Part 13 (1/2)

He arises and is full of the joys of chattering, farting, singing and cries of Hey hup la! He's down the stairs like a clockwork doll, into the dining-room, eats six breakfasts, sings, whistles and farts his way through ten cups of tea. Where was he last night? He went to a dance, met a pretty signorina hoi hup! and in a moment of Welsh hieraith hoi! hup! gave her his leather Army jerkin. From now on he froze froze.

[image] ”The hit of the night was Bill Hall's trio. Bill's ecentric hot fiddling will take him far and his partners on ba.s.s and guitar make up the best act of the night.” ”The hit of the night was Bill Hall's trio. Bill's ecentric hot fiddling will take him far and his partners on ba.s.s and guitar make up the best act of the night.”

The show opened at the Argentina Theatre; again the Bill Hall Trio are the hit of the show.

The act was basically very fast jazz numbers; 'Honeysuckle Rose', then 'The Flight of the b.u.mble Bee', 'Tiger Rag', all with visual gags. The response was unbelievable; we realized that here we might have something that would have great potential in civvy street.

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The Alexander Club, Rome, Harry Secombe (l) (l) willing Johnny Mulgrew willing Johnny Mulgrew (r) (r) to pay the bill. Bob Wayne standing to pay the bill. Bob Wayne standing.

Life was really better than I had ever had it. First-cla.s.s hotel accommodation, food, free all day, and a roaring success at night. Tomorrow didn't matter, except it kept arriving. By day we'd swan around Rome with the inevitable visit to the Alexander Club.

We had a sword of Damocles. It was Bill Hall. He was itinerant, and we never knew where he was or what he was doing. After the show he'd disappear into the Rome night and its naughty areas and we wouldn't see him till a few minutes before we were due back on stage. It got so bad that I would go on stage without him even being in the theatre; it was then I started to tell jokes just to hold the fort.

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Spike on top of the Colosseum

BOLOGNA.

Bologna Sunday. We are off to Bologna. Where the h.e.l.l is Bill Hall? Someone says Italy! We search the hotel, then his room; there's nothing in it though he's slept in both beds, left a tap running, and a pair of socks in the sink. Wait, what is this unshaven wreck with a violin case? It is he. He gets on the charabanc, ignoring the fact that we've been waiting half an hour. A desultory cheer greets him. Totally unmoved, he sits down. I watch a drip from his nose fall and extinguish his dog-end. I am seated at the back on a bench seat. I have placed my guitar case on the luggage rack and as we start, it falls off on to Hall's head. ”You have-a musica on yewer brayne,” says Mitzi. It is a good joke for a forty-three-year-old Hungarian accordion player.

We are heading inland and it's snowing. NO car heaters in those days! We are climbing the narrow road up the Apennines, and it's getting colder. All is not well. Nino the driver is shouting and praying in a stricken voice, the roads are very slippery, we'll have to put the skid chains on. We set to, straining and swearing. ”What a bleedin' liberty,” says Gunner Hall. ”How can you put b.l.o.o.d.y skid chains on and be expected to play the violin.” Lieutenant Priest answers that there's no need to play the violin when putting the skid chains on but as Gunner Hall is just standing and watching, it would help if he did. Fingers are aching with cold; finally it's done; a quick drink of hot tea from the thermos and we're off again. We are at three thousand feet, heavy snow, icy roads, very dark and very cold. We have all gone quiet as we sense that the driver Nino is none too brave. Then the sound of Hall's violin playing 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas'. There's a lot of laughter, then we all join in.

Varied lyrics: 'I'm dreaming of a white mistress', or 'I'm steaming on an old mattress'. Quiet again. We pa.s.s a chiesa, it's ringing out the Angelus; several of the Italian girls cross themselves.

”I don't understand 'em,” says Bill Hall. ”Last night they were all s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g themselves silly.”

Lieutenant Priest pa.s.ses sandwiches down the charabanc. ”Ham and cheese,” he says. We are all stamping our feet and blowing into cupped hands. Sometimes we cupped our feet and stamped our hands: variety is the spice of life. It was an awful long cold boring darkness. It wasn't a moment too soon when we arrived in Bologna; with the Tower of Dante looming into the night sky, we pull up at the Albergo Oralogio. A fin de cycle building. All is Baroque, even the porters.

We are soon in wonderful bedrooms, faded but lovely. I have a huge marble bath with gorgon-headed taps, and a giant bra.s.s shower rose in a wooden boxed-in cabinet. The curtains are damask. It's a single room, so I'm safe from singing, farting, chattering Secombe.

”Hey, come and ha' a drink, Spike.” It's Mulgrew, he's found a vino bar right next door. ”We could do with one after that b.l.o.o.d.y journey.” OK. I join him. The manageress falls for Johnny.

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Mulgrew set fair for free drinks The vino bar is the meeting place of all the local footballers. They have money, do we have anything to sell. Mulgrew puts up his soul. I have a fine officer's raincoat given me by my father. Can they see it? Not from here. I dash into the Albergo and return gasping. Oh, I'm in no hurry to sell, you understand, but how much? Five thousand lire. The word thousand disorientates the mind. Used to humble one, two, three in sterling but five thousand! Rich! rich! rich! Wrong! wrong! wrong! little international banker. It came to four quid: and it cost fifteen! It was brand new, and there it is going out the door to a football match. Still, four quid was four quid, but it wasn't fifteen.

Tired by the trip, elated by the five thousand lire, p.i.s.sed by the wine, I retired to my Baroque bedroom, laid out my mottled blue pyjamas, took a marble bath, a bra.s.s shower, got into the Baroque bed and rang for room service. There's b.u.g.g.e.r all: room service is 'finito'. What have they got? La fredda colazione!! Argggh, well it was better than nothing, though when it arrived I realized it wasn't. What's the old waiter hanging about for? All service after ten has to be paid for by cash. What? But I'm travelling on the King's warrant, this trip is all found. Well find a tip. No! OK, he'll call the manager. No, no, OK, I pay. Has he got change for a ten thousand lire note? Yes, he says, have I been selling raincoats to those footballers?

Again the Bill Hall Triumph. It's getting to be a habit. With the raincoat money I brought an old Kodak camera. I filmed everything, see over: The streets of Bologna were swarming with Italian Partisans wearing bandoliers, their belts stuffed with German stick grenades. They sauntered the sidewalks with a braggadocio air, waving their captured weapons and shouting Viva Italia. After a while it got a bit boring and Bill Hall said to one, ”Le Guerre Finito mate.” We climbed the six hundred steps up the Tower of Dante, only to find graffiti: ”Viva La Figa.”

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Spike feeding the pigeons in a piazza in Bologna. Photograph of no particular merit other than that the photographer would one day arise and find Sir in front of his name.

Christmas in Italy Our last show in Bologna was on Christmas Day. It was all very strange. On Christmas Eve, after a show to a very inebriated audience, I wanted to be alone. I went to my bedroom and wished I could be back at 50 Riseldine Road with my mum and dad and brother. I wanted that little Christmas tree in the front room, the coal fire especially lit to 'air the room' for Christmas Day. The simple presents, a scarf, a pair of socks, a presentation box of 25 Player's cigarettes, my brother's box of Brittans soldiers, a drawing book with a set of pencils. Very modest fare by modern standards, but to me then, still simple and unsophisticated, it was a warming and magic day. The lunch, and chicken chicken, that was something! In 1939, chicken was a luxury. And the tin of Danish ham! The huge trifle with custard and real CREAM. My father's pride in opening the Port, pretending he was a savant, smelling the cork. ”Ahhhh yes,” he would say, and pour it with the gesture of a sommelier at the Lord Mayor's banquet.

Here I was in a room in Bologna. I couldn't get it together. Outside there is roistering. Not me. I knew tomorrow there would be no stocking at the end of my bed. Father Christmas was a casualty of World War Two.

FLORENCE.

Florence City of Medicis, Savonarola, and chattering raspberrying Secombe, now freezing without his leather 'love gift' jerkin. This is the city of the artist, the artisan, the connoisseur. Our Hotel Dante is just round the corner from the Piazza del Signoria. I would be able to see places that I had only read about. The hotel is one built for those rich Victorians doing the Grand Tour. Sumptuous rooms, a wonderful double bed with duck eider, like sleeping in froth. Putting my egg-stained battledress in the bevelled gla.s.s and walnut cupboard was like wearing a flat hat in the Ritz. Secombe flies past chattering and farting up the Carrara marble stairs with its flanking Venetian bal.u.s.trades topped with cherubim holding bronze lanterns. He looks totally out of place, he belongs at the pit head.

I am standing on the spot, explaining that this is where Savonarola was burned. ”Oo was Savonarola?” says Gunner Hall. I tell him 'oo he is'. ”They burnt burnt him?” Yes. ”Why. Were they short of coal?” I explain that he was at odds with the Medici and the state of Florence. ”Fancy,” says Hall. ”Why didn't 'e call the fire brigade?” The same indifference applies to see Cellini's Perseus. With the head of Medusa, Hall wants to know why statues are erected to people being burnt or having their heads chopped off. ”Why not someone normal like Tommy Handley?” Yes, of course: ”Here is Cellini's statue of Tommy Handley from ITMA.” That would look really nice in the Piazza. him?” Yes. ”Why. Were they short of coal?” I explain that he was at odds with the Medici and the state of Florence. ”Fancy,” says Hall. ”Why didn't 'e call the fire brigade?” The same indifference applies to see Cellini's Perseus. With the head of Medusa, Hall wants to know why statues are erected to people being burnt or having their heads chopped off. ”Why not someone normal like Tommy Handley?” Yes, of course: ”Here is Cellini's statue of Tommy Handley from ITMA.” That would look really nice in the Piazza.

The Pitti Palace leaves me stunned; masterpiece after masterpiece, there's no end to it. From t.i.tian to Seguantini. You come out feeling useless and ugly. On the Ponte Vecchio Secombe and I ask Hall to take a photo of us. It comes out with the wall behind us in perfect focus, two blurred faces in the foreground. He was well pleased.

Now a divertimento. An English lady living in Florence has invited us to tea. She is Madame Penelope Morris, a 'relative' of William Morris, ”the man who invented wallpaper'. She was sixty-nine, tall, thin, a white translucent skin with the veins visible; her neck looked like a map of the Dutch ca.n.a.l system. She wore swathes of bead necklaces - to the value of two s.h.i.+llings. Two pale blue eyes, very close together, sat atop a long bulbous nose. She had no waist, no bottom or bosom; she went straight up and down like a ; phone box. A small crimped rouged mouth like a chicken's b.u.m. She spoke with an upper-cla.s.s adenoidal voice that put her next in line to the throne. She ushered us into a cloying room that' smelt of stale unemptied sherry gla.s.ses and tomcat p.i.s.s. We sat in well-worn chairs with antimaca.s.sars. She rang a bra.s.s bell, the clanger fell out. ”It's always doing that.” The summons brought a thousand-year-old butler carrying a papier-mache tray loaded with what looked like papier-mache cakes. The tea ritual. ”The cakes are made locally,” she said, and should have added 'by stonemasons.” It was all a ploy. She is a spiritualist in need. So, would we boys like a seance? So saying she pulls the curtains and we sit at a circular table not knowing what to expect. Now, would anyone like to get in touch with a loved one? Yes, says Marine Paul Robson, one of our shanghaied dancers. ”I'd like to get in touch with my mother Rosie.” Mrs Morris goes into a trance. ”Are you there Mrs Robson, are you there Rosie...” A little louder. ”Are you there Mrs Rosie Robson...” She opens her eyes. ”She's not hearing me.” What Robson hadn't told her was that his mother wasn't dead, but was living in Brighton. ”She won't be able to hear from here,” he said to a slightly bemused Mrs Morris.

Does anyone else want to get in touch? Yes. Bill Hall would like to contact his grandmother Lucy.. Forewarned, Mrs Morris asks, ”Is she dead?”

”I hope so,” says Hall. ”They buried her.”

”Are you there, Mrs Lucy Hall?” she intones, eyelids fluttering, as she places a collection box on the table, giving it a shake to agitate the coins inside. Suddenly Paul Robson lets out a scream and runs from the room. Mrs Morris calls a halt; he has ruined the 'balance'. We must all leave now as she is expecting another 'tea party'. In the hall we meet a group of unsuspecting soldiers who can't understand our stifled laughter.

We ask Robson why he had run out screaming. He says, ”I felt there was something nasty in the room.”

”There was,” says Bill Hall. ”The cat done it.”

Secombe and I have hit it off with two waitresses at the hotel. One fat, one thin. He calls them Laurel and Hardy. They weren't exactly beauties, but then neither was Secombe or I.

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Hardy (mine) 12 stone 3 lb Laurel (Secombe's) 7 stone 3 lb stone 3 lb We would meet them 'dopo lavoro'. They will show us a 'nice Boogie Woogie Club'. It sounded like a weapon. By the kitchen we waited, our romantic interlude broken only by the slops boy emptying rubbish into the reeking bins. Finally they appear, smelling of cheap perfume and was.h.i.+ng up water. Secombe give me Hardy. She's too full for him. We were taken to what by day was a sewer. An Italian trio are trying to catch up 'with the jazz scene. Through a fug, a blue-chinned waiter shows us to a table the size of a playing card. By intertwining knees we are seated, we appear glued together. Secombe is chattering in Anglo-Italian: ”You molto bello,” he tells Laurel. There's another fine mess he's got us into. We drink some appalling cheap red wine that leaves a purple ring round the mouth; Secombe looks like a vampire.

Laurel takes Secombe to do the 'Jitterb.u.g.g.e.ry' and they are lost in the steaming melee. I too am sucked in by Hardy. I am trying to move her bulk round the floor, but I really need a heavy goods licence. Still, it was nice holding a girl, even if her load had s.h.i.+fted. A gyrating, arm-pumping, steaming, farting and chattering, all teeth and gla.s.ses Secombe zooms past. ”Having fun?” he shouts. So that's what it is. Away he goes in twenty different directions. It's getting on for two a.m. The girls say they must 'andare a casa', they have work in the morning. There follows the traditional groping and steaming in the doorway.

A mist has risen from the Arno, infiltrating the town and Secombe's trousers. I can hear the hiss of steam as cold air hits his boiling body. We depart virgo intacto, trousers bursting with revolving t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es and dying erections. We retrace our steps to the hotel. We are lost. ”Fancy,” says Secombe. ”Who in the Mumbles would dream that I was lost in Florence?” I tell him I gave up: who in Mumbles would know he was lost in Florence.

A tart hovers by. Lily Marlene? She knows the way to the hotel. Do we want a s.h.a.g? It's only fifty lire after ten, she'll do us both for forty. Sorry dear, we're training for the priesthood. OK, we can find our own f.u.c.king way back. Finally we did. ”Home at last,” says Secombe, ”and forty lire to the good.”

No, not home at last, locked out at last. ”Open up landlord, we are thirsty travellers.” We rang the bell. We hammered on the door. We tapped on the windows. We shouted upwards. We hammered on the bell. We rang the door. We tapped upwards. We shouted on the windows. ”How much did she say for the two of us?” says Secombe. A sliding of bolts, a weary concierge opens the door. ”Molto tardi signorini,” he says. We apologize. I press a ten lire note in his hand. A low moan comes from his lips. ”What did you give him?” says Secombe. ”A heart attack.”