3 weeks ago
16
After spending the summer as a Redcoat, I arrived at Butlin’s Metropole hotel in Blackpool. As I walked in, the entertainments manager asked, without hesitation, “Can you do an act?” “No,” I said. “Shit,” he said, and the tale unravelled. The summer Reds had gone and we were starting up the winter season. But the hotel had no lull between summer and winter. There were guests who needed entertaining, but with whom? Principal comedian Freddie Davies was on honeymoon and a second comic hadn’t yet arrived. “Are you sure you don’t do an act?” asked Vince in desperation. “Well, I do know an act!” I said. “Great,” said Vince, “you’re doing it tonight.”
For the past two seasons, playing drums for the Redcoat Show, I had watched Ricky McCabe’s very funny, never-changing comedy spot around 60 times. Of course, I knew every word. It opened with, “Hello there. Will the lady with the lucky ticket come up and get me?” So, that very Friday night, having no option, being the only person available, I was top of the bill. I was very nervous, but once the first few gags had got laughs, I relaxed, and it went quite well. “Fabulous,” said Vince, “same again tomorrow night!” I pleaded no, but, of course, the guests changed over on Saturday so I would have a totally new audience. This time, with more confidence, it went very well indeed. Right after the show, one of the girls came up and said, “Great spot, Johnny. Oh, the new Redcoat has just arrived – he says he knows you. His name is Ricky McCabe!”
I was rooted to the spot in shock. But, plucking up courage, I rushed into the lounge to find Ricky. “Hello, mate,” he cried, grinning from ear to ear. With no sign of a smile, I guided him to a table and said, “Ricky, I’ve got to tell you something terrible. I’ve just done your act.” The smile drained from his face! I quickly explained that I hadn’t volunteered to do it. They had nobody else, and I had admitted that I knew his act, having watched it so often from my drums. Ricky went through the act, and I confirmed, “Yes, I did that. Yep, that too.” I had missed nothing. Ricky was in complete shock. After a few “bloody hells!” or similar, he resigned himself to the situation and started to work out what he would do for an act the next night, with me trying to help. In a couple of days, Ricky had forgiven me.
As a team, we all became great friends at the Metropole and Ricky helped me write my very first comedy act. I had been collecting gags by the hundred since I was 11, but jokes in a book do not make an act. It was Ricky and his experience which solved this problem. As a comedian, you have to explain in the first instant just what kind of person you are. I was incredibly nervous and unsure of myself, so that had to be the tack.
Ricky suggested I carry a brown paper bag, slightly inflated, and arrive on stage visibly shaking. At the microphone, I would say, “Hello. I’d like to start by, er, start. I’d like to commence. First of all, I’d like to say, to start, er, first of all!” Then I would stop and point at the quivering bag and say, “Bag of nerves!” It always got the laugh and often applause and I would throw the bag into the wings and come back smiling. The ice was broken and away I went. I soon became known as “Bag of Nerves”!
Slowly, I learned the tricks of keeping the audience on side and building a rapport with them. This change of fortune arrived when I learned to relax and appeared to be enjoying the audience’s company from the first minute. My style became one of almost asking the audience for their approval before I could carry on. I would soon slip in a slightly bluer joke and immediately ask for their approval. So, rather like Max Miller, I was apparently giving the audience what they were asking for and only ever as rude as they wanted me to be.
Bob Monkhouse first saw me working a big rough club in Manchester. He arrived looking very out of place in his dress suit with tissues tucked around his neck to stop the makeup reaching his Persil-white collar. He caught me as I came offstage and complimented me on my timing and the fresh new style I was developing. Bob was the greatest comedy technician I would ever see – the consummate master. From Bob, I learned that when you are coming to a major punchline, you make sure you are moving towards the audience on the tag, or lighting up your face, or changing it to a frown – anything with a dynamic impact. This learning process wasn’t about stealing – it was about learning the many ways that a performance can be improved and adapted.
In late 1964 (still my first year as a professional), the agent Mike Hughes called his four principal comedians to Liverpool for a photocall. He had marketed us as the Liverpool Comedy Wave and it worked, even though only one of us hailed from Merseyside. Besides myself, there was my old Butlin’s mate Freddie Davies, Mike Burton and Mike Newman. All three had appeared on Opportunity Knocks, but I refused to even consider it. Everything about it smacked of amateurism. I remember one of them appeared on the show sandwiched between three schoolgirls singing Three Little Maids and a taxi driver from Walthamstow who played “the mouth organ”. Of course, the show did make stars of Freddie Davies and dear old Les Dawson, who I knew well.
Les was a comedian’s comedian, and we all loved his material despite the fact that it didn’t get many laughs. His flowery vocabulary was very entertaining to us, but club audiences weren’t that enamoured with his total lack of energy. What club audiences wanted was vitality. What Les gave them was lugubriousness. He was a droll and his style suggested a lack of care for everything, including his own act. On two occasions, I recall talking Les into carrying on in the business. But I honestly didn’t think he would carry on much longer. Then came Opportunity Knocks and his static comic style made him an instant star.
Meanwhile, I was in such demand in the clubs I still had every confidence that I would get a major break very soon. The Stage newspaper’s respected James Towler, in his Yorkshire Relish column, featured the four Mike Hughes comedians, ending with, “But the one with most potential is most certainly Johnny Ball!” Only time would tell.
