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What a great catch phrase, Sid thought. I must remember that.
Madame La Rochelle shut that door. The rice planter must have been in agony. Sid, Doreen and Stella were still on the floor.
Sid laughed painfully. ‘Well, at least it’s been different. Original, even. Stella?’
‘Yes?’
‘How do you feel?’
‘All right.’
‘Probably more shock than anything,’ Sid grinned. He stood up. ‘Well, Doreen,’ he asked. ‘Do I get a refund, or do we do a deal?’
‘Refund?’ She said the word as if she had just heard it for the first time, as in ‘Me Tarzan—You Refund’.
‘Well, it was you who had the thrills. Both of you grabbed me by the orchestras.’
‘Orchestras?’ they chorused.
‘Yes. Orchestra stalls. Now do I get a refund? Let’s say half, or do I tell the police you both tried to rape me?’
All three were standing up. Stella, Doreen and Sid.
‘No refund,’ said Doreen.
‘Okay then,’ Sid mused, ‘we carry on where we left off.’
All three smiled. Doreen nodded, Stella rubbed her bruises and Sid said, ‘Lights, music, action. Doreen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t keep doing that. It doesn’t help,’ Sid said in the darkness.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_967425b3-74a1-58f1-a042-eb0bb1f6ac61)
April, 1976
Sid’s way of earning a living was, to say the least, hard. The idea of his job was to entertain the people, who had paid sometimes £3.50, sometimes £15 per person, for what was loosely called dinner. Dancing was thrown in, rowdies were thrown out and, now and again, dinner was thrown up. Gambling, if permitted, was always kept well away from the entertainment because the management did not like the audience to hear the cheers of a man who had just won seventy quid, or the screams of a man who had just lost seven hundred quid, although they were less against the cheers than the screams. If the star name was big, so was the business; if the star name was not big, neither was the business. Service was normally slow but what’s the rush anyway. The waiters were mainly foreign, the waitresses were usually British and the customer was often hungry. Invariably the room was dark; only the staff could see their way around because God has given all nightclub waiters special eyes. The toilets were sometimes as far away, or so it felt, as the next town. The sound system was the nearest thing to all the bombs falling on London during the last war condensed into two and a half hours approximately.
Sid’s job was to come out on to a small platform or stage and try to tell you how much, thanks to him, you were going to enjoy yourselves. The nightclub audience is not prudish but it will not laugh at a dirty joke unless it is filthy. So the comic feels that he has to gear his material to that audience for safety, the safety of his job. No one is going to pay a comic good money if the laughs are not there, so laughs have got to be found and the safest way is the oldest way—give them what they want. That maxim still applies, from the shows at Las Vegas to opera at Covent Garden. If they do not like it, they don’t come. In this side of show business it’s called ‘arses on seats’. If the seats are empty, so is the till. So Sid had to walk out and face a basically uninterested audience and get laughs with the first of his four or five 12- to 15-minute spots, and, of course, have something prepared in case the lights failed, the star got drunk or the resident singer had not turned up because she had had a row with the fella she was living with and her husband had ever so slightly changed her face around a little when she went back to him. Not a lot, she’ll be fine when the swelling goes down!
Sid was on the side, waiting to go out there for the first of his spots. The group were on their last number, which received its usual desultory applause. Sid’s music started—‘Put on a happy face’. He checked his flies and walked out as if he was the biggest star in the world. Wearing a wellcut, modern evening dress suit, mohair of course, and a pale blue frilly dress shirt that d’Artagnan would have been proud to wear, he timed his walk to the mike so that he could take it out of its socket, put it up to his mouth and sing the last line of the song ‘S.. o.. o.. o.. o put on a happy f.. a.. a.. a.. c.. c.. e. Thankyouladiesandgennelmengoodevening.’ The end of the song and the welcoming words corresponded volume-wise with the air raid on Coventry. Three quick blows into the mike to check that the sound was working. ‘Now first of all, ladiesandgennelmen, can you hear okay?’
‘No,’ shouted a voice from the blackness.
‘Then how did you know what I’ve just said?’ He tapped four more times on the mike top with his fingers. ‘My name is Sid Lewis, ladiesandgennelmen. The most important thing is—are you enjoying yourselves?’
‘No,’ was the shout from the same voice from the same blackness.
Sid put his hand up to his forehead and looked into the distance, reminiscent of Errol Flynn as Robin Hood saying to Alan Hale as Little John, ‘Run, it’s the Sheriff of Nottingham.’ What he did say was, ‘Don’t worry about him, folks. He’s only talking to prove he’s alive.’ He put his hand down. ‘I’ll tell you something about him. He’s a great impressionist—drinks like a fish. His barber charges him 80p—20p a corner!’
He had no worries about the voice coming back at him again from the darkness because the voice was a plant, a stooge. By the time Sid had done his barber joke, the stooge was backstage drinking a pint, paid for by Sid.
Sid was now into his act, walking about with the mike. ‘Let me tell you something else. No, listen. A father and son. Got that? A father and son walking in the country. Now, listen. A father and a son. It’s all good stuff this. When suddenly a bee lands on a flower. The little boy kills it with a rock. No, listen, you’re laughing in the wrong place. His father says, “For being so cruel you won’t have any honey for a year.” Walking a bit further, the boy sees a butterfly land on a flower. He cups his hand around it and squashes it. No. Not yet. Don’t laugh too early. Soon. I promise you. S.. o.. o.. o.. o.. n. The boy’s father says, “For doing that you won’t get any butter for a year.” Then they went home. His mother was in the kitchen making dinner, when she saw a cockroach. She stamped on it and killed it. The little boy said, “Are you going to tell her, Dad, or am I?” … Cockroach … Do you get it? Cockroach. C-o-c-k … Oh, well, it’s up to you.’
Sid kept moving around the small stage, looking at nearby tables. ‘Here’s one. The same little boy. That’s right. The same little boy ran towards his mum wearing a pirate outfit. His mum says, “What a handsome-looking pirate. Where’s your buccaneers?” The little boy says, “Under my buccanhat.” Now, listen. Here’s another one you might not like. You’ve got to listen to me, lady. I work fast. The same boy, same boy. He’s on a picnic with his mummy and daddy and he wanders off. No, not for that, lady! Just for a walk and he gets lost … Aw … Aw … Come on, everybody. Aw … Sod you, then. Anyway, this little boy’s lost, same little boy, so he drops to his knees to pray. “Dear God, help me to get out of here.” A nice prayer. Straight to the point. Now then, as he’s praying, a big black crow flies overhead and drops his calling card right in the middle of the little boy’s outstretched hand. The little boy looks at it and says, “Please God, don’t hand me that stuff. I really am lost …” Now, listen … Here’s one. You’ll like this one, lady. I can see you have a sense of humour. I can tell by the fella you’re with. Now, listen. This one’s for you.’
Sid sat down on the stage close to the table where the woman was and helped himself to a glass of her wine. ‘A girl hippy said to another girl hippy, “Have you ever been picked up by the fuzz?” The other girl hippy says, “No, but I bet it must be painful!” Now, listen. A poem. I know you like poems …
A lovely young girl called Lavern
Was so great she had lovers to burn.
She got into bed with Arthur and Fred,
But didn’t know which way to turn.
Now, listen. Don’t get carried away … You’ll like this one, sir. May I ask? Is this your wife? Is she your wife, sir?’
The man nods.
‘I took my wife to the doctor’s this morning and he said to her, “Open your mouth and say moo.” You’ll like this one, sir. This could be you. A handsome husband … Why is your wife laughing, sir? A handsome husband, whose wife was a raver. I said you’d like this one, sir. “I’ve found a new position,” he tells her. “Great,” his wife says, “which way?” He says, “Back to back.” She says, “Back to back? How can that be done?” The husband says, “I bring home another couple.” I knew you’d like it. I have to go now. One more poem before I go and lie down. Poem …
A ballerina with very big feet
Would give all the stagehands a treat.
But if they asked for a ride,
She’d blush and she cried,
“It would ruin my nutcracker suite.”
See you later, folks.’
The music would start and Sid would run off to a fairly good response. They would not go mad for him because they realized he was coming back throughout the evening.
Twenty minutes later, Sid was back on stage, and happy. ‘Always happy when I’m out there working.’ He had been on for maybe ten or twelve minutes, handing out bouquets of flowers to the silver weddings, the twenty-firsts, the eighteenths, newly-weds and the engagements. As a matter of fact, Sid could present a bouquet to anyone. He was good at that. He’d been at it now for almost two years, night after night. He knew his audience, but more important, his audience knew him. They accepted him. It had been said that Sid could present a bouquet to a dead body and have the body go off smiling. The hard part was getting the body to come on, there being very few places on that small stage for it to lean against.
Perspiration was beginning to dampen his shirt collar. He undid his tie and opened his top shirt-button. It gave the impression he was working hard. He walked about the stage in the spotlight that followed him like the light of the top tower in a jail break at Sing Sing. The mike was almost glued to his lips. He never stopped talking. He was never at a loss for a word or an ad lib. His style was fast and full of energy. Nothing subtle and no fear. If he saw a woman in the audience with a large bust, he would go straight to her, look directly into her eyes and say, ‘We have our own bouncers here, lady. But I see you’ve brought your own, or are you just breaking them in for a friend?’ The table she was on would erupt into gales of laughter, the tables closeby would look and laugh, while the rest of the audience would carry on eating and talking, but Sid would walk around and within a second would come out with, ‘Here … no … listen. Have you heard the one about the Irishman?’ Then he would go into his latest Irish joke, this being the one he had heard from the petrol attendant on his way to the club that night.
‘I do POWER comedy,’ he used to say. ‘Never give the punters time to think.’ He would walk, talk, ask, beg and shout at the punters to help him get a laugh.
On stage with him were a young couple.
‘So, Sharon, your name is Sharon, isn’t it, Sharon?’ Sid put his mike to her mouth and Sharon nodded. He put the mike back to his own lips, ‘And your name, sir?’
‘Mar’in.’
‘Martin. Well, it’s nice to have you both with us. Sharon and Martin.’
The young couple shuffled about, Sharon on her six-inch wedges and Martin on his size-twelve Kickers.
Sid looked into the blackness of the moving, eating, talking noise. ‘Because tonight, ladiesandgennelmen, Sharon and Martin are here to celebrate their engagement. So how about a round of applause for Sharon and Martin?’
A table thirty or forty feet away from the stage whistled and applauded.
‘How old are you, Martin?’
‘Nine’een.’
‘Nineteen,’ Sid bellowed. ‘And Sharon, how old are you?’ he asked in a much softer voice.
‘Seveneenanaalf,’ she giggled.
‘Seventeen and a half.’
Sharon tried to hold Martin’s hand. Martin, embarrassed, slimed out of her grasp.
‘So what are you going to do with these lovely flowers, Sharon?’
‘Give’m to me mum.’
e’Give them to her mother,’ Sid told everyone. ‘What do you say to that, Martin?’
‘Sawrye.’
‘Well, we hope you’ll both be very happy. How about a big hand, ladiesandgennelman, for The Two Ronnies?’ Sid handed Sharon the bouquet. ‘Sharon and Martin, ladiesandgennelmen.’
The young couple headed towards the dark safety of the audience. Martin, in front of his future wife, suddenly stopped, while still on the edge of the bright circle of spotlight, and put both arms above his head and thumped the empty air in the same way he had seen football players do after scoring the only goal of the game with no more than thirty seconds left for play, including time added on for stoppages. He seemed to realize that this was probably the last time so many people would be watching him at one given moment. Then Sharon and Martin were enveloped by the blackness and the nothingness of the future.
‘Here, now listen,’ Sid said. ‘Have you heard about the Arab and the Jew shopping in Golders Green?’ He told his latest Arab and Jew joke. It got its quota of laughs. ‘And now, ladiesandgennelman …’ Without turning round, Sid pointed to the drummer, who gave a cymbal crash followed by three rim shots like a machine gun that only had three bullets left. Sid then changed his voice to a much lower and more serious tone, as if he was going to introduce Dean Martin at the Sands in Las Vegas. ‘The management of the Starlight Rooms, East Finchley, would now like to present …’ A slight pause; an attention-getter, an old pro’s trick to make the audience think maybe the star is coming on. A few heads turned towards him, still chewing their chicken-in-a-basket. ‘A special bouquet,’ Sid smarmed. ‘The last bouquet.’
The few heads turned back and tried to find their food.
‘I know it’s the last bouquet because it’s eleven-thirty and the cemetery across the road closes at eleven.’
The noise was getting louder because the punters were getting bored with bouquets. The bar at the back was packed with people trying to get all their drinks to take back to their tables to swim in while the star was on, because in the star’s contract there was a clause forbidding the bar to remain open while the said star was performing. The punters knew this. They even knew how much the star was getting and, in some cases, how much in ‘readies’.
Sid carried on, ‘To someone you all know and love. The ex-resident singer of the Starlight Rooms—Miss Shelley Grange. How about a big round of applause for Shelley ladies and gennelmen?’
Sid’s delivery was now getting louder and faster. It was almost like Kermit the Frog. He knew nobody out there was interested in Shelley Grange. Hell fire—she even talked off-key! He was now having to battle, but the management, Manny and Al Keppleman, had insisted he did this because Manny, unknown to Al, and Al, unknown to Manny, had both been having naughties with Shelley, known to everyone. So tonight she was being thanked publicly. Even the group was smiling, all except the drummer, as he’d joined after Shelley had left.
‘Come on up, Shelley,’ Sid said, putting his hands together as if in prayer.
Shelley made her way up from one of the front tables looking completely surprised, which made Sid think, She’s a good little actress as well, seeing that it was all planned yesterday.
The group was playing one of her songs, ‘I Did It my Way’. Shelley—her real name was Minnie Schoenberg—glided on to the small stage, her candy-floss hair so lacquered, it almost cracked as she walked. She had a good figure, leaning slightly towards plumpness. Her dress was a mass of silver flashing sequins, and as she made her way towards the stage she reminded Sid of a very pretty Brillo pad.
She was now on stage with Sid and the dutiful applause faded very quickly. A few voices from the area of the bar shouted incoherent ruderies, followed by loud guffaws of beer-brave laughter.
Sid boomed, ‘Welcome back, Shelley. It’s great to see you again.’
Shelley smiled at Sid and the audience. Her blonde hair crackled in the spotlight. She turned to the group, the Viv Dane Stompers, affectionately known as the V-Ds. The boys grinned back. In the wings, another blonde in a tight blue flashing dress watched Shelley. She was Serina, the new resident singer. They looked at each other with exposed teeth and four dead eyes.
Sid shouted, ‘Ladiesandgennelmen, we’ve invited Shelley back to the Starlight Rooms tonight because a little bird has told us that Shelley is getting married next month to a—’
‘Next week,’ Shelley said.
‘Why? Can’t you wait?’ Sid spurted out. He went on, ‘—next week to a friend of all of us, our own bar manager, Giorgio Richetti. How about a round of applause for Giorgio-Richettiladiesandgennelmen?’ Apart from Shelley’s own table, the loudest applause for Giorgio came from just outside the office door—Al and Manny.
‘Come on up, Giorgio,’ Sid shouted.
Giorgio was guided by his eight friends at his table, all men, all Italian, all in tuxedo suits, all applauding, all looking as if they were waiting for Jimmy Cagney to walk in and say, ‘Okay, you dirty rats.’ Giorgio was up there with Shelley and Sid. Six foot two inches, black shiny hair, black dress-suit, a full black moustache and a large black bowtie. He stood there looking like a rolled umbrella.
For all the audience cared, Shelley and Giorgio could be in Manchester. Waiters were trying to clear the plates off the tables, waitresses, in their bunny-type costumes, were leaning forward showing cleavage at the front and white, tailed bums up in the air at the back.
‘What was that, sir?’ one of them asked.
‘Four pints of lager, two large whiskies, one with American Dry, one without, both with ice. A dry martini and lemonade and … What’s yours having, Bert?’
‘A snowball.’
‘And a snowball for the lady.’
‘We haven’t got any snowballs, sir.’
‘No snowballs, Bert.’
‘What? Right—a Babycham.’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can, sir.’
‘Good girl.’
Sid was now sweating. He welcomed Giorgio aboard.
‘Thatsa very nice.’
‘Where are you going for your honeymoon, Shelley?’
‘Give her one for me, Giorgio,’ echoed around the club, followed by laughter from an understanding friend.
‘Well, actually, we were thinking of going …’
‘We go to Italy to asee ma Mamma,’ Giorgio told the microphone. ‘Then we’re staying ina Rome to open the restaurant.’
Yes, with oneze twoze money you’ve stolen from the club. Sixty for the till and forty fora the pocket, Sid thought to himself. He said, ‘How wonderful. Will you be singing for the customers in your restaurant, Shelley?’
