Spike An Intimate Memoir, page 33
After the funeral I went back to the office to tell Spike about Jack. I was dreading it. All he said was “I’m next” and put down the phone. Although I knew that was his way of coping, I hated his dismissive attitude, and he knew it. The next morning, although he had lost “my two old mates”, he was bright and jolly, as if nothing had happened.
“Good morning, sunshine girl. Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-seven years.”
He roared with laughter. “You are supposed to say ‘Very much’. You’re like a British shop steward – twenty-seven years, four months, two weeks and four hours.”
He was denying the deaths of his two friends. I knew that a few days, perhaps even a few weeks, would have to pass before he mentioned either of them again. He did a while afterwards when he told me he had been playing his favourite tapes of Alan. Then there was another call. “Norm. Will you get someone else to help you on my biography? You’ll miss Jack. I know I do. I can’t take his place but would you like me to help?”
This was rather heavy for Spike. To lift the mood I reminded him of something F. Scott Fitzgerald once said: “There will never be a satisfactory biography of a writer. He’s too many people if he’s any good.” I told him I had no intention of writing his biography. It would be in the style of what Jack had called it, Ups and Downs with Spike Milligan.
“God help us,” he said.
He used the same expression when I asked him to write a letter to BBC Archives giving me his authority to examine any files relating to him.
“What for? They know we’ve been together for years.”
I explained that not every researcher at the BBC knew who I was and this is what he wrote:
This letter is to acknowledge the authority of my manager, Norma Farnes, who is writing a book on me, God help us, to have access to my life. She has the authority to speak on my behalf and on my business affairs, religion and civic. If there is anything else you want get her to give it to you.
Sincerely,
THE LATE SPIKE MILLIGAN.
Chapter Twenty-three
At the end of 1994 Spike caused a fuss at the British Comedy Awards, where he was given a Lifetime Achievement Award. Prince Charles had sent a tribute but as it was read out Spike said, “Grovelling little bastard!” He meant it as a joke, but there was a furore. The following day he sent a telegram to Prince Charles saying, “I suppose now a knighthood is out of the question.” His equerry assured us that they thought it was the funniest thing they had ever seen.
The next year Malcolm Morris, producer of This is Your Life, rang to say they would like to do Spike again. He had done one once before in 1973 when nothing had gone right. I will never forget it. Malcolm and I had worked together since Tyne Tees Television began in the late Fifties and in 1973, not long after he moved to This is Your Life, he rang to ask if there was anywhere I could guarantee that Spike would turn up on time as arranged.
“His Army reunion,” I said, “apart from the times he’s in Australia he never misses one.”
Completely unaware of what had been planned, Spike drove to the reunion in Bexhill in his Mini. Malcolm decided he would have one of his researchers keep an eye on him. The researcher certainly would not have made a detective. When Spike left home that morning he noticed a car waiting outside his house and, when he checked his mirror, he saw it following. He decided to take a back road and once again the car followed, so he drove to a police station and said he was being tailed by a suspicious character. The police collared the driver and locked him up. Spike got back into the Mini and drove off like the clappers so as not to be late for the reunion. The researcher tried to get a message to Malcolm, asking him to confirm to the police that he was a researcher doing a job. Malcolm was loath to let the police know he was about to do a This is Your Life but he was in a pickle. He simply had to know where Spike was in case he had decided to stop off somewhere. So he let the police into the secret and obligingly they put out an alert over two counties.
I was supposed to travel to Bexhill in a car provided by Thames Television but Peter Sellers, who was of course to appear in the programme, insisted I travel with him in his car. He had decided to turn up in a German storm trooper’s helmet and long black leather coat. At the time he was filming Soft Beds and Hard Battles and had had his head shaved for the part, and was desperate that nobody should see him bald. That was a logic typical of Milligan. What was the point when millions would soon see him on screen? Before he dozed off in the back of the car he asked me to wake him up ten minutes before we arrived at the reunion. When we did I got the gallant Sellers treatment. He summoned one of the researchers and ordered a bottle of champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches. For Pete that was done at the double. But he did not want them for himself, they were for me. I thought, that’s just like Spike. When Malcolm walked in and saw me with a glass of champagne in one hand and a sandwich in the other he was furious because he thought I had ordered them. He calmed down when I told him it had been Pete’s idea.
After the show, which was hilarious, I wanted to give the party a miss and get back to London as soon as possible. Pete knew this and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll go back together. They won’t refuse me an early car.” I did not know it at the time but he wanted to get back to Liza Minnelli.
The second This is Your Life was no more straightforward than the first. As Malcolm put it, Spike “still moved on a different planet in a different time scale from us normal humans.” Spike was appearing for the BBC at Pebble Mill in Manchester on 23 January and he and I were returning the next day on the 11.30 a.m. train to Euston station. Malcolm’s people alerted the station’s management, and as they were all Milligan fans, they agreed to place on the main station arrivals board a notice saying, “Spike Milligan. This is Your Life.” They said that they would only know which platform would be used five minutes before the train’s arrival. I rang Malcolm on my mobile from the train’s loo to say we were on our way and all was well. He was told that we would come in on platform five so he positioned his cameras, lights and sound there in readiness for our arrival. Then it was announced we would be arriving on platform two, so the crew ran over with the equipment and Michael Aspel stood by with the red book. In typical Milligan fashion the train then pulled up at platform five so, with only seconds to spare, they rushed back and Michael was ready to meet him. Malcolm recalled the moment of truth:
“Stand by,” I said into my railway phone to the computer centre that controlled the station notice board. There were Spike and Norma strolling along without a care in the world. The notice board flashed, “Spike Milligan. This is Your Life.” Spike was in a world of his own and didn’t notice it. Norma pointed it out to him and, as he looked up, Michael stepped in for the surprise. “You’ve already done me and now everyone thinks I’m dead,” said Spike. As Michael ushered him to a waiting car he added, “Anyway, there’s certainly nobody alive to appear on it.” In fact the show ran almost double the normal running time.
For me it was worth all the tension of the previous forty-eight hours to see the expression on Spike’s face when Toni Pontani came on to the stage. He was astonished that she was there. It was the highlight of the night for him. After the show she said, “Let’s run away together.”
He looked at her so sadly. “Darling Toni, we’re too old.” After This is Your Life he continued to appear as a guest on television but he preferred to tour the country to do his poetry readings. It was a simple show; he read a few poems, chatted to the audience and after the interval read excerpts from his war memoirs. Then came a question and answer session. It was a huge success and he received many letters from audiences saying that they felt he had been in their own sitting room.
There was more sadness for Spike the following year when Ronnie Scott died. Spike’s age was telling on him but still he kept on writing. Despite the fact that he had fought with the BBC for most of his life they decided to do a tribute to him for his eightieth birthday in 1998. I decided to keep it a surprise for him until a week before recording, but he was unimpressed when I told him. “Oh, yeah?” he said. The BBC had wanted Clive Anderson to present the line-up, but I insisted it should be Terry Wogan, not because I do not like Clive Anderson, but I knew Terry would be more appropriate. Unfortunately I caught a virus and was in bed for the recording, so missed seeing Denis Norden, Johnny Speight, Eric and Spike together again. At this time I was collating material for The Goons: The Story which contained interviews with Harry and Spike, the first time they had talked about the show for years.
I had also wanted Spike to write an eighth volume of war memoirs, which would chart his progression into civvy street and cover the birth of The Goon Show. But he was dead against it; I realize now because the prospect of collating all the material and doing the research such a book would require was too exhausting for him. Instead he came up with the idea for an illustrated autobiography, using family photographs. He spent a while sorting out the images and looked forward to writing what he would call The Family Album, but when he sat down to do it the spark had gone and he found it a hard slog. That was terrible for him because writing had always been such a natural gift; it had always come off the top of his head, from a seemingly endless mine of hilarious and sometimes preposterous prose. But not any more. When the book was eventually published in 1999 he did the usual signing sessions. He enjoyed them but the travelling eventually got to him.
In 1998 it was Prince Charles’s fiftieth birthday. He decided it was time for a bit of fun and wondered what he could buy him. He settled for a set of false teeth and a wig. Shades of the old Spike. Charles thought it was hysterical. That year he asked me to arrange some dates for more readings. I was apprehensive because he had become quite frail, but he was very keen so I spaced the dates to give him a few weeks between gigs. It was such a gamble that I decided to produce and back them, but I was wrong to worry. A tired old Spike would arrive at the theatre but a different person walked on to the stage.
I booked him for a sell-out night at the Gaiety Theatre in Dublin on 14 June 1998. Jack and I went a day or so earlier and were at the hotel when Spike arrived with Shelagh. He promptly had a row with her, lost his poems, did not know what he could possibly read, and said it would be better if I cancelled the show. As usual I had two extra copies of what he was going to read, but he was not to be placated. I nodded to Shelagh and Jack to leave the suite.
“Spike,” I said, “you can’t let the Irish down. You haven’t appeared in Dublin for years. It’s a sell-out and they’ve been queuing for hours for any returns.”
This struck a chord and I took him downstairs to the car that was waiting to take us to the Gaiety. In the dressing room he went through the extra copy I had brought with me, drank a glass or two of the Orvieto I had cooling in the fridge, and without any announcement walked straight on to the stage. That was the way he always did it. No “Ladies and Gentleman, Spike Milligan” for him. The curtains were already drawn and before the audience realized he was centre stage, arms aloft, embracing them all.
“I’ve come home,” he cried.
The packed house erupted and he had a standing ovation before he started. After all the drama at the hotel I thought, you evil old sod. He was brilliant that night and the audience brought him back again and again. We had dinner afterwards and he knew he had been good, but Spike was modest about his performances and by that time he was far more interested in what wine he would drink.
I decided to put Spike on at the London Palladium with a similar show. I cannot say the same show because Spike extemporized to such an extent that I was never quite sure what was coming next. My father had always gone to the Palladium when he was in town and he would have been thrilled to see my name on the poster outside, “Norma Farnes presents Spike Milligan”.
We did several more shows in the provinces and the tour put him in such good spirits that he went a few times to Paris to meet “my only true love, Toni Pontani.” He started to come to the office now and again for a whole day, never giving a thought to the fact that he might be disruptive. For instance, I was having a meeting about my proposed book on Spike and he decided to sit in on the discussion to see what it was all about. He announced that he would write the foreword, and in typical Milligan style said, “Take it down, here and now.” The foreword to this book is what he dictated that day. Yes, I thought, the old spark may have diminished but it is still there.
Stirling Rodger, a friend of mine, was helping at Number Nine, and as an actor he had heard all about Spike’s tantrums and eccentricities. Without any warning Spike turned up at the office while I was out with Eric, who was doing a recording. Stirling had nipped out for a sandwich but accidentally locked himself out, so was waiting at the steps of Number Nine until Eric and I returned. His heart sank when he saw Spike get out of a car.
“Sorry, Spike, I’ve locked myself out.”
“Don’t worry, Stirl. I’ll get us in.”
He took off his velvet cap, covered his fist with it, smashed one of the door’s panes of glass and opened the door.
Stirling was aghast.
“It’s okay, Stirl. I’ve done it loads of times. Norma will get it fixed when she comes back.” With that he walked into my office. When I returned he was sitting in the armchair, reading the Evening Standard and drinking a cup of tea, by kind permission of Stirling. He thought Spike’s performance had been extraordinary and found my acceptance of it positively surreal. It is something he will always remember.
Everyone has occasions like that and mine came when Eric and I received an invitation to see the Hollywood singer and dancer Donald O’Connor at the Connaught Rooms. That impressed me, but I had not been aware that as resident writer Eric had written for Donald when he starred at the Palladium. Because of that old relationship Donald arranged one of the best tables for us. I did not know it but my big moment was about to occur during the interval. I could not believe my eyes when Anthony Hopkins walked across to our table.
“Hello, Eric,” he said.
“Hello, Tony,” said Eric.
This was not happening. Eric had never told me he knew my hero.
Eric said, “Tony. This is Norma Farnes, my manager.”
He took my hand, bent over and kissed me on the cheek. After all this time! Chaste it might have been, but it was a kiss. Of course, after meeting big stars for most of my adult life I behaved like a complete idiot, went coy and whispered, “Hello.” Jack was by my side and laughed himself silly. I could have killed him.
Who, among all my friends, would believe that Anthony Hopkins had kissed me? Spike would. I phoned him the next morning.
“Guess who I was with last night?”
“Who?”
“Anthony Hopkins.”
Without taking a breath he said, “What did he say about my mother lighting all those candles for him?”
“I never told him.”
“What do you mean, you never told him? My mother saved his life, kept Price’s candles going for years, and he doesn’t know about it!”
“I went ga-ga and couldn’t speak.”
“That was a treat I missed.”
“Yes. You would have enjoyed seeing him.”
“No. Not the Welsh lad. The Yorkshire bird – lost for words.”
Spike decided he wanted to do more poetry readings so I arranged the first at Hull. It was dreadful. After a few minutes in front of the audience he forgot what stage he had reached in the show. In the old days when he forgot he made it up as he went along, but this time he was disoriented and misjudged his timing. That threw me; his timing had always been brilliant. There were numerous complaints and rightly so. I arranged to refund the cost of their tickets.
We were committed to a reading at Chichester, although I had grave doubts as to whether we should cancel. But he wanted to do it. The same thing happened again. He misjudged his timing and signalled for the interval only twenty-five minutes after the start instead of an hour. We talked during the interval and he made amends by walking on and saying he would finish the first half before starting on the second. Very sadly, I decided it was not fair to him or audiences to put on any more shows.
One of his favourite expressions, used whenever someone was out of favour, was, “He has all the charisma of an out-of-order telephone box.” It was the phrase I used when I told him he had lost his way at the last poetry reading, expecting it to lift his spirits a little. I was upset when all he said was “I know, Norm, I know.”
He asked me several times to organize some more for him but I never did. This was further proof that his short-term memory was worsening, because in the old days he would have badgered me incessantly until I had done what he asked, but it saddened me that he started to forget his own requests.
As the grip on his memory loosened he relived the old days once more, recounting in minute detail what happened in the Army and his romantic time on Capri with Toni. The old Spike came alive in flashes. For instance, he had an argument with his brother, Desmond, by no means the first. Throughout the time I knew Spike Desmond was either “my God-sent brother” or “that stupid brother of mine”. Out of all the many disagreements they had one is etched in my memory. During one visit to Australia he took – stole I suppose is the correct word – family photographs belonging to Desmond and his mother, when she was still alive. He was an absolute sod for that sort of thing. Years earlier in London he and his Australian actor friend, Bill Kerr, went round old buildings, such as disused churches or offices, nurgling, as they called it. It was a polite term for stealing because they came away with old brass handles, lights, wrought ironware, anything that took their fancy. Throughout his life Spike assumed it was his right to take whatever he wanted. Whenever I called him a thief he was indignant.
