The Jumpin` Jax

Chapter Thirteen
Jobsworth
The Jumpin' Jax
Chapter 13
The Jumpin' Jax
After a routine visit to parents and friends in Southampton, at Thornton Heath I found a reply to my
telegram. Bob Johnson's instructions were clear, “Fly to Frankfurt Airport, I'll be waiting for you. Send
your Flight-number and Landing-time to me, c/o the Hotel Weisses Ross, Wiesbaden, Westfalia,
Deutchland.
Not a problem, buying a ticket I wired the details and prepared to leave.
No reply arrived and with my departure drawing nigh I began having doubts. However I had to go, in
my business feeling nervous is not a sufficient excuse to cancel joining a band or floorshow. I'd never
flown before and felt apprehensive, but it was an adventure and butterflies or no I was looking forward
to it.
No lover of long tearful fairwells, my Croydon mates drove me to Heathrow leaving me to check in.
Putting my drums through the weigh-in I smiled sweetly at the official, she was impressed and allotted
me a window-seat. That done I had coffee at the snack-bar and boarded the plane.
Stowing my suitcase in the overhead locker I heaved a sigh of relief, collapsing into my seat.
Relief is not quite right, ill-at-ease is more accurate. Staring nervouly out of the window I watched as
the ground-crew scurryed about their business.
I had back then (and indeed still have) a psychological 'off-switch' which clicks into operation the
moment I'm faced with anything traumatic or distasteful. For instance a long journey on the A1 in an
icy bandwagon resulted in me falling asleep as soon as my arse hit the seat, providing a convenient
escape (much to the chagrin of my deep-frozen colleagues, I should add). It can be dangerous, to this
day when driving to a gig on which I feel under pressure, stage-fright descends and the first symptom I
feel is drowsiness. I end up negotiating the busy streets struggling to keep my eyes open.
Sure enough, the moment I strapped myself into the aircraft-seat, glancing out of the window I fell
asleep.
Later (it could only have been a few minutes) I woke and looked round, the silence was eerie. Glancing
out of the window I received another surprise and peered with renewed interest. The plane was poised
above a map of the South coast of England! It was wonderful. More fascinating was the silence, I was
astonished at how quiet the engines were when airborne, the contrast between the noise up here and the
din down on the tarmac was a source of wonder.
Fearless now, gazing out I discovered, as we passed through the cloud-cover, a second bank of cloud
above us. I'd never realised clouds form layers, my conception of a grey sky was a thin grey ceiling, I'd
never considered beyond that.
Entering the second layer the plane was buffeted by turbulence and I figured passing through the first
layer had woken me. And that was another preconception, I'd always believed having no rocks, roads,
rails or bumpy road surfaces to rumble over, aeroplanes proceeded smoothly and was surprised to learn
they didn't. Emerging from the second fluffy layer into the sunshine I savoured that too.
As I marvelled at each experience, a stewardess appeared pushing a refreshment trolley towards me.
Smiling broadly, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, I gazed at her and it was a few seconds
before I realised she was talking. However, no sound broke the uncanny silence and at this point I
realised I'd gone deaf. Grabbing my nose I blew hard, my ears cleared, the noise of the engines
slamming in like a clap of continuous thunder (I'd learned the trick when skin-diving which is how I
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knew what to do). Leaning towards me beaming she said, “Kaffee, Tee oder Milch, bitte?” Unable to
grasp another assault on my senses I stared vacantly up at her, then finding my tongue ordered a large
Cognac. I felt it wisest, “Upon such decisions,” mused my little voice, ”the British Empire was
founded!” “And losted!” broke in the sardonic tones of WC Fields.
We began descending, far too soon for my liking, “I was just beginning to enjoy this.” I mused, “All
good thangs come to an end, m'boy.” murmured WC again. “Oh piss off!” I muttered. My neighbour
glanced at me in alarm and waving a hand I put him at ease. “Just thinking aloud.” I grinned and
returned my attention to the window.
Below us, another bank of cloud, however this time there was a bonus, poking through the cotton-wool
were the sharply pointed turrets of mad King Ludwig's schloss. Well, if it wasn't his it was very similar,
a picturesque lovely first glimpse of Germany.
Such things appealed to my aesthetic imagination and my dream-like state was shattered as the plane
broke though more cloud and below us lay the sprawl of Frankfurt. I was excited though, I'd never seen
a metropolis from above (I missed London - I fell asleep, remember?).
On the ground making my way through the control booths into Germany, I joyfully anticipated meeting
Bob and Terry in the arrival-lounge. But first I had to collect my drum-kit from the baggage carousel.
I watched with trepidation as suitcases tumbled higgle-de-piggledy down a metal-slope onto the
conveyer-belt, “Holy Shit! Are the drums gonna be okay?” I wondered, panic-stricken. Heaven knows
how musicians who play fragile instruments like double-bass, harp and cellos must feel? Guitarists
have nightmares! This was back in the fifties, way before the huge foam-filled cases we use today were
invented. They're no guarantee, but they help.
Rescuing my drums and placing them on a trolley with my suitcase, I wheeled it through Customs.
Unchallenged I continued into the Arrival-Hall, eyes scanning the crowd. With my drums piled high I
wasn't difficult to spot, however nobody came rushing towards me. After a few minutes, realising there
was no one to greet me, I made for the exit. “Silly sods must be outside!” I sniffed, and wheeling the
trolley into the car-park found nobody there either!
In London, if the lack of a reply had caused worry, it now ripened into blind panic, suddenly I felt
alone, vulnerable in a strange country where I could neither speak nor understand the language. I was
also among people who a short time ago had bombed the shit out of me! Aware that all that was over
and done with, I hadn't forgotten it and didn't know quite what to expect. Let's face it, we'd bombed the
shit out of them too!
I returned to earth with a jolt. “Come on, Arro!” I thought. “Can't stand here all bloody day! Can't get
back on the plane either, so make an effort, consulting the police might be a good place to a start?”
And making my way to the Airport-Police I discovered with relief the officers spoke English.
Explaining my predicament I informed them I was looking for British entertainer Bob Johnson. They
grinned, “Don't vurry sir, alvays dere vill be an anzer...” said one, “Er... who ist this Bob Yohnson. I
mean, vot does he do?” I explained that Bob Johnson and Terry Lomas were the 'Jumpin' Jax', a
floorshow act working US bases in Germany. “Ach!” exclaimed the other cop triumphantly, You see,
alvays dere vill be an anzer!” and pointing to a nearby wooden shack he advised me to contact the
American Military-Police, “You vill find zem in ze gartenshed.” he grinned, “For zer Americanisch
forzes in Deutschland you vill be vorking, nicht wahr?” I nodded, “Well, der Americanisch Military vill
traze him in seconds! Belief me, zey know vhere efery perzons who for zem ist working completely
around zer clock!” They laughed good naturedly and managing a giggle myself walked away.
“Y' see, it was worth a shot.” I mused as I made my way to the Americans.
Two young, pink-faced military policemen listened to my tale of woe sympathetically, but not without a
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grin at my discomfort. “Waal, I see your point, man, pretty scary, huh? Hold on a second!” said one and
picking up a desktop phone dialled a number. After a brief conversation (I'd say less than two minutes
between making the call and handing me the phone) he had Terry Lomas on the line speaking from a
hotel near Birchesgaden (once Hitler's eyrie and now an Alpine-resort hundreds of kilometres to the
south). “Holy shit!” I thought, impressed and a little disturbed by their efficiency. The German cops had
been right!
Taking the phone I barked, “Hello!” “Hello darling!” sang Terry, happily. “You made it then?” “Made
it!” I echoed, anger replacing fear, “Of course I fuckin' made it!! What's the idea of leaving me stranded
at the airport? Are you mad? Where's Bob for fuck sake?” Calmly she talked me down. “He's not here
at the moment, you know what he's like, Ken, he's out hunting for bargains!” she giggled and
continued, “Sorry love. We're working in Garmisch-Birchesgarden for a couple of weeks, be back in
Wiesbaden at the end of the month. “End of the month!” I spluttered, “What do you mean, end of the
mo... “The gig came in and we had to take it!” she interupted, “Couldn't turn down a gig at the most
infamous mountain-retreat in the world could we!” “Well... okay,” I said, softening slightly, “I can
understand that, but you should have let me know! You should have replied to my telegram. You could
have let me know!” “How? We haven't received your telegram have we? We're not there... we're here,
in Garmisch!” “Well you could have wired London and let me know there'd be no one to meet me,” I
said, “not let me arrive to find myself stranded! How the fuck was I supposed to know what to do?”
“Calm down my darling,” she crooned, “it's all over now. Go to the hotel in Wiesbaden and make
yourself at home. stop worrying, have a little holiday for Christ's sake! Relax, enjoy yourself 'til we get
there!” “Oh sure, have a little holiday.” I sneered, “Don't be fuckin' stupid, Terry! How do I enjoy
myself with no money?” She giggled, “Everything's been taken care of,” she replied, “book into the
Weisses Ross Hotel, have your meals in the dining-room and Bob'll settle the bill when we get back. If
you need spending money contact Rick Hardy in room Two-Twenty. He'll ensure you've enough cash
for your food, beer and cigarettes and he won't quibble, he works for Bob occasionally and it'll be
sorted out in due course, okay?” “Okay,” I finally agreed, “if you say so.” My anger dissipated, “Sorry I
shouted, darling,” I said, “I'm really looking forward to seeing you.” “Me too!” she carolled, “Okay,
must go. 'Bye!” and she rang off.
The US cop grinned, “There you are sir, problem solved!” Thinking, “I may not need this Rick Hardy,
I've still got a few quid!” Thanking the policeman I made for the Wechselstube where I exchanged my
Stirling for some useable currency.
Wheeling my trolley to the first cab on the rank, I spoke to the driver, “The Weisses Ross Hotel,
please!” I said. He raised an eyebrow, “Weisses Ross Hotel wo?” he asked laconically. “I'm sorry?” I
said not understanding. He sighed heavily “Wo? Wo? Wo?... Der Hotel Weises Ross, wo?” Removing
my address-book from my pocket, I read aloud, “Der Hotel Weises Ross, Der Kochbrunnen,
Wiesbaden!” “WIESBADEN!” echoed the cabbie loudly, in common with taxi-drivers the world over,
“Jesus Gott im Himmel!” his other eyebrow had joined it's colleague and clambering out of his cab he
began muttering angrily. I felt stupid but had no idea why, in my experience taxi drivers were the same
all over the world! Opening the car-boot, he loaded my cases into it, I tried to help but he waved me
aside. “Please yer-bloody-self!” I thought and climbing into the cab sank gratefully into the upholstery.
Sighing with relief I sank into the luxury, this was my first ride in a Mercedes and I was detirmined to
enjoy it. And I did, for the first few kilometres.
Gazing out of the window I was fascinated by the unpronouncable street names, incomprehensible neon
signs and unfamiliar architecture as we flashed past. Time passed, other lights began flickering on, dusk
fell and apprehension fluttered its dark wings. This was wrong, something was amiss. Fear wrapped
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around me like a shroud as I realised we were leaving the city. I mean leaving Frankfurt. “Holy Christ!”
I'd been operating under the impression Wiesbaden was a suburb of Frankfurt!
Too petrified to speak, relatively speaking I had a fistful of Deutschmarks in my pocket, they might
have kept me in beer and fags for a day or two, possibly until the end of the month, but how far would
they take me in a German taxi? I'd no idea, and I couldn't ask the driver, could I? Apart from Ja and
Nein (plus the recent addition of 'Wo?' meaning 'Where?') I spoke no German at all. Besides, what
would I say? I could hardly tell him I was broke! What would he do? Dump me in a field and leave me
that's what he'd do! Or ferry me back to the Airport-Police! Either way he'd take my money and I'd be
stranded, sans money!” I decided to sit tight. “Say nothing, Arro.” I thought.
It was one of my cardinal rules, “Never tell anyone anything you don't want 'em to know.” in this case
not until I arrived at the Hotel Weisses Ross. At least by then I'd be where I wanted to be! I couldn't
imagine a taxi-driver insisting on driving me back to Frankfurt if I had no money, not even a German
taxi-driver! Then of course there was Rick Hardy, he might come to my rescue. One thing was certain,
my first priority was to get myself to the Hotel. “Well, at least y''ve got that right, Arro!” I mused,
snuggling deeper into the upholstery.
As we pulled up at the hotel entrance, girding my loins, I climbed out and walked round to the driver's
window (which of course he wound down). “How much?” I shouted, in the voice the English reserve
for foreigners believing that if we shout loud and slow enough any damn fool will understand. Glaring
acrimoniously he snorted, “Zweihundert funf und zwanzig bitte!” I don't know why, but I understood
and to my embarrassment had two hundred and twenty three. Two Marks short!
With a helpless shrug I held it out. He was not impressed, not only was I trying to short change him
obviously he was not going to get a tip. He was a taxi-driver for Christ's sake and he had just driven all
the way to Wiesbaden! Glaring at the money with distain and me as if I'd crawled out of a piece of
cheese, he ignored my offer. “Zweihundert funf und zwanzig!” he repeated, staring morosely through
the windscreen. Thenmuttered something about “Scheiße Englanders.” I held up a finger, “Just a
moment!” I said and ran into the hotel, leaving my belongings in the car.
I knew what scheiße meantand as a matter of fact agreed with him entirely, I was having similar
feelings about a couple of scheiße Englanders who'd got me into this scheiße in the first fuckin' place!
Rushing into the foyer, I ran to the desk where I explained something of my predicament to the
concierge and asked if Rick Hardy was in his room? “Vielleicht, es ist ganz muerglich, Herr Harrizon.
Ein moment bitte.” replied the clerk and picking up his desk-phone, dialled. “Herr Hardy, Herr
Harrizon ist heir!” he said.
Seconds later a man came galloping down the stairs, bounding towards me he grinned broadly. “'allo
mate!” he said shaking my hand enthusiastically, “Rick Hardy. Bob rang to say you'd be arriving. So
what's your problem?” “Oh shit!” I said, “Am I pleased to see you!”
My relief was beyond description. I explained what had happened and he fell about, “Keep your
money!” he gasped when he could draw breath, “I'll pay the cabbie!” and heading for the door burst
into more guffaws, “Can't wait to see Bob's face when I present him with the bill!” he chortled and still
laughing walked out to the taxi.
By this time the cabbie was sitting on the bonnet of the car. Rick paid him and as he did he explained
my story, in German. Now they were both falling about glancing at me over their shoulders as they did
so. The nightmare over I began laughing too.
Ambling around to the boot, the cabbie opened it and handing me my bass-drum and small tom-tom,
for the first time he looked sympathetic. “Scheiße, eh?” he said, “Fuckin' right, mate!” I replied. He
even helped Ricky and I carry my gear into the hotel, then, still laughing he jumped into his car and set
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a course for Frankfurt.
Rick was a cheerful soul, laughing even when talking, which seemed to be all the time. He asked the
concierge to book me into room number Two Hundred and Nineteen, then arranged storage space for
my drums on the ground floor. “No sense in schleppin' 'em up to your room every night, cock!” he said.
I was grateful, I hadn't thought of that
Starting back up the stairs, one hand on the ornate rail, he paused, then walked back. “Come to my
room when you've booked in and I'll give you some money.” he laughed again, “You'll have to earn it
though, I'm coming on tour with your show and I want to talk you through my charts!” I was bemused,
“'Own up, Rick!” I exclaimed, “I've only just got here! I haven't even seen my room yet and your
talking about charts! I need a shower, a change of clothes, we've got till the end of the month to talk
through your charts!” He chuckled, “Yeah, right, sorry, mush, I get a bit carried away when it comes to
my act.” he said. I was intrigued, I'd not been addressed as 'Mush' since leaving Southampton.
Speaking with a London accent he was amiably helpful, bending over backwards to welcome me, even
said it was a privilege to meet me, “We know all about you, son, expert scuba-diver, eh? Heh heh
heh...” He dug me in the ribs, “My room, soon as you like, it's right next to yours, there's a cup of tea
waiting for you, you look as if you need it, right?”
Fuckin' right!” I agreed nodding.
Letting myself to my room and throwing my suitcase onto the enormous double-bed, I glanced around.
There was a connecting door. “Nice one!” I muttered, checking to see that it was locked, “Not too far
away for you, am I, Rick?” The tea sounded wonderful though and walking next door I entered his
domain.
A pot of tea was indeed waiting and I confess until he'd mentioned it I hadn't thought about it, but the
moment he handed me the cup I realised how desperately I needed it. “When you've looked at my
charts,” he said undeterred, “I'll show you round, intoduce you to the Vagabond, you'll love 'em, great
bunch of people, international variety acts, entertainers in Germany for the almighty yankee dollar,
they've banded together to form a club, sort of multi-racial Trade Union I suppose.” Spreading his
charts on the bed he grinned and caving in I looked at his music.
He sang the songs and I did my best to concentrate, but it wasn't easy. Basically it was top of the charts
crap, Country & Western rock-a-billy with some obligatory Elvis Presley and Johnnv Cash favourites
thrown in for good measure. He liked jazz and knew a lot about it but as he pointed out, “This is what
sells here, mate, might as well 'cash' in while the goin's good, eh! Know wot I mean? Har Har Har, no
pun intended!” What could I say? I was a jazz muso who'd just become part of a comedy acrobatic act!
Who was I to criticise.
“Come on, mush, drink up,” he said, I'll take you to the Vagabond Club!” At this point I put my foot
down, “Whoa, hang on! Slow down for a moment, for fuck sake!” I said, “The Vagabond Club will be
there tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, right? This is my first night in a new country,
mate! I wanna go out by myself. I wanna look around for sure, but on my own, okay? Have a meal in a
German restaurant, accompanied by a bottle of Reisling. I wanna soak up a bit of Germany, all by
myself! Do you understand? I can never recapture this evening! I've just had a terrifying experience
getting here and I'd really appreciate being left alone to savour it. No hard feelings, mate, it's nothing
personal. I really am grateful for your help, but I need time to myself!” He laughed, “Course you do,
sorry mate.” he said, “I do understand and I'm sorry, I warned you I get carried away. Always have
done!” he cackled again. “You do your own thang and I'll see you tomorrow, okay?” I stood up and
nodding agreement walked out.
In my own room I stripped, took a shower, donned some clean underclothes and a fresh shirt and
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wandered into the street.
Wiesbaden was pretty and I was impressed, I wandered the streets admiring goods displayed in shop
windows, marvelling at the different and sometimes unusual wares. Everything was beautifully
presented, window displays were more tasteful than I was accustomed to. There was a proliferation of
jewellery shops all displaying countless arrays of silver and amber, row upon row of amber jewellery,
I'd never seen so much amber!
All the stores were full of goodies, or so it seemed to my jaded British eyes, “Christ, we've only just
ended rationing!” I muttered. I couldn't stifle the thought that considering the short time involved, the
losers had recovered a damned sight quicker than the victors. After feasting my eyes, I decided it was
time to eat and remembering a really swish looking restaurant a block or so back on the oposite side of
the street, I turned and made my way back.
I decided I'd eat my first German meal in style, apart from the utility but wholesome 'British Restaurant'
meals my mum fed me during the war, 'eating out' was not on my parent's agenda, as far as they were
concerned, restaurants were for posh people. “Not for the loikes of us.” was how they actually put it.
However, I'd broken with that particular mind-set in my late teens when befriending Michael, who
invited me to his digs in a private hotel and taught me 'table etiquette' in the chic restaurant (Remember
that?). I'd since preformed in a number of residentual hotels and eaten in those too, so by this time I felt
at home in the 'posh troughs'.
This establishment looked way above my normal price range but I didn't care, “Bugger the expense,
Ken! After the crap you've been through today you bloody well deserve it, mate!” I told myself, “Keep
the docket and let Bob Johnson pay for it!” And crossing the road, I opened the door and stepped
inside.
I'll choose a secluded table.” I mused. Secluded? Secluded from what? I had no trouble finding a seat,
the restaurant was empty, my every desire was about to be pandered to. “Fan-bloody-tastic!” I breathed,
sinking into the chair.
Glancing around, I noted small subdued wall-lamps glowing dimly, enhancing the cut-glass mirrors on
dark red walls, the tables covered with sparkling white linen set with inlaid silverware. In the centre of
each table stood a slim crystal vase bearing a single red rose. A common sight nowadays, although it
would prbably be plastic now. I'd never seen such decadent opulence and wallowed in it.
After exactly enough time for me to settle comfortably, an immaculate waiter detached himself from
the wall and walked to my table. Bowing ever so slightly, he handed me two menus, the leather
bindings bearing gold embossed lettering informing me that one was Der Speisekarte, the other Der
Weinkarte. Even I could guess what that meant. 'Buona Sera, Signore,” said the waiter, “Comesta?” I'd
chosen a bloody Italian restaurant!
My disappointment dissipated the moment I perused the lists, Antipasta, Minestrone (whatever that
was?), Uncountable pasta dishes, as many main-courses, plus an entire page devoted to pizzas.
I'd never tasted pizza-pie, I'd never even seen one! I didn't know what a pizza-pie looked like... I didn't
know they weren't pies! “What the hell!” I thought, casting fate to the winds., “I'm not gonna walk out
now, am I? It's my first night abroad, I'll have a foreign meal and enjoy it anyway, German or Italian!
What do I care!”
Running my eyes down the selection the names meant nothing. Finally I chose the most expensive
(always the safest bet if you know nothing and can afford it). I'd long ago adopted another rule of
thumb; you get what you pay for in this world and if I'd learned nothing at least I'd learned that. “I'll
have the Pizza Spezial!” I enunciated slowly, pointing at the list. “Si signore, gross oder klein?” he
asked, apparently unable to make his mind up which nationality I was. I understood by instinct more
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than anything else, “May as well chance a big one!” I thought! “Grosse!” I replied, spreading my arms
wide. Looking sceptical and inclining his head to one side, he hunched his shoulders, turning the sides
of his mouth downward and the palms of his hands towards me, “Grosse? Aber Signore?” he implored.
I'd made an executive decision and brooked no argument. “Si, si, si!” I said, warming to my task, “Uno
grotzio Pizza Spetzialli, por favore.” Adding “Grande!” very enthusiastically. Resigned, he sighed, “Si
Signor,” he said, “und Vino?” “Er... Si, vino!” I replied. “Si Signore, Vino Rose, se vino Bianco?”
“Bianco please!” “Si Signor, vino Italiano, se vino locale?” “Locale,” I said with conviction, “at least
on my first night I'll get pissed on German wine ” “Certamente, Signore! Vino Nach Haus oder vino
importar.......”Jesus Christ almighty! Si si si! Vino nack housa!” I interrupted exasperated. Bowing
imperceptibly he withdrew. “Bloody hell! Thank God that's over, these bastards offer more choices than
fuckin' lotto!” I muttered already wondering how many kinds of tea or coffee I'd be asked to choose
from? Italian, Cuban, Brazilian, Chinese, Indian? The mind boggled.
Returning with a carafe of white, pouring a little into my glass, he waited. I tasted, nodding approval,
filling my glass and placing the carafe in a bucket of ice, he left me to myself.
I consumed two glassfuls very quickly, for two reasons, (a) I was thirsty and (b) I bloody well needed it,
today had been a nightmare, boy, did I need a drink!
I was starting on my third glass when the pizza arrived. I was gobsmacked! It was the size of a bicycle
wheel! I mean in diameter! I'd never seen anything like it! “Holy fuckin' shit!” I said aloud, looking up.
Hunching his shoulders and placing the tips of his thumb and forefingers together, he waggled his
hands back and forth. Without a word he expressed it eloquently. “Wha'-sa-matter-for-you? I tried to
warn you but you wouldn't listen!”
I ate, I think, maybe three large slices, perhaps four, almost half I'd say and it was a bloody good effort,
I don't normally eat that amount, not at one sitting!
It tasted wonderful but there was no way I could eat it all. I drank more wine and realising I'd been the
victim of a classic practical joke, began laughing maniacally. The waiter became nervous and started
toward me, but waving him away I signalled I was okay. “I can talk with my fuckin' hands too, y'
know!” I muttered drunkenly.
Rising from my chair I lurched sideways. “Holy shit 'Arro!” I muttered aloud, “Can't you ever do
anything right?” Fumbling in my wallet I threw some money on the table and made what I thought was
a beeline for the door, by a miracle I made it. “Grazi Signor, Ciao!” called the waiter, bowing. “Yeah
yeah yeah!” I called back, “Und Ciao yer fuckin' self, mate! Ciao-Ciao-Bam-Fuckin'-Vino!” I added
lurching into the street, pausing to close the door very carefully as drunks do.
I awoke the next morning sprawled on the enormous bed in my hotel room. I was not at my best. not
written off but the headache was real bad. “God,” I winced, “almost a Netheravon hangover!” and
groaning, sitting up I propped myself against the largest pillow I'd ever encountered.
What bothered me was I couldn't remember finding my way back to the hotel, and don't even mention
finding the correct room? Laying down again I tried to recall the walk, but with hangovers the longer
you lie down the worse it gets, so clambering out of bed I took my first real look around.
The first thing I discovered was that apart from the enormous pillow, my bed wasn't made up. I'd spent
the night uncovered. Further research revealed a weird looking pedestal in the corner of the room, it
looked like a foot-bath with hot and cold ta-handles on it.
Curiosity getting the better of me, walking over to it I bent to turn on the taps, however the pain in my
head doubled. “Ouch!” I groaned and holding my head with one hand, flicked a tap on with the other.
Wham! A powerful jet of water hit the ceiling catching me alongside the head on its way. In a fraction
of a second the entire room and I were drenched, water dripping from everywhere.
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“Holy Jesus Christ!” I snarled, struggling to turn it off (why are taps easy to turn on but in an
emergency impossible to turn off?) Thinking fast, grabbing a pile of towels from the bathroom I began
mopping water from the furniture. “Not much I can do about the carpet or bed though.” I thought, “Oh
no! Look at the state of the bed!” And groaned I almost collapsed onto it.
I had a brainwave, opening the door I hung the 'DO NOT DISTURB' sign outside and closing it,
opened all the windows. “Allow the bed and carpet to dry without the bloody chambermaid finding
out.” I thought, adding aloud, “Even with a hangover you're a cunning bastard, Arro!”
I cleaned my teeth carefully but the noise was deafening. After a warm shower, I dressed, crept
downstairs and to my relief found the reception desk deserted, “Thank God for that!” I thought, “I'm in
no mood to talk to anybody!” I didn't deposit my key in the slot provided on the the counter but instead
slipped it into my pocket then ventured into the snow-filled streets for a bracing stroll. Well okay, a
bracing lurch then.
Self recrimination descended, “What a dick-head, 'Arro,” I grumbled as I mooched through the slush,
“My Aunt Lil was right, you'll never be any good! An 'opeless prick is what you are!” “Oh, give me a
break, fer Christ sake!” complained another little voice.
Just around the corner I found a strange little bar called 'Jacobs', selling nothing but coffee. “That's an
idea, perhaps black coffee will help.” I thought. I purchased a coffee at the bar, but on looking around
found nowhere to sit, I mean there weren't any chairs, I had to stand up and drink it. “Bit odd.” I
thought, but other people were standing sipping theirs, so I joined in. The coffee was some of the best
I'd ever tasted so I bought another and as I sipped, began to feel a little more gruntled.
Feeling slightly better I began laughing as the memories flooded back. People stared but it didn't bother
me, I'm in the entertainment business, why would that bother me? Smiling I finishing my coffee and
with nowhere to sit, left. Why would I stay? Maybe that was the idea, to encourage a quick turnover.
Walking less painfully now and still finding the city shops fascinating I continued my investigations.
Eventually I found myself walking along Willelm Strasse. A beautiful street, it appeared to be the main
thoroughfare situated, I supposed, at the posh end of town. Across the street was a huge palace named
'Der Spielbank' boasting several large fountains, all of which had been caught in mid fount, so to speak,
the water exquisitely petrified, frozen in mid-spray.
Staring at nature's crystalline artistry, I thought, “I dunno what a Spielbank is, but I sure as hell could
have used that instant freeze in my room this morning. I could have broken the water off and tossed it
out the window.” “Holy shit, the windows, I left 'em open!”
The realisation hit hard, “Christ, I've left the windows open! The water won't dry out, it'll freeze solid!”
Forgetting my hangover I rushed back to the hotel, noticing as I reached the entrance, Der Kochbrunnen
steaming mysteriously. In spite of the trauma I wondered what a Kochbrunnen was? Not once had I
connected the name 'Wiesbaden' with a hot-spring, that had never occurred to me.
Walking inside hoping to repeat my earlier good fortune, to sneak unnoticed past the desk and up to my
room, alas it was not to be, the friendly concierge greeted me with a huge grin, “Herr Harrizon!” he
cried, “Wiegates heute Ihnen?” he sang the words expansively in the Weisbaden sing-song dialect, a
brogue which I suppose is the German equivalent to a Welsh accent. “Good, danke.” I smiled,
“Wiegates Ihnen?” I was learning fast. However his bonhomie seemed a bit over the top. “Hey! It
could be me being a bit over-aware.” I thought. “Gut Danke. Haben sie ihre schlussel?” he asked,
smiling broadly. Taking the key from my pocket I waved it and made for the staircase. He grinned,
“Tsk Tsk Tsk!” he clicked, pointing ostentatiously at the brass slot. “Well at least he's friendly.” I
thought guiltily as I slunk away, “It's amazing really, they seem such friendly people, what got into
them to murder millions of us, not once but twice in the space of twenty-five years?” I'd not the
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slightest idea and dismissing the thought let myself into my room. It was clean, dry and the windows
closed, the Housefrau had been in and replaced everything. Rolling on the bed, I laughed myself back to
good health. No wonder the concierge had been amused, the chambermaid had obviously told the entire
staff the story.
That evening I allowed Rick to take me to, and become a member of, the Vagabond's Club.
It was really not a club, that is to say there was no Vagabond Club-house, the members simply
congregated in a public restaurant, the name of which now escapes me. Every Monday evening they
held a private meeting in a large room at the rear of the premises and this is what passed as the Clubroom. However every day the dining room was full of Vagabonds and most evenings too, with those
who weren't performing, that is. Off-duty theatricals hung out and conducted much of their business in
the restaurant and a very profitably, for the owners.
Rick explained all this to me as we walked the short distance from the hotel to the club, “They'll expect
you to become a member,” he said, “in fact they'll insist on it! Take my advice, join! You can't say no
really, but you wouldn't want to! Look at it as an insurance policy, they'll help if you're taken ill or
something dreadful happens. Besides, they're a great bunch of people, you'll love 'em!” And he was
right.
In spite of feeling in awe of some of the famous faces dotted about the room, I sailed into the company
with confidence. I was a very good drummer and knew it, I was also an extrovert with a talent for
comedy and I knew that too, that's why Bob Johnson had engaged me, it was the reason I was there.
Rick introduced me to the members and it was Wilson, of 'Wilson, Keppel and Betty', who said, “Ah,
Ken Harrison! At last! So you finally got here! You're joining Bob and Terry, right? Thank God you've
arrived, we been waiting... It's your goddammed round!”
As if on cue an incredibly attractive waitress appeared at my elbow. Smiling and raising her pencil
“Abend,” she breathed, “I am Uttie, Vhat vould you like?” I was in love! “What would I like!” I
thought, Daft question!” Then jamming a lid on my libido I ordered a beer. Writing it down she took
everyone order, Wilson had not been not joking, the drinks were on me!
In my present impecunious situation this represented a large sum of money, there appeared to be no
choice and I watched fascinated as my new love made some pen-marks on my coaster. I gulped,
realising they would eventually be totted up and converted into Deutschmarks. Rick grinned and I
realised with a start that I wasn't paying for it anyway.
While waiting for the drinks I glanced around, an impressive sea of faces returned my gaze, some
grinning and waving. Many were familiar, I'd seen them in countless newspapers and magazines and
smiling at me from theatre billboards for my entire life. I'd listened to them on radio and more recently
watched them on television and to me they were still super-stars.
I'd not yet realised why these show-business icons were living in Germany working for the American
Armed Services. It hadn't dawned on me, that because of the demise of Music-Hall, in England
(Vaudeville in the US), recent developments in their industry had imposed severe limitations on their
earnings. They had nowhere else to go, here they were, unbowed by misfortune, their effervescent
humour and Joie-de-Vivre bubbling along nicely. The 'show must go on' tradition was alive and well
and encompassing their private existence.
Uncle-Sam had saved their bacon, by spending billions of dollars on the comfort and well being of the
troops, the seasoned, hard bitten, highly trained, military personnel were really hard done by. Things
were tough for our poor boys stationed 'over thar' and in spite of being showered with duty-free Scotch,
Bourbon, chewing gum, Coca-Cola, women, cuban cigars, Budweiser beer and plastic food, they had to
be entertained as well! Consequently out of work entertainers from all over the world moved in. Some
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of the USA's great names were present and in addition unknowns, young musicians and entertainers
like myself, bent on learning and honing their skills.
Needless to say, the period provided me with some of my most cherished memories, meeting, eating,
drinking or just sitting talking with these extraordinary people was a joy. In particular I recall Wilson,
Keppel and Betty, an internationally renowned trio of comic sand-dancers. In spite of performing the
same routine all around the world, night after night for forty years, they still argued about it every single
night. At the end of their act, the moment they danced into the wings they'd harangue each other as to
how each move should be executed. “Hey, asshole, when the goil toins round, it's me who goes sushyshushy! You're supposed to go sashy-shashy fer Crissakes!” “Whadaya fuckin' talkin' about? I do the
sushy-shushy, it's you who's supposed to do the fuckin' sashy-shashy! Jesus Christ, we been doin' dis
shit fer forty fuckin' years and still you cain't get it right, whasamatter whitchoo?” And so it went, ad
infinitum. In truth only Wilson and Keppel thought anything was amiss, nobody else could tell, it
looked okay to us.
Keppal wore a tiny pair of silver wings in his lapel. At first glance it looked like a small Air-Force
badge, maybe a flying award of some kind, but when I asked what it represented, grinning he turned his
lapel over to reveal an erect penis. It was actually the tiny emblem of virility sold as a tourist attraction
at Pompei. Usually owners displayed it on a key-ring, but not Keppal. I laughed, “Very good, nice
touch.” I grinned. Fingering it lovingly, he chuckled “Yeah, goes down great with the gals, this thang
has earned me a whole lot of fun, man.”
Betty was transient, Betty's came and went with clockwork regularity. The act demanded a pretty-girl
and whenever the current Betty left to get married or become a Tiller-girl, the guys had to find another.
If she stayed too long, they changed her for a new one anyway and every night continued arguing as if
nothing had happened.
But back to my first evening: needless to say I had a wonderful time and of course drank too much.
However, not wanting to repeat the previous evening's debacle, avoiding wine, instead I stuck to the
tipple I was accustomed to, beer. A good choice, I soon discovered that German beer was tresfantastische!
Returning late to the hotel, on entering my room I found my bed still unmade. “Shit!” I grimaced
angrily, “What the matter with these people?” And picking up the phone dialled Room- service. A
woman answered, I went balistic, “I't almost three in the morning and my fuckin' bed's still unmade!”
The disembodied voice replied, “Ein moment bitte.” and the phone went dead.
Moments later a knock came at the door and I opened it to a thick-set middle-aged woman. Stepping
inside she smiled, “Bitte?” she asked, then waited, “My bed is not made.” I said. She shrugged,
“Bitte?”she repeated. I figured she didn't understand. “Fuckin' Hell,” I fumed, “that's all I need!” Sitting
on the bed with my back against the huge pillow I waved my arms, “Look!” I said, gesturing wildly,
“Are you blind?!? There are no sheets or blankets on my bed! What's wrong with you? I've been here
two fuckin' days and my bed's still unmade! Don't you understand?”
Maybe she hadn't understood word, but she sure understood I was being rude, she also understood what
I was raving about. Scowling, she grabbed my arm and pulled me off the bed. Unfolding the gigantic
pillow, she spread it until it covered the surface and holding up a corner invited me to get under it.
I felt stupid. Waggling the corner, she curtseyed, then sneering sarcastically she murmured, “Schlaffen
sie gut, Mein Herr.”
I gaped at the continental quilt, “I see, well how was I to know?” I said, feeling humiliated, “I've never
seen one before!” She didn't reply. “Shit Ken!” I muttered, “This ranks alongside your bidet gaff. The
story will be all over the staff-room by morning.” Then to her, “You must think I'm a right berk!”
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Grunting angrily she swept from the room (she didn't slam the door though, it was three o'clock in the
morning). Incidentally, in case you don't know, 'berk' is a common sobriquet in use throughout the
English speaking world, the root of which is British rhyming slang for 'Berkhamstead Hunt' (work it out
for yourselves).
Finally on my own, as I undressed I giggled. “No wonder they mutter “Scheiße Englanders!” every time
they clap eyes on us!” Then, half-pissed, naked and ensconced beneath the enormous snugly bag of
feathers, I laughed myself to sleep.
Waking the following morning warm and cumfy, I resolve to buy myself one of these things just as
soon as I owned a bed (and I did, but it took me fourteen years). Luxuriating for a good deal longer than
usual, finally I got up, took a shower, dressed and walked downstairs to the restaurant.
The reaction was predictable, I handed my key in at the desk and again the concierge grinned.
It was quite late, I'd been toying with having brunch in the dining-room and adding it to my bill, but the
thought of waiters and waitresses sniggering as I ate was too daunting. Instead I went for my
constitutional walk, settling for a breakfast of 'Jacobs Coffee' instead, taken standing up.
I started giggling to myself and again people stared. I nodded affably, “If you knew why I'm here you'd
be giggling too.” I said, waving a hand. Alarmed, without replying they drank their coffee and hurried
away, figuring I was some kind of loony. They weren't far wrong.
Three weeks passed very quickly, Bob and Terry arrived in an Opal Kapitan, the trampoline perched on
a specially designed roof-rack. Without wasting a moment they collected Me, Rick Hardy, comedian
Mickey Hayes and his female partner, then with the two cars( Mickey's and Bob's) in convey, we set off
for Hamburg.
In spite of the Autobahn, the trip from Wiesbaden to Hamburg was hell, this was in the middle of the
German winter and it was a long way.
Somewhere in northern Germany, we came off the Autobahn and travelling on a snow covered icy
road, in a small town as we neared our destination, an oncoming Volkswagon van turned slowly
sideways and sliding gently across the road ran into our car. Bob hit the brakes and swung the wheel
but there was little he could do, in slow motion the vehicles collided, cannoning us off the road into a
tree. Terry's knees slammed into the dashboard, however Bob and I were unharmed. Insisting she was
okay, she told us to go talk to the guy and leaving her mopping blood from her shins we ran to the van.
We found him lying in the snow, dead as a doornail! We were astonished, neither vehicle had been
moving more than ten kilometres an hour!
Bob called the police, an ambulance and a tow truck. They removed the debris, human and mechanical
and after we'd all made police-statements, he instructed Mickey to drive on, “ Terry's injured.” he said,
“You guys go to the Club and tell the manager what has happened, warn him of a possible delay, tell
him we'll be there as soon as possible.” Agreeing, Mickey drove away.
With Police enquiries over and Bob's name cleared, I accompanied Terry in a taxi to the hospital to
have her wounds sutured. Bob, and his car were towed to the local Opal-Centre, where, with no time to
have it repaired he exchanging it for another of the same make, type and vintage had them transfer the
roof-rack and trampoline then drove to the hospital to pick us up.
He had to part with some money to balance the books, business is business, used-car dealers are the
same the world over.
Clambering into the car we got back on the road hours behind schedule. We arrived late of course,
suffering from secondary shock, fatigue, exposure, plus a man's death on our conscience. It wasn't guilt,
nobody was to blame, his vehicle had crashed into ours and he had fallen out of his open door, striking
his head on the road. It was ridiculous really, it happened in slow motion at ten kilometres per hour,
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nobody should have been hurt at all, his van turned sideways and 'Boom-klap' he was history!
Iin spite of everything 'the show must go on'. Late, hungry, thirsty and with one of our party injured, all
of us suffering secondary shock, we had to bounce onto the stage in true show-business tradition. The
Club Manager was sympathetic and specific, “Heard about the accident. Terrible! I understand your
problem... Now get into your stage-gear and get out there!”
Who make's these rules? It's crap! However, I'm aware audiences are not interested in why you didn't
show up, all they know is you didn't! So the show went on on time.
It would have been a lot worse nowadays, the guttersnipe's that run newspapers these days would have
run a different story:
“Entertainers kill man and bounce onto the stage laughing and joking as if nothing had
happened!
And we would have had to face that too.
We tried to carry on as if nothing had happened... Let's say, we did our best.
Terry cut the more spectacular tricks from her act but nobody in the audience knew that and applauded
as usual. I guess carrying on intrepidly was the best thing really, we'd've really come apart at the seams
if we'd had nothing to do but sit and think.
After Hamburg we zig-zagged our way back to Wiesbaden, playing at numerous British and American
bases on route.
We arrived to find a new face on the scene, well new to me, I knew the name though, Ronnie Harris.
People my age will be familiar with it, because pre Rock and Roll, Ronnie Harris had a couple of hit
records and I mean chart-busters. In those days the hit list was called 'The Top Twenty' and Ronnie had
two gold discs (1) for a song entitled, 'The Story Of Tina' and (2) another called, 'The Gipsy'.
However, he was known to me because of his singing and playing cabaza and double-bass with then
famous Francisco Cavez Latin American Orchestra. Originally a bass-player who sang, he also played
cabaza (a dried gourd covered with strings of beads). He left Cavez to go it alone as a solo singer
eventually making it into the Top 20. And justifiably so, may I add, he was good! In fact, I was to
discover he was better than I ever imagined.
Singer, Bass-player & great cabaza player, Ronnie Harris. Later proprieter of
the German/American Theatrical-agency
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Ronnie was putting together a variety show to play the American sector of Berlin and he asked Bob if
we could join him? Bob agreed and without taking a breath we were back on the road north. I didn't
realise it, but a friendship was forged between Harris and myself, based on mutual bad tempers, inflated
egos, intolerance, selfishness and above all, identical senses of humour. I loved him dearly and still
miss him. We were abrasively arrogant and although we took to each other immediately we were
natural born enemies verbally speaking that is. Our relationship was similar to the one I shared with
Bob Champion but more vitriolic!
On joining Ronnie's show I was informed that in addition to doing Bob's routines, I would also be
required to accompany the rest of the show, including Ronnie's act. It was a big ask, but I was young
and enthusiastic, it never occurred to me to ask for more money.
Ronnie called a rehearsal and it was then that I discovered his true artistic worth. To some extent I was
aware only of his two hit recordings, both ballads, but he swung furiously on up tempo numbers and
sang ballads with great tenderness. Indeed he sang the way I love a singer to sing. You can, if you like,
identify him with Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett, although his sound was closer to Nat 'King' Cole. It
was a delight to play for him, he was a great musician!
There was a bonus, his accompanist, German pianist Joe Neger, was a fine jazz pianist and although
grossly overworked and under-payed I was in my element, gullible but happy.
The drive to Berlin was depressing, as we passed from West Germany into the eastern sector I was
stunned by the lack of rebuilding and development on the communist side. I'd grown accustomed to,
and indeed enjoyed the opulence of West Germany, so the eastern poverty came as a shock. In EastBerlin itself no rebuilding had taken place at all, the city still lay in ruins, bricks lying in heaps
seemingly where they'd originally fallen. It was awesome. On one main street some large department
stores had been erected, but on inspection we discovered the buildings were mere facades with nothing
behind them. Behind the impressive facade were tiny ground-floor walk-in shops, plus more piles of
charred bricks. East-Berlin looked like the destroyed Southampton suburb I'd visited on V.E. Day,
however this was nineteen sixty-one, sixteen years after the war had ended. I received the distinct
impression Russia had no intention of allowing the Germans to forget it, in East Germany the war had
not been brushed under the carpet.
Incidentally, this occurred before the Berlin Wall was built and we were allowed to wander pretty much
as we pleased. Occasionally we were stopped by patrolling policemen and asked to show our passports,
but it was no great drama, they checked our visas then let us go. Needless to say the, 'Durchreise Visum
durch die Deutsche Demokratische Rebulik', is the largest visa in my collection of old passports, taking
up an entire page (of meaningless crap, I may add!).
However it was a very successful trip, Joe was a great piano-player, Ronnie was an excellent singer and
both were in great form. Ron was popular with the GI's and he'd put together an entertaining show, Bob
Terry and I had settled into our routines, I kept my lines that by now had become standard, but on the
whole relied on my ability to ad-lib almost non-stop. It worked very well, most acts of this kind hate
being interrupted by a smart-arsed musicians, but this bunch loved it. As long as I kept to the thread of
the show and didn't steal scenes, wreck songs, or steal somebody's lines I was given carte-blanche.
Despite the gloomy aspect, not to mention shock to my system, I enjoyed my trip to Berlin, glad of an
opportunity to see a part of the world people in the west could only read about or speculate on.
Nevertheless I was glad to get back to the west!
In Wiesbaden we worked around the local clubs until comedian Mickey Hayes put together a roadshow and he too asked Bob to be part of it. Besides ourselves, the cast included Mack and Kirk (a
comedy duo from the UK comprising Dickie, a tiny scotsman and Jack, an enormous East-End London
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Jew. A perfect contrast to each other, the tiny Scotsman was in fact the straight man, to Jack's huge
East-End jewishness. Six foot tall, broad, with an ample pot-belly, Jack possessed an abnormally large
head, a head I may add, which represented a caricature of all the essential features which some believe
constitutes the classic jewish face. Great black rings plus enormous bags surrounded downward sloping
eyes, peering over a large hooked nose. Heavy dewlapped jowls, plus a bald head with straggly wisps of
greying hair sprouting in all directions Jack looked as if he'd been drawn by a Nazi cartoonist, an over
the top Fagin in a Walt Disney version of 'A Christmas Carol'. To be honest Mother Nature had gone
overboard with Jack, apparently not knowing when to the lift the brush from the canvass. A Hollywood
make up man couldn't have done a better job, and to top it off he came equipped with an exquisite EastEnd London yiddisher accent. Billed as Mack And Kirk, their act purported to be ethnic Scottish
entertainment. Dickie was a in fact a genuine Scot and came on stage dressed in authentic garb, kilt,
sporran, white shirt, lace jabot and frilly cuffs, a plaid thrown over his left shoulder, the ensemble
completed by a skean du (small dagger) tucked into the top of his tartan sock. He walked onstage
playing a traditional scottish reel (he could really play by the way) and after the applause died away
said: “Guid evening Ladies and Gentlemen, and now, I would like to sing the beautiful scottish ballad,
Annie Laurie.” He began singing but before he'd sung three lines he was joined by a macabre sight, a
gigantic caricature of a scotsman dressed in identical regalia topped by a huge hand-knitted tartan
bonnet, complete with woolly-bobble. Twanging an out of tune guitar and gyrating like a ghastly
Scottish Elvis Presley it began to sing. Dickie halted, “Whoa!” he cried angrily, “Wait just a moment!
Who the hell are you, what the blazes d' ye think you're doing?” “I'm joinin' in!” replied the apparition.
“Joining in? What do you mean, joining in? I don't want anybody joining in! I'm trying to work here,
I'm singing a lovely Scottish ballad to these people!”
Jack: “I'm pepping it up a bit, givin' it a bit of zing!”
Dickie: “It doesna need zing! Go away, mind your own business! Go on, get off the stage and let me get
on with it!”
Exit Jack.
Dickie begins again, but in a few seconds his tormentor is back.
Dickie: “What do you want now?”
Jack. “There's a man outside with a funny face!”
Dickie. “Well tell him you've got one!”
(this was patently true)
Jack: “I'll do a bit of poetry for 'em now!”
Dickie: “Poetry? They're GIs! They're not interested in poetry, I'm singing to them!”
Jack: “Yes they do, soldiers love poetry, especially GI's! Look at 'em, you can see it in their eyes! They
love poetry, they're dying to hear some poetry!”.
Dickie, resigned: “Oh all right, go on then, recite your bloody poetry!”
Jack: “A bit of Poetry.”
“The sun may kiss the butterfly,
A man may kiss his wife goodbye,
The ruby lips may kiss the glass,
And you my friend,
Aufwiedersehen!”
He was right, the GI's screamed with laughter, they loved it, especially the twist at the end with its
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double-entendre,
Jack: “See, I told ya! I knew they'd like it, GI's love poetry!”
Ignoring him Dick began singing again, this time 'La Golandrina' and actually sung in Italian.
Jack didn't care, he joined in again in what can only be described as Golder's Green Hebrew, with a few
pizza-pies, raviolis, chiantis and a bolognaise or two thrown in to add authenticity. Appalled, again
Dickie stopped, listening incredulously, then:
“What's that supposed to be?”
Jack: “I'm singin' to 'em in Italian!
Dickie: “That's not Italian!”
Jack: “Vot you talkin? 'Course it's Italian! Pizza-pie, Spiegeleier, it's all Italian!”
By now the Americans were falling about, his reference to Pizza-pie was obvious and rhyming it with
'spiegeleier' (German for fried-eggs) was even better. They knew what it meant, many of them were
Italian-Americans based in Germany with a smattering of both languages, some fluent. Jack and
Dickie's material had been written with this in mind and the GIs loved it!
My part in the proceedings began early, if the club in which we were appearing had a house-band, I was
planted before the show, therefore the house drummer got an unusually long interval-break. I of course
had to work with the band playing their music, my drum-kit either on stage with them or set to one side.
I was often a better drummer than the regular guy and the smiles on the musicians faces when I began
playing indicated it (to my deep satisfaction, I may add). When I left my drums to jump onto the
trampoline, the house drummer had to return, however until that happened I had to play for dinner, then
accompany the other acts in the show. It was in the latter situation that Jack managed to work two acts
simultaneously.
His normal routine was reserved for the audience but every evening I was privvy to an ad-libbed
performance and just for me. Each time he danced by I received a stream of private one-liners ad-libbed
from the corner of his mouth, so by the time he disappeared my sides were aching with suppressed
mirth.
The coup-de-gras came with a chord in G from Dickie, at which Jack began a strip-tease and I mean a
real one! Actually performing a genuine strip-tease as a professional strip-tease dancer would have
done. The art of comedy is not to play for laughs, comedy is funnier when played straight, if you do
something weird in a normal way, it's funnier than doing it while rolling your eyes and poking your
tongue out and Jack performed a straight strip-tease, accompanied by Dick playing a genuine scottish
reel on the accordion. So, clad in kilt, sporran, lace-jabot, with a plaid tossed over one shoulder he had
lot of material to work with (forgive the pun). It was the perfect male strip-tease costume and in
removing it Jack achieved the best effect possible.
In case you're unaware, the kilt is a wrap-around garment held in place with a very large safety pin,
therefore during a strip-tease, unpinning, unwrapping and taking it off was fraught with innuendo.
Removing the jabot from his shirt-front, he tossed it aside, then wrigglng out of the plaid he
suggestively dropped it on the floor beside it. With his back to the audience, bending over he removed
his shoes, thus giving the audience a hint of what Scotsmen might wear under the kilt. Then, ever-soslow-ly he rolled down his stockings kicking them into the wings. What he did while removing the
sporran I shall leave to your imagination... Having rid himself of the sporran he began the tortuous
business of removing the kilt. Performed as a serious strip-tease, Jack's performance was very funny,
but the sight of a six-foot tall sinfully ugly, one hundred and fourteen kilo (eighteen-stone) Jew, dressed
as a Scotsman unwrapping and undulating out of a kilt was about as much as most people could take
without falling down, including me. I never did get used to it, it killed me every time!
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Having removed the kilt, unbuttoning his shirt very slowly, he sensually removed it, sliding it along his
arm (in the exact duplication of the stripper's art), he revealed the tiniest of tartan bikinis.
Well, by this time the audience was howling, but he hadn't finished, down to a tartan g-string and
matching bra, turning his back to the audience, wriggling his bum seductively, reaching behind he
undid the clip on the bra (muttering to me incredulously, “Dey t'ink I'm Scottish y' know! Dey wreally
think I'm Scottish!”) then spinning dramatically and ripping off the bra he reveal two tiny silver stars
covering his nipples.
I've witnessed high-ranking members of an audience fall out of the seats and roll on the floor at this
point. Admirals, Five-star Generals, actually rolling on the floor! This is not hyperbole, this is true!
And the remarkable thing was, Jack was correct, they believed he was Scottish!
We became mates and it was Jack who first taught me how to swing a golf club, well to be precise I
walked round the course with him because he said he needed someone to talk to. Then, out of sight of
the club-house, handing me a club he encourage me to hit the ball. I had a few swipes at it but of course
was pretty hopeless. Seeing the the two of us together was comic in itself, Jack enormous and me tiny.
As the tour progressed I was roped in for more and more comedy until finally they began writing
sketches featuring me. As the show increased in length and substance, I was given more to do, until
eventually I was on stage all bloody evening! Even doing a solo stand-up routine. When I wasn't doing
that or playing drums I was taking part in a sketch. Looking back, I must have been mad to agree to it!
And it was Jack who taught me how to do it, it was he who bullied me into projecting.
For the benefit of the unaware, 'projecting' is the show-business trick of shouting at the top of your
voice in order to sound normal, and while uttering the lines I'd been given to say, Jack would stand in
the wings, or in some instances right beside me, whispering, “Louder! Shout louder! Shout, you stupid
little bastard! Louder for Christ's sake! Shout bloody LOUDER!”
I've explained already that I possess an abnormally loud voice anyway, but it was Jack who taught me
how to project it to every corner of an auditorium without using a microphone. (and I still do it from
behind my drum-kit)
Ten years later, shortly before he died, I met him on the street in Neu-Ulm. He didn't say hello but
simply stopped me: “Solly met Hymie dressed in a check-cap, Fair-Isle sweater, brown and white
brogue shoes, Harris tweed jacket and plus-fours tucked into long tartan socks. “Oyvay!” exclaimed
Solly, “Vhere you goin' dressed like that?” “I'm going to play golf!” replied Hymie, “Vot, vid
knickers?” said Solly. “Nah,” said Hymie, “Vid vhite people!”
And without waiting to hear my laughter, grinning he walked out of my life. Dickie and he have been
dead for many years now and I remember them with much love.
But let's return to1960: I was a seasoned pro by now, no longer in awe of my peers, at the Vagabond
Club (which incidentally was referred to affectionately as 'Headquarters'), it was customary, one
evening per month, to hold a social evening during which, members were expected to take a turn at
entertaining their colleagues.
Now that's scary, that's peer-group pressure! Some of the greatest comics in the world refused to do it
(as much to protect their material as for any other reason, although it could have been a mixture of
stage-fright and paranoia). I had no such qualms regards material, I didn't have any! I was an ad-libber,
pure and simple, I bounced my remarks off the remarks of others, but it was dreadful to be asked to
stand in front of those guys and be funny. Truly 'break into a cold sweat time'. I only ever did it once.
Ronnie Harris lined up an extended tour of Italy and asked Bob to be part of it. Of course he said yes
and I was overjoyed to be on the move again, I'd always wanted to visit Italy! Ever since seeing
Stromboli erupt at night, from the vantage point of my porthole aboard the SS Rhodesia Castle, I'd
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wanted to see more, now was my chance.
In point of fact it wasn't a tour, not in the usual sense anyway. Ronnie was moving his business
permanently to Napoli and he wanted us with him. In truth it was even more spectacular than that, the
travelling more extensive than I'd ever hoped. Based in Napoli we were to cover the entire country,
North, South, East and West and for an indefinite period.
Calling a staff-meeting, in his usual acerbic manner he ordered, “Right! Book out of your Wiesbaden
accommodation, okay? Don't leave anything behind. We're not coming back... We're moving
permanently to Italy. Alright?” We nodded. “We'll be living in Napoli picking up gigs as we go along!
Don't think of this as a Wiesbaden based tour... Forget Germany, we're out of here! Is everybody okay
with that?” I was okay with it, I couldn't have improved on it, I was deliriously okay with the entire
concept!
While Harris organised the tranfer of his business to Naples, we had a few weeks of comparative ease
in Wiesbaden. I say comparative because in those days, time spent in Wiesbaden could hardly be
regarded as ease. When not raving it up at the Walhalla, Bob had us working our arses off touring the
German-based US clubs and below is a picture of Terry Lomas doing her Marlene Dietrich impression
(from memory I recall it being a pit-stop in Heidelberg on our way to a gig somewhere neareby).
“Underneath the lamplight by the Barrack Square”
In Wiesbaden we could be found drinking and raving at 'The Headquarters' where I was to discover
every male was in head over heels in love with Uttie. No surprise to me, I'd fallen for her on my first
evening (remember?) and tried hard to get her to go out on a date with me. Once would have been
gratifying, but she wasn’t the dating type, I later gathered everyone else had failed, so I guess she was
saving herself for Herr Richtig. What did I know, maybe she'd already found him?
In spite of her rejection we stayed until two-thirty in the morning, or until Uttie and the rest of the staff
threw us out. “Freier abend, bitte!” they'd cry, “Freier abend! Which in this particular case meant, “Piss
off, the lot of you for God's sake, we wanna go home!” and thus ejected we headed for 'The Walhalla'.
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The Walhalla was a 24 hour, seven day per week night-club, however, it was also the bordello and
besides providing carnal delights for the GIs, it featured top-class German big-bands, 'live' on-stage,
each band being resident for one month.
In spite of whatever you may be thinking we were there because we adored big-bands and the bands
adored us, every night we were asked to sit in and either Johnny Gregory, my old mate from
Southampton, or I would agree, I confesas John did most of it because of my being left-handed of
course.
Also featured was Jackie Trent, who these days lives in Sydney and found fame writing and singing
pop-songs with husband Tony Hatch. However back then she was a supurb jazz-performer, singing,
playing piano and guitar. Another on the bill was superb English jazz-singer Jackie Knight, a north
country lass with a great sense of humour. She adored farting which she referred to as 'trumping',
(pronounced; troomping) after a loud raspberry she'd nudge me, exclaiming, “Eeeeee! I do luv a good
troomp dear!” I was in love with her but she suddenly married an American juggler and disappeared for
ever. I was bereft!
But to return to the Walhalla: A large table was permanently available beside the band-stand for
members of 'The Vagabond Club' and no matter what time we showed up there was always a place for
us. The proprietors were aware of our existence, well let's face it they were getting us for nix, while
Uncle Sam was forking out millions, but that was okay, we were singing for our supper and loving it.
The best nights were when the two Jackie's joined forces, singing together with Johnny Gregory on
drums. When these three people mounted the stand the atmosphere in the club intensified. The frission
was astonishing and remarkably (to us) the house-band applauded as enthusiastically as the audience.
Before leaving the Whalhalla, I should mention another regular visitor, comedian Tim Dorman.
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When Tim arrived he'd be already pissed and remarkably, for him, this only happened off-stage; during
his act (in which he played a drunk) ironically he worked stone-cold-sober. But in the bar afterwards he
would get pissed to the gills! Then another odd indeed disturbing peculiarity asserted itself, when
pissed (which was most of his time off-stage) a sado-masochistic streak appeard and he'd goad people
into punching shit out of him. Basically he'd insult guys until they couldn't take any more! We all knew
of his fetish avoiding it whenever possible. By that I mean we tried not to hurt him, but he always found
someone to thrash him and many's the morning he'd arrive at our breakfast bar sporting two lovely
black eyes plus a number of cuts and bruises. Pictured above, Tim Dorman, ironically stone cold sober.
In some ways leaving Wiesbaden was a relief, relief is a bad choice, rest is better, either way I was
bleary-eyed when we set off. We were travelling in two cars, having agreed to stick close together on
route, Ronnie chose to drive south along the border and for reasons known only to himself we passed
briefly into France and out again, into Switzerland. I don't know why, it was pointless arguing with
him, perhaps he was heading for a specific spot in Italy and that was the straightest line on his map?
Had it all gone according to plan it might even have saved us an hour or two, but when does life do
that? Everything was fine until we reached the French side of the German-French border. The border
guard came out of his office and walking to the car, inspected our passports. He glanced at the British
ones without comment not even bothering to open them and everything was fine until he got to Joe
Neger. Joe was a German and as soon as the Frenchman clapped eyes on his passport, his face clouded.
Looking inside he frowned. Joe had been Ronnie's pianist and MD for some years and his was no
routine passport, it had been issued by the German Embassy in Liverpool, England, when his old one
had expired during a tour of the UK. The guard peered at Joe, then opening the door he motioned with
his thumb, “Raus!” he barked and poor Joe was marched to the immigration office.
Joe was an inoffensive chap, his only desire being to play the piano for Ronnie and to sleep with his girl
friend (Joe's girl-friend, not Ronnie's). He suffered from what we called 'Unifobia' fear of uniforms. The
result of his childhood wartime experience, Joe was reduced to a quivering jelly at the sight of a
uniform. Any uniform, Joe didn't care, he became a quivering mess at the sight of the postman!
The reason for his phobia? During the war he'd been conscripted into the Hitler Youth. However, not
being of a military bent, stealing a bicycle he ran (or rather rode) away. Then before the Nazis could
catch him, we won the war and it was all over. But it never ended for Joe, deeply indoctrinated he never
got over it and was still on the run from the Gestapo.
Sixteen years after the war Joe Neger was expecting an SS man to tap him on the shoulder, he lived in
mortal fear of it and at the Gendarme's snarl, leapt from the car and trembling visibly meekly followed
the cop.
Meanwhile we sat, waiting... Twenty minutes passed, through the window we could see Joe the
epitome of abject terror as the gendarmes had their fun! We began squirming, Ronnie however grew
purple in the face. Half an hour had vticked by when suddenly the bubble burst, bright red in the face,
Harris stormed into the office and without pausing strode to the desk. Scooping up Joe'd passport from
the desk and pointing imperiously at his car, he screamed, “GET IN THE CAR, JOE!” Joe explained,
“You don't understand, Ron, they von't let me go!” “DON'T FUCKIN' ARGUE WITH ME, Y'
STUPID CUNT! GET IN THE CAR!” screamed Ronnie. Joe left like a lamb.
Ronnie turned on the guards, “You bastards are doing this to amuse yourselves! Well, I've got a
business to run, I can't hang around here all day while a bunch of wankers play silly games!”
And storming out he pushed Joe towards the car. “Sorry Ron, but dey said my pa...”Get in the car, you
stupid prick!” interrupted Ronnie and flinging himself into the driving seat gunned the car away.
My last memory is of the guards sitting as if turned to stone... To this day I know of no other person
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who could have pulled off such a feat.
There were no further delays and as we progressed I sat in the back of Bob's car giving some thought to
the incident. People are not always what they seem, a uniform (the eternal mantle of authority) often
hides a weakling, a bully. Bullies are cowards, that's why they attack the weak and when faced with real
authority, by that I mean a person who is by nature a true leader of men, they quail before the master. I'd
just witnessed a perfect example and was impressed. Making a mental note I placed it in my armoury
along with my mother's cunning, my father's implacable courage and numerous shipyard and RAF
experiences gained along the way. One never knows when they might be useful.
I watched the mountains passing, we'd stop and refuel from time to time, taking our meals at the same
time. Each restaurant brought new delights as we crossed each culinary region. My colleagues were
seasoned travellers, they understood food and wine, earning enough to over-indulge and they did, with
no apparent thought for a rainy day. I joined in, I saw no reason to abstain, what could I do? I could
hardly refuse to eat with them, could I? Besides I had no intention of doing so, I wanted to learn and
enjoy. In hindsight I don't regret a single dollar, we enjoyed the best of everything and had a great time
doing it.
Over the Alps and down into Italy we went, first stop Milano, then Genova, Livorno and so on down
the West coast, stopping at tiny fishing villages to eat the wildest seafood I could have imagined. Some
restaurants didn't even provide cutlery, we ate with our fingers, scooping up the Soupa-de-pesche with
the empty shells of some of the ingredients. Mussels in fact. The wines were heaven, sheer indulgence,
sometimes, having stumbled on a particularly palatable brew, I would ask if I could buy a bottle to take
with me, but mysteriously for some unfathomable reason this was never possible.
On we drove towards Napoli, our home for the next eight months and inevitably the scene of our next
happening.
Bob and Terry
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I was in the rear seat, Terry was in her usual place alongside Bob and as we approached the city
outskirts halted at a red traffic-light. Tossing a map over his shoulder, Bob barked, “Here you, look up
the route to the 'Via Cesari Augusta'!”
Another of my Achilles-heels was about to be revealed, “I can't read a map, Bob!” I said feeling slightly
embarrassed, “Course y' can read a map! Don't fuck me about, Ken, these lights'll change at any
second!” he yelled, “I just fuckin' told ya!” I yelled back, “I'd have trouble reading a map written in
English, never mind one in fuckin' Wop!” Glancing over his shoulder, he hissed, “I said don't fuck me
about, do we turn left or right at these lights?” “I'm not fucking you about!” I replied really embarrassed
now, “Truly, I can't read a map!” “You fuckin' idiot,” he screamed, “whadaya mean, you can't read a
map?” Sitting quietly until now Terry interjected, “Don't argue guys, pull over for a moment Bob, we'll
soon have it sorted out!” Swinging his free hand he backhanded her in the mouth, “Keep your fuckin'
nose out and your mouth shut,” he snarled, “nobody asked your opinion!” Bursting into tears, finding a
handkerchief, wiping her eyes she dabbed the blood from her lips.
I was assailed by several emotions at once, embarrassed at being found wanting and angry at Bob's
attitude, defensive, self-protective and ever wary of possible bullying I was affronted by his treatment
of the girl, (she'd been right, by the way) I too became incensed and losing my self-control screamed,
“Why hit her, ya cunt? It's me you're arguing with! ME! Kenny-fuckin'-'arrison. If you wanna hit
someone, hit ME!” “And I fuckin' will too, y' mouthy little bastard!” Replied Bob and instead of pulling
over, taking pot luck he turned right, allowing the traffic behind us to escape.
By this time dozens of Italians were leaning on their horns and waving their fists and stopping the car
round the next corner Bob turned and began bellowing again. Well, that did it, I'd had enough. “Fuck
you!” I screamed, hurling the map at him, “I'm sick of your mealy-mouthed bullshit, read your own
maps, I'm getting out!” And I did. As I departed, poking his head out of the window, he yelled, “Piss off
then, and fuckin' good riddance!” As I stalked off in one direction he roared off in the other, both of us
well out of control. “Fuck him!” I muttered, “Who does he think he is? Who needs this crap?”
A careful man, the self-preservation instincts of a loner plus mistrust of my fellow men too ingrained
and ppowerful to be ignored I'd kept an avenue of retreat open in case of such an emergency.
I was in Napoli, a busy seaport and nestling in my pocket with my British Passport were my Seaman's
Identity Card and Discharge Book. “Always keep one hand over yer arse, Arro.” I muttered, echoing
my father's advice, his words becoming my unshakeable tenet.
You'll have noticed the documents were not in my suitcase but in my jacket pocket. My suitcase was in
the boot of a car somewhere in the laybrinths of an as yet unknown city. I may be stupid, but I don't
make that kind of mistake, my seamen's documents were on my person at all times, for just this reason,
ever-ready to present to shipping authorities I would ask for a job (any job) in return for a trip home.
I could no longer claim to be a DBS (Displaced British Seaman), but they were useful and I was
prepared to use them as an introduction to any British Sea-Captain short of able-bodied hands (forgive
the pun).
I believed that if necessary, I'd crawl on hands and knees to the sea, from anywhere in the world and
today was no exception, allowing instinct to guide me, I ambled through the maze and sure enough
eventually came to the sea!
Walking the streets had cooled my temper, I began rationalising my situation, in fact indulging in a
classic example of, “Borrow thy neighbour's lawn-mower.”
“Bastards!” I muttered, “They'll meet at the hotel, and say hello, and Ronnie and Lyn will ask, “Where's
Ken?” Bob and Terry will reply “God knows! We had a tiff and you know what he's like, he got out of
the car and stormed off!” and Ronnie will say, “And you let him go? I can't believe what I hearing!”
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and Bob will say, “We were in the middle of the bloody Neopolitan traffic, you daft prick! I couldn't
stop him could I?” And thus they would argue until finally agreeing it was useless worrying. “Calm
down, the pair of yer, he's bound to show up soon!” either Terry or Lyn will say, “Of course he'll show
up,” Ron will sneer, “the bastard'll show as soon as he's fuckin' hungry!”
“Well, no he bloody won't!” I consolled myself, “Fuck the lot of you, I'll make you sweat, ya bastards!”
As I said, in effect I was playing the “Borrow thy neighbour's lawn-mower.” game. We've all done it a
million times, finding your mower out of action you decide to borrow your neighbour's. On the way to
his front door, you think, “I don't know him well, what if he says no? Then I'll say, “I only wanna
borrow it!” and he'll say, “Why should I loan it to you?” and I'll say, “I'm prepared to hire it, how much
do you want?” and he'll say, “Nothing, you can't have it!” and I'll tell him to stick his fucking mower up
his arse!” So when he opens the door, you snarl, “Stick your fuckin' mower up your arse!” and with my
imagination running riot, muttering to myself I emerged from the streets of Napoli onto the sweeping
arc of the Bay. Scowling, I took a step which I was to repeat several times during the harrowing
moments of my career. Booking into an hotel, I took a long hot shower then ordered a meal in the hotel
dining-room.
After the food I sat on the front terrace and ordered a beer. It was a lovely old place, the 'Albergo
Victoria' and with a cold beer in front of me, contemplating the sparkling water I began planning my
next move. In a sadistic way I was enjoying myself, the show didn't open for another four days and I
intended to be in it, but I knew the value of starting off as you mean to go along. It was essential to my
well-being that people surrounding me understood I was not to be intimidated. They might be bigger
than me, but I didn't give a shit and endeavoured to hold enough trumps not to have to worry about it.
As I sipped my drink, I correlated them:
(a) I knew where they were, but they didn't know where I was. First point to me.
(b) I could live in the hotel, eating and drinking without cash for at least a week.
(c) Bob owed me a week's wages and that would more than cover my hotel bill.
(d) If they really tried to lean on me, in my pocket was my escape route.
(e) They were unaware of my escape route, so if they tried the ploy, “We knew you'd come crawling
back sooner or later!” I'd turn on my heel and walk away! Another point to me!
(f) If by chance they were not at the Albergo Cesare Augusto (the hotel Ronnie had booked us into in
advance), I'd contact the manager of the Flamingo Club or the US Military Police( I'd experienced their
efficiency first hand and knew they would know where the English floorshow people were staying).
As far as I could see, I held all the aces and relaxing luxuriously I ordered another beer. A nice little rest
wouldn't come amiss.
Three days later I telephoned the Manager of the Flamingo Club and checked their whereabouts, they
were indeed at the Albergo Cesare Augusto. I'd won, hands down.
However, Bob Johnson was no fool, an astute operator himself he'd known me a while, he knew how
my mind operated and knew exactly what I would do. Making my way to the hotel, at the front desk I
enquired as to the whereabouts of Signor Johnson. “Ah! Signor Harrison, Si?” Beamed the concierge
and I agreed. “Therra is a letter forra you, Signor!” he said and turning to a pigeon hole behind him he
located the envelope. Inside I found my wages, plus a note:
Ken,
Okay, I'm sorry I hit the girl. Silly to lose my temper like that but I was tired and cranky. You know
how it is mate.
Regards,
Bob.
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I moved in and in common with our usual practice the subject was never raised again (not until today
that is).
The show was a great success and so it should have been, we were a bloody good package. Living and
working in and around Naples, for eight wonderful months we lived like Kings and Queens. Enjoying
la Dolce Vita to the hilt, we visited Herculaneum and Pompei (which at the time, relatively speaking,
had only recently been uncovered and indeed was still being uncovered). Well okay, it was first
discovered in 1600 and to this day is still being carefully uncovered, but in 1960 much of it was still
under the earth (ash, if you insist).
The horror was exquisitely beautiful and we were lucky to see it before the church moved to order the
destruction (desecration) of murals decorating the bedroom walls of the most prestigious houses
(particularly in the home of the brother's Vecci). A frieze, consisting of a collection of fine-art
miniatures depicting umpteen sexual positions stretched around the walls of the master bedroom, each
picture a treasure worth countless millions.
A small louvred door covered a space on one wall and if you bribed your guide, after prevaricating
about not revealing it in front of the ladies, he'd open it to reveal a man weighing his huge penis on a
pair of golden scales, the other a tray piled high with diamonds, rubies, gold and emeralds, his
enormous member far outweighing his worldly wealth.
Incidentally, ancient street signs carved into the walls showed a penis and a pair of testicles pointing the
way to the red-light district.
Street sign in Pompei.
Above is a photograph of a one. The same sign was carved into the flagstones under your feet so there
was no danger of not finding it (“Well, no wonder it was buried under the ash!” I hear the religeosos
crying).
By my next visit (in 1972) the Vatican had ordered the minitures in the House Of Vecci to be destroyed
and they'd been splashed and painted over with whitewash (although Hugh Jambton (the chap with the
enormous penis) was still hiding behind his little door.
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Imagine, the priceles treasures of the House Of Vecci reduced to a legally vandalised nothing, and this
in Italy the home of great art! A philistine act of such barbaric proportions on thinking about it still
takes my breath away.
However, by 1994 things had changed again and ironically, international (and therefore Italian) female
liberation was the root of the recovery. The naughty pictures had been restored, the little wooden door
removed completely, allowing visitors to view the man and his weighty penis, free from the burden of a
need to bribe corrupt guides. Oh... and by 1994 the corrupt male guides had been replaced by
delightfully charming females.
While all very laudable, unfortunately the rest of the buried city had again been officially vandalised by
the introduction of metal plaques, numbers riveted on the walls of buildings, corresponding with
numbers in maps of the site available in guide-books and catalogues. Well in my view, hammering ugly
crap onto Pompei's beautiful walls is tantamount to and resembles the graffiti despoiling so many of
the world's most beautiful cities.
No such philistine muck was present when I visited Pompei in1960, back then the frescos and
ambience were unblemished, with imagination it was possible to stand in the street and hear the wheels
of donkey-carts and horse drawn-chariots grind their way along rutted cobbles, the cries of street
vendors ringing in your head as they advertised their wares. Progress is not necessarily improvement,
sometimes it's simply progress and I feel privileged to have seen Pompei before it was spoiled.
Our little band of troubadours was busy, however we had some leisure time and spent it swimming and
sunbathing on nearby Neapolitan beaches. That was not as idyllic as you might suppose either, the local
males were outrageous and Ronnie, Bob and I were kept busy collecting piles of stones, which we
threw at the men in order to keep them away from our two 'bikini clad' women.
It sounds bizarre today, but in 1960 Italians were unaccustomed to any kind of public feminine display,
around the southern shores anyway. Possessing no moral principals at all, they simply walked to within
two feet of the women and stood gawking at them. Stretched on the sand, Terry and Lyn were not
amused and we spent most of our time trying to drive crowds of sniggering youths away. The older men
spat contemptuously, to them near-naked women were whores.
It's different now, a side-effect of the international feminist purge resulting in a political improvement
in this area too. My wife and I paid a visit in June 1997 and I mentioned all this to our guide. She
explained that the crunch came about ten years previously when upon learning the Vatican had been
involved in a notorious bank scam, Italian women objected. They (the women) baled up the churchleaders insisting that if the men in control were dishonest, how dare they pontificate on how others
should behave, and from that moment ignored vilifications emanating from Rome. The age of commonsense had begun. Ike and I witnessed people of all ages swimming and sunbathing together just as in
other parts of the civilised world.
But I digress, back to 1960:
The show was popular, we were on the crest of a wave. Among many delights to be had in Naples was
the very best of food and wine and one evening, while cruising the esplanade in search of a place to eat,
we stumbled on a restaurant called, 'El Sombrero'. Situated in the centre of the bay, a few metres from
the Albergo Vittorio (the hotel I'd booked into when running amok). Still hyped after a performance at
the Flamingo Club, sleep was out of the question and driving into town we were looking for action.
From the outside El Sombrero looked promising and inside the joint was jumping (as Thomas Waller
once put it). We knew the food would be okay, because peering in through the window we noted the
place was full of locals and that's a guarantee of quality anywhere in the world.
An excellent house-band was playing the inevitable Neapolitan love songs and by popular insistence
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the current Italian hit-song 'Volare' (in fact, the poor buggers had to play it every ten minutes), however,
when they weren't playing 'Volare' they played some very impressive Latin-American, the rumbas,
sambas, tangos, cha-cha-chas and mambos way above general standard. Ronnie and I were LatinAmerican devotees and naturally it caught our attention. We decided to have a blow and on
introducing ourselves to the musicians were immediately invited to join them.
“Hang on a second!” barked Ron and dashing out to his car, returned waving his cabasa (a huge dried
gourd with beads strung on the outside). I raised an eyebrow and he grinned wolfishly, “Always have it
in the car in case of emergencies.” he chuckled as we mounted the stage.
Ronnie was a master and the Italians were maestro's, so it was impressive, everybody was impressed,
including us! After a couple of energetic sambas, a cha-cha-cha and a mambo, Ronnie called some song
titles associated with Frank Sinatra and asked if the band knew them? Daft question, was the Pope
Catholic? Frank Sinatra was Italian, as far as these people were concerned he'd never left Italy!
Delighted with the reaction, Ron launched into 'River Stay Away From My Door' and in no time we
had the room swinging like a shithouse door in a tornado! Joe Neger on piano, me playing drums and
Ronnie Harris playing bass and singing the songs, we could do no wrong. Forty minutes later we
walked off the stand to an ovation.
Greeting us with a bottle of Dom Perignon, a waiter led us to a central table where Bob, Terry and Lyn
had been graciously seated. As we joined them it was drawn to our attention Signor Lucky Luciano
himself was in the house and had sent felicitations plus the champagne. The waiter indicated a man
sitting in the corner of the room and we received the impression we should acknowledge his generous
greeting. We waved and almost inperceptively he nodded.
Lucky Luciano was Emperor of Naples, he was worshipped, treated like royalty and behaved like it. We
continued our visits, but never spoke to him personally, he always nodded in our direction whenever we
arrived and we of course, returned the gesture. He also sent wine to our table and because of the way he
was revered and the fact that he seemed omnipresent I gained the impression he was the owner.
However, in Amsterdam recently I met a man who knew the real owners and he assured me Lucky
Luciano was just an honoured guest.Well, he was the right man for the job, as the King of Napoli in
1959-60, Napoli was the arsehole of the world, a den of thieves, it was natural for the inhabitants to
worship a hood. When he died, the city laid on a state funeral and I mean a six-in-hand horse-drawn
ornate etched-glass, silver-encrusted hearse. By coincidence I was fortunate enough to be caught in the
traffic and saw it pass, otherwise I wouldn't have believed it.
Ronnie Harris introduced me to another unforgettable character, Mel Martinez, a civil engineer working
for the US military in some kind of civilian capacity. Mel and his family lived in a fantastic apartment
complete with a million dollar balcony. By day it looked out across the Bay of Napoli and at night we
were seduced by the lights of the crescent city and a large bottle of scotch. Needless to say we spent a
lot of time on that balcony.
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A neighbouring view, similar to the one from Mel Martinez’s balcony
Mel and his wife were lovely people with hordes of kids. I asked how many? “I dunno, man!” replied
Mel, “Ain't never seen 'em altogether at one time!” His wife was pregnant yet again and happily
so.”You must be more careful.” I admonished gently and she laughed, “It wharn't an accident!” she
replied.
Eventually she was carted off to the maternity ward in the last stages of labour and we bumped into Mel
in the Lowenbrau Keller, a German bar on the Via Municipale. “Hello Mel, shouldn't you be at the
hospital with your missus?” asked Ronnie, “She knows where Ah' am if she needs me!” he drawled
laconically. “A right bleedin’ chauvinist-pig!” you’re thinking, not so, they were a remarkably happy
family, the kids were loved to death and very well adjusted. The last time I spoke with her she was
planning another addition! “How does Mel feel about that?” I asked. “Take no account of what he
thinks, man!” she grinned, “One balmy evenin', Ah'll git him drunk and when he ain't lookin' I'll catch
him out again!” and digging me in the ribs she roared with laughter.
In the corner of their lounge-room, a poster advertised a bull-fight and I noticed with interest that Mel's
name was on it. “Points to an exciting past, Mel,” I remarked, “care to tell me about it?” I was curious
to hear his story but he chuckled, “Kenny baby,” he laughed, “you're a very observant little guy! D' you
like it? Nice huh?” I realised then it was just a little joke. He’d paid a street artist to insert his name
among the real bullfighters and as you can see, with a name like ‘Mel Martinez’ it had an authentic
ring.
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Mel's poster. Or rather, one I've digitally remastered to resemble it
One afternoon, travelling through Italy's wine producing area, I was staring idly out of the car window
as we passed through the vineyards. It was off-season and all that could be seen were the bare poles that
during the season supported the vines. To no one in particular I remarked, “Nice crop of sticks, coming
on well!” Hooting with laughter Bob and the car swerved all over the road, I'd really caught him on the
funny-bone and thought he was going to put us in the ditch.
Years later, I took Heather (my 1962-68 wife) and our children to stay with him and his wife at their
home in Jersey. As soon as he clapped eyes on me he burst into laughter, exclaiming, “Nice crop of
sticks, coming on well! Christ I'll never forget that!” And he never has. And as can you see, neither
have I!
The wit was not always so harmless, Ronnie and I were wickedly cruel, mostly to each other, but not
always and we lost Joe Neger because of it. Joe was a German and a sensitive one at that, but he had
been working with and hanging out with English jazz-musicians for so long he'd picked up our jargon,
indeed he spoke such colloquial English we thought of him as one of us. Big mistake! Huge! We'd
overlooked a very important factor, much as Joe loved us and we him, he was a German and they don't
possess the same capacity to laugh at themselves the way the English do. We know we're completely
Pant' y' whacko and we revel in it, but not all nationalities share our self-denigrating capacity. Joe's
conversation was funny, with his kraut accent and colloquial use of English slang we took it for granted
he thought it all as funny as we did. It never occurred to us that our verbal (s)word-fencing was cutting
him to ribbons. But Perhaps we did? I mentioned previously that musicians are not the most
sympathetic of creatures, empathetic, yes, sympathetic... don't hold your breathe.
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One evening at small club in northern Italy, Ronnie was doing a one man show and therefore Joe and I
were working on-stage with him. Just before curtain time we wandered into Ronnie's dressing room and
found him in front of the mirror adjusting his bow-tie. Glancing at Joe, he growled, “I don't look too
Jewish for you do I, Joe?” Joe forced a grin, “You know I don't giff a shid aboud all dat crap, Ronnie,”
he replied, “you look okay to me!” “Fuck off y' kraut cunt! You'd 'ave me in the ovens tomorrow, if you
had your bleedin' way!” replied Ron. Leaping to Joe's defence I screamed, “Lay off him, man, leave
him alone!” “Mind yer own business, you're only the fuckin' drummer!” he sneered, a sure-fire way of
infuriating me. “What are you doing here anyway?” he added, “C'mon, it's show-time, get yer arses out
there.” and we ran on-stage burning with unresolved fury.
Immediately after the show and for the rest of the evening he paid for our booze, so all was forgotten.
Back at the hotel, Joe and I were sharing a tiny room and it was cold. This was the mountainous
northern region of Italy in the dead of winter, so we're talking serious cold here. No central heating our
room boasted a tiny open fire-place, which was conspicuously empty.
Rubbing his hands together and blowing on them, Joe remarked, “Cheeses-Ploody-Chrizt, Ken!
Nordern Italy ist too fugging cold, man! Hey, maybe ve can light a fire!” Can't do that Joe,” I replied,
“we ain't got enough Jews!”
The next morning he was gone, he'd caught the early train to Wiesbaden.
He left a note explaining he knew we didn't mean the things we said, but he couldn't take any more.
“Besides, I'm tired of touring.” he added, “I miss my girl-friend very much, I want to be at home with
her.”
That may have been the case, but I don't think so, he was just trying to soften the blow.
We used a variety of piano-players from then on, mostly the house-band pianists we found on the way,
usually they were very good. Some time later we met up with Joe in Wiesbaden while on a visit to our
old stamping-ground. He came into the Vagabond Club for a beer and a chat, but never rejoined our
little circle (not even when we'd returned on a permanent basis).
In Napoli, mostly we appeared at the Officer's and NCO clubs, the 'Flamingo' and an enlisted men's
club called, 'The Bluebird'. In between we took off on comprehensive tours, covering the entire country.
We never actually worked in Rome, but avoiding it drove round it many times, until one day with time
on our hands we took time to wander around the historic city, meanderiong through the Forum and of
course visiting the Colosseum. The ambience inside that was breathtaking, walking along the corridors
in the centre of the arena, I heard the lions roar and the crowd screaming for their blood.
As with pre-wall Berlin, these places were open to the public, in 1960 restrictions had not yet been
imposed.
I must add here that at the time, feeling alarmed I expressed concern at the damage thousands of feet
(including my own) were wreaking on the ruins. However, the moment I opened my mouth, as usual I
was shouted down, “Jeezus Christ Arro, you worry too much! Stop whining and enjoy yerself, fer fuck
sake!” was the consensus. As with Pompei our timing was perfect, shortly after our Roman visit limits
were imposed and public passage within the ancient piles banned. Today it's still magnificent, but the
public are no longer allowed to wander freely among the ruins. I mean stomp all over them.
At this point I should explain my role in the show. Youre aware that I was planted in the house-band
until halfway through the trampoline act. After this I remained on stage taking part in several comedy
routines, in major roles, I may add. One had me swathed in silks, dressed as a bare mid-riffed middleeastern princess. The plot was set in a Harem wherein three girls perform a belly-dance for the Sultan.
Ron played the turbaned Prince lounging on a pile of silk cushions, Bob a fezzed eunuch waving a large
ostrich-feathered fan and the three belly-dancers were of course, Terry, Lyn and myself. I was tiny and
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very slim and we wore yashmaks so my face was covered. The perfect disguise. The three ladies danced
provocatively until, in a fever of desire the Sultan grabs one and carries her off to his boudouir.
Well, he'd chosen me and as he left with me cradled in his arms, drawing back the veil she revealed a
bearded male face leering wickedly at the audience.
This routine landed me in trouble, and not the kind you're thinking. One evening after the show, as I
made my way to the bar for a well earned drink an American woman approached and asked me to
dance. Apologising, I explained that I couldn't. She insisted and apologising again I had to refuse.
Collecting a beer, I escaped into our dressing-room but before I could even take a sip, there was a
knock at the door. I opened it to face an enormous angry GI. “Mah wife tells me you won't dance with
her?” he rasped. “An' Ah'm here t' tell you that if my wife wants to dance, you're gonna dance, man!” I
was astonished. “I'm really very sorry,” I said, but I can't dance, honestly, I never learned how.” He
loomed over me. “Mister, Ah jist sat watchin' you dance up on that thar cotton-pickin' stage, and if you
kin dance up thar, you kin dance down here with mah wife, and A'm agonna sit here and watch you do
that! Now come with me!” I had the powerful impression he'd carry me 'out thar, if need be' and meekly
I followed.
On the dance-floor face to face with his wife again I apologised, “I really can't dance, darlin',” I said,
“but if you insist, I'll hold you while you do.” “Ah'll settle for that!” she laughed and that's what we did.
Fortunately it was a slow tune and hugging me close we swayed to the music. The second it ended I
made to leave but holding on tight she insisted we dance a fast one. Well like I said, I held her while
she did. I watched her wriggling and I'll admit it was fun, but taking care to laugh with her I thought,
“Jezus Christ! I'll never understand Americans!”
Back on the road all went well until we arrived in Aviano (for the second time). Unusually we found
ourselves at a loose end and with nothing to do panicked, “My God, we're out of work, we've got no
gigs!” cried Bob, “What'll we do?” Terry and I looked worried. At this point Ronnie had a sudden
attack of common-sense. “What are we worried about for fuck sake?” he cried, We haven't had a night
off in six months! We'll treat ourselves to a holiday, shit, we deserve it! I'll tell you what, we'll drive to
Iesolo and spend a week lazing in the sun!” “Of course!” I cried, “Why didn't I think of that?” “Okay,”
he said, “we'll go just as we are, take nothing, no luggage, nothing, alright? Leave everything in the
hotel, just take your bathing togs, toilet bag, a pair of pants, clean shirt and a change of underwear,
okay? Anything else we need we'll buy when we get there?” “Great idea!” we agreed and disappearing
into our rooms unpacked the items from our suitcases. Well, all except me that is.
You're aware that I lived out of a tiny suitcase and I mean real tiny, not much larger that a briefcase, the
above items, plus two shirts and a spare pair of trousers was all I owned in the world. My dinner-suit
and stage-wear were in a travelling wardrobe (which Lyn was responsible for) in the back of Ronnie's
car,. Looking at my tiny case I thought, 'S not worth unpacking!” and grabbing it made my way into the
street.
The cars had been brought around to the front of the hotel the two women standing to one side while
the men packed their items into the car-boot. Bob was placing a small cardboard box in as I arrived
with my case. Ronnie glared, “Cunt!” he snorted, “We agreed, no suitcases!” “Yeah, but mine's so
small it was a waste of time unpacking it!” I replied innocently. Instantly purple with rage, out of
control he screamed, “You hafta be fuckin' different, don'tcha! What's so fuckin' special about you?
What have you got in there that makes it more important than anybody else's?” Equally volatile,
opening the case and turning it upside down I emptied it onto the sidewalk. “That's what's in it,” I
screamed, “nuffing fuckin' special see, cunt!”
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shave and ea-de-toilette shattered, splashing their contents onto my clothes. “Oh, that's very bright!”
screamed Ron, “Very intelligent that! Now your gonna sit in the car smelling like a fuckin' broffel!
Well not in my fuckin' car you ain't, you can piss off, now!” Stung, I snorted, “I'd no intention of
travelling in your car in the first fuckin' place, drive your fancy car up your fat Jewish arsehole!”
Italians love this sort of thing and in character, gathering around us they joined in. They even took sides
some rooting for Ron, others for me. They began arguing among themselves, all talking at once and
waving their arms like bloody windmills.
Grabbing Bob's cardboard box Ron barked, “Fuck it! We ain't goin'!” And lifting the box out of the car
threw it onto the footpath. “Si, Si, Si! Bravissimo!” shouted his fans. Picking it up I threw it back in.
“Don't be so fuckin' daft, of course we're going!” I snarled. My Italians went berserk, “Hey, Signor
Picolino, si, si, si! El Nano molto formidabile! Bravissimo, bravissimo, encore, encore!” they screamed.
“No we're not!” snorted Ron, throwing the box back on the ground. Grabbing it up I threw it back in,
“Yes we are!” I yelled. “Why do you hafta fuck everybody's holiday up, you dopey bastard!” So, with
us behaving like the Ugly Sisters doing the “Oh no we're not!” “Oh yes we are!” routine, in an English
Pantomime and the Italians yelling frantically at each other, we slammed the box back and forth.
All the while Bob had been pleading but we were too busy yelling obscenities. Lyn grabbed Ron and
Terry grabbed me and dragging us apart marched us to a safe distance to soothe our ruffled feathers.
Elbowing their men in the ribs the Italian women vociferously declared their approval.
With Terry and Lyn talking us down, me grumbling, “Well, he started it!” and Ron muttering, “No I
didn't, it was him and that piddly bloody suitcase, that's what caused the trouble!” we agreed to bury the
hatchet.
Back at the car Bob could be heard wailing, “That was my tea-service, my teapot, cup and saucer! I've
carried that all over Europe so's I could have a decent cuppa tea in my hotel!” Then raising his voice he
yelled, “Rotten bastards, look at it, smashed to fuckin' smithereens! Tea and sugar every-fuckin'-where,
now I'll have to drink the local muck!”
We drove to Iesola, a lovely spot on the Adriatic coast and needless to say had a fantastic time. Booking
into a beach-side hotel, we decided to go for a look around, however Bob was still angry and refused to
leave his room. Terry did her best (no doubt using techniques millions of years old). After knocking
fruitlessly on their door, unable to get through to them, Ron, Lyn and I strolled into town.
A few yards along the way Ron began giggling “Bloody good audience, eh, cock?” he sniggered.
Glaring at him at first, Lyn and I began laughing too, “Yeah, terrific,” agreed Lyn, “the wops loved it
didn't they!” “They were worse than us,” I giggled, “they almost came to blows!” and giggling happily,
by chance we stumbled on a tiny general store named, 'The Copper Kettle'. Smack in the centre of town
it was owned by a retired English couple, who'd settled there some years before. Bored and with
nothing better to do, they set up a business selling 'Old World English Knick-knacks' and the shelves
were full of 'em. Name a knick-knack, it was on the shelves, somewhere! Laughing with us they
explained, “The remarkabe thing is, mostly it's English tourists who buy it!”
Still giggling over our Aviano battle we bought a classic Staffordshire tea-set, teapot, cup and saucer,
even a bag of Tate & Lyle sugar and a packet of Twinings 'English Breakfast Tea'. And still giggling we
delivered it to Bob. It cheered him immediately, “Great!” he exclaimed, “I'll put the kettle on!” and
grabbing the electric water-jug, filled it. “Fancy a cup?” he asked and we agreed.
Terry glared at us, suddenly all lovey-dovey again, then she laughed and of course we all fell about.
The tea was great, by the way.
In spite of our idylic lifestyle homesickness struck with its deadly strickness. Lolling in the sun on the
beach Ron groaned, “Shit guys, that bleedin' Copper Kettle rang all my bells, I could murder some
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eggs, bacon, bangers and baked beans on toast.” “Rare as bleedin' rocking-horse shit here!” added Lyn
morosely. I glanced at her, “I s'pose that's why you never see wooden stools in Italy!” I said, “Wooden
stools? What are you on about 'Arro?” she asked. “Wooden stools,” I said, “rockin' 'orse shit! I'm
surprised you didn't know that?” “Gordon-bleedin'-Bennett 'Arro, you don't improve do you!” she
gasped rolling in the sand.
Bob discovered some weird bicycles for hire and we spent time investigating more of the little seaside
town. The bikes were part of the fun.
Ronnie and Lyn Harris riding the weird penny-farthings in Iesolo
After two glorious weeks relaxing in the (then) tiny off-the-map resort, we returned to work refreshed
and rejuvenated. However, I was recently informed the place has been ruined by the British Tourist
Industry. I can believe that, but I wouldn't know, I've never been back.
Returning to Aviano we recommenced a busy work schedule, plying our way south to Napoli. Stick a
pin in the map of Italy and we drove throught it or played there! On route we ate the greatest food in the
world, accompanied by the excellent local wine. I don't need to add it too was impressive and in one
tiny fishing-village I decided to solve a puzzle. We'd stopped to fill the gas-tanks and while there
replenished ourselves. After eating again I asked if I could buy a bottle of the superb local wine to take
with me. “Alas, Signore, no.” replied the waiter, “I amma sorry, Signore, itsa notta fora the taking, isa
for drinking, here!” My curiosity burned and this time I pressed the point, “But why? It's so beautiful, I
adore it, I want to take some with me!” He smiled ruefully. “De wine, she does notta travel, Signore,
whenna you drinka, shesa no good!” He laughed aloud, “Ifa de wine she travel, we would alla be rich.
No?” “Ah, I see what you mean.” I laughed and patting my tummy added, “Okay, in that case fill my
glass, I'll drink it here and take it with me, inside.” He laughed, “Si si si, Signore! Now you talking,
eh?” And he filled my glass with true Italian panache.
Back in Naples, finding ourselves with another couple of days off, with nothing better to do we decided
on a hydrofoil trip to the Isle Of Capri. At the wharf we were disappointed to find the trips to Capri
fully booked and instead settled for the Isle of Ischia.
“Fuck!” I muttered, “that's disappointing, I was looking forward to a cup of tea and a bit of crumpet
with Gracie Fields!” “Were you bollocks!” snorted Ron, “You've always fancied yourself as bleedin'
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Tiberius! You just wanted to camp about in the bleedin' Blue Grotto, di'ncha!” “Well okay, that too.” I
agreed grudingly, “Either way, it's disappointing.” “Bloody Hell!” sighed Bob, “Don't you two ever
give up? Ischia will be just as beautiful as Capri and bigger.” “Oh well, that's a relief!” I sneered,
“That's makes it all right does it? Being bigger makes it a fuckin' bargain, you think because it's bigger
we get more for our money?” “Jesus-bloody-Christ, 'arrison,” he snorted, “I give up!” and taking
Terry's arm escorted her majestically up the gangway.
The moment we stepped ashore it began to rain and I mean stair-rods. To shelter from it we went
souvenir hunting until around noon, then had lunch in a delightful restaurant. It would have been even
better had we been able to eat on the terrace, but the rain put the kibosh on that. After a splendid meal,
with nothing to occupy us, we recommenced shopping, for silk-scarves, crystal ashtrays and cameo
jewellery (hand-carved while we watched and waited. But mainly we avoided the weather.
It was not our lucky day, in fact from the very beginning the day had shit scrawled all over it. On the
return trip a freak storm whipped the sea into a frenzy and halfway to the mainland the hydrofoil nosedived into an enormous wave. Coming green over the bows water smashed through the forward
windows. In a nano-second the cabin was waiste-high in water and in that split-second the powerful
vessel seemed to drive itself towards the bottom the water pouring in in a solid mass. In another nanosecond it was up to my nipples and I knew I was a goner, there was no way I could ever save myself.
Seating arrangements inside the cabin were similar to a passenger aircraft, two sets of seats divided by
a central aisle. However, at the front of the cabin a long curved bench-seat faced aft. At Ronnie's
insistence the five of us sat along that front row, so, when disaster struck we were sitting facing the
people in the rows facing forwards. Ronnie had chosen the middle seat, facing the central-aisle and
when the water catapulted us into the laps of the people sitting opposite us, Ronnie was catapulted up
the centre-aisle, flat on his face under four-feet of water.
In character the Italian passengers panicked (I believe they feel it their duty), anyway they went berserk
and screaming at the top of their voices leaping from their seats they scrambled along the centre-aisle
towards the exits, thereby tramping Ronnie into the deck as they went.
Surfacing like an animated cartoon of a spiteful King Neptune, he rose from the water screaming louder
that the Italians. However it wasn't fear that was driving Ronnie, it was purple-faced, black-hearted
rage! Ploughing through the crowd like a whirlwind it stilled them, they were more frightened of him
than they were of drowning! But Ronnie was not making for the exit, he was desperate to locate and
save Lyn, his wife.Unable to swim and knowing I was going to drown I helped Terry into her lifejacket, figuring that even if I put one on I'd never survive. I had not the slightest idea how to stay alive
in the water. I would have drowned in a swimming-pool never mind a storm-tossed ocean!
Meanwhile the hydrofoil righted itself, wallowing up to it's gunwales in water. The pumps were started
and slowly we made iour way back to Naples.
People standing up to their chests in water were suffering from extreme shock. To our relief they'd
stopped screaming and instead were searching for their family and friends.
We stood in a tight group, arms round each other and it was then I was struck with secondary shock.
Already shivering with cold, I began trembling as I realised how close I'd come to leaving this mortal
coil, for a moment I'd faced certain death and again deadly calm descended as I helped Terry into her
life-jacket.
You'll recall I'd recently learned how to spoogle and while I could manage a few lengths of an average
sized swimming pool wearing flippers, mask and snorkel, without them there was no way I could have
swum, much less battle a storm-tossed sea. So, during those few moments, when it seemed all was lost
with people struggling towards the exits, I experienced a feeling of deep calm, knowing that I was
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going to die, panicking made no sense. Besides, it was impossible to swim out until the cabin had
filled, only when the water stopped rushing in would it be possible to swim out. During those vital
seconds my mind rationalised the information rejecting any idea of escape. Supposing I did get out,
what then? I couldn't swim, it was a pointless exercise! There was no point in doing anything, “If I stay,
I'll drown, if I get out, I'll drown!” So I did the only sensible thing, I helped Terry into her life-jacket.
Since then I've faced death several times, road accidents three times, terrorist's bombs supposedly
planted in buildings I was trapped in account for some, scrambling sideways down a slippery rock-face
in Jersey was another and being swept off a rock by a freak wave at North Curl-Curl on the morning of
my fiftieth birthday came close. My reaction was always the same, a peaceful calm descending I simply
waited for the lights to go out. I've often wonder if spending my childhood waiting and wondering if the
next bomb had my name on it had anything to do with it? Probably everything.
Arriving at the wharf in Napoli, not a soul greeted us, not one! Not even a guy to help the sea-soaked
traumatised women and children. Taxi drivers refused to allow the poor souls into their cars. Ronnie
screamed at the mums and dads to speak up, but they shrugged and turned away. “Fuckin' idiots!” he
shrieked, “Stand up fer yer bleedin' rights fer Christ's sake! Get the bloody insurance company to cough
up!” And the more he yelled, the faster they scampered away. With taxi drivers refusing to take us we
had to walk to our hotel and were not happy about it.
Apoplectic, Ronnie couldn't handle it at all, the way we'd been treated had him foaming at the mouth
and the moment he stepped inside his hotel room he collapsed onto the floor and had some kind of
apoplectic fit. Unaccustomed to this (he'd never done anything like it before) Lyn called me. There was
not much I could do, except ensure he didn't bite his tongue or bash his limbs against the furniture. He
recovered, soon becoming his usual irascible self.
'Que-Sera-Sera', as the Italians have it, life continues come what may. Besides, there were other horrors
to cope with, hot on the heels of this disaster we were to perform for the crew of a US Aircraft-carrier
visiting Napoli at that time and which, I should add, had dropped anchor out in the bay.
We'd been booked to perform aboard-ship the following day. Two shows in the afternoon (for men on
the Port and Starboard watches and unable to go ashore) and an evening show for the guys who could,
the latter staged in the Bluebird Club, the US Navy's Enlisted Men's Club in Naples.
At the appointed hour we were met by the ship's Padre and ferried in a liberty-boat (powered lifeboat)
to the enormous mother-ship. The storm had abated leaving behind a brooding grey sea restless and
agitated. A rope ladder dropped and we clambered from the wildly bucking liberty-boat up to the maindeck of the swaying carrier (and I gotta tell you, an aircraft-carrier is a big ship, it was very a loooong
ladder!). The liberty-boat was tossing in all directions, the mother vessel yawing badly, so you can
imagine the tension as we made our way up. The women had to remove their high-heeled shoes in order
to climb at all.
It was not easiest entrance we'd ever made, however the sailors escorting us were great, every care was
taken to ensure our safety. Giggling at our terror they sobered when treated to a worm's-eye view of the
ladies legs and bottoms as they ascended. A sailor's dream come true, I guess, and swaying precariously
above us, the girls were aware of the effect their bums were having on the men below, including a
gleeful padre (In spite of enjoying the privilege every night, I too felt a thrill as I clambered after them.
Life is weird).
Safe on board, we receive a rousing cheer, but coming only hours after the previous debacle, the
applause rang hollow in our ears. We were not the happiest of wandering minstrels, well not right at
that moment anyway. However, we managed a smile and proceeded bravely with the shows.
NB. It has just dawned on me that Ronnie and Bob must have organised getting my drum-kit and the
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trampoline on and off the ship! I've no idea how it was achieved? I've never even wondered until now!
A helicopter-lift I suppose? They those on board too of course.
Another interesting postscript is also worth recording: After the Port and Starboard watches had been
entertained, as you can imagine, by this time we were desperate for a drink, however, the American
navy is dry, strong liquor is not permitted on board ship at all. “So what!” I grumbled, “We're not
Americans or sailors, and I need something stronger than a fuckin' Coca-Cola.” The Padre grinned,
“Plenty of time for that, my son,” he replied, “first let us get you safely onto dry land.” And we were
escorted over the side and back down the ladder to the liberty-boat. Going down was no easier than
going up, if anything it was more difficult, at least on the way up we could see the rungs and where to
put our feet! The padre had been right, a tiny bit pissed and we would have been in serious trouble, as it
was, we made it into the liberty-boat and were escorted safely back to Naples in time for the third and
final performance at the Bluebird Club.
Accompanying us and very much in charge was the omnipresent Catholic priest. A very high-ranking
priest I may add, an admiral no less, one supposes he would have been an archbishop in the real world.
It transpired he was the man who'd talked the captain into spending money on our show. Later I asked
why and his reply was interesting: He'd put the shows on for the same reason the priest in Mombasa
sold booze at his Seaman's Mission Swimming Pool.
When posed the question the Padre chuckled, but he was deadly serious. “I'm here to keep these guys
out of trouble and it's easier if I can arrange somewhere to watch over 'em.” he said, “I don't give a
damn what they get up to just so long as they come to no serious harm... This is Napoli, man! This a
tough town. Some of these draftees are eighteen years of age and they think they know everythang!
Know-what-I-mean? They know nothin'! Some of 'em ain't never been outside their own home-town!
This is Napoli, man!” he reiterated the point, pressing it home and it was my turn to chuckle. “You
don't hafta tell me, man,” I replied, “I know Napoli, I live here for Christ's sake! Whoops... Sorry
Padre... no offence!” I giggled. Chuckling with me and ignoring my faux-pas, he replied, “You know
what I'm talkin' 'bout then! I cain't protect 'em all, some of the older guys'll go their own way and I
know exactly which way that is! I cain't be everywhere, but we're carrying penicillin so we'll cure 'em.
And for the umteenth time I gotta tell ya!” I laughed as he added, “Hey, I'm a prophylactic too, y' know,
I 'll protect some of 'em.”
At the wharf, making sure he had a beautiful girl on each arm, he graciously escorted us into the club.
The first thing we did as we walked through the door was ask for a drink and to our astonishment a
waiter informed us the bar was closed. “Closed! Whadaya mean closed?” rasped the Padre.”Why the
hell is it closed?” “A US government social-worker, she ordered it closed, sir!” replied the waiter.
“Well open the cottonpickin' thang!” snorted the Chaplain, “These people have been working their
butts off, they need a drink fer God's sake!”
Needless to say, the bar was opened and fast! Well, he was an admiral for Christ's sake!
We were served five very large, much appreciated Cognacs and were in the process of thanking the
priest for his help when he was approached by a severe looking woman. “Padre,” she barked, “I
understand you've countermanded my order. You, I believe are responsible for opening the bar?”
“I certainly am, ma'am!” replied the Padre crisply. She bridled, “I'm surprised that you of all people
would encourage the men to take strong liquor!” He bridled, visibly, “What in tarnation is it to you?”
he snorted. “Because I ordered it closed,” she replied. “Who the hell are you?” he asked thrusting his
nose an inch from hers. Leaning backwards, she gave no ground, “I'm here to take care of these boys!”
she replied piously. “Aw come on! I been working that racket for years!” he sneered, “It was me who
put this show together for the guys and it was me who opened the bar. Oh, and have you payed to get in
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here?” “Of course not!” replied the harridan, mortified at the suggestion. “In that case you owe me
twenny dollars, ma'am .” said the priest, thrusting a hand in her face. Smiling she melted, ever so
slightly, “Now now, Father, I really don't think... “I don't care what you think,” he interrupted, “I'm
puttin' on this show and I'm serious! Do you intend watching the show?” “Of course, she replied, “I
thought I migh...” “Never mind what you thought, gimme twenny bucks! Twenny bucks on the nose.”
“These guys don't come cheap y know!” he added, nodding in our direction, “I talked the captain into
spending a heap of dough to put this show together so c'mon, twenny dollars... NOW!” And thrusting
his hand under her nose he snapped his fingers. She made no move, “C'MON, C'MON, C'MON!” he
insisted sounding seriously angry now. Grumbling and reaching into her purse she produced the money.
“In my opinion...” “I don't give a damn about your opinion, Ma'am, or your motivations, but I'll tell you
mine. These guys have been at sea for months and if I can get 'em drunk and keep 'em here, it'll keep
them out from the brothels, not to mention the other crap happening in this God-forsaken hell-hole!”
Defeated she disappeared into the crowd.
Life on the beach had become intolerable. We were hurling stones at the men, but in order to get a close
look at the beautiful women in bikinis, they were prepared to brave stoning. Indeed they laughed as
they ducked and dived, making every effort to get under the hail and as close as possible.
We'd become a game, a weird sort of challenge, their object being to get close without actually getting
hurt. There was no peace, therefore in extremis, Bob and Ronnie decided to hire a boat and move offshore. Out in the bay dropping anchor the guys started fishing. Not being interested myself, stripping I
lay beside the women. Beyond sight of the mob they decided that as it was only us, they'd remove their
bikini tops to rid themselves of the strap marks that showed up on-stage when wearing their strapless
gowns. That was their explanation and who was I to argue?
At first I was awed, but after gawking at bare tits for a few hours the novelty wore thin and my libido
lost impetus. Not all mark you, but, short of wanking there was nothing I could do, so I fell asleep. Ron
and Bob were playing with their fishing lines and with nothing similar to occupy my libido, sleep was
my escape.
I awoke with a start, as, with a mighty roar, appearing as if from nowhere a police helicopter hovered
above us. The down-draught caused our belongings to fly in all directions and as we struggled to save
them the cops leaned out laughing uproariously, then, waving at the half-naked women they cheered
and applauded our antics. We scrambled to cover the females who were now shaking their fists, “Piss
off yah fuckin' perverts! Christ, there's no privacy any-fuckin-where!” they screamed and waving us
away, added, “Fuck 'em, guys, it's too late now, ignore 'em, perhaps they'll go away!” And flopping
back onto their towels they closed their eyes.
The guys in the chopper had a wonderful time, they did go away, eventually, but not before they'd had a
bloody good eyeful. Ss they departed, the pilot tipped the machine sideways scooping a shower of water
into the boat soaking us, our clothes and our belongings. Then laughing, they flew away.
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Just before being disturbed by the cops. Left to Right. Lyn, Ron,
me (back to the camera looking to my left) and the magnificent Terry
Lomas on board a fishing boat in the Bay of Naples. Bob took the
picture.
In all fairness I must say they never bothered us again. We kept the boat for a while, long enough for
the girls to rid themselves of their strap-marks anyway, and although the police knew we were there
they never returned. We saw the funny side of course... it was a fair cop I suppose!
Without a boat sunbathing on the beach was a no-no, the problem with Italian males remained and
throwing stones at 'em didn't work. Therefore Bob, Ronnie and I began chasing them, threatening
physical violence. Not willing to risk a punch on the nose they ran away, but in seconds were back
oggling again so that wasn't working either. Finally we gave up, so long as they didn't actually touch we
ignored them. We were sorely pissed off though and overleaf is a picture of Terry and I giving vent to
our feelings.
Come to think of it, back then my arse was as cute as hers.
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Douggie Richford wrote informing me he was leaving Bob Wallace's Storyville Jazz Band to form his
own, 'Doug Richford's London Jazzmen' and he wanted me on drums. I'd been working for two years as
part of a comedy trampoline act and wonderful as the adventure had been I had a burning desire to play
jazz again. I showed the letter to Bob and Terry, explaining that I had to go. Nodding glumly Bob
muttered something about it being on the cards. “I've always known that sooner or later you'd go, it was
jus a matter of when.” he said and smiling ruefully shook my hand. Then he laughed, “Great while it
lasted though, eh?” he grinned and that didn't make it any easier.
Bob Johnson was a super-bloke, one of the greatest I've ever worked with anywhere, at any time.
During my years with him I learned a great deal and not just about the jumping on a trampoline, standup comedy and show-business, but how to live, react and deal with terrifying emergencies. Apart from
and in spite of a silly squabble over my inability to read a map, I never saw him panic. Under stress he
was never phased or dispirited by whatever befell us. No matter how terrible it was, he took it on the
chin and dealt with it. On top of which, he was and still is one of the nicest men walking the surface of
this planet.
He still can't pass a junk-yard by the way, he knows the owners and the guys working in them by their
first names and to this day cannot resist a bargain. On the last count, while Ike and I were on holiday (in
July 1997) I wanted to make some cassette copies of my London quartet for him. Well, there must have
been three or four entertainment-centres in his home, and that was only the lounge-room! There was
another in the kitchen, and in his garden-shed lying among several outdated computers there were
more. Every time his car pulls into their driveway, Dawn, his wife, peers out of the window in fear of
getting another. Machines of all kinds fill his shed higgle-de-piggledy, computers, vacuum-cleaners,
food-blenders, car engines, spare parts, surfboards and other odds and sods... Fifty quid the lot!
But he'll never assembled any of them. Staring at the pile of junk I grinned, “You should drag one of
those computers out and write your version of our adventures.” “I know!” he replied, “I keep meaning
to, I've kept all my notes.” then laughing he added, “I've got thousands of bits of paper! I might do it,
you never know?” Yes I do. I know he never will, “Man, you're what I call a real junkie!” I grinned.
Recently, Mel, his eldest son, bought him a lap-top, and like he said, you never know?
Don't hold yer breath.
During our years together I traversed Western Europe many times. It was a fantastic adventure and a
heap of laughs. Playing for Ronnie Harris was wonderful, he was a great jazz performer and a great
mate. However, my lifelong desire had reared it's ugly head, I desperately wanted to play proper jazz
again and in spite of the regular salary and superb lifestyle, ruefully I handed Bob my notice, kissed
Terry and flew to England.
Close to thirty years of age, widely travelled and experienced in the ways of the world, I believed I
knew it all. WRONG! From the moment I stepped onto English soil the adventure we know as real-life
began, I was to meet the woman who became my wife and if I thought life had been tough, it was ride
on a merry-go-round compared with what was in store. I wasn't ready for it either, nor man enough to
shoulder the burden. However, she dragged me screaming into adulthood and the beginning of any
story worth telling.
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