You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (15 page)

My father died suddenly on 28 May 1984 in the wings of a theatre in Tewkesbury, Gloucestershire. He had being doing a solo show—a Q&A for his old friend and former variety-hall stalwart Stan Stennett—during which he covered the many aspects and times of his remarkable life. Strange really that he should have gone over his whole life story and then died at the completion of its telling.

I think he recognized very profoundly that everything about this physical existence was transient, and possibly not as important as we like to think—or that we’re not as important as we like to think we are within it.We certainly can’t take anything with us when we leave, which makes a mockery of the idea of ownership. My father’s entire fame—the attention, the money, the plaudits, and even the illnesses—were rendered meaningless, and he knew that was how it would be. He also knew that it was OK: so long as we, in some familial gesture, continued to watch the shows, then all else was fine.

During our many walks across the fields at the back of his house we would talk about the books we both wanted to one day write.Although the fact that both he and I were keen to write could be a thorny issue between us at times, it was a subject never avoided. Actually my father never avoided
anything
if it was there to be discussed.Without any direct connection to the books we were talking about, he said, quite suddenly and almost dismissively, ‘You can write what you like about me when I’m dead and gone.’ What struck me—and at this particularly juncture I had no plans to write anything at all about him—was that he really meant it. It was said in that ‘It’s not going to be
my
problem’ kind of way.That conversation made me start to evaluate many things in my own existence. If this man with all the trappings of success following a huge and at times very hard career could evaluate it with a half-smile and a dismissive shrug, then what was there really to worry about? None of it, of course, is that important beyond the importance we allow ourselves to imagine.

Paradoxically, I sensed that my father hid behind the trappings of fame, and
behind the material rewards and comforts it had brought him. I’m sure this reaction was fear-based, and it was certainly contradictory to those moments I’ve just described.While accepting that his mortal life was a blink of the eye in the history of humankind on our planet, he still was comforted by having things he couldn’t have had as a kid, and equally fearful they might be taken away. In several conversations with my mother when they were discussing the purchase of something one would hear him say, ‘Can we afford it?’

I’m so thankful he never took himself or his image too seriously (unlike many from his own era and the current era that I’ve stumbled across).And when you consider how fêted, how loved and adored by a vast public he was and remarkably still is, it is truly admirable that he resisted believing the myth of his worth.

Ernie Wise died of heart failure on 21 March 1999 after several years of illhealth. A couple of minor strokes and two heart attacks had left his memory impaired. Personally I found this very tragic, considering his enthusiasm and effervescence of just a few years earlier, during which I’d had the opportunity to meet up with him on several occasions, mostly to discuss work on what would one day become
The Play What I Wrote
.

Ernie’s passing was the final chapter in a long and entertaining story: two boys who had dreamed of one day becoming big stars, but who never really believed it was likely to happen: that was how Ernie once described it.

The polished, clog-dancing discovery Ernie Wise that fate had brought together with the singing, all-round entertainer Eric Bartholomew had gone to join his partner—at least that’s how the media depicted it in both words and cartoon. Having to accept that the story really was now over was one of the hardest things to take on board. While Ernie had been alive the double act sort of still existed as a living entity.

The years have ticked by.As well as this being Eric’s twenty-fifth anniversary, it is also Ernie’s tenth, and I’m sure this book will be only one of many celebrations to mark the passing of both of these giants.

Reminiscing with my mother not long ago about Eric, I told her how sad and frustrating I felt it was that my father, while reaching the top of his profes
sion, had been allowed so little time to enjoy it; that mostly he had been on the journey getting there. But my mother saw it differently. ‘Since his first heart attack,’ she told me, ‘your dad understood that every breath he took could have been his last. Nearly dying at forty-two gave him a sharper sense of the moment, and the recognition that it must be enjoyed.’ And she added, ‘As well as living more in the moment, he would also tell me with genuine delight what a wonderful life he had lived; that there should be no regrets if anything happened to him.’

As for Morecambe and Wise the industry, this still appears to tick on. At the time of writing this book, as well as the documentaries and various TV film projects under discussion concerning both of them, I am also in discussion with the local MP in Lancaster about setting up an Eric Morecambe museum in Morecambe.This excites me greatly, as there is no better place for all the various bits of memorabilia to be displayed for the benefit of the visiting tourists and local people.

As with Laurel and Hardy before them, as the years pass by there will be ever fewer who can recall them as a living act. Slowly, therefore, Eric and Ernie will be become a part of our psyche—two familiar names and faces that instantaneously conjure up an image of brilliance combined with daftness, and will guarantee a smile on everyone’s face for generations to come.

That’s not a bad legacy.

Even today people say to me that they can’t believe Eric has gone. I just point out that by now he is returned—reincarnated and probably sitting in some classroom, unaware of his previous life, yet biding his time before letting his comic mayhem run riot again.

Two of a kind,
For your information,
We’re two of a kind.

Two of a kind,
It’s my observation,
We’re two of a kind.

Just like peas in a pod,
Birds of a feather,
Alone or together, you’ll find.

That we are two…Two of a kind.

An Extract from ‘Morecambe and Wise in “Double Trouble”’

(Both Eric and Ernie walk on from stage right to loud applause from audience, both take a bow from the right hand side of the stage, and then one from the left. All this done to the theme of
Bring Me Sunshine
played by the Johnny Wiltshire Sound, who are on stage behind them.)

E.M.: Everybody. Ah, marvellous.

(Eric takes another bow.)

E.M.: Thank you.

(Ernie dances around.)

E.M.: Marvellous.
(To Ernie)
Have we got time for anymore?

E.W.: Yes, I think so.

E.M.: Oh, lovely.

(Eric straightens his glasses.)

E.W.: Lovely, that.

E.M.: Lovely.

E.W.: What a place.

E.W.: I’ve never worked in an aircraft hangar before.

E.M.: No.

(Eric says this with hands in his pockets looking around as if inspecting the place.)

E.M.: Are you gonna take off?

E.W.: I think so.

(Eric turns round to face the band behind him and puts his thumbs up.)

E.M.: And John, I think that was great.

E.W.: That was great.

(Johnny raises his hand in acknowledgement.)

E.M.: You did that superbly, you really did.

(Pause and Eric turns to audience with his hands still in his pockets.)

E.M.: Which is sad when you come to consider. However, you can’t have everything in life.

E.W.:There’s a terrible fracas going on at the side of the stage.

E.M.:Yeah…Eh?

E.W.: I said there’s a terrible fracas going on out there.

(Eric turns his head away from Ernie and looks side stage.)

E.M.: Can he say fracas?

(Pause.)

E.M.: No. Fracas.

E.W.: Fracas.

(Eric nods his head at side of the stage.)

E.M.: No, but you were close.

E.M.:They’re looking it up.

E.W.: Looking it up?

E.M.: But then again, they always did!

E.W.: They’ll let us know later will they?

E.M.: They’ll let you know later, yes.

(Eric touches his glasses with one hand, and drops it a second later.)

E.M.: It’s a lovely place, isn’t it?

E.W.: Yes, beautiful. Beautiful, isn’t it?

E.M.: It’s like a sauna bath with ants.

E.M.:
(Pointing towards audience)
Have we got a show for you tonight folks. Have we got a show for you tonight.
(Laughs nervously)
Hey, have we got a show for them tonight?

E.W.: Just.

(Eric slaps his hands together excitedly, then shakes them as if they hurt.)

E.M.:
(Pointing to audience and laughing)
I tell you what we have got. We’ve got a fella who’s going to come on in a few minutes’ time, he’s really clever ‘cos he swallows…oh yes, folks!…he swallows a four foot sword!

E.W.: What’s clever about that?

E.M.: He’s only three foot tall!

(As audience laugh, Eric and Ernie both talk under their breath to each other for a second.)

E.M.: He’s back there at the moment like that.
(Bends his leg at funny angle and leans to one side)
It’s agony for him! He doesn’t know where to put his hat.

(Eric grabs Ernie’s arm.)

E.M.:
(Quietly)
But he has found a place, I’m told.

E.M.: My god, it’s all going on…you’re working well, Ern.

(Ernie stands there, arms crossed.)

E.M.:You’re working well…you can’t see the join.
(Points to Ernie’s hair)
that’s one of the best you’ve ever had that. It’s a beauty!

(Ernie proudly tapping his hair as Eric says this.)

E.M: It arrived this morning all the way from Axminster…on its own. You should have seen it climbing up those steps!

(Eric uses his hand to help visualise the image.)

E.M.: Like the beast with five fingers. Aaaahhghgh!!!!!

E.W.: I’ve shampooed it.

E.M.: Eh?

E.W.: I’ve just shampooed it.

E.M.: With what?

(Laugh from Ernie and then from Eric.)