Simon Brett - A Comedian Dies

However, it was a Friday night when Walter Proud and party entered the premises and there was a reasonably good turn-out. As they swam down into the smoky and red-lit interior, most of those present were dancing vigorously to the pounding of the live group which, to Charles’ surprise, turned out to be none other than those stars of the Hunstanton bill, Mixed Bathing.

The intervening weeks had given them nothing more in the way of style, though their trade-mark, volume, was more noticeable in the confined space.

The club was not so full that a table could not be found for them and the club’s new (and soon to be impoverished) owner, who had been, tipped off about their coming by a phone-call from Walter, greeted them and presented a bottle of indifferent champagne ‘with the compliments of the management’. At least Charles gathered from his fulsome face that that was what he was saying; the noise of the group made the words completely inaudible.

It also precluded the possibility of much conversation among the new arrivals and, to Charles’ relief, even silenced Steve Clinton. It had become apparent in the television company bar and in the car on the way down that he was one of those writers who is a performer manque and makes up for this by telling jokes all the time. Steve Clinton could be guaranteed to be the life and soul of any party, a characteristic which Charles found about as appealing as a slug in a salad.

Paul Royce, by contrast, was very quiet. All the ideas went on in his head and were only given life by being written down. This, Walter Proud had confided in Charles, was why he thought they were going to be very big writing together. All the great writing teams, he asserted, were made up of an extrovert and an introvert. Walter also had theories about the combination of experience and youth, which he thought would be ideal to produce the right material for Lennie Barber. Virginia Moult, the agent who represented both writers (Clinton for some years, Royce as of very recently), also thought it would make a good team and was confident that the coupling would pull up Paul Royce from beginner’s rates to a much more reasonable level of script payment. In fact, she announced, she always tried to start new writers in tandem with more experienced ones because this confused the television companies’ Copyright Departments in discussions of money.

Charles found Virginia Moult interesting He looked at her as they sat silent amid the thundering music of the club. Short hair, had been all black, now streaked with grey. Prominent, determined nose. Hard set of mouth belied by unexpectedly full lips. Shortish, large bust, probably just turned forty. Wedding ring, Very tough, but not unfeminine. Interesting.

Walter Proud had entered the club with a self-important air and looked around as if he expected to be recognized all the time. He liked the big showbiz bit, television producer appearing in little-known venue, researching entertainment at grassroots level. The manager’s obsequious gesture with the champagne coincided exactly with his self-image.

Walter’s craning round was eventually rewarded by the sight of someone he knew. At a small table near the group’s speakers sat Miffy Turtle, deep in conversation with an emaciated figure whom Charles recognized with some shock. It was Chox Morton from the Hunstanton inquest.

The initial reaction of amazement at this coincidence was tempered when Charles considered that, as the group’s manager and roadie respectively, Miffy and Chox were quite likely to be seen at Mixed Bathing’s venues. And also, when he thought about it, since Miffy also handled Lennie Barber’s bookings, it made sense that here, as at Hunstanton, the comedian and the group should appear on the same bill. No doubt Miffy Turtle had arranged some sort of package deal with the club.

The ager caught Walter Proud’s eye and waved vaguely. The producer sat back with satisfaction at having registered his identity and looked round for others to impress.

But the boppers of the Leaky Bucket manifested no interest in the media mogul; they were far too involved in their partners on the dance floor. This space was so small that, though most of Mixed Bathing’s music was up-tempo, the only possible dance was a close-contact pelvic wiggle. The dancers had all been there drinking for some time and their only interests were carnal. Their plans for the rest of the evening appeared to be to dance a bit more and then get their partners as quickly as possible on to beds, sofas or back seats of cars (according to domestic circumstances).

It was on to this schedule that Lennie Barber was imposed. Not ideal circumstances. Introducing cabaret (particularly comedy) into an evening’s entertainment is a difficult skill to master, but a comedian starts at a disadvantage if his appearance interferes with the customers’ eating, conversation or (in this case) foreplay. There was an old threat that used to be used by comperes of nude girlie shows to rowdy audiences, ‘If you don’t keep quiet, I’ll bring the comic back on again,’ and it was with this kind of resentment that Lennie Barber’s appearance was greeted.

Mixed Bathing concluded another of their musical demolition jobs and, while the room still shuddered in the shock-waves, the manager came to the microphone. After blowing into it and tapping it to see that it was working, he made an announcement. Over the grumbling of the couples who had to prise themselves apart, the noisy exit of the group and the vocal rush to the bar, the words ‘cabaret’, ‘great old comedian’ and ‘Barber’ could be heard by those who were trying hard. Without further ceremony, Lennie Barber came to the microphone.

He was wearing a dark blue dinner jacket with satin lapels and a light blue frilled shirt. A large navy velvet butterfly had settled on his throat. The image seemed wrong, an old mutton joint dressed as a Crown of Lamb. It gave no impression of the sharpness of his wit; he was just another gift-wrapped entertainer, with all the individuality of a stereo music centre.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he bawled over the chaos. A diluted spotlight picked him out in the prevailing red murk. ‘I must say, before tonight I had never been to Sutton, but I’d heard about it. And I still came. Actually, as I came into the club tonight, I said to the doorman, I hear that Sutton is the arsehole of the world. Oh, says the doorman, and you’re just passing through?

‘Actually, I got here a bit early, had some time to kill. Feeling a bit randy I was. Met this old girl in the street. I said, hey, darling, where’s the night life of Sutton? She said, I am.

‘Mind you, the tarts here are nothing. Best tarts I know are in Manchester. Up there they crossed a tart with a gorilla. Got one who swings from lampposts and does it for peanuts.

‘Talking of tarts, bloke went to a prostitute and he said, look, I’m not going to pay you unless you guarantee that you’re going to give me a dose of clap. It’s all right, says the prostitute, you’re bound to get it — why, though? Are you trying to get even with your wife? No, says the bloke, but if she catches it, the milkman will catch it, which means that Mrs. Brown at Number 47 will catch it, which means that the grocer will catch it, which means that girl in the off license will catch it, which means Fred Smith’ll catch it — he’s the one I’m trying to get even with. .’

It was rapidly becoming apparent that, like most comedians, Lennie Barber kept a special blue act for the clubs. It was also apparent to Charles that the style suited him as badly as the costume. The individuality was gone and Lennie Barber was reduced to a stereotype of a club comedian.

But he was getting through to the audience. A few had left for carnal purposes as soon as he came on and his first few lines were almost drowned in catcalls and conversation, but he persevered, slamming his jokes down with sledgehammer subtlety, cowing the audience into submission with the force of his personality. That certainly came through, even with the inappropriate image and unwholesome material. Charles felt again what he had in Hunstanton, not that he was watching the greatest act in the world, but that the man’s potential was enormous. In the most uncongenial of circumstances, you had to watch him.