by Les Dawson
His Royal Highness stared at me with a twinkle in his eye and replied: ‘Absolute rubbish, Dawson, you fry ’em.’
I almost forgot who I was talking to. ‘You boil the damn things, I should know,’ I spluttered back.
‘Rot … they have to be fried.’
‘Typical Southern trick – you’re supposed to boil the buggers.’
Suddenly I became aware that several gentlemen of the press were edging closer, presumably to hear what was going on, and we finished our argument about the estimable puddings on a good-humoured note. Ever since then, whenever I have met the Prince, the dialogue about black puddings is continued, and this particular afternoon under a blazing sun in the gardens of Buckingham Palace was no exception.
PRINCE PHILIP: Did you enjoy the buffet provided?
LITTLE ME: Very nice, sir. Pity there were no black puddings, though.
PRINCE PHILIP: If they had been provided, Dawson, I would have made quite sure that they were fried.
Well, he is the Prince, so I let him have the last line!
One day I was asked to speak at a big charity dinner hosted by Prince Edward at St James’s Palace, and of course I readily accepted. I was curious to see inside the Palace, whose very walls speak history and countless years of pageantry and tradition … what’s that wonderful Blimp phrase again? ‘Any man born an Englishman has won the first prize in the lottery of life’.
A good friend of ours, dressed in the garb of an upper-class chauffeur, drove us down the Mall and straight into the forecourt of the Palace, and Tracy and I drifted through the portals of the historical pile, our noses so high in the air our nostrils looked like sunglasses! A rather long, toothy sort of chap welcomed us into a reception area and guided us to a table crowded with bottles of champagne, and we began to sample the grape.
Every chap there seemed long and toothy. The ladies present were gowned magnificently, and they too were long and toothy.
‘Aren’t you the comedian chappie?’ said one precious type with a monocle in a bloodshot eye.
Another haughty ‘I’m a Guards officer, don’t yer know’ type asked me if I’d served in the forces at all. The way in which he asked the question made me suspect that he rather thought I hadn’t, or if I had, perhaps the Pioneer Corps had claimed me. I drew myself up proudly, because I did have the distinction of doing my National Service in one of the Army’s most famous old regiments, The Queen’s Bays, 2nd Dragoon Guards. Yes, a cavalry regiment, by thunder! When I loftily informed the gentleman of this notable fact, I sensed a faint glimmer of respect.… The fact that I never amounted to a row of beans in the service, or that I was twice nearly court-martialled (once for being Brahms and Liszt on sentry duty), or that I tried to work my ticket out of the Army, I didn’t think worth mentioning at the time. Suffice to say The Queen’s Bays, 2nd Dragoon Guards is a great title to pose under.
Meanwhile the reception area was filling up with the Top People. By this time I was flushed with wine, dying for a pee, and choking for a cigarette, but there were ‘No Smoking’ signs in evidence and the long, toothy men and women didn’t look like smokers. However, to me, being without the Weed is a torment akin to the disappointment of a hedgehog discovering that it’s been trying to mount a Brillo pad.
I snapped. Excusing myself from the knot of gentlefolk who were engaging us in conversation, I tootled into the ornate lav, peed mightily like a shire horse, and then addressed myself to the long and toothy gentlemen crammed in the ancient loo. ‘Excuse me, chaps,’ I almost shouted, ‘I hope I don’t offend anybody but I simply must have a cigarette.’ Instead of protests, a relieved cry went up: ‘THANK GOD … WELL DONE, DAWSON!’ We all lit up, puffed little clouds into the air – we were friends … buddies … comrades.
Sated with nicotine, I waltzed back to Tracy and downed several more glasses of champagne. By now everybody was my pal and I wasn’t seeing too clearly. At some sort of summons we were all ushered towards a door, through which we trooped into the beautiful Throne Room. Row upon row of red plush, ormolu chairs awaited us, for we were to be entertained by that fine young violinist Nigel Kennedy, he of the punk look and neck rash to match. I sat next to Prince Edward with Tracy on my left, in the front row. It was hot, and the drink was causing my attention to wander. I’m told that I leered at the women and bared my fillings and winked at the gentlemen.
Now, Nigel Kennedy is a superlative musician and there are times when I positively thirst for Vivaldi … but after forty minutes of it in a hot, musty chamber with a tum full of champers, my eyes were beginning to worm their way out of their sockets. My eyelids welded together, and I slumped against Prince Edward’s shoulder.
He pushed me back upright. After a decent pause, I glazed over once more and slumped back on the Royal shoulder – this time, so Tracy assures me, with a blubbery snore. By some sort of mercy in heaven, Nigel and Vivaldi ground to a halt, and it was now time to be ushered into yet another historic chamber for the Charity Dinner.
Prince Edward looked at me as if I was pinned under a microscope and said to a rather grim Tracy: ‘Does he always do that?’
We sat with Prince Edward at the top table, our fellow diners consisting of an admiral, the head of British Telecom, two sun-bleached American ladies, and a millionaire. The food was excellent and the wine superb, and even I realised that I was getting quite drunk, and I still had to speak before this glittering assembly.
Prince Edward spoke first after the coffee, and he was both erudite and funny. I felt a twinge of apprehension creep through the booze.
The Prince went down a storm and did my old eyes deceive me, or was there a triumphant look of ‘Follow that’ about the smile on his face? I got gingerly to my feet, aided by Tracy’s grip on my arm. Behind Prince Edward hung an oil painting of enormous dimensions, a family portrait of the saddest bunch of people I’ve ever seen … dark, miserable royals of long ago.… I had my opening.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. On the wall behind His Royal Highness you will see a painting of a family – and by the look of them I’d say they’ve just sat through a rendering of Vivaldi by Nigel Kennedy.’
Thank God, the line brought the house down and Nigel Kennedy, bless him, was the first to laugh.
I had a ball that night; I called St James’s Palace the ‘first council house’; I ribbed the guests and the Prince; even Tracy came under attack.…
‘I was sat in the garden the other night, reading my marriage certificate – I was looking for a loophole.’
‘The wife and I have a wonderful relationship – she does things her way and I do things her way.’
‘Alas, the wife’s had to give her job up. She’s got rheumatism in her shoulder and can’t throw the harpoon properly.’
I finished the speech on a cheeky note:
‘Well, what can I say about being here with you all here tonight? Simply that I envy me feet – they’ve been asleep longer than I have.’
The evening ended with me being laid to snore on the back seat of our car, and I have a dim memory of Tracy getting me in an armlock as she shoved me into bed.
It was only as dawn’s bars of light lunged into the bedroom that I realised that I had blown any chance of a medal or an honour – in fact, I half expected a summons to the Tower!
Some months before, I had been sent the manuscript of a play by Roberto Cossa entitled La Nona. This means ‘The Old One’ in Spanish, and was just about the weirdest piece I had ever perused.
Basically, it was an indictment of inflation and its effects on society. Set in Argentina, La Nona is about a hundred-year-old woman who does nothing but eat all day and all night, while her family have to work and toil just to feed her. La Nona is, of course, inflation, which eats into every corner of society until it destroys it. It was one hell of a challenge. I agreed to play the title role – the old woman, ‘La Nona’.
Tracy thought it was a good idea and my agent said, ‘There’s one thing about it, if you’re playing a
hundred-year-old woman, it won’t take long to make you up for the part.’ Sometimes I have dark thoughts about my agent.…
We rehearsed in London for three weeks and I learnt a lot from the marvellous cast which was comprised of Maurice Denham, Liz Smith, Jim Broadbent, Tim Snell, Jane Horrocks and Susan Binum. We shot the play in the BBC studios in Birmingham, and the experience of working up the script from mere words into a filmed project was for me sensational. I rate it one of the best things I have ever done, and although it stunned public and critics alike, I think in later years it will be seen as a little masterpiece.
La Nona was given a press review in London. Tracy and I laughed and joked a lot, but inside I was seething, because after the showing of the film – which drew rapturous applause from the audience – all the press wanted to know was how much weight I had put on because of having to eat vast quantities of food in every scene. Typical, of course, but irritating. The truth of the matter is, I don’t think the press had much idea what the play was all about.
BBC2 took a chance showing La Nona. Although it failed to get monster ratings (the present day God of television, alas!), many discerning viewers wrote in to say how much they’d enjoyed it.
My new book, Well Fared, My Lovely, was due to come out, which meant trotting round to help promote it, and Tracy and I prepared for the tour. First, though, we had been invited to the Isle of Man by the friends whose wedding gift to us had been that dreamlike honeymoon in the Scottish castle. We’d been invited aboard a sailing ship sponsored by the Polish Government, and indeed the entire crew were Polish cadets. It was the most beautiful sight as it lay in the harbour at Douglas. The three giant masts, stretching up through the heavens, vibrated with the weight of the vast, billowing white sails.
The sun shone down as we crossed the gangplank on to the well-scrubbed deck, where a reception awaited us: bottles of chilled wine, and turkey legs with scoops of caviare.… I raised my fists to the gods above: ‘Nothing can go wrong with this excursion,’ I crowed.
The majestic clipper thrust its prow through the breasting waves, and only a slight judder indicated our passage from the harbour. We drank and nibbled, and the conversation sparkled. I watched the gallant Polish cadets climbing the rigging, up and up, like a host of feverish primates, holding on to spars and ropes as the strengthening wind pulled and tugged their clothing. Down went the wine and out came the wit and repartee as I stood with the captain on the bridge, but jokes in Polish don’t sound as funny as they do when told in West Hartlepool.
Douglas was no longer in sight … no land was visible as we rose and fell through the quickening sea. Balancing became a problem as the towering waves rose into white peaks. Passengers caught in a wind eddy suddenly started to spin like so many toy tops, and playful rollers threw curtains of numbing seawater over the decks. The wine and turkey had by now formed an alliance in my stomach to torment me into vomiting my greed overboard, and in this action I was not alone. Still higher climbed the waves, and the spray was now a giant whip as the mighty sailing ship lurched to one side and then the other.… Up went the bows and round went my intestines as a grey-green hue commenced to blotch my cheeks.
Suddenly, to my alarm, rope ladders were being pushed down over the sides of the vessel.… There was something ominous about the urgency of the cadets as they milled around the captain, who looked frozen with fear.… There was a lot of chattering in Polish, then, to my horror, lifejackets started to appear. I fought to get the first one.…
Tracy, a glass of brandy in her hand, held on to a mast while she listened to me scream in panic, then she drained the glass and nonchalantly descended back down into the bar. She had no lifebelt on, but did I think of giving her mine? ‘Don’t worry,’ I screeched to an elderly lady hanging on to the bowsprit and clutching a Gideon Bible, ‘it’s only some sort of training exercise for the cadets.’ She glared at me and although I could never swear to it in a court of law, I thought I heard her shout: ‘Exercise my backside, we’re abandoning the bleedin’ boat.’
Before I could laugh at her fears, I received another stream of cold salt water down my neck and went to pieces as I watched several trembling cadets winding down the lifeboats into the water.
Tracy reappeared, this time wearing a lifebelt, and I knelt at her feet and begged her to get me into the first lifeboat by telling the captain that I was her sister.
Battered and deafened by the angry wind, wet through, and robbed of gravity by a ship that was floundering about like an oversexed haddock, I tried to look carefree, and as the first lifeboat full of old women and a few kids dropped into the sea, I began to sing ‘Abide With Me’. Nobody laughed, even when I tried to leap into the life-boat with a bribe in my hand.
Finally Tracy and I were helped into the last lifeboat and she asked me to stop crying so openly.
As we bounced away from the sailing ship, it was most disconcerting to see a large jagged rent in the ship’s timbers, just above the water line. Apparently the ‘judder’ we had felt as we left the harbour had been the noise of the stone groyne grinding into the side of the ship. The inexperienced captain had decided it was too dangerous to attempt a return to the harbour, and so we, the passengers, had been jettisoned and here we were, miles from land, tossing and pitching in frail craft.… Never again, I resolved, would I shake a fist to the gods.…
It took hours to get back to Douglas and I had to be partly lifted up the stone harbour steps by muscular mariners. People crowded around and I was just about to hold court and tell of my bravery and how I saved the ship, when I caught Tracy’s eye and thought better of it.
I was wet, fed up, cold and sick, but I felt a whole lot better when we all trooped into a pub.
Thus ended another momentous holiday break.
I’d started doing after-dinner speeches to try and glean a few bob. Television had deserted me and the theatres and cabaret dates had dried up, and if you didn’t walk on a stage and open your act by shouting ‘F … off’, well, you were not considered a comedian. I was finding things difficult and what was worse, I was losing confidence in myself.
So it was that I started doing after-dinner speaking.
‘In 1645 Prince Rupert’s mercenaries smashed Cromwell’s left flank at Naseby, and in 1871 the Franco-Prussian War took a serious turn at Metz, and in 1906 from the Kyles of Bute came the first report of an outbreak of sporran rash.… None of this has anything to do with tonight’s event, but it just shows how your mind wanders when you’re worried.’
That was the opening line of my after-dinner speech and it certainly got the attention of some difficult audiences.
Looking back now, I still get flabbergasted at the amount of running about Tracy and I managed to do that year. Robson Books published my new book, Well Fared, My Lovely which was a send-up of every gangster novel ever written. The opening chapter gives you some idea of what the plot was all about:
‘I was sat in my office, the curtains were drawn but the rest of the furniture was real. Suddenly my ears began to ring and when I answered them it was a wrong number. Just then a letter was pushed under the door, and it brought tears to my eyes … it was written on an onion. I thought, Aye, aye, that’s shallot.… Why should I worry, I get a good celery. Fifi swaggered into the office and started licking my cheek. “I don’t love you pal – I need the salt,” she said.’
Totally barmy, but there was a lot of interest in it, so off we trooped to publicise it.
First stop on our tour was at the headquarters of W H Smith near Oxford. They were doing a big promotion on my book and I spoke to their sales staff … ‘Great pleasure to be here on behalf of Smith’s – which is Menzies with a sneer.’ ‘Wonderful lunch, I couldn’t fault it – wasn’t enough to form an opinion.’ Yes, I know all the old gags but they were well received.
In quick succession I appeared on Pebble Mill, Wogan, TV AM, The Gloria Hunniford Show, plus radio shots with Mike Parkinson and Michael Aspel. We were driving around the country lik
e maniacs and in between I had to sandwich conference dates where I performed and handed out prizes, a visit to Wales to open a giant supermarket, and a press call in Wimbledon for the pantomime there that season.
Tiredness and fatigue were our constant companions and Tracy was getting depressed about the incessant treadmill of work and travel. Whenever possible, we drove home, always in the early hours of the morning, but there was never enough time to relax, and it was beginning to show, especially on me. I was smoking and drinking far too much. All my weight was back, hanging in sinister folds, and I was a bloodshot-eyed mess. We’d been married over two years and Tracy had had little or no home life, nor had a decent holiday. All we’d managed to get in was a four-day break in Paris for our wedding anniversary. Ah! Paris in May.… Young lovers lost in each other’s arms … the smell of coffee and tobacco … the raucous symphony of the traffic round the Place de la Concorde … night settling on the twinkling city with a scented caress as the Seine carries the glittering boats past Notre Dame. That’s how it should have been. The reality was that it was the coldest May Paris had ever known.
Bone-chilling winds curved up into Montmartre and created a terrible draught in Les Halles, but after a while the raging winds became tempered by the lashing rain that swept across the Left Bank and turned it into a monsoon ditch.
Tracy and I were the only ones sitting outside the Café de la Paix on the corner of the Opera House – and all the other customers were tied to tables inside in case the storm blew them away. As we sipped our coffee and iced rain, first wiping the frost from our lips, Tracy’s spirit broke. She turned her blue face to me and said: ‘This is bloody stupid, never ask me to come away with you again – you are a flaming jinx.’
