by Les Dawson
It was only after being escorted up the red carpeted stairs to the reception saloon, that I happened to look down and noticed that in my haste to make myself presentable I’d put on two different shoes – both black, but different in design. Here I was in Buckingham Palace, in the company of nobility and captains of industry, and my shoes stuck out like a sore thumb. It was a splendid evening: every time I held out an empty glass, a smart flunkey in a colourful frogged jacket would whip it away and hand me a replenished tumbler. At one point in the festivity, Prince Philip called me over and said with an air of amusement: ‘Did you know you’ve got two odd shoes on?’ I couldn’t resist it. I replied, ‘Yes, sir, and I’ve got a pair just like these at home.’ The Prince roared; I thanked God for enabling me to remember the old joke.
I knew I was getting pissed but on I carried, talking a lot of crap and leering at all the ladies. Mercifully for my liver, bulky men started to usher us out and I dimly recall telling one of them that I had a black belt at judo. My driver poured me into the Mercedes and left me sitting on the steps of the hotel singing ‘We all live in a yellow submarine’.
My year as King Rat was drawing to a close, and the annual November Rats’ Ball at the Grosvenor House Hotel was looming on the horizon. Meg wanted to go to it along with the rest of the family, and I was very pleased that she had agreed to go. Her health seemed to be holding well, although she had started to complain about her vision. She said she was experiencing trouble in focusing.
The Rats’ Ball is a big social occasion. Any star of stage, television or film worth his or her salt, must be there on that gala night, and on that November evening in 1986, there was a positive galaxy of celebrities milling around the Great Room. It is the custom that all the past King Rats and their ladies, as well as the current King Rat, of course, parade across the vast dance floor at the beginning of the evening, take a bow, then go to their respective tables.
As I wheeled Meg across the floor, the entire audience rose to its feet and the applause was deafening. I could feel the love in that room all directed to my wife, a brave and well respected lady. Stars like Michael Caine, Michael Crawford, Warren Mitchell, and Robert Powell to name but a few, surrounded her, and she held court with radiant dignity.
With all due modesty, I have to say that my after-dinner speech went extremely well. I was followed by Dr Christiaan Barnard, the pioneer of heart transplant surgery. Although a controversial man, I found him to be warm and likeable; the only thing that disturbed me was the intensity with which he looked at Meg, for I well knew that Christiaan Barnard was a brilliant doctor. At the end of his speech the good doctor thanked me, then turned to Meg, held her hand, and said in a voice of such compassion: ‘You are truly, Mrs Dawson, one of the bravest people I have ever met.’ I saw something in his eyes and my blood chilled, and the rest of the night sped by without my really being a part of it.
They tell me that the Ball was an unqualified success, regarded by many fellow Rats as one of the very best of the last ten years or so.… Certainly there did seem to be a party atmosphere and high spirits. I presented David Jason with an award, I danced with famous ladies and joked with famous men … but I didn’t feel a part of it. I remembered the look in Christiaan Barnard’s eyes.
Rehearsals ended in London and it was time to finish off in Manchester. I was moved to find Meg waiting at the door for me in her chair when I tumbled out of the taxi. She put her arms around me and whispered: ‘I love you.’
I travelled every day from St Annes to Manchester with Mo and Marie, two of the Roly Polys, and it was a great relief to know that I could keep my eye on Meg’s condition, which was worsening. I had bought a little vehicle called a Nissan Prairie and I’d had an electric lift installed in the passenger seat so that Meg could sit in her wheelchair on the ramp of the lift, and be raised into the car without moving from her chair … because by now, Meg could no longer walk at all. Her legs had lost all feeling. At least I could take her out either for a spin in the countryside or along the promenade, or for her favourite pursuit – shopping. The van gave her a renewed interest and it was money well spent.
Before opening in the pantomime, which was already a record sell-out, it was time to peddle my latest literary offering: A Time Before Genesis. It was my first attempt at writing a serious novel, and naturally I was more than a bit apprehensive as to how it would be received, for after all we do tend to put people in boxes, do we not, and therefore could a comedian writing a serious work be taken seriously?
I won’t go into detail about the novel, suffice to say that it is about things that have always intrigued me: religion, after-life, alien influences – they were just some of the themes I attempted to explore in my book. I had done two years’ research and studied the Bible and a translation of the Koran before writing a word. Philosophy kept me burning the midnight oil, and paranormal theories I devoured like food.
My publishers at the time, Elm Tree Books, had agreed to publish the novel only on condition that I also wrote my autobiography. It was a hell of an undertaking, but I desperately wanted to see my novel in print so I readily agreed to start on my autobiography as well. Couple all this with pantomime, radio work and TV and it will give you some idea of how crippling a workload I had set myself. Little wonder, then, that later on, my body would rebel.
If that wasn’t enough, my agents happily informed me that I had been offered a cabaret date in New York! There were just nine days to go before we opened the pantomime in Manchester, but how could I turn down the chance to go to the States?
It was a good deal: an excellent fee for the gig, and the return trip from Heathrow to Kennedy by Concorde! Meg said, ‘Go, love, you may never be asked again if you turn it down.’ What a lady.
My agents got me out of the rehearsals for Babes in the Wood by some jiggery pokery, I suspect, and off I jetted in the finest aeroplane the world has ever seen.
I cannot describe the feeling of pride I felt as I sat in that mighty aircraft. The statistics were incredible: the flight time from London to New York just three hours twenty-five minutes! Speed, 1,760 miles per hour.… Height, 68,000 feet. The food served on board was magnificent and Dom Perignon champagne was served in an endless circuit by gorgeous stewardesses. I drank more than my share of that most delectable of nectars.
All at once the flight was coming to an end. Below me I could see the million shining lights of the soaring metropolis. Towering fingers of concrete with glittering arcs of light around them; ribbons lighting the passage of traffic could be seen quite clearly … and suddenly there was a concerto of outraged rubber and screeching tarmac as we touched down.
Kennedy Airport New York, Babylon revisited: unfamiliar accents both loud and strident demanding to know what goods or treasures one is bringing through the customs; travellers from every nation jostling for attention; hot children with taut expressions; travellers with empty eyes watching other travellers.… From Kennedy we fly by helicopter to Manhattan Island, purchased from the Indians for glass beads.
It is by the side of a main road, slightly underneath a bridge, that the romance ends. It is dirty and cold and there isn’t a taxi in sight to take us into the heart of Downtown Manhattan.… Too many violent movies cause us to eye with apprehension the slightest suggestion of movement in the shadows. A yellow, grime-streaked cab finally brakes to a halt in a nimbus of choking exhaust gases, and a swarthy face with a drooping moustache peers at you, and when the face speaks, you are reminded, as George Bernard Shaw once said, that Great Britain and America are two countries separated by the same language.…
It takes an age to reach our destination. I’m not for one second impugning the honesty of that New York taxi driver, but I get the distinct impression he has driven us to the city centre via Detroit.
Eventually we alight at our destination: the Westbury Hotel on Madison Avenue, where I will be appearing as well as staying. It’s a high class inn and friendly, so what better place to test out this new found w
armth than the beckoning womb of the bar. My agents, Norman and Anne, who had cleverly included themselves on this sojourn, totter to bed, whilst I sample the delights of several large Jack Daniel’s.… To my surprise upon entering my suite I found two messages awaiting attention on the bedside table. One was from Peter Stringfellow, the nightclub owner from London, and one from my childhood friend, Ken Cowx, who was now a translator at the United Nations. I phoned them both up and made arrangements to see the pair of them the next evening. Having telephoned home as per the norm and having been reassured that all is well, I spend an hour watching television and sit stunned at the sheer awesome idiocy of it. I could feel a chill of apprehension that this screened garbage will one day, alas, find its way on to British screens as the grip of the accountant tightens on artistic budgets.… It is a depressing thought to go to bed on, but still, there is tomorrow to explore the city.
One thing that still bothered me was, what was a Northern red-nosed comedian doing, appearing in the United States? Next morning a car arrived at the hotel door and I was whisked away to find out … In a penthouse office suite so posh the mice wore powdered wigs, high above Fifth Avenue, I met the man who had engaged me. He turned out to be a multi-millionaire oil and insurance tycoon, and he wanted me to perform to an invited audience of wealthy socialites and business people. It sounded daunting, and I still wondered: why me? As if sensing my unspoken question, my host flashed a wide smile, poured me another Jack Daniel’s and said:
‘You are probably wondering, Les, why I booked you for the cabaret?’
I nodded.
‘I asked my wife what she most wanted for a Christmas present, and she answered, “I’d like to see and hear Les Dawson, darling”.’ He smiled at my expression. ‘It’s true, Les – you are a Christmas gift for my wife.’
Thunderstruck is a reasonably accurate description of my reaction to this – I’ve been some things in my time, but never a Christmas box!
It turned out that his wife was a Yorkshirewoman from Leeds and she was homesick for the things she’d left behind: Yorkshire pudding, Northern beer, her friends and family, and … Les Dawson.
We left the tycoon’s swish penthouse and I hired a stretch limo to tour the city.
The driver, who hailed from the Bronx, was a voluble guide, and I saw the Battery, Greenwich Village, China-town, the Bowery, Central Park; he was glowing with enthusiasm for his New York … until I asked him to take me through Harlem. His reponse was on the lines of ‘Jeeze, feller, you gotta be a Limey … Harlem for Christ’s sake?’ I mildly pointed out that it was only three-thirty in the afternoon and surely we’d be safe. ‘Harlem is never safe, pal,’ he moaned, but I persuaded him finally just to creep into the perimeter of the infamous ghetto …
It was well worth the extra fifteen dollars that I bribed him with, for going through Harlem was an education. I’ve known poverty – I experienced it as a child in Manchester – but ours was a physical poverty. What I saw in Harlem was a spiritual poverty that was etched on the faces of young and old alike, from the despairing countenance of an elderly black lady slumped on a tenement door step, to the hate-filled expressions of a street gang lounging atop a heap of broken bricks and cement. Civilisation, December 1985.
As we drove by, they eyed the car with sullen mistrust and one of them threw a bottle at the vehicle and a stream of abuse followed in its wake. My driver’s nerves were shot to hell and I could see that he desperately wanted to end this trip and be rid of one insane Limey. In Spanish Harlem a battered 1950s Buick suddenly pulled alongside our limo and my driver very nearly commenced to evacuate his bowels.
‘Hey man.’ This from the swarthy hoodlum in the passenger seat. ‘You wanna race, mi amigo? … Wassamatter, you a big man – too big for the likes of a Spick?’
My driver was whimpering as he slowly drove along, with the Buick cruising at his side. By this time interested people were oozing out of rancid boltholes and glaring at the cavalcade; but the most intense hostility was concentrated on our clean stretch limo.
It was time to do something to ease this rapidly deteriorating situation.… Almost without thinking, I poked my head through the window and shouted: ‘Hello, chaps’ in an over-the-top English accent. ‘I say, nice of you to chat, we seem a trifle off course, could you kindly direct us to Central Park?’
The mouths of the yobs dropped open and one of them, I swear, damn nearly saluted. The upshot was they didn’t simply direct us to Central Park, they indicated that we should follow them, which we did, and lo and behold! there we were at the Park. My driver couldn’t stop muttering: ‘Damn.… Sons of bitches.…’ As he dropped me off at the hotel, he wrung my hand like a wet leather, warbling, ‘Jeeze, man, am I glad to know ya, pal.… God damn Limey!… Thanks buddy.…’ Well, words to that effect.
I’ve never been so proud of being British, but I wouldn’t have been quite so cocksure if I’d known that the day before in Spanish Harlem two men had gunned down a suspected police informer.
The thought of my debut on the morrow kept me awake all night. Just what the hell was I going to do for the confounded Yanks? It wasn’t until dawn appeared that I knew what course to take.
I decided to perform my act rather like a lecture instead of trying to get by with ordinary patter, which I felt would be obscure to the Americans – judging by what passed for humour on their television shows, I might as well read out a passage from Chekov for all the laughs I’d get. The die was cast.… I rehearsed with a gum-chewing trio with nasal problems and suddenly it was showtime!
The elegant room was full of beefy, well-tailored men and classically gowned ladies. One could almost smell money in the wreaths of cigar smoke that hung in garlands above the tables … a short introduction from a compère who looked a bit like the late Alan Ladd, and the porky comedian from the North of England began.…
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, it is an honour to be here in New York, which I’ve found is a sort of Pittsburg with a sneer.’
‘The first thing to remember is that I am from the crucible of civilisation and you are merely colonials.’
‘I can’t understand why you wanted independence, I’ve seen Boston … in my opinion the Indians should have dumped Boston and kept the tea.’
The opening lines kept them quiet, if a trifle puzzled, and I went on:
‘My hotel is full of lady golfers: three times now a dame has approached me saying that she’s a hooker.’
‘My wife is outside in the car – I would have brought her in but I’ve lost the keys to the trunk.’
‘My hotel is very old-fashioned, it’s decorated in early Confederate.’
I got by, though I didn’t exactly slay them. However, my off-key piano playing won the day as it were, and the tycoon’s wife said, ‘Eeh, that were grand, our Les’, and a heavily lined lady who reeked of gin slapped me on the back and yelled, ‘Listen, kid, why doncha become a comic?’
The return to the UK was as smooth as the flight going out, and I caught the shuttle to Manchester still as fresh as a daisy with none of the usual jet lag problems associated with ordinary aeroplane travels.
As soon as the children saw me they voiced their worries about Meg. If they had known the truth that I was living with.… Stuart, Julie and Pamela were putting on a brave face and my heart went out to them, but I knew that in their bedrooms they prayed and cried. Despair was showing in their faces, and the daily sight of their mother’s agony was maturing them rapidly.
Meg greeted me fondly, but the lines of pain were showing in her face. It was now quite impossible for her to get up the stairs, so a small bed was brought down and put into the study for her. Even the trips in the Nissan gave her extreme discomfort now, and sometimes I had to harden my heart and virtually force her into the wheel-chair, if only to give her a change of scenery from four walls.
To keep her spirits alive, I would deliberately say something that would irritate her and she’d play merry hell with me, but at least it
kept her fighting.… Mind you, after I’d done this sort of thing with her, I would go upstairs and sob my heart out; but I firmly believe that when someone is ill, they should be angry about it. I’ve seen people stricken by cancer who meekly give in and adopt a pious, fatalistic kind of attitude: ‘What will be will be’, ‘God works in mysterious ways’.… Baloney! Be angry, say ‘Why me?’ It is my contention that directed and purposeful anger is good for the body cells and the brain. As the old axiom says, ‘God helps those who help themselves’. At any rate, anger worked for my wife when her spirits sank under the weight of pain. I made it clear that relatives, friends and neighbours should be cheerful and nonchalant, not heavy and doom-laden.
Meanwhile, the pantomime was getting under way with final rehearsals, and soon the day of the Dress Rehearsal dawned.… We were to have an invited audience of deprived children for this, and although it was looked upon as the dress run, to me, even though it was a free show for the kids, it was a performance, and it had to be just right.
Tears in the Laughter
* * *
The audience saw the little fat man in the outrageous nurse’s outfit prance on to the stage. He had a huge joke syringe pinned to his costume, he wore a ridiculous wig, and the end of his nose was painted bright red.
