Eric Morecambe - Mr Lonely

‘Good.’ Leslie turned the clock full-face towards Sid and rested his hand on it.

‘It’s … er … just to … you know, er … to … er. How’s Rhoda?’

‘Who?’

‘Rhoda. Your wife.’

‘Haven’t you heard?’

‘What?’ Sid asked, with fear in his voice.

Leslie Garland’s eyes raked Sid’s now almost quivering face. ‘No matter.’ He looked at the clock again.

Sid wondered whether to ask about Rhoda or to carry on about himself. What he said was, ‘Oh, I’m really sorry about that.’

‘About what?’ Leslie asked.

‘Rhoda,’ answered Sid, giving a sickly grin.

‘What about Rhoda?’

‘What you said,’ Sid said, with a nervously drying mouth. ‘Carrie will be upset.’

‘Who’s Carrie?’

‘My wife,’ Sid replied through an almost closed mouth.

‘What is it you want to see me about, Sid?’ Leslie asked with a small sign of temper.

‘Well,’ Sid began, ‘I’ve been working at the club now for two years or so and I thought …’ The phone rang.

Leslie raised his hand from the clock and picked up the phone. ‘Yes?’ he shouted.

Sid stopped talking and tried to give a non-listening look.

‘Shirley who?’ Leslie bellowed. ‘Okay. Put her on. Hello, Shirl. Yeh. Fine. How’s Warren? Good. Give him my very best. And he should live to be 120. Rhoda? Haven’t you heard? We’ve split. Yeh. She took off with the chauffeur. Yeh. Last week.’ He nodded to the phone. ‘Don’t worry. Everything you’ve asked for has been done. I promise.’

Sid was looking at some pictures around the walls.

‘Yeh, the orchestra. Everything. The advance? Great. It’s great.’ Leslie smiled for the first time. ‘You’ll be a sell-out. I’m telling you. Yeh. The dressing-room’s been altered to your specifications. A bathroom with a shower. Yes. A TV, and a bar—all in blue and gold. Yeh. Yeh. Yeh. Ah-ha. Yeh. Sure. Of course. Yep. Okay. Sure. Natch. Anything, why not? Of course you’re not being difficult. If you don’t deserve it, who does? A what?’ Leslie’s eyes almost glazed over. ‘Yeh, surely, but that could be a little difficult. Yes. A coloured maid. I’ll try. You don’t mind if she’s a Jamaican, do you? A Jamaican. You know, West Indian. Sure they speak English. An ice maker? Yes. Air-conditioning? Yeh. Okay. A what? A Teas made. Yes, they are cute. And a limo. A Rolls. Fine. Of course, with a driver. A black one. Is that the Rolls or the driver? A white Rolls with a black driver. What?!! Sixteen seats on the front row on opening night? For your relatives? That’s a lot of money. Oh, sure. Of course, I’ll see that the theatre pays for it,’ he said, turning heart-attack grey.

Sid had, by this time, seen all the pictures on the walls and read all the ‘Thank you, Leslie’s on them. One day, he thought, my picture will be in here and I’ll just put, ‘What’s the time, Sid?’

‘What’s the weather like in Hollywood?’ Leslie asked Shirl. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ He looked at the clock and then at Sid. ‘Oh, you’re in New York.’

Sid moved over to the window and looked out on a busy London street.

Leslie continued his transatlantic conversation. ‘Yeh, at the Savoy. A suite. What? But what’s wrong with the Savoy? All right, darling,’ he smoothed. ‘Sure. I’ll see to it. The Oliver Mussel. Yeh, Messel.’ ‘Messel, Shmessels,’ he whispered to himself. ‘At the Dorchester. Okay, kid. Yeh. And to you. Goodbye. Sure. I’ll give Rhoda your love.’

Leslie put the phone down in a small state of shock. He then picked up the other phone and dialled one number. After two seconds he said, ‘Stella, get the Oliver Messel suite for Shirl. I know you’ve booked her in at the Savoy. So get her out and in to the Oliver Messel suite at the Dorchester. Look, I don’t give a Donald Duck how you do it. Do it.’ He slammed the phone down.

Sid was now standing at the edge of the desk with the clock facing away from him. Leslie turned it back so Sid could see it very clearly. Sid took the hint and carried on with, ‘So I thought it was time I had a rise.’

‘I’ll have a word,’ Leslie almost growled.

He then put his hand out to be shaken and left Sid to find his own way out. Sid looked at his watch. Seven minutes in all he had been with his agent to talk over his future and that included a five-minute phone call from New York. Christ, Sid thought, that’s what I call looking after your artist. He saw Lennie still waiting. ‘A word in your ear, son,’ he said. ‘If and when you get in, speak quickly.’

Lennie did not know what he meant, but he would.

Sid walked out of the office entrance into a windy Piccadilly. It was still early. There was no rush to get home and he need not be at the club until about eightish. He looked at his Snoopy watch and thought he saw Leslie Garland’s face ticking from side to side. It was only three-thirty. He put his head down to face the wind, pulled his overcoat more closely around himself and, at a fair pace, walked down Piccadilly into the Circus, along Shaftes-bury Avenue, and then across into Soho itself. He slowly lifted his head out of the top of his overcoat and looked at some of the pictures outside small clubs, cinemas, sex shops and bookshops with magazines that made Health and Efficiency look like something the verger handed out with Hymns Ancient and Modern.

Unbeknown to Carrie, Sid had won a hundred and odd quid at the club on a Yankee bet. At this moment it was burning a hole in his pocket. He stopped to look at a small ad frame. Sid looked at one particular card in the small frame. He read it twice. He had to. He could not believe it. It read:

Miss Aye Sho Yu—Oriental Massage—Number 69. Three flights. Two masseuses. No waiting. Your joy is our pleasure. Please knock.

Sid looked around just to make sure nobody was actually looking at him, eyeball to eyeball, before he entered. He had one more look at the frame. Should it be, he thought, Aye Sho Yu, or the other next to it: Turkish Delight—‘not like that—like that. You get the massage’—written on a fez? No, thought Sid, Aye Sho Yu.

As he started his walk up three flights of stairs, he thought, Of course—the reason I’m doing this is in case I get a good idea for some gags or a sketch for the club, or maybe even TV. He knew that what he had just said to himself was a complete excuse and really about the weakest he could have thought of. No way would he be able to use one line, one thought or one iota of an idea in his professional work. I’ll turn back. I’ll leave. Why? Because I am right. It’s wrong. But suppose somebody actually saw you coming into the building. So? So. I’ll tell you so. If you leave now and he’s still there outside, he’s going to look at you and say to himself, ‘Good God. He didn’t last long’, isn’t he? That’s true. Yes, it is, isn’t it? Yes. Then keep going. Okay.

He had one flight to go, past a man coming down the stairs. Sid stopped and looked towards the wall as the man passed him and then turned his head to watch the man as he staggered down the stairs. Sid thought, he’s either drunk or exhausted.

On the landing of the third flight were four doors, numbered 68, 70 and 71. Where was 69? Oh—there. 69 was printed on its side. Clever. Sid took a deep breath and knocked on the door, softly, so softly in fact that had there been woodworm in the door they would not have heard him. Door 70 opened and a man’s face furtively looked out. Sid turned, but only just in time to see the door close quickly. From the fourth floor a fat man appeared. He continued his way downstairs. He was about eighteen stone. If he had forgotten anything on the fourth floor it would have to remain there as it would have killed him to go back up those stairs. Sid knocked harder. Number 69 opened and he came face to face with a pretty Chinese girl.