Paul Daniels (20 page)

Later talent shows, to avoid having to pay Hughie Green royalties I guess, had panels of people criticising acts on air. I found that to be a sad way to show talent. If the acts were no good then why put them on in the first place. And they were being viewed by ‘judges’ who, in some cases, had no talent themselves
and
were watching the acts live, not on TV as we were, so they saw and felt a different performance. I wonder why they can’t just put new acts on television and build them up without having to resort to judging and voting?

Watching myself on
Opportunity Knocks
, I learnt how the sound that comes out of a television has nothing to do with what is happening in the arena of the show. A recording engineer sat there and rather than listening to the show, watched little meters. If a big burst of laughter sent the needles towards the red section, he would grab his little knob and turn it quickly down. If a gag got a small titter, he would turn it up. This was why television laughter always sounded so fake. This meant that while I was working in the aircraft carrier, I’d get a big laugh and wait for the laughter to die down before continuing. When I watched it on TV there were big silent gaps where the laughter had stopped because the man had turned his button down. It sounded odd. It was little observations like these that prepared me for television appearances to come. Don’t wait for the laughter to stop, keep going. Ken Dodd is a master at this.

Jackie and the lads came down and spent some time with me but Jackie and I lived apart and I spent the days with the lads. It’s a great place for children and I hated it when they had to go back North.

The season ended and I was back in the clubs and living with Monica. We lived in a small caravan, which I altered to make it a little more habitable. Looking back, I can’t believe that we
both lived in a van that small, but we did. For a while it was in the garden behind the home of a bouncer from the Ba-Ba. He was also a professional wrestling match referee. These were not the sort of wrestling matches I had seen in Macau. These were the ones where big butch fellows pretend to knock each other about. Pretend? Well, all I know is that our landlord would not be able to referee one of the later bouts because it was the one featuring the Masked Mauler. The referee
was
the Masked Mauler who ‘would only remove his mask when he was defeated’. He was never defeated.

Peter Casson was too busy to be my manager and so I moved on to another agent called Bob who worked for a company called Artists Management. This Doncaster-based group contained a couple of directors, one of whom was Mervyn O’Horan. More of him later.

A bit later we moved the caravan to Cawthorne, on a farm. I was amazed at how little work farmers did. They did have to get up early to milk the cows but then there wasn’t much to do until it was time to milk them again. They just seemed to potter around doing odd jobs. Those early starts used to upset me because we used to work very late. Then we would drive home through the night rather than spend money on digs. One of the farmers would come over and hammer on the door with the early post. Unknown to the farmer, I came home late one night, unloaded the amplifier and the speakers and did a little work. The next morning, very early as usual, he came with the post only to discover a new doorbell right in the middle of the small caravan door. He pressed the doorbell, which activated the tape, which was connected to the amplifier, which was connected to the huge speakers lying under the van. Big Ben BOOMED out across the countryside and I would have loved to have been awake in time to watch him. He never delivered early post again.

The closest we ever got to owning a less temporary residence was when I bought a burnt-out mobile home which I then restored. I put a lot of time and effort into renovating the metal hulk and was quite pleased with the result, but had to leave it behind for several weeks when Monica and I went away for a season. Upon our return, we heard a strange, humming and buzzing noise coming from within. I carefully opened the door, not knowing what to expect and was pushed back with the force of huge bluebottles trying to escape. The whole interior was covered; it was wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling flies. I went down to the local shopkeeper and bought his whole stock of fly killer, which I then sprayed through a hole in the door. Two days later and I had to go back in and shovel the corpses out, selling the home soon afterwards.

We usually tried to book ourselves out together into the clubs. Monica would sing and I would do the comedy magic and so provide a whole evening’s entertainment between us whenever we could. That couldn’t happen all the time, of course, and over the coming years, as I ‘took off ’ we drifted apart. In the meantime, we had a wonderful time and I remember Monica with nothing but fondness. Years later, when I hadn’t seen her for a very long time and I was married to Debbie, she turned up on my doorstep and, when I opened the door I didn’t recognise her for the first few seconds. Don’t hate me for that.

Ali Bongo, my good friend and brilliant magical adviser, tells a story of when he was at a party with David Nixon. David was the ‘famous-television-magician-before-me’ person.

Apparently, David called Ali over and, over the top of his glass and without moving his lips as he smiled around the room, said ‘Ali, there’s a woman in a red dress in the corner who keeps smiling at me. Should I know her?’ Well, we’ve all done it, haven’t we? We’ve tried to look around the room casually
without looking at anyone in particular to find out who a friend is talking about? Ali did just that, even pausing, smiling and raising his glass to the lady in question. Then he turned back to David.

‘Yes, you should really … she was your first wife.’

Against Ali himself, at another party, he was deep in conversation with a young woman whom he knew he should know, but he could not recall where he had met her. It wasn’t until her husband, Prince Andrew, the Duke of York, came over and said that it was time to go that the thunderstruck Ali realised he had been talking to the famous ‘Fergie’.

The clubs continued to offer the most readily available source of work. Trevor, who had by this time left the teaching profession owing to the bureaucracy, had gone back into the clubs as a Musical Director. A brilliant backing musician, Trevor was popular with acts because of his ability to sight-read their music quickly and play it with great feeling.

On one occasion, I answered the phone to Trevor, who asked if I would come and appear at the opening ceremony of a new club he was going to work in as resident MD. Having made a bit of a name for myself in the clubs, they had asked Trevor if he could get me, as I was a ‘bit of a draw’.

The new venue was very impressive if not completely practical for its true use. It had been designed with an entire wall made out of windows, which made it impossible to provide the right sort of atmosphere for daytime or early evening shows. The band was split in two, with the organist, Trevor and the drummer facing each other across the full width of the stage, a very difficult layout for musicians to work in.

Seeing the daylight conditions, I knew it would be hard work. Just before I went on, the Concert Chairman appeared backstage to check that I was ready. Giving him the thumbs up, he told me that he had one short announcement to make and
then I would be on. Even though I had enjoyed the luxury of a resident season where the audience had come to see me, my faith in working the clubs remained undaunted, but I was always ready for any unforeseen eventuality. When I heard the announcement that followed, I froze on the spot. In what follows, the name has been changed, not to protect the innocent, but because I can’t remember it.

‘Now then, now then, give order, please!’ The clink and clatter of the glasses and the excited shouting of the crowd subsided at the sound of the Chairman’s voice.

‘Now you all know Jack Higginbottom.’

A deathly hush fell over the room.

‘As you all know, this is the first day of the new club,’ he continued in his broad Northern tones. ‘And as you all know, it would not exist if it hadn’t been for Jack, our beloved president. It was Jack, who only a few years ago, went to the breweries, got the money, arranged for the architect and got the plans for this
fantastic
building we are now in.’

I listened from the side of the stage as the pin-drop quiet continued as his audience sat in silence, wondering what was coming. Somehow, I knew.

‘It was Jack who also organised us to have raffles and keep kitties going so that we could afford bigger and better equipment. It was Jack who arranged fund-raising outings and coffee mornings for the women. And, as you all know, Jack took sick about nine months ago.’

‘Oh no!’ I groaned from behind the curtains. Trevor, who loves it when I’m in trouble, started to laugh. The Concert Chairman continued. ‘So, as you all know, Jack never saw this building as he got more and more sick and I’ve got some really bad news for you,’ he said. ‘I have just been informed that on this day of the grand opening of our new club, Jack Higginbottom passed away this morning.’

Men are now crying. Women are sobbing.

‘It is normal in this club, that when a member passes away, we have two minutes’ silence. But for Jack, we’re going to ‘ave three.’

I am now sat on a chair at the back of the stage with my head in my hands. Trevor is in hysterics. The architect has thoughtfully provided the club with a hard floor and plastic chairs that squeak and bang as the whole audience stands to attention. For three solid minutes, all I could hear was people crying.

At the end of which: ‘Thank you. Paul Daniels will now entertain you,’ and he walked off.

The curtains opened to the sound of people sitting down, talking about the passing of their friend, all interspersed by sobbing. I was still sitting with my head in my hands but I stood up and walked very, very slowly downstage to the microphone, thrust my hands in my pockets and spoke.

‘I never knew Jack Higginbottom.’

At the sound of the name the room fell silent.

‘But if he helped to build this place, he must have been an extraordinary fella. He wouldn’t want us not to enjoy it, or sit here crying over his memory. He would want us to make the most of what he has achieved here. So, I’m not doing this show for you today, I’m doing this show for Jack Higginbottom!’

As the applause burst forth, I glanced across at Trevor who was mouthing the words ‘You b*****d.’ I was on to a winner and the show went like a bomb.

It was the days when footballers played for the Cup and everybody knew what you were talking about. Now there are that many cups and trophies and championships they’re playing
for, it’s lost its impact to a big extent. When you played for the FA Cup in the late Sixties, it was the championship of championships. My introduction on stage in Manchester one night featured such an event:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have some bad news. After tonight’s replay, Middlesbrough have just knocked us out of the cup.’

Moans and groans from the audience.

‘So will you please welcome a comedian from Middlesbrough … Paul Daniels!’

The place started to scream and yell so I dropped on to my hands and knees and crawled from behind the curtains up to the microphone. It made them laugh and Middlesbrough won again, though I didn’t mention it at the time.

Always going on with the idea of having a good time, I was always prepared to turn a situation to my favour. After all, that’s what I was paid to do. I never went along with the idea that audiences were different. In the main, the vast majority are made up of the same kind of people – happy, thin, fat, sad, in love, out of love, plumbers, decorators and accountants. I found myself losing friendships in the clubs when other acts would come off and say, ‘Boy, they’re a tough audience!’ I’d whisper half-jokingly that Sammy Davies Jnr could entertain them. It was a case of giving your audience what they wanted.

I could never understand why a singer would turn up with a huge portfolio of music and enquire as to their tastes in a particular club. I’d say I was sure that Shirley Bassey would never ask that question. She sings what she sings best.

Manchester was the most amazing place for clubland. This city was sensational and you could do six a night if you were daft enough. I tried doing four a night for one week when I opened at Bernard Manning’s Embassy Club for a 30-minute spot before driving on to the Broadway club and then the Candlelight at Oldham which was really tough. I finished the
evening with a drive back into Manchester for a visit to the Del Sol sited on the roof of a hotel. On the Saturday night, I was half-way through, the act at the Del Sol when I realised that the ‘volunteer’ from the audience who was standing on my left only spoke French. I don’t know how I had got that far without noticing except that having done 28 performances that week I was on automatic pilot.

It was there that I met a strongman called Tony Brutus who carried an enormously heavy Roman short sword. Dressed as a Roman gladiator, he would bound on stage and offer a fortune to anybody who could lift this length of solid steel, fashioned like a Roman short sword, above their head. Incredibly strong, there was a very funny element to his act, as the incredible feats he carried out had made him cross-eyed. He turned this to his advantage in his act and created a lot of laughter. Tony hated the Del Sol because it was at the top of a tall building and the only way he could get his weights into the club was to hump them up the stairs by grabbing the handles and walking backwards. One night, determined not to carry the sword down again, he heaved it out of the window into the car park. It sank so far in the ground that it took him hours to dig it out again and had strong echoes of The Sword in the Stone. My laughter echoing around the car park as I left didn’t impress him!

The constant touring of the clubs did not shake my immediate shyness. I was still not a socialiser, as I didn’t drink with all the other acts after the show. I just arrived, did my bit and left. It never occurred to me to drink as my parents weren’t drinkers and I was certainly fearful of going down the route of some of the performers who did. I had seen several great talents become dependent on booze to the point that they were no longer able to be themselves. I had also been shocked by the state of several magicians whose hands shook with the effects of alcohol. If that’s what it did, then I didn’t want to know. Some
comics thought they were funnier drunk, but they weren’t. The apparent exception was Jimmy James who was the archetypal drunk comic, but was never really sozzled at all! I remember an interviewer who asked him why he was such a good drunk comic when some of our greatest actors couldn’t act drunk at all. ‘The reason is simple,’ said Jimmy. ‘Like all drunks, I am desperately trying to act sober.’