William Hall - Titter Ye Not!

‘I went out, flogged myself to death, and thought: “This is it, Francis. You’re in!” But when I looked for him afterwards – no sign. I was sickened. I’d put so much into it, built up all my hopes. What a let-down.’

Not entirely. By luck, another agent had dropped by for a drink in the bar that night. Attracted by the gusts of laughter from the hall, Stanley Dale walked over and slipped inside the door to stand quietly at the back. Stanley, then with the powerful Jack Payne agency, would later carve his own niche as the man reputed to have the biggest private collection of music hall posters in Britain. He would also become Frankie’s manager. Right then, he was just starting out.

He didn’t waste time or mince his words. As the downcast comic trudged towards the exit, Stanley grabbed him by the sleeve. ‘Would you like us to represent you?’

Frankie gaped at him. Ex-bandleader Jack Payne was one of the most influential agents in the business and an impresario who could put on his own shows too. Forgetting all about the danger of being run in for impersonating a member of the armed forces, Frankie said yes on the spot – and went home to tell his mum. Edith Howard was thrilled for her son.

But first there was one more hurdle to overcome. Frank Barnard was the agency’s general manager and vetted all the applicants wanting to be taken on the books. Florid, stocky and intimidating, Barnard put the fear of God into any newcomer who passed nervously within the portals of his office. But his reasoning was simple. If the hopeful could survive the first ten minutes with him, he could win over an audience.

Frankie had his first taste of it when he faced the formidable presence over a large glass-topped desk and a haze of cigar smoke two floors above Mayfair. A piano stood in one corner of the office. Barnard glowered at him. ‘Well,’ he barked. ‘Have you got your band parts?’

Frankie had come with full hopes but empty pockets. No sheet music. No accompanist. He had had no idea he was on trial and supposed to give an audition.

‘Er – do you have anyone who can play “Three Little Fishes?” he ventured lamely.

Barnard stunned him by launching into a tirade of invective that rocked him back in his seat. The general theme was that the Jack Payne agency was not in the business of bolstering Amateur Night Out for incompetents. Poor Frankie was told to wait outside.

He was allowed to sit and run the gamut of emotions from shivering with fear to simmering with suppressed fury … for four hours. What he didn’t know was that Stanley Dale had given him a huge build up, and that the agency was genuinely interested. It was a serious lapse in communication.

Finally Barnard summoned him back – just when Francis had worked himself into a full head of steam, and didn’t care what he said. In short, he went in and gave his potential mentor an earful.

Through the clouds of anger he was dimly aware that Barnard was now the one to rock back in his seat as Frankie stammered and stuttered, first in a-mazement, then with laughter. Pulling out a handkerchief the agent wiped his eyes and said: ‘OK, you’re in! That was wonderful!’

‘It was?’ said Frankie, totally demoralized. But he was in, and that was all that mattered.

Spring, 1946. The Jack Payne organization was going through its books, preparing to go out on the road for nine long months with a variety show that would encompass every major theatre in the country. It was to be called For the Fun of It, and Frankie felt the excitement mounting as he got ready to embark on his first professional engagement.

This was the moment he decided to change the spelling of his name. There were just too many Howards cluttering up the cast lists, from Trevor to Arthur to Sidney, and he felt he was getting lost in the crush. So ‘Frankie Howerd – The Borderline Case’ was born, and found its way on to billboards up and down the country. ‘At least I’ll be noticed for the misprint,’ he told his agents.

Someone else would be on the tour with him. A brash unknown described by Stanley Dale in a letter to BBC producers when he was giving his new client the big sell as ‘A talented young impressionist who is going to make his mark’. His name was Max Bygraves.

Frankie first set eyes on Max when they found themselves reporting to the Aeolian Hall in Mayfair for an audition to appear on a BBC variety show, prior to the start of their own tour. Both of them were keyed up. Max covered his nervousness with a veneer of ‘Let’s go out and slay ’em’. Frankie merely looked petrified.

Frankie went in first. He did his comedy routine in a bare room with only a table and a microphone for company. Plus a glass panel through which the auditioning producer sat watching with a critical eye. Max followed, and did his impressions to the wall. At the end he felt like climbing it.

‘It was a very depressing experience for both of us,’ Max recalls. ‘Neither of us had a chance to put our personalities across. Frank couldn’t pull faces. My impressions had to be strictly sound only. We could have got away with it, but the atmosphere was all wrong.

‘Frank had gone out and bought a suit specially for the audition. He chose his usual colour – brown, which he felt was warm and relaxing for the audience. He wanted to appear as if he was chatting in a pub, or had just come in off the street for a natter.

‘The sleeves on the suit were too short, but when I pointed it out all Frank said was, “I know. It’s deliberate. I talk with my wrists.” A lot of good that did him on radio!

‘Afterwards he was in a high old state. “I was bloody awful, wasn’t I?” he moaned. “I couldn’t stop myself ooh-ing and aahing …”’

As for Max, he swung valiantly into impressions of Hutch and all five of the Inkspots crooning ‘I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire’.

He didn’t. Nor did Frankie. The impression both of them made on the producer was of the kind that says ‘Don’t call us …’ and they found themselves wandering disconsolately down Bond Street together, wondering if they were in the right business.

Luckily they were both on the books of the bustling Jack Payne agency, and on the variety tour of For the Fun of It. Bottom of the bill, but who cared? They were in, which was what mattered, and a summer of work beckoned.

First stop: the Sheffield Empire. Frankie and Max were billed on the posters in a curious little box announcing ‘ They’re Out! ’ With them was a third act, a contortionist named Pam Denton. She was a vivacious, attractive girl who tied herself happily into sinuous knots – and captivated Frankie from the moment he set eyes on her.

He had always been fascinated with speciality acts, and the more bizarre they were, the better he liked it. Women who could do strange and exciting things with their bodies or their talent were a turn-on. When he finally was able to command his own show, he always insisted on at least one ‘spesh’ act in his tours around the country. Blonde Joan Rhodes, the ‘world’s strongest woman’ was one he took to Northern Ireland with his troupe. He even discovered his most famous – and long-suffering – lady pianist Sunny Rogers when she was a rope-twirling cowgirl!

Now, in that heady summer of 1946, it actually seemed on the cards that Frankie would tie this particular knot himself. ‘Frank was head over heels in love with Pam, totally enamoured,’ Max Bygraves recalls. ‘The three of us teamed up together, and Frank and I shared a room in boarding house digs up and down the country.’ But as often as not Frankie was spending more nights with her than in the room with Max.

The star of the show was singer Donald Peers. His chirpy pianist Ernie Ponticelli made up a friendly foursome as the variety ‘circus’ travelled the length and breadth of Britain, spending a week at each venue. They found themselves in typical theatrical digs, a gas fire in one corner, faded curtains, occasional lumpy beds, a constant smell of floor polish – and the tempting aroma of bacon and eggs to bring them downstairs for breakfast in the morning.