by Paul Daniels
This job was a throwback from old-time music hall where the chairman would sit in a little box at the side of the stage and announce each act with wonderfully effusive English and a bang of his gavel. The concert chairman still had his own box somewhere in the room, but his use of the English language left a lot to be desired:
‘Ladies and Gentleman, we’ve got an act here that I don’t think is going to be any good, but we’ve paid for it so we’ll have it anyway,’ could easily be your entrance speech. Half-way through a song would come the announcement from the corner, cutting off the singer’s microphone, ‘Pies have come and are on sale at the bar.’ Girl singers who were not going very well would have the audience quietened with ‘Come on now. Give ORDER. Give the poor cow a chance.’
They also knew nothing about staging, lighting or sound. They had saved up and bought the equipment, but they didn’t know how it worked. Why should they? They were steel workers and lads from down the pit.
For me, each new arrival at a club was like being thrown into a battle with the system and, with up to eight acts a night treading their boards, I realised that they had ‘seen everything’. With the notion that ‘if you want something doing well, do it yourself ’ firmly established in my head, I would arrive early at each venue and focus the lighting, adjust the curtains and tweak the sound to help it reach its full potential. The lights were invariably pointing at the drummer’s feet, while the loudspeakers would be aimed into the roof. The amplifier would be set to full bass. Often, I found that the lights hadn’t been cleaned for years and contained enough dust on the lenses to emit about a candle-worth of power. After my efforts, I may not have been the best act they’d ever had, but I was certainly the brightest!
The concert chairman walked around with an air of false dignity and knowledge but in reality was usually no help whatsoever. Telling one girl singing act in the interval how lousy they were, he threatened to pay them off. This meant only giving the act half their agreed money and was often used as a way of getting cheap acts. The leader of the girl troupe suggested that the wonderful harmonies they were producing were going over the audience’s heads.
‘OK then, lass. I’ll let you have another go and this time we’ll lower the speakers.’
It was the period when the Labour Government had lost control over the industrial areas of Britain, giving in to every union demand and pricing us out of the world market. The unions were running the marketplace and electricity strikes, among many others, were frequent. On two occasions the lights went out in the middle of my act, but I continued with the use of some candles and torches. Believe me, working in those conditions, with no microphone and cigarette smoke down to floor level, really kills off your voice. At one point, I announced the next trick, clapped my hands and all the lights came on. It was pure coincidence, but the audience thought I was a real wizard.
Another chairman proudly showed me his gas-run, an emergency stage lighting system. From a huge orange gas canister, borrowed from a set of roadworks, ran a rubber pipe, which went across the ceiling and was connected to a lamp hanging precariously over the stage on a metal hook. I am not very tall but even I had to duck every time I passed this ingenious lighting device. The Concert Chairman had resolved not to be outdone when faced with a power cut.
Despite the fact that the gas lamp, had it been lit, would probably have quickly set the stage on fire, I asked how the electronic organ would work.
‘That’s easy, he can just unplug it and play it like a piano.’
The awesome ‘wisdom’ of these men kept us acts amused for hours, and the tales would be told over and over again in the digs at night when we all assembled with our take-away Indian and Chinese meals. We always had the last laugh, as we could earn in one night what they earn in a week. The average wage before 1970 was £20 a week, so for them a whole shift would bring in as much as we got in half-an-hour. This caused some Concert Chairmen to view us as ‘over-paid ponces’, but they forgot the expenses involved. I had to have a car, a telephone and the clothes and equipment for the stage, alongside the agent’s commission and the high rate of taxation, all of which soon ate into the fee.
I got away with the tough audiences because they admired the skill, particularly with a pack of cards. I could do things with a pack of cards that they definitely couldn’t do, but they would have loved to have the ability so I grabbed their respect one way or the other. If I didn’t astonish them, I would make them laugh and vice versa. Unfortunately, I witnessed how a lot of comedians quickly ‘died’ in places like this where they had no choice but to wage war against the stage facilities, the badly designed rooms and the Concert Chairman before they even reached the stony audiences. Some comedians had it written in their contract that they would never play Sunderland, the most feared of all the areas for clubs. One of the clubs on a Sunderland estate even had gravestones drawn on the wall of the only dressing room, with the names of the acts that had ‘died’ there, with a few blanks reserved for ‘new members’.
‘Just look who’s died here!’ they would proudly point out as they showed you to your room. It wasn’t the best way for any act to prepare for a night’s performance. The clubs were different to any other entertainment venue in the universe.
On my first appearance at a particular Sunderland working men’s club, Redhouses, whose name still strikes terror into the hearts of comedians who played there, I was booked alongside a comedian I had admired ever since I saw him at the Windmill Theatre in London. Known during the war as ‘We never closed’, it was later adjusted to ‘We never clothed’ on account of the strippers, who were not allowed to move. It was also the birthplace of most of the period’s top comics and I had sneaked into this world of wonder as a pimply teenager to sample both delights.
There was obviously something seriously wrong with me at the time as I really enjoyed the comedians and found that the girls, for me, were the ‘intervals’ – all except one girl who was absolutely stunning. Remember, I was still a teenager when I saw her and I was greatly upset that she never waited for me and while I was in the Army she married Tommy Steele. Why should she wait? We had never met. This is very similar of course to the ‘affairs’ that I have had with Goldie Hawn, Jodie Foster and Meg Ryan. It’s OK. Debbie knows about these ‘other women’ in my life and smiles sympathetically at me. Wives do that, have you noticed?
Meanwhile, back at the Windmill the performances would run all evening and into the night, with a rolling audience that would arrive and leave as necessary. The men around me had their coats rolled up into a bundle, so that as soon as a seat became vacant in front, they would hurriedly throw it down to reserve the space. Thus, over a period of hours, a man could work his way into the prized front row to ogle directly at the box of delights.
Spending two hours suspended somewhere between arousal and laughter, one comedian really stood out, although he never became famous. This guy was experienced at holding such a distracted and constantly changing audience and I was very impressed with his skill. His rapid-fire songs and gags hit the audience between the eyes and he survived each one of his ‘slots’ with a good round of applause.
Years passed and this same comedian now faced a Sunderland audience. The weekend lunchtime gig is the one at which the men decided whether to bring their wives that evening. You were always booked for the noon and night shows. I had gone well. I was on first and opened with my usual fancy shuffles all performed to gags. My act went well. May I be allowed more than a little conceit here? My manager says that I am the only act who he has had over the years who has never ‘died’. I think it is because I have such a good time being on stage that it is contagious and the audience come along for the ride. As soon as I finished I decided to stay on and see the comic that I had enjoyed in the Windmill Theatre all those years beforehand.
That lunchtime the whole of the bar counter had been covered with half-filled pint glasses. There must have been several hundred or so and I don’t think I had ever seen
so many lined up in one place. At about ten minutes to opening time, the bar staff began frantically filling the glasses to the top, making sure each one had the customary ‘head’. As the doors to the club opened, the rush of men’s bodies was astonishing and could only be described as a Northern man’s Harrods sale. Making straight for the bar, these men bought their pints and downed them in seconds before purchasing the next.
‘You ready now?’ asked the Concert Chairman with a strong Geordie twang, as the comic put the finishing touches to his make-up.
‘Yes, mate. Now what I need you to do is go out and introduce me, at which point I’ll stick my head through the curtains and shout, “Hiya, fellas!” You hit the music and we’re off.’
The Concert Chairman, on this occasion, did exactly what was required of him and introduced this great comic. The comic stuck his head through the curtains and shouted as planned, ‘Hiya, fellas!’
Now there’s no way you can account or prepare for what happened next. As one man, 800 voices shouted, ‘FUCK OFF!’
The band played and as the curtains began to open at the top, the poor guy hung on to the bottom shouting, ‘don’t open these curtains!’ Too late. He’s dead. Within ten minutes the room was empty.
On one of our touring concert party events, Gladys made her exit to no applause, I survived with laughter but no applause and poor Billy Hygate ended his ‘star’ spot in complete silence, except for the clinking of beer glasses. As we made our way out through the audience, which, as usual, was the only way out, one of the lads we passed said, ‘Well, ya the best concert party we’ve ever ’ad ’ere.’
I couldn’t believe it. I thought he was taking the mick and asked, ‘so why didn’t you clap?’
‘Why, ya canni clap wir a glass in ya ‘and.’ One evening, a guy from an audience in Yorkshire shouted out, ‘Arr don’t like thar suit!’
‘That’s a shame,’ I replied. “Cos I like yours. Not a lot, but I like it!” The contrast made the audience laugh and I used a very old comic technique going back to the line a few times in my act: ‘You’ll like this, not a lot, but you’ll like it.’ By the end of the act I had a catchphrase and it was one of the major factors in my later climb to fame. This catchphrase was well known all over the North of England long before I made it on television. So much so, that other businessmen in Doncaster would say to Mervyn, my manager, ‘Paul must be in the area again, my workers are saying “not a lot” all the time again.’ Years later, this catchphrase, credited to me, was put into the Dictionary of Colloquialisms and Common Language. I thought that was better than getting a Royal Variety Show!
The amount of work I was now involved in was incredible. Not only did I own and operate a successful grocery store and a mobile shop, but was adding several gigs to my bulging diary each week. Almost every weekend I was out, increasingly now on my own, as Martin and Gary, our newest family additions, needed Jackie at home full-time. The mobile shop was fun, although, to be honest, I have always liked selling things, whether it be in a shop, at a trade fair or even on stage and ‘selling’ the act.
It wasn’t built originally as a shop. It had been a bus going around the Isle of Wight and used as a shop with very little alteration. Mam bought it first as a going concern and as an ‘add-on’ to her general store. We took it off the rounds and Dad and I rebuilt it and I ran it for her. Being Dad, he insisted that we gutted it completely and levelled the floor. By the time it was finished it even had a potato store in the boot and a freezer box for the frozen foods. The sides were shelved and we carried an amazing array of goods. This was pre-mobile phone days, so if we ran out of anything we had to find a phone box and either Mam or Dad would bring it out to us.
When the refurbishment was finished, we stocked it up and off I went. The first corner we came to I couldn’t get the steering wheel to turn at all. I obviously wasn’t strong enough for this job. So I developed the knack of coming to the corners and taking the bus down to first gear. At the corner itself I would stand up, leaving the bus in first gear, stand to one side of the wheel and heave the top of the wheel towards me using my body weight. Thankfully, the bus had plenty of room on both sides of the wheel. This went on for months and I built up muscles that I didn’t know I had. Lynn, Jackie’s cousin, who worked on the bus as a shop assistant, used to laugh at my antics as we went around the estates of Grangetown, Dormanstown and Redcar.
One day, trundling from one stop to the next, I gave a man a lift to the next stop as it was raining. He watched me in amazement. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he asked. I explained that I wasn’t strong enough to drive the bus round corners and he asked what pressure I had in the tyres. ‘Well, now, it’s funny you should ask that. I couldn’t find out so I added about 101b of pressure to what I have in my car tyres,’ I replied. He laughed like hell. Together we trundled into a local garage where he put at least another 601b of pressure in every tyre.
At the next corner I shot up on to the pavement and nearly ran into a lamp-post, the bus was so light to drive. You learn something new every day. After that, even Jackie drove the bus.
Mam and Dad thought I was overdoing it a bit and insisted that we take a holiday. The only thing available that we could afford at such short notice was a week at Butlin’s Holiday Camp at Filey. Off we went and, after such a busy schedule, I was twitchy at having nothing to do. I think it was the Monday afternoon I wandered past one of the theatres, heard a noise and went in. They were trying to cajole people into entering the talent contest and no one wanted to play. Just to help them out I went on stage and did a few tricks with the pack of cards that I always carried. By the time I had finished and broken the ice, a queue of hopefuls had formed and the audition was under way.
A Redcoat asked me my name and cabin number and said that I would definitely be in the show that night. Crikey! I went off and checked my clothes and put together a few tricks from the stuff I had with me. I won the heat in the talent contest that night and was automatically put into the next heat the next night. Blimey! I spent the next day putting together an act for the next night because I didn’t want to do the same stuff. It’s funny how people will listen to the same songs over and over again but always want the comics and the magicians to keep coming up with new stuff.
I won that heat and was put into the semi-finals. I won again and now I was in a panic. A telephone call to Dad to bring some more props and he thought that I was mad. He reminded me that I was supposed to be on holiday. Well, he was right but I preferred having something to do. He brought some props and I put together an act for the Grand Final of the talent contest for the week. I won, but as it was the last week of the season, they were to hold the Grand Final of the talent contest for the season the next night. I was on again and this time put together an act that finished with the World-Famous Bullet-Catching Trick. Well, nearly. This was a comedy version where it was announced that as the marksman had failed to turn up, I would shoot the gun at myself.
This was, believe me, a very funny routine. I had done it before and I knew it was a killer. The gun is very tiny when you take it out of the very large pistol box but it fires with a huge bang. As the smoke clears a huge steel bullet is seen in your mouth and you spit it out ‘for examination’ on to a plate. The plate smashes and, for some reason only known to the Gods of Comedy, this situation is so ludicrous the audience fall about laughing.
That night I worked with more great talent in one place than I have ever worked with since. All the acts were great entertainers. What a show. My turn and the act went like a dream. Everything worked, the audience laughed in all the right places. I came to the finale, the World-Famous Catching the Bullet in the Teeth trick. The laughs were still coming. The smoke cleared and I spat the bullet out on to a Butlin’s dinner plate and it just sat there. The plate didn’t break. The audience just sat there waiting for the punchline that would never come. I had nothing left to do. I walked off. This was before Mervyn was my manager, so his claim that I never died is tru
e, for him. This was the only time that I ever walked off to the sound of my own feet and the feeling is still inside me. I walked out into the car park and threw the plate as high as I could. It landed without a scratch. I should have checked the prop before I went on stage and everything has been double-checked ever since.
This work overload did not overawe me and, indeed, had the opposite effect as I found how much I enjoyed my new, frantic lifestyle. It conveniently enabled me to escape from the problems at home and my busy routine helped repair some of the holes in my self-esteem.
Finishing a series of engagements in Manchester, I got involved in some arguments between Betty and a landlady in one of our regular digs and this had started a spate of rows between us. With this awkward relationship bubbling underneath, I later overheard her extol the virtues of her little Billy to a Manchester agent. Having left the door open, I heard the dialogue erupt into a full-blown argument when the agent suggested that although her son was an excellent guitar vocalist, he could pick up the telephone and within an hour have 100 others standing in his office. He went on to try to explain to her that what was really unique was the guy outside. This is the truth – I honestly was looking around to see who he was talking about and it turned out to be me. Understandably this can’t have gone down well with Betty.
After a few days of working under the intense tensions that had now pervaded our team, I said I would leave. Sadly, although explaining that I just couldn’t work under such a bad atmosphere, we parted company on bad terms.
