The Life of Lee

by Lee Evans

  So we knew that whoever this bloke was, he was definitely going to get it. For Dad, this particular encounter was very personal, and I think that’s why he wanted us there: to watch this man receive justice.

  I looked up at Dad. His face was stiff and his top teeth were clamped down over his bottom lip. His eyes were like lasers, staring at the door. Because he was holding our hands, he hadn’t been able to push up his big, thick, square glasses, and so they were hanging off the end of his nose. But I knew, when the time came, he would push them up with his finger, loading up before lift-off.

  Then I saw the outline of the Air Gun Man appear behind the thick, frosted glass. Watching the figure fumble around for the latch, I felt sick as a wave of fear swept over my whole body. I hadn’t seen him up close – he might be big and hurt my dad.

  The door opened slightly and the man peered out from the gap. I could only see one eye and a nose. I wanted to run. I didn’t know when, but I knew an explosion was about to happen …

  ‘All right, all right, what you banging at me door for?’

  ‘You got a fucking air gun, mate?’ Dad snapped at him.

  Before the bloke could even answer the question, Dad let go of our hands and pushed his way in through the door. Grabbing the front of the man’s shirt, he held him in the air just inside his hall. Then he repeated the question, very slowly and deliberately.

  ‘Tell me, have you got a fucking air gun?’

  Wayne and I, unable to think of what to do, retreated a little back down the hall. I wanted to go home, but how could we leave our dad? Wayne did what he always did when he was stressed and unable to control a situation: he put his fingers in his ears. At least it cut out the sound, I suppose. Me? I curled up next to him.

  But I still wanted to see what was happening, so I peered out from beneath Wayne’s shoulder. Dad must have spotted the gun because we heard him shouting, ‘This yours, mate?’ The man just let out a sort of scared, whimpering sound. Dad knocked the door shut. Now that it was closed, it was a little easier for us. All we could hear were the muffled shouts from Dad and the odd little squeaks, moans and cries of fear from Air Gun Man. Through the frosted glass, we could only watch the two performing outlines of Dad and the man, frantically bobbing and weaving like a particularly noisy mime act. With one hand, Dad was holding the poor man aloft by the throat and, with the other, he was brandishing the gun. Dad shook it in the air.

  ‘See this? I’m going to stick it right up your arse!’

  I stared, frozen and dumbfounded. Wayne and I were fascinated. He took his fingers out of his ears and I pulled myself from underneath him and away from the wall. We stood, silent, hypnotized by the two silhouettes framed in the top half of the door as they gave a kind of Chinese shadow-puppet show behind the frosted glass. Lit by the light from behind them, the two figures in the flat were jostling each other, their arms suddenly shooting out at different angles and their bodies confusingly merging into one then suddenly splitting apart.

  Then, out of nowhere, another character arrived, accompanied by high-pitched screaming. We saw the outline of Air Gun Man’s wife, arms flailing, head shaking, hair flopping this way and that, as she tried to quell Dad’s rage. By now, it was getting difficult to tell what exactly was going on, but it looked like Dad was behind the man with the woman on Dad’s back.

  Then Air Gun Man began to let out a series of odd, guttural, animal sounds. In the confusion, someone must have reached for the latch because the door slowly swung open, revealing the appalling scene. Poor Air Gun Man’s eyes stared at us, desperate for help, as we watched Dad quite literally trying to stick the end of the gun through the back of the man’s trousers and, as he promised, up his arse. Never has Dad’s hair-trigger temper been more evident.

  But at least Air Gun Man was unlikely to take potshots at kids again.

  Dad’s explosions may have been scary, but they were also strangely reassuring. More often than not, they were designed to protect us. Nothing would rile him more than someone threatening his family. When roused, he would defend us like an enraged lion protecting his cubs. He was mad as hell – but on our behalf.

  The downside, of course, was that Dad’s temper so often acted as a barrier between us and the rest of the world. Life with him was often fun, mad even, but never dull. You lived in a permanent state of precarious unpredictability.

  On another memorable occasion, he arrived at the flats blasting the horn and hanging out of the window of an open-top truck. He was waving his arms about like a demented schoolboy and had an upright piano tied precariously on to the back of the truck.

  However, not long after the great cheery arrival, it quite quickly became clear that he had neglected to inform the truck driver when setting off from the second-hand furniture shop that the piano was to be delivered up five flights of stairs to the top flat. That fact wasn’t even mentioned until it had been heaved off the back of the truck, lugged into the entrance to the flats and was resting on the first step of the first flight of stairs.

  As soon as he grasped what the task entailed, the delivery man told Dad in no uncertain terms to stick that piano in a place far easier to reach than the top of five flights of stairs.

  With the help of a few neighbours he had commandeered, Dad managed to crash, bang and shoulder the piano, inch by painstaking inch, up the narrow concrete stairwell. A lot of the residents were most keen to contribute their highly unenlightening advice as to how to do it as we humped the massive wooden box up on to each landing.

  A door would swing open inquisitively and a suitable member of the family was ushered out on to the landing and press-ganged into joining the growing crowd of movers. They became part of the entertainment for that afternoon – well, it’s not every day a piano passes your door with a herd of people and a dog, all chattering, heaving and barking orders at each other.

  I think on every landing someone found an excuse to down tools for a rest. Cups of tea for all were served from lots of different kitchens, stories were told, gossip was caught up on, new friendships were made and a tune was even played on the piano, before a voice would pipe up, ‘Right, up we go then.’ Cups were gathered up, palms were given a new coating of spit and the lifting would start again. Eventually the piano was heaved into our flat and found its new home in Wayne’s and my bedroom, as there was no other place for it.

  It didn’t stay there very long, however. One Sunday, Wayne and I complained to Dad that there was nothing to do. Dad suddenly shouted at us, ‘You’re bored? You might as well throw the piano out of the window, then!’ Like a rock star who drives his Rolls Royce into a swimming pool, he just imagined it would be a laugh to go in for a spot of wanton destruction.

  We thought his idea was ridiculous until, to our amazement, Dad actually started smashing the piano up bit by bit and hurling it out of the bedroom window. It must have been an astonishing sight for anyone who happened to be looking out of the flats below to see random planks of wood and lengths of piano-wire shoot past.

  We laughed our socks off, but I’m not sure the woman downstairs who stuck her nose out of the window and was narrowly missed by the piano on its way down was quite so amused.

  The piano, while we had it, was always a focal point for spontaneous outbursts of expression in our flat. For example, I would be sitting quietly in my bedroom when the door would burst open and Dad would march over to the piano and play half an hour of kicking rock’n’roll. Then, as quickly as he had entered, he was gone. It might even happen late at night, when we had to be up for school the next morning. But his explanation would be that he’d thought of an idea and just needed to work it out on the ‘Joanna’ as he called it. If it was late, he would offer up a nursery rhyme to help us sleep, usually something very rude.

  He would chant:

  ‘There was a young man from Gosham,

  Took out his bollocks to wash ’em.

  His wife said “Jack,<
br />
  If you don’t put em back,

  I’ll stand on the buggers and squash ’em.”’

  Then Dad would say, ‘Sleep tight,’ and be off.

  Dad’s moods swung so wildly he was like the Scottish Highlands, manifesting all four seasons in a single hour. With him, it was alternately sunny and stormy, and it taught me a great deal about resilience and tolerance. It showed me how I didn’t want to behave. I realized that exhibiting that sort of unpredictable temperament was no way to live your life and opted for a more tranquil approach to the world. But we couldn’t avoid it; that’s what it was like living with Dad.

  11. Jus’ Like That

  By the mid 1970s, Dad was getting a lot more work as a club singer. It cast a more optimistic spell over us. Our flat – once so gloomy and cold – now seemed much more redolent with wonder and hope. The sense of optimism began to feed our young dreams of a better life.

  Dad was enjoying some success in the world of show business in the pubs and working men’s clubs of Wales and Bristol. Those places were buzzing back then. They were the destination of choice for your average working Joe and Joanna’s Saturday night out. They were cool, affordable places to take your wife if you were a working man.

  In those days, there was a social club or working men’s club on nearly every big housing estate in the industrial heartlands of Britain. In Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow or Newcastle at that time, there might be one on every street corner. It was the time of the Beatles, Morecambe and Wise, Jimmy Tarbuck, Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdinck, Freddie Starr, Gerry and The Pacemakers, Shirley Bassey, Mike and Bernie Winters and Hughie Green with his catchphrase ‘Opportunity Knocks!’ Those were just some of the huge stars that played the clubs back then.

  The shows presented by the working men’s clubs were to our family and millions of others across the country a spectacular departure from the daily slog. Plus, those clubs were a real breeding ground for some of the funniest performers who would go on to become household names, British institutions even. Singers, comics, magicians, jugglers, bands and groups of all shapes and sizes – nearly every night of the week they were jamming clubs to the rafters.

  So, as youngsters, Wayne and I often went travelling with Dad. We would be there wide-eyed with awe and amazement as we sat backstage watching Dad and his fellow acts. Take the famous night I saw Tommy Cooper. Great is an over-used word in comedy, but it really does apply to a man I regard as a genius.

  I had gone with Dad to a club called Blazers in Windsor. It was a glamorous venue that only booked top names. This particular night Dad was supporting Tommy Cooper, perhaps the leading comedian in the country at that time, adored as much by his peers as by the public. I loved him, and so Dad asked me if I’d like to go with him. It was only a couple of hours away from where we lived at the time, so Mum didn’t mind.

  Upon arrival, the manager of Blazers welcomed Dad, but he seemed agitated and nervous and kept going on about how long Dad could perform for … if required. Dad wondered why he was so worried about the timing and the manager owned up that Tommy Cooper was running late and that he was worried the fez-wearing funny man might not make it in time. A no-show by the most celebrated comic of his day could cause the good people of Windsor to become uncharacteristically rowdy and rebellious.

  Dad did his allotted slot, while I sat as ordered, listening over the speaker in the dressing room. All the time, I was getting more and more nervous about seeing Tommy Cooper. I thought he was the funniest comedian on the planet and was fully expecting the dressing-room door to burst open at any moment to reveal him, but it didn’t happen.

  Dad came back to the dressing room buzzing. Sweating as usual after a good show, he plonked his props on the dresser. At that moment, the manager arrived in the doorway. He looked agitated; he was sweating too, but not in a good way. He that said Tommy was still an hour away and he really hoped he could make it on time, as the break before the comedian went on would only be half an hour.

  Half an hour went by, and the manager extended the interval for as long as possible before the excited audience took their seats, buzzing with anticipation at the prospect of seeing their beloved Tommy Cooper.

  Fifteen minutes passed. As every minute ticked by, I saw a year taken off the manager’s life. The crowd at Blazers were not known for their patience: they pays their money, they likes to be entertained and on time. Every second it seemed the manager would appear at the door, more nervous than before. After another ten minutes, I began to really feel for him, as the audience, now fed up with waiting, started to sing ‘Why are we waiting?’

  As Dad finished packing up the last piece of his stuff, he looked at me and said, ‘I don’t think he’s coming, you know, and there’s going to be a riot ’ere.’

  I looked up and suddenly saw the manager, now nearing a breakdown, shoot past the door with his arms extended. ‘Tommy!’ he exclaimed.

  I could hear Tommy Cooper in the hall. ‘Am I late?’

  ‘Noooo,’ replied the manager, without missing a beat. ‘You’re right on time.’

  I couldn’t believe I could actually hear the great Tommy Cooper. I sat frozen to my seat. I barely heard Dad, who suddenly felt he was in the way: ‘Come on, Lee, out we go. Tommy needs this dressing room.’ I rose from my seat and followed Dad to the door. He threw his bags out into the hall, and said to Cooper, ‘I’m out of there now, Tom.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave. How are the crowd?’ asked Tommy.

  Dad told the truth. ‘They’re great, but I think they’re getting a bit pissed off.’

  Tommy understood. ‘Oh; all right, thanks. I’ll keep me eyes open then.’ He stopped in the doorway and looked down at me. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘That’s my boy. Come on, son, out you come.’ I walked forward, staring at what was to me a giant. That moment has remained etched in my memory ever since. This was a man who embodied showbiz: even chatting away offstage, he oozed charisma from every pore. Wow, I thought, I’d love to be like that!

  Tommy Cooper – yes, Tommy Cooper! – bent down and shook my hand. ‘Hello, son. What’s your name?’

  I couldn’t answer – I was too nervous. So Dad answered for me. ‘Lee.’ Then Dad ushered me out.

  ‘Lee? That’s a nice …’

  Just then the manager rushed back into the hall. ‘Ten minutes, Tommy.’

  ‘I need a radio mike,’ shouted Tommy.

  Then the other door opened, and Tommy’s son burst in, pushing huge travel cases on wheels. Tommy sped into action. ‘Right, son, you know what to do.’ With that, Tommy pulled a stick from one of the boxes and gave it to his son. The manager hurried back in and gave Tommy a radio mike.

  As Dad gathered his stuff together, I watched Tommy through the door begin to get ready. He took his shirt off and put on a stage shirt and over his head he placed a microphone holder. He shoved the mike into it and began speaking. ‘One, two. One, two …’ I could hear the crowd going wild.

  Tommy carried on getting ready and speaking into the mike. As he did this, I could see his son on stage prodding the back of the curtain with the stick while at the same time setting up a table.

  ‘What’s this? Where am I?’ Tommy went on, as his son poked the curtain some more. It was fantastic. I could hear the audience laughing their heads off.

  By now, Tommy Cooper had his trousers on and had set up some props. I watched, rooted to the spot. He carried on with the same routine for at least ten minutes. What amazed me was that he hadn’t even walked on stage, and yet the audience were roaring with laughter at the mere sound of his voice. You could feel it backstage, right in the pit of your stomach. That was some talent.

  Slightly flustered, he came out of the dressing room and walked to the side of the stage, all the time nervously checking his pockets. Suddenly, I heard the manager start to introduce him. As Tommy Cooper stood in a gap between the curtains, beams of spotlight trickled through, silhou
etting his huge stature. The audience cheered even more loudly.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, Tommy Cooper!’

  He whipped open the curtain and walked out into the bright lights. As the curtain flopped shut, all I could hear – even through the curtain that tends to muffle everything on stage – was a cacophony of clapping and laughter. It was the definition of a ‘wall of sound’. Through a tiny gap in the curtain, I could just pick out a woman in the front row saying, ‘Blimey, ain’t his feet big?’ It’s safe to say that he stormed it.

  That was a turning point for me. I spent the car journey home in complete silence. All I could think about was how funny Tommy Cooper was, but without seemingly trying. He was just funny. I played it over and over in my mind: Tommy Cooper walking through those curtains, and the roar of the crowd, the laughter. It was not polite or restrained, but uninhibited, bellyaching laughter. That’s what I liked – when it actually hurt to laugh.

  They were laughing because he was funny; in fact, they were even cracking up ten minutes before he came on stage. The mere prospect of his appearance was making them laugh – what sort of power was that? When he did appear, they were not cracking up at his lines because he hadn’t said anything yet, but somehow they sensed his funniness. His mere demeanour was enough to set them off. They knew he simply had funny bones. I thought, ‘How incredible that must feel, to have the audience eating out of your hand before you even walk on stage, to be so funny they’re already your friends before they’ve even clapped eyes on you!’

  I know now that comes from years and years of hard graft in the clubs and theatres up and down the country. I know now that Tommy Cooper probably felt really insecure about whether his show would catch fire that night I saw him. A comedian never forgets it if something doesn’t work. Even when that crowd laughed at everything he did that night, he was probably wondering all the time if it was good enough, hoping right until he said goodnight that it would be OK. That anxiety is just part of a comedian’s DNA. But what I saw of Tommy Cooper when I was just a kid touched me deeply. It was truly awe-inspiring. It planted a seed in my head which, over the coming years, was to grow and grow.