Frankie Howerd: Stand-Up Comic. Graham McCann

‘deaf or something?’⁴⁰ He was a vulnerable man who dared to live dangerously.

      â€˜Frank would go out and bait his audience,’ Max Bygraves recalled with a mixture of admiration and incredulity. ‘He was living on a knife-edge on that stage. Don’t forget we were all unknown. He’d insult them, pretend to forget his lines – then miraculously remember them just before it got embarrassing. When it worked it was great. I’ve seen him tear the place up, and it was wonderful to watch. Other times …’⁴¹

      There were quite a few of those ‘other times’. One of them came at Sunderland.

      It happened at the start of the week’s run, right in the middle of Howerd’s act. Just after his last ‘um’, and just before his next ‘er’, a loud cracking sound – like an axe cutting into a steel pipe – came up suddenly from the stage. It shook him and stalled the routine, and, even though Howerd soon recovered, he could barely wait to finish and leave. Once the curtain came down, someone found the cause of the noise: a ship’s rivet, thrown down from the ‘gods’ by a distinctly unimpressed docker, had missed the top of the comedian’s head by a whisker and left a large dent in the stage floor. ‘Obviously they can’t afford tomatoes up ’ere!’ Howerd remarked once he was safely backstage, trying hard to laugh the incident off, but Max Bygraves could see that, beneath the show of defiance, the reaction had rendered him ‘a nervous wreck’: ‘He was terrified of an audience like that.’⁴²

      Another one of those ‘other times’ occurred at the Glasgow Empire – the deservedly legendary ‘graveyard of English comics’ – where any performer not bedecked from top to toe in tartan could expect to be sent rushing back to the wings with the cry of ‘Away hame and bile yer heid!’ ringing in their ears. Howerd knew all about the venue’s terrifying reputation – indeed, as soon as he arrived at Sauchiehall Street, he felt an urgent need to find and make use of the nearest backstage lavatory – but he was determined to see all of the next six nights through.

      He managed it, but only just. A combination of him stammering rather more speedily than usual, and the Glasgow crowd (bemused by the unconventionality of his act) summoning up its antiquated anti-English bile a little more slowly than usual, contrived to buy him some time, but, by the arrival of the dreaded second-house on the climactic Friday night, the customised ‘screwtaps’ (the sharpened metal tops from the bottles of beer) were being hurled at the stage with all of their customary velocity and venom. The conductor – hairless and blameless – was hit on the head, and was carried, bleeding profusely, from the orchestra pit, but Howerd survived, more or less, unscathed.

      It was quite the opposite of the proverbial ‘water off a duck’s back’: Howerd absorbed every single drop of negativity. It was just that he kept on going regardless of how much it hurt. Even when he seemed to lose faith in himself, he never lost faith in his act.

      He also took comfort from the knowledge that, beyond the confines of the tour, there were people working hard on the advancement of his career. Apart from his sister, Betty, who (fresh out of the ATS) was now acting as his unofficial manager, script advisor and cheerleader, there was also Stanley Dale. Dale, in his own inscrutable, uniquely post-prandial way, was up to all kinds of schemes and tricks to enhance his client’s profile. Contacts were nurtured, sympathetic critics were cultivated and – even though Howerd was only earning a paltry £l3 10s per week – investments started being made in his (and Dale’s) name. Whenever the comedian’s spirits started to sag, Dale would invariably intervene, either in person or via the telephone, to reassure him that all was still going to plan.

      To be fair to Dale, he did, through one means or another, get results. While Howerd was on tour, Dale called him with some extraordinarily exciting news: he had been sent an invitation, via the Jack Payne Organisation, from the producer Joy Russell-Smith (one of the most knowledgeable and perceptive judges of comic potential to be found in those days in British broadcasting) to audition for variety Bandbox, the top entertainment radio show on the BBC.

      There has been, in the past, some confusion as to the timing of this call. Howerd would remember it arriving a mere ‘six weeks’ into his professional career, which would have placed the date in mid-September.⁴³ It really happened, in fact, about three weeks after that.

      Early on the morning of Wednesday 9 October 1946, Frankie Howerd travelled down to London and went straight to the BBC’s Aeolian Hall in New Bond Street. It was grey and damp outside, and it was grey and damp inside as well. He found himself in a large empty room with a battered microphone in one corner, a pile of sandbags strewn around all four of the walls, and a dull plate of glass that passed for an audience. He struggled to suppress a squeal of horror: it was, after all, yet another audition without anyone with whom to play, and the atmosphere could not have felt more flat. This, however, was an audition for the BBC, and the show it was for was Variety Bandbox, and so he took a deep breath and went ahead: ‘Now, Ladies and Gentle-men, I, ah, no …’

      The act itself was something of a dog’s dinner: some of the material had been taken straight from For the Fun of It, some had been invented expressly for the occasion and some had been ‘borrowed’ from other comics and tailored to suit his needs. It was rough around the edges, the timing was slightly off, but the impact was still there. At the end of the performance, the studio door opened, Joy Russell-Smith emerged, stretched out a hand and congratulated Howerd with a remark that showed him just how well she understood what he had been up to: ‘A completely new art form’.⁴⁴

      The following day, Russell-Smith submitted her formal internal report:

      FRANKIE HOWARD [sic] (Auditioned 9.10.46)

      c/o Scruffy Dale.

      Very funny, original patter and song.

      Eric Spear and John Hooper present and agree. Seeded.⁴⁵

      It was brief but immensely encouraging: this time, without the chance to interact with a ‘proper’ audience, Howerd had managed to win the approval of not only the redoubtable Russell-Smith but also Eric Spear (an experienced producer and composer who would later be responsible for, among other things, the theme tune of Coronation Street) and John Hooper (another broadcaster with a sure sense of what it took to make any form of entertainment truly popular). As a consequence, he could now look forward to playing a part in the next, crucial, stage of the selection process – a recorded, ‘seeded’ audition in the form of a private ‘show’ before a special board of BBC producers.⁴⁶

      Howerd duly returned to Studio 1 at Aeolian Hall on the morning of Friday, 25 October, nursing a bad migraine but otherwise feeling – for him – fairly hopeful. Rehearsals took place at 9 a.m., followed at 3.00 p.m. by the recording itself. He only had five minutes to show what he could do, but he enjoyed being back on a proper stage, playing to what was admittedly a very special, but none the less reassuringly audible, studio audience, and he left believing that he had acquitted himself rather well.

      He was soon proven right. Just over a fortnight later, a telegram arrived: ‘YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN’.⁴⁷His career in radio was about to begin.

       CHAPTER 5

       Variety Bandbox