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

by Roy Chubby Brown

  ‘I’ve seen the bride. No wonder they’re all queuing up to kiss the groom,’ I said. ‘Has the fat sod had a shower? And what about the best man, eh? He’s thicker than the cake and he left the ring on the curtains.’

  A woman in a big white hat stood up. ‘Get off! Yer rubbish!’ she shouted.

  ‘Who’s the twat in a hat?’ I said.

  ‘The bride’s mum,’ yelled someone on the groom’s side of the room as everyone around him cracked up laughing. With the right side of the room in stitches and those on the left booing, it wasn’t surprising that a fight broke out between them. The wedding party came to an abrupt halt and again I wasn’t paid. And they say until death us do part – it was my death and they parted.

  The pit villages were the hardest venues to play, but at least they usually had decent facilities. The rugby clubs were diabolical. Some of the smaller clubs wouldn’t even have a changing room. At best, there’d be a toilet with piss on the floor. At worst, they’d ask you to get changed in a corridor or in your car.

  At Whitehaven Rugby Club, a hut on the side of a field, there was no microphone, no lights and no stage. When I told the chairman that I needed a stage and somewhere to put my speakers, he found an old beer crate. There was no point in complaining. I’d travelled for three hours to get to Whitehaven on the Cumbrian coast and I needed the fifty quid. I stood stock-still on the beer crate for a full hour and twenty minutes, playing my instruments and shouting joke after joke after joke as loud as I could.

  Workington Rugby Club was even worse. ‘Where’s the stage?’ I asked when I arrived.

  ‘We don’t have a stage,’ said the concert chairman. ‘The comics just stand in the corner.’

  ‘I’m not a fucking dunce.’

  ‘Well, they just stand there and do it.’

  ‘Where’s the PA system?’

  ‘We don’t have a PA. Everybody can hear – we all go quiet to listen.’

  My ‘stage’ was right beside the entrance. Every time someone came in the room, the door would swing round, blocking me from the audience. And when they could see me, my face was in darkness – the only lighting came from a fifteen-watt light bulb suspended from a wire that stretched across the room.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentleman. My name is Roy Chubby Brown,’ I started as the door opened.

  ‘Hiya,’ said a latecomer.

  ‘Hiya,’ replied half his mates in the room.

  ‘Well, there we are,’ I said. ‘Latecomers, I know what to get you for Christmas. A watch … Well, anyway, I come from Middlesbrough, a quaint little town …’

  And the door opened again. It was like Woolworths on a Saturday afternoon. The punters were walking in and out as if I wasn’t there. ‘I wish I was as strong as these hinges on the door,’ I said as a round of greetings rippled around the room.

  ‘Hiya.’

  ‘Hiya, June.’

  ‘Hiya.’

  ‘Hiya, Brenda.’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ I said. ‘I’m just delivering the milk.’ I took a step forward. ‘I’ll do this act, ladies and gentlemen, when everybody’s arrived.’ Meanwhile I turned to the committee man. ‘How dare you book a fucking comedian? How dare you book anybody?’

  ‘I thought you had a good reputation.’

  ‘Yeah, I have, but I thought you had a stage and a fucking PA system. You are clueless,’ I said, thinking he could stick his club where a monkey sticks its nuts.

  As well as rubbish venues and tight-arsed committee men, clubland comics had to deal with the mixed blessing of the heckler. No comedian likes to be heckled. It stops the flow, interrupts your concentration and often breaks the timing and rhythm of your jokes. But equally, a quick response – comics call them ad libs, although they’re mostly thought out in advance – can get the biggest laugh of the evening.

  As much as hecklers are the bane of a comic’s life, there’s also something very exciting about batting back their insults with a quick ad lib. It makes the sweat drip on the back of my neck as I wait for the heckler to respond. The trick is to be confident in your material, self-assured in your responses and, most importantly, much funnier than the heckler.

  A good supply of ad libs is a vital part of a comedian’s armour. I worked for years on mine until I had more than five hundred one-liners with which to put down any heckler, so that the art of countering a heckler was simply choosing the right one.

  For hecklers who simply shouted out inanities, I had a stack of replies, including: ‘When you go to the cinema, do you shout at the screen?’; ‘If I wanted to talk to a turd, I’d go for a shit’; ‘If you were that important, the seats would be facing you’; ‘Shout all you like. I’m a pro. Like your mother’; ‘What’re you shouting at? Has your probation officer gone for a piss?’; ‘Whatever medication you’re on, come on, share it out’; ‘If I wanted to be shouted at, I’d have brought the wife’; ‘Was the ground cold when you crawled out of it this morning?’; ‘You sit right there until the blind knife-thrower comes on’; ‘Gotta admire your Dad, building a shithouse like you with just one tool’; ‘Was Wakefield jail overcrowded?’; and ‘I bet your father threw bricks at the stork.’

  Women heckled much less than men, who seemed to think that taking on the comic would make them look hard, but I kept a couple of ad libs especially for drunken hen parties, which could be worse than any male hecklers. ‘When you’re working, I don’t jump up and down on the bed,’ I’d say. Or: ‘With a tongue like that, I bet you can lick your husband’s arse through the letter box.’ Or: ‘I’ll do the funnies. You go home and get your beauty sleep – stay in bed a month.’

  Any comic resents people turning up late, simply because it distracts the audience and upsets your timing. ‘Thanks for coming late,’ I’d say. ‘The babysitter called. She said it was only a head wound.’ Or: ‘What happened? Was the over-eighties night cancelled?’

  And if someone got up in the middle of the act, I’d deal with the disruption by drawing attention to them and hurling a volley of abuse at them. It discouraged other punters from doing the same. ‘You scruffy cunt. Is that your tractor parked outside?’ I’d say. Or: ‘Don’t worry, that suit will come back into fashion.’ Or I’d say: ‘That was your mam on the phone. You can go home now. She’s cleaned your cage out.’

  If the heckler wouldn’t shut up, or if they were particularly offensive, I’d match their rudeness. ‘I’d call you a cocksucker, but I know you’re trying to give it up,’ I’d shout. Or: ‘You’re a good impressionist. From nowhere you became an arsehole.’ Or: ‘You’re so thick you probably think a female peacock is a peacunt.’ Or: ‘If your dick was as big as your gob, you’d be with a bird.’ Or: ‘See what happens when brothers and sisters fuck each other.’

  I soon got a reputation among other comics for my putdowns. ‘Don’t go for the bar when Chubby’s on,’ they’d say, ‘because he’ll get you.’ I was like a sparrow-hawk looking for a mouse.

  It was also important to have a quick reply ready if something unexpected happened. Any unforeseen disruption could stop an act in its tracks. If someone dropped a glass, I’d say, ‘Don’t bother washing that’ and continue with my joke. If someone tripped up as they walked past, I’d say: ‘No dancing while I’m on.’ If someone knocked all the drinks over, I’d say: ‘Eh, look at that. One Babycham and he’ll fight any fucker.’

  The only problem with having a go at hecklers was that they could try to make up for it after the show. I was playing Farringdon Social Club in Sunderland and doing pretty well, but a gang of lads at the front kept interjecting, shouting, ‘Fuck off, you big fat Geordie bastard’.

  ‘You want to buy a road map, mate,’ I said. ‘I don’t mistake you Mackems for Geordies and I am not one either. I’m from Yorkshire and proud of it.’

  They kept on heckling, so I applied my usual tactic for dealing with a rowdy group of lads – pick on one of them and ridicule him in front of his mates. It usually worked.

  ‘What’re ya gonna do
for a face when that elephant wants his arsehole back?’ I said and continued with my act.

  The concert chairman came up to me when I came off. ‘May be a bit of trouble here, Roy,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That lad you picked on is the hardest lad on the estate. He’s from a very rough family and he’s been telling everybody that he’s going to rip your head off.’

  I’d seen worse than that lad in other clubs, so I got on with getting changed and carrying my props to my van. I walked out the side door to find the Mackem hard nut waiting for me.

  ‘Ah want a word wi yee,’ he said.

  ‘Could you hang on, I am just getting my speakers out.’

  ‘Ah want yee – heor,’ he said, pointing at a space beyond my van and the club. I looked at him. He was a big lad with a face that looked like somebody had been chopping sticks on it. He had a flattened nose and scars all around his eyes. It was obvious he was a fighter.

  ‘Fuckin won’t tell ye agyen, leik,’ he said. ‘Ah want yee – heor.’

  ‘Could you just wait a second?’ I said. ‘This stuff is expensive. Can I just put it in the car?’

  Bouncing from foot to foot and psyching himself up, he watched me while I loaded my van. I knew he was going to have me as soon as he got his chance. I needed to click my brain into a higher gear. How was I going to get out of this one? Should I pretend to pass out? Two lads were standing in the shadows a few feet behind him. Once he knocked me down, I suspected they’d kick the shit out of me. I’d seen it done before.

  The Mackem moved closer, poking me in the back as I put my speakers in my van.

  ‘Could you hang on? I’m just putting these speakers in,’ I said.

  ‘I’m fucking taaking te ye, fuckin loudmouth. Tell me noo me face is leik a fuckin elephant’s arse.’

  ‘Could you just let me put my speakers down, please?’

  ‘Howay then,’ he said, squaring up to punch me. ‘Put yer speakers doon, leik.’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on here,’ I said. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘Nobody tells me me face is leik an elephant’s—’

  ‘It was just a bit of fun, mate. I’m a comedian, for God’s sake. You’ve seen the way I’m dressed – like an arsehole. What do you want to be fighting with me for? You might knock me teeth out but then I’ll have to take you to court and sue you.’

  ‘You’ll hev ne fuckin heed, leik, when I’ve finished wi ye.’

  ‘This is a bit silly, isn’t it? I’ve got nothing against you, mate, but all you want to do is rip my head off. It’s a bit stupid, especially coming from a bloke like you.’

  ‘What dyer mean, a bloke leik me, leik?’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to tell me that you aren’t shagging yourself to death.’

  ‘What the fuckin hell as tha got dee wi it, leik?’

  ‘Well, look at you. You are a good-looking bloke. You must be shagging yourself to death and here you are going around, beating people up, and getting a reputation for yourself,’ I said. ‘If I looked like you, do you know where I would be now? I’d be down the nightclubs pulling a bit of pussy. You must get … I bet you get more pussy than you can handle.’

  ‘Ah get a bit, leik.’

  I knew I had him. ‘Be honest with me, now. How many times have you been told you look like Elvis Presley?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘When I saw you sat there, at the front, at that table in front of the stage, I thought: fucking hell, that lad looks like Elvis. That’s why I thought I could have a bit of banter with you. Because you’ve nothing to hide. You’re a good-looking bloke and you can handle yourself.’

  ‘Aye … is that what you think?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what – it’s amazing. I’ve never seen owt like it. A dead ringer for Elvis.’

  On my bairn’s life, I’d convinced him he looked like Elvis. As he puffed out his chest and turned his collar up, I thought, you thick twerp, I’ve brainwashed you.

  ‘Are these yer speakers, leik?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  He picked them up and put them in the back of my van. Then he shook my hand.

  ‘Well, Ah thowht ye were fuckin geet, mate,’ he said. ‘If ye come roond heor Farringdon way, if yee hae any trouble, just fuckin ring me an I’ll sort it oot.’ He gave me his phone number. ‘I’m Nosher. Everybody knows me. An I’ll sort them oot.’

  ‘Right.’

  Nosher walked towards his mates and I got in the van. I turned the key and thanked God that it started. I put it in first gear and slowly moved off, winding down the window as the van picked up speed.

  ‘Elvis?’ I shouted out of the window. ‘You look more like fucking Quasimodo’s arse, you big ugly cunt!’

  About a month later, Brian rang me. ‘Farringdon Social Club want you back,’ he said.

  I told Brian the story. ‘I wish I’d been there,’ he said when he’d stopped laughing. ‘And I don’t think you’d better ever go back there again.’

  I relied on a lot of props in my early solo days, mainly because we’d used props such as the talking bucket in Alcock & Brown and because in those days I found it easier to come up with visual gags than the patter. At one time I had more than a hundred props, including a wooden gate, a toilet seat, a balloon, a giant guitar, a telephone and a dog called Spunk that I’d sit on my knee for a routine.

  There would always be a gag attached. I had a railing with ‘Gents’ toilet’ painted on it. ‘Could you please excuse me?’ I’d say, then I’d walk behind the railing as if I was going down some stairs, press a button on a tape recorder and set off a sound effect of running water. The audience loved it. ‘Oh God, I needed that!’ I’d say and the place would be falling about. People laugh at the silliest things.

  I had a telephone that would ring on the press of a button. ‘Hello? Yes? Your Majesty?’ I’d say. ‘Yes. How are you? How’s Phil? … Really … I passed your house the other day. Fucking hell, it’s like a palace.’

  All my bits of kit were props in more ways than one. Not only stage props, they also propped up my act because I hadn’t developed enough gags to last an hour on my own.

  I’d got fed up playing with Mick and George in Alcock & Brown because I thought they lacked ambition. Wanting only to earn beer money, they seemed quite prepared to sing the same songs, night after night, with no rehearsal or attempt to improve our act. They knew it meant we’d never earn decent money, but that didn’t seem to matter to them. They just wanted a bit of fun a couple of nights a week, whereas I wanted to make a career of show business.

  I’d vowed not to work with anyone else after splitting with Mick and George, but then I met Terry Harris, an impressionist who’d also been the lead singer with Sugar and Spice, a local group. Like me, Terry wanted to earn better money, so we decided to combine our acts in the hope that we’d get more and better work that way.

  Still working under the banner of Alcock & Brown, our act was immediately more successful than it had been with George and Mick, with whom the act had been a very straightforward half-hour of comedy followed by half an hour of music. With Terry, it was ninety per cent comedy and we weaved the various bits together in a much better way. Terry did his impressions, I told a few jokes, we did the slapstick routines that I’d been working on as a solo act and I developed a few new spiels, including engaging with the audience as I’d seen Bernard Manning do. I’d look through women’s handbags or take the mickey out of a bloke at the front. ‘What’s the matter with your face?’ I’d say. ‘Did you paint your teeth lemon on purpose?’ If I spotted someone not laughing, I’d pull them out of their chair and get them up on stage. ‘Make me laugh, you miserable bastard,’ I’d shout at them. They usually giggled helplessly with embarrassment, the audience lapped it up and I loved relying solely on my quick wits. Occasionally there would be an awkward bastard who’d threaten to punch me if I picked on him, but that was inevitable when we were working six nights a week, and more often
than not I could use it to my advantage. ‘Ooh, have you come on?’ I’d say if the misery guts was a bloke. He’d have to be a right miserable sod not to laugh at that.

  Terry and I worked well together on stage, but off stage it was a different story. I felt resentful as I thought I was always the one who had to be the creative, innovative member of the partnership, the one who came up with new gags, whereas Terry was happy to stick to the tried and tested impressions of the day such as Harold Wilson, Prince Charles, Ted Heath, Norman Wisdom and Michael Crawford as Frank Spencer.

  However, the greatest source of friction between me and Terry ‘14 Combs’ Harris was his vanity. We once had the opportunity of doing a spot on a daytime television talk show in Edinburgh, but we nearly missed it because Terry spent so much time staring at himself in the hotel mirror, just in case there was an attractive woman he could pull at the studio. Also, sometimes I would buy food and drink for Terry all day and then watch open-mouthed when he did not even pay for his fish and chips at the end of the evening.

  Terry and I worked so hard that we had little time for fun – and compared with Mick and George, Terry wasn’t up for fun anyway – but there was one incident I’ll never forget. We were playing a series of gigs in South Wales and went to the swimming pool to kill time one afternoon in Cardiff. We were sitting in the steam room when someone I recognised walked in and sat down beside me.

  ‘You’re Frankie Vaughan?’ I said. I was right. ‘We do a club act,’ I added, explaining where we’d been playing. ‘Oh, by the way, happy birthday.’

  ‘Has someone told you it’s my birthday?’ Frankie said.

  ‘I know because it’s my birthday too. We were both born on the third of February.’

  ‘That’s some coincidence,’ Frankie said. ‘I think it calls for a celebration.’

  We left the steam room, sat at a table beside the swimming pool and shared a bottle of champagne. Frankie was a lovely man, a wonderful person. I’ve met many people in show business who have let their success go to their heads. But Frankie was not one of them. A fabulous singer and very good-looking, he looked like a British Robert Mitchum. His wife Sheila must have had her hands full over the years because I think at one time every woman in Britain wanted to bed Frankie Vaughan. He was utterly charming.