FOR THE SUMMER Season shows between 1955 and 1958, I performed with a cast that numbered eleven in total; that’s not counting the orchestra, of course. By which I mean piano and drums. You can see us all in the top photograph. Now, imagine appearing in a show produced on that scale on Saturday, 13 September 1958 … and then on the very next evening being in a production of the magnitude you see in the photo below!
VAL PARNELL’S SUNDAY NIGHT at the London Palladium, with a thirty-piece orchestra, an audience of 2,500 in the theatre and millions watching at home. It was the top show on television. Nothing could touch it.
I’m standing in the middle, with the wonderful Val Parnell on my right, in the light suit. His extremely efficient secretary, Miss Wood is next to him. Woody, as we all called her, used to sit behind Val in the theatre and was like our auntie on the show, making sure everyone got a boiled sweet from the bag she always brought with her. On my left is the actor Robert Beatty and next to him is the top of the bill, singer Johnnie Ray. The chap in the cardigan is Albert Locke, one of our producers.
It was an incredible change of fortunes for me.
How on earth did it happen?
TWO OF THE PEOPLE in this photograph play a big part in the story. That’s Norman Wisdom to the left, but the key couple in my tale are Joy and Manny Francois, on the right. They performed a successful comedy dance act under the stage name Francois & Zandra. We appeared on numerous bills together, and whenever possible we tried to find digs in the same place because we had so many laughs. Manny wasn’t a golfer, but I didn’t hold that against him. He was a great character and they were both big supporters of mine.
During my final Summer Season at Babbacombe in 1957, Manny and Joy came down to see the show – not only for the regular Gaytime performance during the week but also for what was known as The Sunday Rendezvous. That proved critical.
Manny and Joy had never seen me do the audience-participation elements of the Sunday show before, but having done so, and being suitably impressed, they spoke to their good friend Billy Marsh. Now Billy just happened to be Bernard Delfont’s second-in-command at the Delfont Agency. And the Delfont Agency was responsible for booking some of the acts for Sunday Night at the London Palladium acts. Keeping up?
THIS IS BILLY MARSH a few years later, after he had become my agent (and what a top-rate agent he was). Having been persuaded by dear Manny and Joy to come and see me himself, Billy appreciated what I could do and tucked my name away in the back of his mind until the time was right.
Thinking about Billy now makes me smile. He had a huge influence on my career, not only the part he played in bringing me to the Palladium but also in how he guided and advised me over the years. He was a tough, straight deal-maker, who cared about his clients and always wanted the best for them. I am very grateful for everything Billy did for me.
It has often been said that the term ‘legend’ is overused. Perhaps so, but not in Billy’s case. He was a legend in show-business. When he died in December 1995 his ashes were placed under the stage at the Palladium. There could be no more fitting tribute to the man.
Losing Billy was a blow personally, but also professionally. However, I was very fortunate as the agency was taken over by Jan Kennedy, who had worked with Billy for many years and cared for him during his illness. In the years since, until her recent retirement, Jan looked after my interests fantastically well, just as Billy did. That is the biggest compliment I can pay her.
RETURNING TO 1958, IT’S then that a number of different strands of the story come together.
First there is New Look, a revue-style show that has just been commissioned for TV. New Look is to be an hour-long programme, filmed live in front of an audience at the Wood Green Empire, north London. As it is an Associated Television production, there are commercial breaks. Thank goodness. That’s when the changes of costume and scenery occur.
It’s quite amazing to think of it now. The stage crew were brilliant. The performers would constantly be standing in their way, but somehow they managed to move the sets around at lightning speed, knowing that in two and half minutes the show would be back on air.
New Look was the brainchild of the brilliant Brian Tesler, who also just happened to be a producer on Sunday Night at the London Palladium. (Which, by the way, I am now going to start calling SNAP, as it was known back then.) Brian was a lovely, lovely man. He believed in nurturing young talent and was determined to create this show with relative unknowns he thought were due for stardom. One of the ‘rising stars’ he chose was me.
Here’s the New Look line-up. On the left is Joe Baker, who was in a double act at the time with the chap next to him, Jack Douglas. Jack, of course, went on to do very well in the Carry On films. Then it’s me and Ronnie Stevens, a very good actor and a clever guy. The two girls in the middle are Gillian Moran and Stephanie Voss. Crouching at the front are Joyce Blair (Lionel’s sister) and Roy Castle.
Now, before I continue with how I got my ‘big break’, I’d like to pause for a moment and reflect on dear Roy Castle.
ROY WAS ONE OF the good guys of the world, and one of the most underrated entertainers. He could do everything – sing, dance, play instruments. Such talent. He did a great solo act, but could also perform incredibly well in comic roles. In fact, he had a very inventive comedy mind, both onstage and in real life. Roy and I worked together many, many times. Here I am accompanying him onstage at the Palladium. He had a great voice. Just another of his numerous talents. What a loss it was to our industry when Roy died in his early sixties. I miss him very much. I can’t help thinking of all the shows we could have done together.
RIGHT, BACK TO THE story.
So, Brian Tesler has asked me to join the New Look cast and Billy Marsh has seen me in Summer Season, and crucially has witnessed me interacting with the audience.
The final strand of the tale is Val Parnell.
Tommy Trinder had been compère of SNAP for a number of years, but in 1957 the decision was taken to use a roster of compères, each hosting for three or four weeks at a time. There had been Dickie Henderson, Bob Monkhouse, Hughie Greene, Alfred Marks, Tommy Trinder again, and my favourite, Robert Morley. Robert was wonderful, in particular when it came to the game segment of the show, Beat the Clock, in which couples from the audience participated.
You could always tell by their eyes which compère actually enjoyed Beat the Clock, and it was obvious Robert Morley loved it. He enthused when he was explaining the games to the contestants, playing it very straight, like a kindly uncle. There was no sense of him wondering why on earth he was involved in such nonsense. I am sure some of the others did feel like that. I could see in their faces that they were wondering where the laughs would come from. Not Robert.
So, having introduced the roster of compères, for the next series Val decides he wants to revert to a single host, and is on the lookout for someone to take on the role. That is when it all comes together for me. Both Brian Tesler and Billy Marsh recommend me. According to Billy, Val is open to the idea of giving me a try, save for one concern. ‘What about Beat the Clock?’ Billy, having seen me at Babbacombe, is able to allay Val’s fears. ‘Don’t worry about that, Val, this fella can do it standing on his head.’
I am in. The huge moment of my career. I am thirty years old.
The only downside is that I have to pull out of New Look. It just isn’t possible to make it all work. I end up only appearing in one episode, which is a shame.
‘GOOD EVENING, LADIES AND gentleman. Welcome to Sunday Night at the London Palladium.’
I first sang those words on 14 September 1958. They kicked off my opening number for every show, following on from the sensational dancing girls who always took to the stage first. For the rest of the song I wrote different lyrics each week, usually introducing something topical. I might mention the time of year, for instance, Halloween or Easter, or perhaps the money available in the Beat the Clock jackpot. Or I might mention something memorable that had occurred in the previous week’s show.
What was important from my point of view was that, with this opening number being right up to the minute, it always received an instant reaction – the perfect way to start the show off on the right footing.
In truth, moving in the blink of an eye from relative obscurity to hosting the biggest show on television was almost too much to cope with. Everything seemed to be happening at once, everything I had ever dreamed of was suddenly a reality. This really is the London Palladium. And I really am on its stage performing. Incredible.
The famous US comedian Alan King appeared on the show a few months after Id started, and backstage he asked me, ‘How long have you been in the business?’
‘Sixteen years,’ I replied.
‘And you’ve just got this job?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it took you sixteen years to become a star overnight!’
Exactly.
I don’t begrudge those sixteen years for a second. If it had not been for all that experience I would never have been offered the job, and I certainly wouldn’t have kept it. Thanks to all those performances at the Windmill, all those years of touring, plus the Summer Seasons, I couldn’t have been better prepared for the demands of the Palladium.
Funnily enough, the only box I couldn’t tick was hosting. That is the single element I had to get used to, and fast. I understood the reality of my situation. In effect I was undergoing a six-week trial period. I had to prove I was a success in Val Parnell’s eyes, or someone else would very soon be offered the job. That’s show-business.
THIS ‘OVERNIGHT’ SUCCESS WAS to come at a personal price, however. This photo is from SNAP in 1961, my wife Penny and I singing our favourite ‘How Could You Believe Me?’ number.
Three years after this was taken, Penny and I separated, although in truth our marriage had been in trouble for some time before then. Penny was a talented performer: she danced very well and possessed a good singing voice. She would not have been on the Palladium stage if she had not earned the right to be there, that’s for sure. However, our marriage felt the strain of my success. From the point of view of our relationship, it was a shame that the business suddenly shot me to incredible heights while she was somewhat left behind.
Penny had the talent to make it herself, no doubt about that, but timing was against her. She gave me three amazing, beautiful daughters – Debbie, Julie and Laura – but raising a family made travelling the country for work virtually impossible. Only one of us could do that and it happened to be me. That’s how things were back then, and it eventually caused us to drift apart. In the years that followed, we did experience some difficult times, but ultimately we remained close, both of us loving and caring for our wonderful girls.
DESPITE THE ACCUMULATION OF a good-sized body of material over the years, as the end of my six-week ‘trial’ approached I began to worry that the well was running a little dry. In addition, many of my contemporaries were counselling me in the danger of over-exposure. ‘Television eats up material, Bruce,’ they would tell me. ‘When the time comes to return to the variety circuit, the public will think they have seen everything you have to offer.’
Thanks, fellas.
Billy Marsh and I decided to approach Val Parnell to discuss the issue. He was having none of it, dismissing my concerns with a wave of his hand. ‘What are you on about, Bruce? Don’t talk such nonsense. You are a new face. Over-exposed? Ridiculous.’ He then delivered a bombshell. ‘You are here and you are going to stay here. What have we done now? Six weeks? So you have another thirty-four shows to do.’
Honestly, I could hardly believe my ears. The job was mine for the remainder of the series. I was stunned. And thrilled. ‘If you’re worried about coming up with new jokes and sketches week in week out, don’t be. We can help with writers. Listen to me, Bruce, the only way to treat television is to go out there, do it, and once it’s done, forget it. Then, the following week, do it all over again and forget it.’
Val was so right in what he said to me that day, and it has been my attitude to television ever since. Good, bad or indifferent, do it and forget it.
Val was as good as his word when it came to the writers, first linking me up with Jimmy Grafton, who wrote for Dickie Henderson, and then the two very clever guys, Sid Green and Dick Hills, pictured on the previous page. The three of us ended up working together a lot and, more importantly, we became great mates. We enjoyed many laughs together.
WITH THE SUPPORT OF Sid and Dick, my fears about having to come up with ideas on my own quickly evaporated. One of the most successful gags we devised, certainly one of the best received, concerned the newly launched drip-dry shirts.
I thought these were a marvellous invention. When touring I did all my own laundry and those new-fangled garments proved to be a godsend. In fact, I still hand-wash my shirts. I like to make sure they dry on the hanger in a certain way, pressing in the collar with my thumbs and straightening the cuffs. Mad? Well, I’ve been doing it like that for years. It’s a little late to change now.
For the Palladium sketch I arranged for a clothesline to be held tight across the stage, with a hanger in the middle and below it a large tin bath. I then produced a soaking shirt from the tub and hung it up. ‘Ladies,’ I announced, ‘I know ironing shirts is a chore to many of you. Well, I have some wonderful news. With these marvellous drip-dry shirts, your days with the iron are numbered, as I can demonstrate for you right now.’ I then pointed to my own shirt. ‘I washed this one only two hours ago. And look at it, it’s perfectly dry. The only trouble is, my shoes are full of water!’
That one joke launched an incredible avalanche of mail. It arrived at the Palladium in sacks, from all over the country, offering very helpful advice such as, ‘Why didn’t you wear drainpipe trousers?’ and ‘Next time you do that, Bruce, you should wear pumps.’ It went on and on. The press latched on to it as well, staging photographs of me with the shirts. And, as you can see, a member of the public even sent in a little model they had made for me. I was proud to hang that in my dressing room, as a reminder of just how effective television could be in reaching people.
The overwhelming response to that one short routine was the first time that the astonishing power of television properly struck me. The Beat the Clock segment of SNAP offered further examples.
As I mentioned, this was an audience participation game, in the middle section of the show, ahead of the top of the bill. I chose the contestants at the beginning of the evening, just before we started. I would step out in front of the curtain, crack a couple of silly jokes, then randomly pick couples from the stalls, upper and dress circles. They were brought backstage where we discovered a little about them and made sure they had no health issues that might prevent them from participating. The games were a mix of physical and mental challenges, all played against the clock, with a prize jackpot on offer, which increased each week by £100 if it was not won. When the sum reached £1,000 the money was donated to charity and the amount reset at £100.
Beat the Clock was what is known as a ‘buffer’ – that is, we could tailor its length as required. Very handy if, for instance, we learned that the headline performance wasn’t as long as we thought it would be and the other acts had been a bit short. The longest Beat the Clock I ever did was twenty minutes and the shortest was eight. Jack Matthews, the stage manager, would tell me just before we started how long I had. Depending on the length of the segment we might be on to our second or third couple when the bell sounded to stop the game. This led to one of the first famous lines from the show, when I would ask the pair, ‘Can you come back next week?’ More often than not they could, and they reappeared the following Sunday to finish their game.
THIS PHOTOGRAPH IS A classic Beat the Clock game, with the contestants required to bounce a certain number of tennis balls over two drums and on to the cymbals before the time ran out. In this second picture, I’m clearly introducing myself to the couple before we begin. Tucked away in the corner you can see some milk bottles. These must have formed part of whatever game was to come. Goodness knows what it would have been. One thing’s for sure, though, it would have been great fun. The games always were.
The undoubted star of Beat the Clock in my first season was a sweet lady called Beattie.
Beattie was so excited to be there that she wouldn’t stop talking. Not for a second. ‘Oh, Bruce, it’s marvellous to meet you. I never thought in all my life that I’d be here. And here I am. Meeting you. Onstage. Absolutely marvellous. Who would have thought …’
Initially I was trying to help her and her husband win a television set, but she just wouldn’t pay attention. She kept on talking and talking and talking. Same thing when we reached the jackpot round. ‘This is so exciting, Bruce, it really is. I’m having so much fun. Thank you …’
‘Beattie, hold on a second, my love. Beattie! Beattie! BEATTIE!’
The audience loved Beattie and so did I. She was real character.
The following afternoon I was appearing in the Palladium pantomime, Sleeping Beauty. This was a big deal, a real thrill. There was a scene in which the witch comes flying across the stage screeching, ‘I’m going to get that Sleeping Beauty! Soon she’ll be in my power for ever! No one can stop me …’ She went on and on, so just for the boys in the band, I said, ‘Listen to her. She’s worse than Beattie!’ It got one of the biggest laughs in the show. Needless to say, we kept it in from then on.
It never entered my head that everyone in the audience would get the joke. It was just meant as a little laugh for the lads but, of course, the people in that matinée crowd had watched the television the night before. Again, the power of television amazed me.
BEAT THE CLOCK GAVE birth to my first fully fledged catchphrase. I was trying to show a couple how to play one of our games, a tricky one. The challenge was to keep a table-top balanced on a trestle by throwing plates on to each end. Our two contestants were getting into such a pickle that I had to intervene.
‘Stop the clock. Stop the clock. Goodness, what a mess you’re making of this. Let me show you …’ I demonstrated what they were meant to do, and was about to start the game again when the woman was suddenly off on her own, throwing the plates!
‘Hold on! Hold on! I haven’t started the clock yet. It’s my game, after all. I’m in charge.’
Next day I was chatting with a friend who worked in radio. He commented, ‘Bruce, that was a very good line you came up with last night.’ I looked at him quizzically. ‘The “I’m in charge”. It really worked well.’
It had been one hundred per cent ad-lib, but that comment, from someone in the business, started me thinking. It was a fun phrase and I decided to try it again. In no time it took on a life of its own. People on the street would shout it out and I even saw it scribbled in the dust on the back of lorries.
THE GREAT JOY OF Beat the Clock was that no one ever knew what was going to happen next. That’s why it was so popular. Critical to this were the games, which provided the framework around which the fun and laughs were created. They had to be visually interesting and possible to complete. Otherwise people would quite rightly have felt cheated, both the contestants and the public. We spent a lot of time rehearsing and fine-tuning the games with stagehands and some of the dancers standing in as contestants.
Jim Smith is the chap here with the gorilla arm (don’t ask why, I have no idea) – he devised many of the challenges. Opposite him is Angela Bracewell, Beat the Clock’s hostess, who introduced the contestants and assisted with the games. Angela was a talented dancer with excellent comic timing. She also appeared with me in my Summer Revue shows, Every Night at the London Palladium. In 1967 she married the American actor and singer Stubby Kaye (perhaps best known for his rendition of ‘Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ The Boat’ in Guys and Dolls).
ANGELA AND THE FOUR regular Beat the Clock assistants were all members of the George Carden dancers who, alternating weekly with the Tiller Girls, performed the show’s opening routine. Now that really was a spectacular way to kick off Sunday Night at the London Palladium – quite literally. Glamour, razzmatazz and wonderful dancing that set the tone for the evening’s entertainment. Both dance troupes were excellent to work with and featured in a variety of numbers throughout each show.
ONE OF THE MOST famous broadcasts of SNAP featured only two performers – Norman Wisdom and myself. There is a myth about this particular show that I want to put straight. The reason that Norman and I appeared on our own was not because of an actors’ strike. Yes, there was an Equity dispute on at the time, December 1961, but it had no impact on our plans for that show. In those days, there were two show-business unions, Equity and the Variety Artists Federation. Norman and I were members of the latter, as were the dancers/assistants who featured in Beat the Clock. So the strike didn’t affect us. All the talk of having to put the show together at the last minute was a load of nonsense. It had been planned weeks in advance.
It wasn’t even the first time we’d done it. When Norman and I filmed a TV promotional piece for the initial two-hander, which was a couple of years earlier, we were sitting back-to-back in the Palladium stalls, pretending to be exhausted.
‘Well,’ begins the interviewer, ‘here we are at the London Palladium and we’re looking forward to the show. Bruce, who is on tonight?’
I turn and point at Norman. ‘He is.’
‘And, Norman, who else is in the show?’
‘Eh, oh, eh, him … and me.’
We thought this was funny, until a note came round from Val Parnell requesting (instructing) that we do it again. ‘This time don’t sit there saying it’s just the two of you. Instead say, “Him and me and an all-star cast.”’ Seems Val wasn’t a hundred per cent convinced that Norman and I alone could pull in an audience!
Unfortunately that first show was not saved. Norman had requested a recording but it wasn’t done, based on cost. He was livid. It’s a great shame. I think the earlier performance was the better of the two, and was certainly very well received. So much so that when we were preparing the promo for the second show, word came down from on high: ‘Don’t forget to say it’s just the two of you.’ Val had changed his tune completely!
Now, I like to rehearse, to know exactly what I’m doing, but no more than that. I like to feel there’s a degree of spontaneity.
MY WAY, HOWEVER, WAS NOT NORMAN WISDOM’S WAY.
My way, however, was not Norman Wisdom’s way. He was meticulous in his preparation, but for me it felt more like over-rehearsing. Take the famous wallpaper sketch from our second performance. This was pure slapstick, no words, so, yes, timing was critical. I understood that. For Norman, however, it wasn’t merely practising exactly when to duck or spin round: for him, every glance, every gesture had to be nailed down precisely. ‘When you walk over to me at that point, don’t look at me straight away, only after you pick up the bucket.’ And we did it again and again and again and again. Not just for that routine, but for the whole show.
To be fair, I was very much the straight man throughout the performance. I did get a few laughs but mainly I was there to set up his gags. No one can feed a comic better than another comic, but at the same time I did understand that the pressure lay more on him than me. I was happy to go along with how he wanted to prepare, as it was right for him to work in that way.
Beat the Clock went ahead in both those shows, and for the second Norman received permission to make an unprecedented intrusion into the game.
Norman and I were having lunch with the show’s producers and writers in Verrey’s restaurant, Regent Street, next door to the Delfont Agency. Throughout the meal, as we were discussing the various sketches and routines, Norman kept insisting that he wanted to come back on after the wallpaper scene, still covered in slush, and dance with the female contestant on Beat the Clock.
‘Val has very strong feelings about Beat the Clock,’ I told him. ‘It’s sacrosanct and he won’t allow you to interfere.’
Norman kept on asking and I kept on repeating that Val would not permit it.
‘What if I went to see Val, right now?’
‘You can try, but it’ll do you no good.’
How wrong I was. Norman kept going on and on and on, until Val eventually crumbled. I’m certain Val thought it was a lousy idea but Norman wore him down; he was a little devil at getting things the way he wanted.
‘I GET TO DANCE WITH NORMAN WISDOM … OF COURSE I’LL DO IT.’
And, of course, the dance with the lady contestant was such a big laugh. We spoke to her in advance, offering to buy her a dress if she agreed to the plan. She was over the moon. ‘I get to dance with Norman Wisdom, on the Palladium stage, and receive a new outfit? Of course I’ll do it.’
That earlier photo of the wallpaper sketch is actually from a 1968 performance we did for a charity event. I’ve included it because it gives a sense of what the original sketch was all about.
SUNDAY NIGHT AT THE London Palladium kept the public in touch with so many big names – from Hollywood, other parts of the world, plus our home-grown star entertainers and actors. As a show it helped people stay in tune with the times. When I announced who was going to be top of the bill for the following week, it was a big deal.
I introduced so many stellar performers on to the Palladium stage that it would be impossible for me to talk about them all. So I’m not going to try. Instead, here is a selection of my favourite stories. It was a truly amazing time in my life. It really was.
LENA HORNE, OCTOBER 1959.
I love this photograph. I know exactly what’s happening and what I’m saying. First, though, there are a couple of things worth noting.
This was taken right at the end of the show. You can see the revolving stage and the letters that spelled out Sunday Night at the London Palladium. The entire cast would gather there to wave goodbye, including the top of the bill, as the stage slowly circled round. People used to write in regularly asking how that worked, so Sid and Dick produced a little sketch for me to explain.
‘One of our stagehands, a lovely guy called Fred, who would do anything for me, is underneath the stage right now as I speak,’ the routine began. ‘Next to Fred there are two big, big cogs, attached to a thick steel wire, which goes all the way around the entire stage. Now when I stamp my foot like this …’ Stomp! Stomp! ‘… and shout out, “Fred!”, that’s Fred’s cue to start operating all that heavy-duty, complex machinery below us. By turning a handle! And it’s not easy.’
I then mimed what Fred would be doing, straining to operate the mechanism.
Back to Lena Horne. Just as Lena and I came round to facing the audience on the revolving stage I stamped my foot again, Stomp! Stomp! and shouted out, ‘Hold on, Fred!’
Earlier in the day Val Parnell and I had been talking. Now, I’ve said a couple of times already that SNAP was the show on television, and that is true. Even so, to find a big star forty weeks in a row was not always possible. The week following Lena’s appearance was one of those rare occasions when Val had no one lined up. He had a solution, however.
‘I’ve spoken to Lena, Bruce, and asked her if she’ll do next week’s show as well. She said she’s happy to.’
The audience knew nothing of this. So, with Fred having stopped the stage on my signal, I ushered Lena forward. I remember to this day standing next to her, just as you see here. She had only moments ago finished her act and she was glowing, beads of perspiration still trickling down her beautiful face. It was a very special moment.
‘Lena, can you come back next week?’ I asked her, which is exactly what I said to the Beat the Clock contestants every week. This got a big laugh.
Then I called out to the auditorium, which is what I am doing in the photo. ‘Would you like to see her again next week?’ It was unheard of to have a moment like that with such a big star, using a catchphrase normally associated with a daft game.
The response was incredibly enthusiastic. The audience wanted Lena to come back as much as we did and, of course, she agreed. ‘Really, you can come back? Well, that’s marvellous because we’d all love to hear you perform three more songs.’
Having made the announcement, I then guided Lena back to the revolving stage, banged my foot, ‘Fred!’ and the show came to a close.
NAT KING COLE, SUNDAY, 15 May 1960.
On the Saturday I had been playing variety in a theatre up north and returned home at around 2 a.m. Next morning, while I was still in bed, Glyn Jones telephoned. Glyn worked for the Delfont Agency, looking after the American artists who came over to perform. He also looked after me a lot. He was one of my favourite people.
So, Glyn called. ‘Bruce, you know we have Nat King Cole on the show tonight.’
I idolized that man, his piano-playing and his singing. I had all his old 78 records and listened to them endlessly, trying to copy some of the things he did on the piano. ‘Yes, Glyn, I know. I’m so looking forward to meeting him later.’
‘Well, better than that, he’s arrived early. He’s here at the Palladium right now and there are two pianos set up backstage. Nat says he’s up for doing a number with you. If you can make it here during lunch-hour, you can both talk it over and we can work it into the show.’
I couldn’t believe it. The possibility of doing a number with Nat King Cole!
I was there in a flash, and at lunchtime, with the auditorium deserted, I went backstage to talk to Nat.
In that wonderful rough voice of his, he said to me, ‘Now, what kind of number could we do, Bruce?’
‘Well, I have so many of your records I know practically everything you’ve ever done. But perhaps a good one would be “Paper Moon”?’
‘Right, “Paper Moon”. Yeah. Now, what key do I do that in?’
‘Well, I do it in F … so you’ll have to do it in F!’
‘Okay, let’s try that.’
We arranged the routine in five minutes, rehearsed it through a couple of times and then (this is the amazing bit) Nat King Cole spent the rest of the lunch-hour in the empty Palladium playing and singing me songs from his new LP. It’s hard to believe he would do that. He was perhaps the nicest, warmest big star I ever met.
SUNDAY, 10 SEPTEMBER 1960. Bob Hope is top of the bill. What a treat for those sitting in the front row, to be close to a show-business legend.
Sadly this was not to be the case. In fact, there was no one sitting there at all. Lining the entire front row of the Palladium, about thirty-two seats, there is a series of large cue cards.
That’s what Bob Hope always used for his act – and it wasn’t merely prompts written on the cards. This was his script. I don’t mean any of this in a negative way. It was just how he worked. He was a very professional entertainer, who used the cards all the time, working on what he was going to say, and even taking them back to his dressing room as he continued to hone his act. Then, before the show opened, they were placed on the seats. No one in the audience could see them and the director just had to be very careful with his camera angles!
SUNDAY, 1 OCTOBER 1961, was the first time I performed with ‘Mr Wonderful’ himself, Sammy Davis Jr. Sammy will make at least a couple of further appearances in the book, so I’ll keep this SNAP memory brief.
The first time Sammy and I actually worked together on this straw-hats number was at the band call on the Sunday morning of the actual show. Lionel Blair had choreographed the routine but unfortunately for him I was appearing in a northern variety show in the week leading up to the performance. That meant poor Lionel had to travel to see me, run through the number, listen to my feedback, then jump on a train back down to London, go through it with Sammy, work with him on his suggestions, then up to see me, another run-through, more ideas, then once again he would be on the London-bound train to catch up with Sammy. This went on all week. I’m exhausted just writing all that down. Goodness knows how Lionel felt.
THE BEATLES APPEARED TWICE on SNAP, in a short space of time – 13 October 1963 and 12 January 1964. In between those dates, ‘I Want To Hold Your Hand’ was released and spent five weeks at number one in the charts. Beatlemania had truly gripped the nation.
As they said themselves, when talking about that first appearance: ‘In October the big one was Sunday Night at the London Palladium. There was nothing bigger in the world than making it to the Palladium. And we were on the roundabout and it was dynamite!’
For the Beatles’ second show, pictured overleaf, Val Parnell wanted more than three straight numbers. He was convinced there was something else we could do. In search of ideas, our producer, Jon Scofield, and I went along to see them in the preceding week at the Finsbury Park Astoria. The noise was deafening. That was one thing Val wanted desperately to avoid, all the screaming girls in the Palladium. It proved impossible. The moment the Beatles appeared on the SNAP stage, the theatre erupted.
We’d known this would happen, of course, so we decided to create a special opening to the whole show. As the curtains were raised the audience saw four male silhouettes sitting around a table. As anticipated, the screaming started instantly, the girls in the audience going absolutely crazy at this first glimpse of their heroes. Then, as the lights came up, all was revealed. Me and three stagehands playing cards!
As the screams quickly turned to laughter I glanced at my watch, ‘Oh, the show’s started already. We’ll finish the game later, lads.’ Then walking towards the audience I said, ‘Don’t worry, they’re here. You’ll just have to wait a little bit.’ The whole thing was a big tease, but the audience loved it.
It was the perfect way to introduce the biggest band in the world. I’m getting ahead of myself. Back to Finsbury.
As Jon and I watched the concert it became apparent that if we tried to do anything extra with the band, anything that involved them speaking, no one would hear a word. Then an idea struck me. The audience might not be able to hear a word, but they could still see. So why don’t I hold a visual conversation with the boys? Between their second and last song each of them could run on- and offstage to grab different cue cards, introducing themselves and responding to questions.
The routine was a big success. The Beatles had that fantastic attitude of being willing to give anything a go to inject some fun. I wish I’d worked with them on more than just those two occasions. I would have enjoyed that.
One final thing to note on the Beatles. As you can see in this photograph, my left wrist is in a cast. A few days before the show I was involved in quite a nasty car accident, involving a very icy road and a very solid tree. I had to tell the boys that, even though their single was riding high, they couldn’t hold my hand that evening!
THESE PAST FEW PHOTOGRAPHS have all featured top-of-the-bill acts … and here is another, Zsa Zsa Gabor. Not that she was actually booked in that capacity. This was another of those occasions when Val struggled to find a big name.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I had announced the previous week, ‘I’m sure you will all join me in looking forward to welcoming the star act in our next show …’
No, not Zsa Zsa. Top of the bill was a comedy music act called the Wiere Brothers.
To be fair, they were an excellent trio, who put on a great performance. They had started out in vaudeville in the 1920s, appeared in the 1951 Royal Variety and featured in numerous films and television shows over the years. However, by 1964 they had become less well known in Britain. Nonetheless, they still deserved top billing, which, of course, brought with it the added bonus of the No. 1 dressing room.
Then Zsa Zsa turns up. ‘Surely, darling, that is for me!’
She was quite unbelievable, a force of nature who was almost impossible to resist. The brothers were out of the room and Zsa Zsa was in.
Now, don’t get me wrong, Zsa Zsa Gabor was a star, no question about that. And rightly so. She was a delightfully larger than life actress with a big personality, even though she didn’t really seem to sing or dance. I think you can see from my face that I’m a bit worried about what’s going to happen!
One thing I can say categorically is that Zsa Zsa was great fun to be around, with a terrific sense of humour. We rehearsed together at the Hilton Hotel, in a massive suite of rooms filled with countless staff running around after her. It was during those rehearsals that I was privileged to experience one of those classic, unexpected and unforgettable moments.
SHE WAS QUITE UNBELIEVABLE, A FORCE OF NATURE WHO WAS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO RESIST.
We are sitting having tea together in one of the reception rooms when I hear a door open and there, emerging from the back of the suite, is none other than George Sanders. Yes, the star of All About Eve and countless other films, the voice of the sinister Shere Khan in The Jungle Book and … and Zsa Zsa’s ex-husband by some ten years.
‘Goodbye, my dear.’ His only words, as he tips his hat and walks out.
‘Was – was that George Sanders?’ I stutter.
‘Oh, yes, darling,’ replies Zsa Zsa, with not the slightest hint of awkwardness. ‘Georgie comes to see me quite often.’
FROM SEPTEMBER 1958 TO June 1964, with a couple of years out through a combination of illness and other theatrical commitments, I compèred something approaching 120 Sunday Night at the London Palladium shows. My final broadcast as host was on 28 June 1964. Norman Vaughan took over my duties after that, followed by Jimmy Tarbuck and then an assortment of compères, including Bob Monkhouse and Des O’Connor.
In 1967 the decision was taken to bring SNAP (or The London Palladium Show, as it was then called) to an end. Why? Viewing figures, I assume. In my opinion, a fateful decision had earlier been taken when Beat the Clock was dropped. For a while the press had been on and on about it, saying it was a silly game to have in the middle of a variety show. The powers-that-be responded accordingly and the ratings fell. I think people saw Beat the Clock as something of a lynchpin in the show. Audiences were used to it, regarding it as integral to the running order. When it disappeared, it was as though they were watching a different show: one the public no longer loved.
The date here is 11 June 1967. It’s true to say there were subsequent one-offs and later revivals, but this moment marks Jimmy, Bob, myself and Norman Vaughan, all hosts at one point in the show’s history, saying our farewells to SNAP in the best way we knew how, with a musical tribute. ‘Dearie, do you remember when we …’
I most certainly do remember. Thank you, Sunday Night at the London Palladium. You were responsible for putting me in the Big Time!
