Interesting to note in the above entries how Eric shows a snobbish tendency when mentioning, more than once, that he uses VIP lounges and travels first-class, yet great humbleness, to the point of dumbfoundedness, when showing genuine surprise at people telling him that they’re big Morecambe and Wise fans. Note also that Eric and Ernie stayed in different hotels, whereas you’d think that for convenience they would stay in the same hotel but on different floors if it was a bit of privacy they were after. Once they were both married they stopped sharing a
dressing-room, which is totally understandable, but while visiting another country I would have thought it pragmatic to be nearer each other. Maybe this was part of the technique which enabled them to stay working together for a total of forty-three years.
One thing my father couldn’t disguise, and to be fair he didn’t attempt to, was his delight at being out of America and back in England.This becomes more and more apparent as the entries continue. I should state that he was passionate about England and mildly suspicious of anything ‘foreign’.
We jump forward a little, and he and Ernie are back in New York for The Ed Sullivan Show:
November 24 1967 New York
My God—it’s weeks since I wrote anything in this book. I’ve had all the time in the world in which to do it, as since I finished Yarmouth I’ve done absolutely nothing. One record and two interviews for BBC radio.The TV shows that we did for the States are now coming out every three weeks in Britain*. The first one got to number one in the ratings.The second one came in at number 5 and the third one came in at number one again. It will be interesting to work out the average when the series is over.
It’s nine-o-clock Friday morning the day after Thanksgiving. I’m having my continental ‘jet’ breakfast in my room at the New York Hilton—which is not a hotel I would stay at again. I prefer the Americana—or the others I’ve stayed in. Ern and self are over here to do a Sullivan show this Sunday. I’m watching TV at the moment, and it’s 9.15 in the morning!
November 27
Ernie’s Birthday!
I haven’t as yet bought him anything but will. Probably something small, like a small TV set (Joke). Did the show last night. OK, but really it’s like hitting your head against a brick wall.This can’t do us much good. But the money is good: $9000 with tips! (Joke).
November 28
Today we saw Billy Marsh* who came over to see us and Norman Wisdom. He told me Jock Cochrane, an old friend of mine, died in England last week. Early in our career he did a lot for us.This afternoon we (Billy, me and Ern) went to the Sullivan office to have a talk with Bob Precht who is Ed’s booking manager. He was happy with the show we did and would like us to do as many more as we want. So it looks like we will be back again in the New Year. He also mentioned a Broadway show,** but this is in the very early talking stage as yet. Billy is by devious ways trying to get us to do as much over here as possible, but I think it is only to make gains for his own ends.
What I find fascinating about the almost everyday comments Eric penned above is that there is this clear distrust of their potential popularity in the States. He doesn’t like the hotel; despite success he feels they are hitting their heads against a brick wall, and his agent Billy Marsh is apparently being devious in attempting to get them continued, well-paid work over there. Knowing Ernie as I did, I imagine his take on this time was altogether very different. Whenever Eric wanted something to happen in their career it tended to happen
Did his heart attack exactly one year after these diary entries were written really mean they were destined never to make it big in America, or was it the perfect, unquestionable excuse not to have to pursue it any more? Certainly there were further interviews down the years—including one for Michael Parkinson’s show—where Eric tended to throw water on the idea. His most memorable line, which I paraphrase, was,‘I won’t say sidewalk for pavement or elevator for lift.‘And he was quick to point out that it had taken them twenty years to become stars in Britain, so why go through all that again? Which is a fair point, though you could often see Ernie Wise wincing behind a tight-lipped grin and nod of agreement.This is where Eric and Ernie were at their best—they did always present a united front, even if it sometimes hurt. Ernie must have sensed, even at the time they were working in the States, that Eric was never going to give his all to making things happen out there, and that at best any success should be viewed as a by-product of their success in Britain. I wouldn’t go as far as saying Eric was xenophobic, but there was more than a hint of his only being content when back in the UK, even it was after a fortnight’s holiday anywhere abroad.
Ernie wrote in Still On My Way To Hollywood that Eric was concerned about doing shows in New York because ‘it was an audience of millions of Americans who took a bit of time to warm to an English act’.The italics are his, so it is clear where the emphasis lies. Indeed he goes on to say,‘It was possibly the only time I became impatient with Eric.’
A further diary entry by Eric—short and solitary on its own page—reveals his realization that the only problem with America might be him. It comes just before what would be their last-ever trip over there to appear on Sullivan’s show:
December 31 1967 Harpenden
…Next week off to New York again. I’m not looking forward to it. But I never do. Sometimes I think there must be something wrong with me.
And then he has arrived:
January 7 1968 Waldorf Astoria New York
It’s thick snow outside.This trip the weather has really been cold. 15 below. I hope the plane will take off tomorrow. It could have cleared by then. Ern and I do the Sullivan again tonight.We will do the Marvo and Dolores bit.All the crew think it’s very funny. But I have been wrong before.
There’s still a negativity seeping into his tone, as Eric never was wrong about what worked for Morecambe and Wise, so that he should imply he might be wrong is representative of the apathy these New York trips were invoking. It’s even more interesting when put into the context of his health. No one, including Eric, knew that he had ten months of this annual ritual before his massive, near-fatal heart attack that coming November.
In further entries we see a continued strategy developing to keep Eric interested in making it big in the States, matched by his continued apathy towards the notion:
New York January 1968
We went to the Sullivan off ice today to meet the girl who is doing the ‘Wall’* bit with us. She’s called Michelle Lee and was one of the leads on Broadway and this film How To Succeed. She is very pretty and also is keen to do it. (The Wall bit, I mean!) Bob Precht, Sullivan’s director, asked us if we would stay over until the weekend to do another show on Saturday. It’s a tribute to Irving Berlin’s 80th birthday. So we said we would. It’s also with Bing Crosby and Bob Hope.
My father would have been particularly keen to meet Hope and Crosby, who had been such a successful big-screen double act over the previous two decades.
This reveals the incongruity of his dislike for everything that side of the pond alongside his great love, respect, and curiosity for the star names America had produced (even if Hope hailed from Lewisham, in London).
The undated entries of that week continue with Eric becoming more and more unable to be part of the New York world:
I was taken out to the Playboy Club by Fred [Harris].We went to see a young comic. Fred thought he was good. I didn’t rate him.Although it was a free night, the food was terrible.
The next day:
Rehearsed all day with Michelle.Went to bed early without Michelle!!
The next day:
The day of the show. 9.15 at the theatre, saw our name outside. Must say it gives one a kick to see your name up on Broadway. At 9.30 we had a music call, then did what the Americans call ‘Blocking’, which is a camera runthrough. Back at 12 in the afternoon for make up. At 1, a complete dress run, with the people out front. It went very well.They had no notes for us. Next show would be showtime at 8.
The next day:
I didn’t do much today. I got up late and had lunch at a Chinese restaurant. People knew me from the show the night before. I felt like walking about saying, ‘Yes, I was on last night. Glad you liked it!’ However, one can’t do that. Although I know one or two that almost do that.
I stayed in most of the afternoon. Fred [Harris] rang up at about 5pm and came over to the hotel at about 6.30pm. He had nothing lined up, so rang the George Abbott theatre to see if we could walk over and get tickets for Darling of the Day. It was very easy, so we went.The theatre was half full. (A pessimist would say half empty!)…The show was lacking somewhere. Mind you, that is always easy to say. I know I couldn’t have put it right.After the show, Fred and I went for a bowl of soup at some Broadway café. Home after, and a few drinks and kip.
I find it interesting how in these entries my father apparently becomes aware of his own negativity as demonstrated in that marginally defensive line ‘A pessimist would say half empty!’ One of his greatest strengths, in my opinion, was that he was always so positive. Certainly he could get spiky at times, and was by no means someone you would have described as tolerant and patient, but he saw the world, for the most part, through sunny spectacles.
The next day:
This morning I had to meet Pat Kilburn*, in Saks on Fifth Ave. Or, as the Americans say, Fitavenooo. Pat came at 11 as arranged. She wanted to shop and buy some shoes and matching handbag.Which we did. I noticed while waiting for her in the shoe department that the American women treat the sellers like dirt.To me they do have a class distinction. But it’s all of their own…The more I’m over here, the more I am glad I’m English—even British.
Pat and I went to the top of the Pan Am building for a quiet drink, which in New York is impossible.Then we caught a cab out to the airport to meet her husband, Mike, who was doing some biz there.Then we drove to their home in Wilmington, Delaware.
The next day:
Wilmington Delaware.
Mike isn’t too well. Probably run down with the strain of the move over here. Pat, Erika and Amanda* seem fine, and the kids are well now, going to school and becoming very quickly a part of the scene out here…
Pat drove me around the Dupont country…I should imagine in Spring and Summer it must be very lovely. I only stayed the one night. I caught a train back to New York. Never having been on an American train I found it most interesting.They seem to run much more quietly than ours.The porter, just before we got into New York, made a speech:‘Ladies and Gentlemen, in a few moments we will be in Pennsylvania station New York. Please could I have your tickets and complaints. I’ll take the tickets first.‘Then he took our tickets and left, never to be seen again!
The next day:
New York.
Just rehearsed today. Spent a lazy day and bought a hat,* one of the Russian types, which is very popular out here, but will get laughs at home. But it’s so cold here that it’s necessary.
The next day:
New York.
Had a band call this morning and rehearsed. Hung about the theatre till Fred came with his nephew. Spent the afternoon with them in a bar on Broadway. Told stories about Jack Hylton.* At 5 we came back to the theatre to get ready for the show.This show is the Ed Sullivan tribute to mark Irving Berlin’s 80th.
Bing Crosby went on first and kept going wrong.They had to do his bit three times. Even then he sang White Christmas wrong. But they let it go.We followed Bing Crosby and did our Fred Astaire skit. It was one of the best things we have done out here. Bob Hope followed us and started to do jokes about heart transplants. Not really in good taste.Also had idiot boards all over the front rows.
The next day:
Flew back to England with David Frost who fell asleep as soon as he sat down and I woke him up about five minutes before landing. He was coming home for three hours then flying back to New York!
And so, unbeknown to Morecambe and Wise at this time, ended their American extravaganza. Not that the drama stopped on Eric’s return. His final entry in the New York section of his diaries reads:
Brian* met me in and took me home. I was sat down watching TV in the afternoon…when at 4.15 Gary runs in to tell me Gail had fallen off her horse and the horse had kicked her in the face knocking out her two front teeth. She looked a terrible mess. Joan got the doctor round and Mike (Doc) got Gail’s dentist and had an X-ray done. She had one tooth splintered and the other one has been pushed up under her nose, and her top jaw had been fractured…She couldn’t talk and looked one hell of a mess. However, it was arranged for her to go to hospital as soon as the swelling went down, which when you looked at her you thought it never would.What a black Sunday it’s been.
* * *
* Eric’s nickname for Ernie.
* Eric and Ernie did a run of shows geared to American audiences as a trial to see how their humour would go on that side of the Atlantic. Except for sales of some material from their BBC shows made many years later, it seems that despite a positive response they did no more TV shows specifically for the American market.
* Billy Marsh was agent to Morecambe and Wise and this author’s former employer. He instigated Eric and Ernie’s first successful television series, which was for Lew Grade’s ATV in 1961.
** Nothing came of the Broadway show idea, though ironically Morecambe and Wise would end up on Broadway, albeit by proxy, when in 2003 the West End play about their lives,The Play What IWrote, transferred to the Lyceum on Broadway.
* A musical number in which Eric and Ernie flank the female sitting on a wall and both try to woo her in song. This develops into a bit of competition between the two of them and they start pulling each other over the wall, but they return to carry on singing. It degenerates into a total romp which culminates in the girl being pulled off the wall. This routine made its TV screen appearance in the sixties, with Millicent Martin playing the wooed female, and was re-enacted intact by The Right Size in David Pugh and Kenneth Branagh’s 2001 West End tribute play The Play What I Wrote.
* An old friend from Harpenden, Hertfordshire, where Eric lived from the sixties until his death.
* Amanda Davidson née Kilburn, daughter of Mike and Pat, provided some of the unique previously unpublished photos in this book.
* When Eric returned to England, he continued to wear the hat all winter, calling it his ‘Doctor Zhivago’ look. And yes, we all laughed every time he wore it, which didn’t deter him at all, of course, because getting laughs was what always motivated him.
* The same Jack Hylton who started and guided Ernie Wise’s career in his youth, and gave Eric his first break.
* Eric’s occasional driver before he employed Mike Fountain full-time.
Makin’ Movies
(Part One)
‘Arrived back from Portugal, and our villa over there is in a worse state than the house over here. Somehow you can’t win.The weather was very nice—in the eighties. Over there we met some nice people—the Baron and Baroness Osterman [sic] of Germany.And a man called Christopher Wren, who is a direct descendant of the Christopher Wren. All were charming and live in the Algarve. But I feel that most of the other residents are mostly failures out there.They only seem to be scratching a living.They are the ones who say,‘Isn’t the weather wonderful—you can’t get this at home!’ You won’t get me going back. Not unless they are deported, and I feel some of them will be. No! At the moment I’m one of those unfashionable people who happen to love England. It’s great to be back—weather and all!’
The above diary entry for 15 October 1967, made by Eric one month before he and Ernie went to New York, emphasizes my father’s
distrust of anything remotely foreign. He was without doubt someone who never allowed himself to be particularly influenced by the weather, although naturally he didn’t rejoice in constant winter rain and cold; but he never really complained about it because he felt very safe and secure in his home countr
y. England is the country that made him—he made a marked distinction between England and Britain (as we saw in an earlier diary entry)—and he never would forget that, and consequently did not fully feel at ease when away from it. It contrasts with his more cosmopolitan lifestyle, so removed from his northern upbringing, this belief that the UK was the only place in which he could feel secure. How ironic he would find it to know that in my lumbering middle age I try to spend several months of each winter in the Algarve to escape the British winters, and much of this book was penned while there.That’s just the sort of quirky little thing that would tickle him.
The diary entry dates from about a year and a half after my parents bought the land on which their villa was built. It never was supposed to happen. It certainly wasn’t planned. We were on holiday there—the family’s first visit to the Algarve—when some friends, Cyril and Muriel Coke, who owned a property virtually opposite this piece of land, encouraged my parents to buy.The location was beautiful, the weather perfect (as even my father agreed), so it is easy to understand why, within the two-week stay, papers were drawn up and they found themselves on the verge of owning a small piece of picturesque Portugal. A recent conversation with my mother reveals that is was Eric’s spontaneity that made an idea a reality.
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