowering bush in front of it. It was the least that Lou deserved.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SOLO STEPS

  THE FIRST CALL after I arrived home from hospital came from Bernard Manning. Many people in the northern comedy world believe there’s a great rivalry between Bernard and me. But there’s not and there never has been. I’ve always admired Bernard and he opened a lot of doors for people like me. We’ve been friends for years and I recently did the entertainment at Bernard’s seventy-fifth birthday party.

  Plenty of other comedians had written to me after news got out that I had cancer. Ken Dodd, who has always been my hero, wrote to wish me good luck after I sent him my most recent video. ‘It’s so good to hear that you are doing well with your treatment,’ Ken wrote. ‘I’ll try not to do too much of your material on my next show!’

  Bob Monkhouse, as well as phoning as soon as he heard of my diagnosis, wrote several times, on one occasion just after returning home to find more than a thousand letters from readers of two Sunday tabloids that had him at death’s door. ‘We hope with all our hearts that you are recovering strongly from your op,’ Bob wrote. ‘Let’s fight on, you and I! We’ve both faced some tough battles on the stage and this is another one we can win. Keep polishing your helmet.’

  More letters came from other comedians and club owners with whom I’d worked over the years. And then the phone calls started. Joe Pasquale, Duncan Norvelle, Dave Lee, Micky Miller and many others called. The message was always the same: we’re thinking of you at this time. I’d gone through life thinking that few people knew who I was; now all these celebrities were phoning and writing to me.

  I appreciated them all but Bernard was different. He has been like a comedy godfather to me, so when he called it was something special.

  ‘Eeeeh, is this Chubby?’ Bernard said.

  I did my best to croak, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s Bernard.’

  ‘Hello, Bernard.’

  ‘I’m sat here worried about you, son. I have been told some hurtful things.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I rasped.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what to say. Keep your pecker up, won’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. How are you, Bernard?’

  ‘I’m on eighteen tablets a day for me kidneys, for me angina, for me arthritis and me gout.’

  ‘I bet you rattle when you trip up,’ I rasped.

  ‘If I trip up, no fucker’s strong enough to pick me up, are they?’ he said. Then he told me a gag about Michael Jackson. ‘What’s Arthur Scargill got in common with Michael Jackson?’ he said. ‘Hasn’t seen a helmet for fifteen years.’

  Bernard laughed. ‘You can have that,’ he said, like it was one of his own. ‘If you want anything, give me a ring. Please give me a ring. And please keep in touch with me.’

  ‘Right.’ I wanted to tell Bernard how much I appreciated his concern, but my voice wasn’t up to it.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I said. It was all I could manage.

  I’d been playing solo gigs for about two years, getting my name about as a solo comic while still playing with George and Mick in Alcock & Brown, when Brian got me a job at Jollys, a premier-division club at Stoke-on-Trent. ‘There’s strippers on the top of the bill,’ he said. ‘Then you.’

  Jollys was a venue with a big reputation. Along with Batley Variety Club and the Double Diamond at Caerphilly, it dominated the club circuit. I knew what would be expected of me. There’d be 1,800 men on pie-and-pea suppers washed down with jugs of ale before the strippers, of which there’d be about half a dozen, came on. My job would be to do a twenty-minute warm-up before the strippers and to step in during the show with a few gags if there were any delays. For a novice stand-up it was a daunting proposition, but I took on the gig and set off in my van from Middlesbrough with my cousin Dec, arriving at Jollys four hours later.

  As we pulled up, Dec read out a poster outside the venue. ‘Bernard Manning, 12 Exotic Dancers plus support,’ it said.

  ‘Eh, Bernard’s on here soon,’ I said as we walked inside. ‘I wonder when.’

  In the dressing room, the manager introduced himself. ‘Bernard’s on at nine,’ he said.

  ‘Hang on?’ I said. ‘Bernard what?’

  ‘Bernard’s on at nine o’clock,’ the manager said. ‘You do twenty minutes, then we’ll put some strippers on. Bernard goes on for an hour, some more strippers, then you do another twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’m on here with Bernard Manning?’ I said. If I had been upside down, the shit would have come out of me collar. I was petrified. Bernard’s reputation went before him and I was on the same bill.

  Bernard was the king of the club circuit. The top comic. He was the boy. I’d never thought in my wildest dreams that I would ever work with Bernard Manning, but here I was, on the same bill, even if it was as ‘plus support’.

  At eight o’clock, the four-piece house band struck up a tune and the compère stepped up to the microphone. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Jollys. We’ve some show for you tonight,’ he announced. ‘First of all, a young man, a comic who’s just starting out but who we think is going to be a big name in the future. He’ll keep you laughing for twenty minutes or so, then we’ll bring on some of the girls. At the top of the bill, Bernard Manning will arrive at the building at nine o’clock, then …’

  I walked onto the stage. Jollys was the biggest venue I’d played until then. It was a classic old-style nightclub, with rows of tables banked up from the stage, each with a little lamp on it. The lads were sitting four, six or eight to a table and the bars ran right around the back walls in a horseshoe from the stage. The waitresses wore bunny ears, like in the Playboy Club in London, taking orders for trayfuls of drinks. I did my set – it went down well, but I knew my place and I was very much bottom of the bill behind Bernard and the strippers – and left the stage, hoping to meet Bernard.

  Bernard’s ways were renowned in clubland and one of his many habits was always to start his set at nine o’clock and never to arrive before five to nine. He didn’t like to sit in his dressing room, taking his time getting dressed and preparing for the show. Bernard would sit outside the venue in his white Rolls-Royce until the very last minute. He was well known for it.

  At five to nine, Bernard arrived in full view of the audience in his usual costume – a white shirt and a black suit – and slipped on a bow tie. There were no inhibitions or starry antics with Bernard. If the venue was small, he wouldn’t even bother with the dicky bow.

  I grabbed Bernard’s driver as he walked past. ‘Excuse me, is there any chance of an autograph and a photograph with Bernard?’ I asked.

  ‘Course you can. Just do it before he goes on.’

  I met Bernard in the wings of the stage. ‘What do you do?’ he said in a deep, gravely voice that could strip paint.

  ‘I’m the warm-up comic,’ I said.

  ‘Do you want some gags, do you?’ Bernard said with a smile. ‘What d’you do, then?’
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  I ran through my repertoire. Bernard needed to check we weren’t doing the same jokes. I told him I did a few adverts off the telly and a few parodies.

  ‘Oh, right, that sounds fine,’ he said and walked straight on stage.

  I watched Bernard’s act with open-mouthed wonder. He walked off the stage into the crowd, picked up someone’s pint and drank it. Then he borrowed a cigarette off somebody else. He hadn’t told a gag, but he already had the audience in his hand.

  ‘Eh, these are nice,’ he said, taking a drag on the cigarette he’d cadged. ‘How much are they these days?’ He patted the pockets of his jacket. ‘I’ve got some fags,’ he said and pulled out an old packet of Woodbines. ‘I’ve had these since 1939.’

  It was a simple act, based on having a go at the audience, but it was clever and very funny. Since then, I’ve known Bernard’s routine off by heart and like all the 1,800 blokes in Jollys that night I loved his act. He was a great genuine man and a fabulous storyteller.

  After an hour, Bernard came off. He would usually leave immediately after changing his shirt, but on that night he came into my dressing room after I had finished the second of my two twenty-minute sets. ‘Where the fuck have you come from, son?’ he said. ‘Even I don’t use that word.’ He meant ‘cunt’.

  I had a shower and went out into the backstage corridor. Bernard’s driver was waiting inside the stage door.

  ‘Do you think Bernard liked what he saw?’ I said.

  ‘If Bernard gives you a backhanded compliment, he likes you,’ the driver said.

  A little later, Bernard came walking down the corridor.

  ‘What do you think, Bernard?’ I said. ‘Did you like the act?’

  ‘You want to pack it in,’ he said. ‘You’re rubbish.’ We shook hands. ‘All the best to you, son,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, thanks, Bernard, take care of yourself,’ I said as he walked out of the club and climbed into his white Roller. That’s a star, I thought, a real star. I was more excited about having worked with Bernard than I had been about playing in front of an audience of 1,800 and them all laughing at me. As far as I was concerned, Bernard was the King of Comedy and I was thrilled to have met him.

  Bernard opened a lot of doors for controversial acts like mine and in those days I never thought I would ever reach Bernard’s level. I don’t think anyone ever thinks they’re going to get to the top of their game. Kelly Holmes says she never thought she would be an Olympic champion when she was starting out. She thought she was a good runner and vowed to do the best she could. Edmund Hillary didn’t begin his mountaineering career thinking he was going to be the first man to reach the summit of Everest. He just kept climbing higher until the day came when he thought he’d have a go at the biggest prize.

  And when I was starting out, I saw myself as one of the thousands of club comics. A warm-up act for the big boys. I thought that was all I would ever be. I never thought my name would be on a ticket. I never thought people would pay eighteen quid to see me. I was just a warm-up comic who got a low wage. And for many years that was what I did. I worked with a lot of stars at different venues throughout the country, but I was still on two hundred quid for a week of six shows, always a bit skint, whereas they would be on daft money.

  I worked on the same bill as Bernard a few months later at the Mayfair Ballrooms in Newcastle, where I was better known than in Stoke. Halfway through Bernard’s act, someone shouted out: ‘Where’s Chubby?’

  Bernard knew he was in my home territory and immediately snapped back. ‘You can shout all you like, as long as they don’t get the wage packets mixed up.’

  Over the years, Bernard and I kept in touch. I did a few gigs for his charities and we occasionally shared the same bill. He is a gentleman with few pretensions, just a bloke who tells jokes.

  A few years ago, when Danny La Rue was on a farewell tour and several comics held a dinner for him, Bernard came into my dressing room. ‘How are you, Bernard?’ I said.

  ‘If it wasn’t for me angina and me arthritis and me knees and me back, me deafness and that, I’d be fine,’ he said. That evening, I went home and wrote a poem about Bernard called ‘I Should Be All Right for the Shape I’m In’.

  I’m fine, honestly, I’m quite all right, there’s nothing wrong with me.

  There was a time, in 1961, I had just a touch of dysentery,

  And at the moment I can’t catch my breath. It’s just a little wheeze,

  And, yes, I’ve backache and angina and arthritis in the knees.

  I’ve got a few teeth that’s rotten. I can’t hear, you’ll have to shout,

  I’m overweight ’cos I drink a bit. And someone said it’s gout.

  No, I don’t sleep at night with fallen arches and it affects both fucking

  feet,

  The cramp gets worse when it’s cold. That smell? It’s called Deep

  Heat.

  Dizzy spells, I’m used to them – my head is in a spin,

  Without paracetamol and Nurofen, and of course my saviour which

  is aspirin.

  Eyesight? God, what’s that sign? Now I have to be told,

  But don’t worry, it happens to all of us. It’s a case of getting old.

  Aches and pains and cystitis. I’d have rust if I was made of tin,

  But I’m doing well for seventy-five. For the shape I’m fucking in.

  There was no better way of learning the ropes of clubland than sharing the bill with big names such as Bernard Manning. From them, I learned how to control audiences and how to deal with club committees. Of all the hazards of the game, not getting paid was one of the worst. Each club was different, but they were all united by one simple policy – don’t spend money. If they could avoid paying you, they would. The chairman would tell you that you were being ‘paid off’, although the phrase was a misnomer. The ‘paid’ part of it didn’t apply. You were ‘off’ and that was that.

  It happened to every act that came up through the clubs. I heard that even the Beatles and the Rolling Stones had bad nights when they would be paid off. The unfortunate thing is that it was the bad nights that audiences remembered, not the good ones. Within five minutes of picking up the microphone, I knew whether I was going to do well or not that night. And if I wasn’t getting the laughs, the clock would start ticking until someone walked up to me and said: ‘You’re off!’ The only unanswered question was whether the committee official had a heart. If he did, he’d let me do half my act and give me maybe half of my fee. If he was a bastard, like the committee member at the Tanfield Lea Club in County Durham, he’d let you run through your entire act, then stitch you up like a kipper. I’d played a full one-hour set when I came off and the concert chairman summed up my act in three words: ‘You were shite.’

  ‘Was I shite after ten minutes?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you tell me to come off after ten minutes? I could have got in my car and gone home.’

  ‘I can’t take you off after ten minutes,’ he said. ‘The bingo doesn’t start until nine o’clock.’

  ‘So you let me suffer for an hour, sweating like fuck, worrying myself sick and then walking off to the sound of me own fucking feet because the bingo doesn’t start until nine?’

  ‘Yeah. What’s your fee then?’

  ‘You know what the fee is. It’s fifty quid. That’s what I’m on. Fifty quid.’

  ‘We don’t pay that type of money here.’

  ‘The agent told me to pick up fifty pounds.’

  ‘I work down the pits all week for that, you know,’ he said. I’d heard that same line so many times before. ‘We are going to give you five for your petrol because you have come a long way.’

  It had taken me an hour and a half to travel from Redcar. There were no motorways or dual carriageways in that part of the country in those days. ‘Five pounds?’ I said. ‘No, I’m not taking that. You keep the fiver for putty.’

  ‘Putty?’

  ‘Y
es, putty. Because I’m putting all these fucking windows in.’

  ‘You what? I’ll get the police.’

  ‘You get who you like. Get the Coldstream Guards, the Green Howards. If you don’t give me my money, I’ll smash every fucking window in this club.’

  The chairman walked off and I thought I was going to get my money until he returned from the bar with two big bruisers – six foot, four inch Geordie equivalents of the Kray Twins.

  ‘So yur gunna put wor windas in?’ one of them said in a thick Geordie accent. ‘Ahm gunna put yer windas in!’

  ‘Hang on … hang on,’ I said. ‘I don’t speak your language. I’m from Middlesbrough. I don’t talk Geordie. Is there a translator in the house?’

  ‘Don’t get fuckin’ funny wi’ weh. I’ll punch yer fuckin’ face in. Ye knaa what ah mean, leik?’ And they picked up my gear – very nice of them – carried it out of the club, dropped it in the street and dumped me beside it. I never got a penny. Not even the fiver.

  As an act, you were powerless. There was no redress. If you had a complaint, you could go up in front of the local consultative committee, but the committees were staffed by members of all the clubs in a town or village. They made the rules, they sat in judgement on the rules and they made sure the rules always favoured the clubs, not the acts. They ruled with iron fists. If you did anything wrong, you’d be banned from the clubs for a minimum of six weeks. It was a racket.

  But it wasn’t just the clubs that would refuse to pay if they didn’t like what they heard. I was booked to play a wedding at Wallsend British Legion Club. I always had the worst trouble on Tyneside. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ I said. ‘Welcome to this glorified fucking cowshed. My name is Chubby “Whoops” Brown – the vicar dropped me at the christening.’

  Immediately I realised that the groom’s family on the right side of the room loved my act, but judging by the silence on the left of the room the bride’s relations hated me and there was nothing I could do about it. I cracked a few more gags.