Mr Lonely. Eric Morecambe

were leaning forward showing cleavage at the front and white, tailed bums up in the air at the back.

      ‘What was that, sir?’ one of them asked.

      ‘Four pints of lager, two large whiskies, one with American Dry, one without, both with ice. A dry martini and lemonade and … What’s yours having, Bert?’

      ‘A snowball.’

      ‘And a snowball for the lady.’

      ‘We haven’t got any snowballs, sir.’

      ‘No snowballs, Bert.’

      ‘What? Right—a Babycham.’

      ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, sir.’

      ‘Good girl.’

      Sid was now sweating. He welcomed Giorgio aboard.

      ‘Thatsa very nice.’

      ‘Where are you going for your honeymoon, Shelley?’

      ‘Give her one for me, Giorgio,’ echoed around the club, followed by laughter from an understanding friend.

      ‘Well, actually, we were thinking of going …’

      ‘We go to Italy to asee ma Mamma,’ Giorgio told the microphone. ‘Then we’re staying ina Rome to open the restaurant.’

      Yes, with oneze twoze money you’ve stolen from the club. Sixty for the till and forty fora the pocket, Sid thought to himself. He said, ‘How wonderful. Will you be singing for the customers in your restaurant, Shelley?’

      ‘Shella have no time for the singing. Shella be helping Mamma with the cooking.’

      ‘So … er … yes, how about tonight, Shelley? How about doing a song for us tonight?’

      The front table jumped up as if they had been given a command and started to applaud. The group went into the intro of ‘Blue Moon’. Serina almost stood on the stage to see Shelley work. Sid gave two bouquets of flowers to Giorgio, one from Al and one from Manny. Giorgio returned to gangland and Sid walked off backwards to the protection of the curtains, where he downed an already-waiting cold lager. In twenty minutes he would have to be out there again to introduce a star, the new recording sensation from America—Loose Benton. One hit record in the States and now struggling. That’s why he was in England. He couldn’t get himself arrested in the States. His gimmick was a gravel voice and every few bars he would drop to his knees and move around the floor singing like a doped-up limbo dancer.

      Shelley finished her last note of ‘Blue Moon’ and the punters moved around talking to each other. Shelley did very well for applause, mostly from the eight Italians. Serina walked away thinking, She won’t be hard to follow!

      Shelley returned to the mafia. A waitress said, ‘I got a snowball for you.’ The group were already on their second beer before the echo of the last note of ‘Blue Moon’ had died away. The stage was empty.

      Sid had gone to say hello to Loose Benton in his dressing-room and ask him if there was anything special he would like him to say when he was being introduced. He walked past his own room towards the star’s dressing-room. In the Starlight Rooms, like most of the other clubs up and down the country, there were four or five dressing-rooms for the artists and the band, group, etc, but there was always one star dressing-room. The other rooms had the look of broom cupboards. In the Starlight Rooms there were four. One for Sid, one for the singer, and a third for the group, but usually they came to the club already dressed for the show so theirs had become more of a pub than a dressing-room. It was the room in which everyone stubbed out their cigarettes and left their half-empty and empty tins of beer. If you happened to get cornered by anyone in that room for any length of time you came out smelling like a very old Guinness.

      Sid had reached the star’s room. This room was large, beautifully decorated, private toilet, changing room, lounge, drinks cabinet with drinks, including champagne, fridge, mirrors with lights all the way round them, colour television, wall-to-wall carpeting, very comfortable settee and easy chairs. Sid knocked on the highly polished door just below an enormous star with ‘Loose Benton’ written in the centre of it.

      ‘Yeh?’

      ‘Sid Lewis.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Sid Lewis.’

      The door opened about two inches and a big, male, brown eye looked into Sid’s pale blue one.

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘I’m Sid Lewis, the compère, you know—the MC. May I ask someone what Mr Benton wants me to say about him to the audience before he goes on, or will he leave it to …?’

      The eye left Sid’s eye and the door closed. Sid heard a muffled version of what he had just said. The door opened wider this time. ‘Come in,’ said Old Brown Eye.

      The door was closed behind him. Everyone in the room was black, with the exception of a white waiter dispensing drinks. They all turned their faces towards Sid.

      Sid smiled. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Sid. Sid Lewis. I’m the MC.’

      A man walked towards him. ‘Hi, Sid. I’m Loose Benton.’ They shook hands.

      Loose, as his name implied, was loose. He moved like a sack of coke, tall, elegant, an easy smile, and teeth as white as half the keys of a new Steinway. He was wearing a white three-piece suit, black open-necked shirt, black crocodile shoes and a large brim-down-at-the-back-style white hat, with a black headband. Bloody hell, Sid said to himself. He looks like a negative.

      Aloud he said, ‘Er, is there anything you would like me to tell the audience while I’m introducing you?’

      ‘Anything you wanna say, man.’

      ‘Just get the name right, kid,’ a black manager said.

      ‘He’ll get the name right, Irving.’ Loose grinned Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. ‘How about a drink, Sid?’

      ‘That’s very kind. I’ll have … er … a Scotch on the … er … rocks, please.’

      ‘Waiter, get our guest a drink.’

      Loose left him and went to join the others. Sid was given his drink by the most miserable looking man he had ever seen. He said his ‘Cheers’ and began to sip his whiskey and ice. He tried to figure out who the other people in the room were, whilst, at the same time, trying to hold polite conversation with anyone who would look at him and answer. The big fella with the pink, frilly dress-shirt—he must be about sixteen stone. He’s walking about tidying things—he’ll be his minder, Sid said to himself. To no one in particular he said, ‘Terrible weather.’

      ‘Pouring down when I came in,’ the waiter replied.

      ‘Yeh,’ muttered Sid into his drink.

      ‘Waiter, fill up the glasses!’ This command came from a middle-sized man wearing thin checked pants of bright red tartan, brown and white two-tone shoes, a thin blue tartan jacket and a pink T-shirt with ‘I’m a fairy’ written on it. Obviously his dresser, thought Sid.

      The waiter unhappily refilled the drinks. Sid said, ‘No thanks.’

      The waiter whispered, ‘I hope it’s stopped raining.’ He looked even more miserable. ‘I hate that bloody moped when it’s raining.’

      Sid nodded.

      There were two more left to figure out. The first one; dress-suit, smart, middle-aged, hardly smiles, hardly speaks. Sid had a bet with himself—musical director. Got to be. The other one; day-suit, talks in a whisper—manager/ agent.

      The waiter slid over to Sid. ‘If you go to the toilet, look out of the window and see if it’s still raining,’ he whispered.

      ‘You worked here long, Sid?’ Loose asked. The waiter scuttled away.

      ‘Two years now.’

      ‘Good