IN THE SIXTIES – and I think you’ll agree it would be difficult to look more classically sixties than this I do in this photo – I was lucky enough to host two television series, imaginatively entitled Bruce’s Show (in 1962) and The Bruce Forsyth Show (1966–9). Both shared a basic format: a mixture of conversation, dance routines, songs and comic sketches, with a variety of guests joining me each week. It’s those guests I’m going to concentrate on now, many of whom were or became great pals.
THE TALENTED MUSICIAN AND singer Ray Ellington. I was very much a fan. When I was in the RAF, Ted Heath (the band leader, not the politician) used to put on Sunday concerts at the Palladium, with Canadian actor Paul Carpenter as MC, accompanied by singers Lita Roza, Dennis Lotis and Dickie Valentine. And as if that line-up wasn’t enough, in the second half we were treated to the Ray Ellington Quartet. I went as often as I possibly could to see Ray as much as Ted Heath.
So, you can imagine how delighted I was when I learned that Ray’s son Lance was joining the Strictly Come Dancing band as a singer. Lance and I were given the chance to duet on one of his father’s most famous numbers, ‘The Three Bears’, with one of Strictly’s professional dancers, Ola Jordan, accompanying us as a lovely Goldilocks. It was a song I knew well, of course, from playing it near enough sixty years previously at the RAF panto in Andover. Lance is a marvellous singer, and being onstage with him brought back many happy memories of his father.
DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS JR. DOESN’T he look fabulous in this photograph? You can imagine the impact he had when he came into the studio. There were women swooning left, right and centre. I can assure you that never happened when I was around.
Douglas was, without doubt, one of my favourite guests of all time. He was great fun, extremely pleasant and courteous, with the ability to out-Cooper Tommy Cooper! That’s right, the swashbuckling, dashing hero of so many Hollywood adventure films was an amateur magician. And hilarious with it.
In those days, for programmes such as this, we would rehearse a couple of shows at a time over a two- to three-week period, similar to what we did in Summer Seasons. We all looked forward to the days Douglas was due in because we knew he would bring a new conjuring trick every time. He would act it out for the whole cast and production team, deliberately making a mess of it and playing himself up wonderfully. We’d be in stitches. What a man.
TWO DEAR FRIENDS, DUDLEY Moore and Tommy Cooper.
This was a sketch based on our relative heights – Tommy stood six feet four inches, while Dudley was more than a foot shorter. I am somewhere in the middle. The skit began with Dudley complaining that he looked far smaller on the screen than Tommy and me, so we agree to pacify the little chap by standing in a line, Dudley at the front, me four paces behind and Tommy another few steps further back.
This, of course, makes any conversation rather awkward. ‘What’s he saying about me?’ Tommy would ask me. I then call out to Dudley, ‘Did you say anything about him?’ This carries on up and down the line until eventually Tommy can’t take it any longer. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’ve got an idea. Follow me, Bruce.’ And together we walk up to Dudley and lift him up, so we are all the same size. ‘Do you feel better?’ says Tommy. ‘Now, what were you saying?’
Honestly, it was funny at the time!
Tommy Cooper was one of those people who are the same offstage as on it – he loved to laugh and joke all the time. If we were in a bar after rehearsals, for instance, and someone approached him with a gag, Tommy would listen attentively, duly laugh when the punch line was delivered, then say in that voice of his, ‘That’s funny. That really is very funny.’ Then he’d attract someone else’s attention. ‘Excuse me. Excuse me. Come here a moment, would you? This gentleman here, he has a lovely joke. Go on, tell him it.’ He would do this half a dozen times to the poor guy until everyone in the bar was crowded around them. It was one of his favourites and always hilarious.
Tommy had this marvellous ability to build up the simplest of things into something incredibly funny. He wasn’t doing it to show off or impress anyone: that wasn’t what it was about for him. Tommy only wanted to bring some happiness into people’s lives.
I don’t think Tommy Cooper knew how funny he actually was. I used to come across him occasionally outside Hamleys toy store in Regent Street. He went there regularly to see if they had any new tricks he could use in his act. On seeing me, he would say, ‘Hold on a second, would you, Bruce? I want to show you something. Do you think this is funny? Do you?’ Then he would put on this little performance in the street.
Was it funny? Of course it was. Tommy was always funny.
AS FOR DUDLEY, WELL, we did many, many shows together. He was a joy to work with.
This was taken at his home in LA, before he fell ill. It was just awful what happened to him, suffering for a number of years with a degenerative palsy before he eventually died. So desperately sad.
Dudley was perhaps one of the most multi-talented person I ever worked with. He was well known for his comedy, of course, but he was also a fine straight actor and a hugely talented pianist. Technically brilliant, he could play just about anything, and play it very well.
In the early nineties Dudley was performing at the Royal Albert Hall, backed by a full symphony orchestra. My wife Winnie and I decided to go along. On the day of the concert we received a phone call from Howard Keel, with whom I had become very friendly over the years. Howard was in town and hoping to meet up.
‘What are you doing this evening, Howard? Winnie and I have a box at the Albert Hall to see Dudley Moore. There’s plenty of room if you’re interested.’
‘WILL HE BE DOING ALL THAT OOBY-DOOBY-DOOBY SCAT MUSIC?’
Howard was not convinced. ‘Will he be doing all that ooby-dooby-dooby scat music?’
I had to laugh. ‘No, Howard, he won’t be doing ooby-dooby-dooby. He’s not that kind of performer. He’s got a concert orchestra.’
Howard joined us and loved it. I hadn’t told Dudley we were coming as I wanted to surprise him, so, afterwards, we made our way backstage to say hello and let him know how much we had enjoyed the show. There were lots of people milling around, who I presumed were friends and family. As we were chatting and congratulating Dudley I mentioned that we were going out for dinner at Langan’s Brasserie and asked if he wanted to join us. It was an off-the-cuff remark. With all those other people there, I was certain he must have prior plans. He thanked me for the invitation but said he wasn’t sure whether he could make it.
‘No problem at all, Dudley. You know where we’ll be.’
At the restaurant, just as the three of us were beginning to order, a cab pulled up outside and out jumped Dudley. We were absolutely thrilled he had decided to join us after all, and we enjoyed a delightful evening with lot of laughs.
At one point during the meal I remember saying to Dudley, ‘Well, you’ve it made now. You can play any city you want. All you need to do is have your musical director go a day in advance to rehearse the orchestra and you turn up the following day to run through it, and there you are. It would be wonderful. You could be a concert performer for the rest of your life.’
I don’t know if Dudley took what I had said to heart, but I am convinced that if he had wanted a new career, it was there for him: he had more than enough ability.
THE GORGEOUS KATHY KIRBY. This is from a show broadcast on 28 August 1966, three years after Kathy’s big hit ‘Secret Love’. I don’t think that’s what we’re singing here, but if it had been it would certainly have been appropriate. You see, I was Kathy’s secret love for a short period in the early sixties. That’s all I’m saying!
I BET YOU DIDN’T think Frankie Howerd could dance, did you?
Well, that’s correct, he couldn’t!
For this number, featuring the singer Julie Rogers and our lead dancer from the show, the marvellous Aleta Morrison, I had to teach Frankie the slightly tricky step-over move you can see here.
In rehearsals I showed him it a few times, then asked, ‘Have you got it?’
Frankie looked at me, raised his eyebrows and, in a deadpan voice, replied, ‘Do I look as though I’ve got it?’
Frankie and I developed a very close association and recorded a number of TV specials together that were hugely enjoyable. You never quite knew what Frankie was going to do, except when I had a singing number. At the end of the song, when the camera cut to Frankie he would always look straight into it, straight at the viewers, and say, ‘Wasn’t that rotten? Absolute rubbish.’
Frankie was hospitalized in April 1992, but was discharged in time to be home for Easter. I went to visit him, bringing a box of chocolates. He took one look at them and said, ‘Thank God, you brought chocolates. When I woke up in hospital and opened my eyes the first thing I saw was dozens and dozens of bouquets of flowers. I thought I was in the funeral parlour.’
That was his sense of humour, even when he was so ill.
As we were chatting he mentioned he had something to ask me. ‘Listen, Bruce, I’ve had so many lovely cards and messages and calls that it would be impossible to answer everyone. It means so much to me that so many people have taken the trouble to send me their best wishes. It’s been overwhelming. So I was hoping you can do me a favour.’
‘Of course, Frankie. Just say the word. From tomorrow I’m away for a couple of weeks, but when I’m back, anything you want.’
‘Great. What I was thinking is that if I could arrange a little interview on television, I could then thank everyone for their kindness. I’d like you to do the interview with me.’
‘Of course I will, Frankie. I’d love to. Thank you for asking me.’
Frankie died suddenly three days before I returned from my break. I was so sad, so very sad.
WE’VE MOVED INTO 1969.
I suspect it won’t surprise anyone that Cilia Black was great fun to work with. You can see here how I’m trying desperately to keep a straight face, and failing. That is what it was like whenever we did a show together – laughter all the time.
For this one, Lionel Blair and I persuaded Cilla to perform her first piece of scripted dialogue. We went to see her in a cottage in the countryside while she was taking a few days off. It was just a page of dialogue but she was still very dubious and nervous about it, repeatedly reminding us that she was a singer, not an actress. Lionel and I calmed her down by reassuring her that we would rehearse properly, and finally she agreed to do it.
Cilia was an amazing person – a fantastic lady.
FINALLY, IN A FITTING close to this trip down Memory Lane, in the company of old friends from my television shows of the sixties, I arrive at the delightful Harry Secombe.
Harry and I were pals, and would often golf or go out for meals together when we were on the same bill. In truth, Harry wasn’t much of a golfer but that didn’t worry him in the least. He went out there to enjoy himself and he always did. In between shots, and Harry had a lot of shots, he would burst into song. I swear if we were playing a course in the country, the cows in the neighbouring field would start to look around and prick up their ears at that big, big Secombe voice. Maybe they were scared, maybe they were enjoying it, I’m not sure.
During my days touring the variety theatres and living out of the caravan, one week in 1955 found me playing Cleethorpes alongside Harry. I say ‘alongside’ but way, way below him would be a more accurate description. Harry was very much top of the bill and I was very near the bottom.
On arrival at the theatre on the Monday morning I went to the stage door to find out which dressing room I had been allocated; and who I would be sharing with. It turned out to be me … and the dog act Duncan’s Collies! Me sharing a dressing room with a dog act! You have got to be kidding.
This is never going to work, I thought. Every time I bend over to tie my shoelace there’ll be a dog sniffing around! It’s too ridiculous! I decided the best thing to do would be to get dressed in my caravan, walk over to the stage door in normal shoes, and put on my tap shoes in the stage-doorkeeper’s office.
So there I am on the first night, standing in my socks, in a tiny, cramped space, when Harry walks by.
‘Hello, Bruce. What are you doing?’
‘I’m just putting my shoes on.’
‘Why here?’
‘Well, I’m sharing a dressing room with Duncan’s Collies!’
Harry is unable to contain himself, booming out that unique, hysterical laugh of his, until eventually he manages to say, ‘You can’t do that. Come in with me.’
He then leads me to his dressing room. ‘Pick any corner you like,’ he says. ‘It’s yours for the rest of the week. I’ll tell the stage manager to give you a key so you can use the room whenever you need to. We’re all in this together. Duncan’s Collies!’ He shakes his head and the laughter starts all over again.
There was no one nicer than Harry Secombe.
HOSTING YOUR OWN SHOW is tremendously rewarding, but it can also be exhausting. In the build-up to every programme you’re under constant pressure to come up with ideas, while during the recordings the spotlight is relentlessly focused on you to ensure everything runs as planned.
It can often be a very welcome relief and great fun, therefore, sometimes to relax as a guest on someone else’s show; let them do all the worrying for a change.
The photo opposite is from a 1968 Millicent Martin series called Piccadilly Palace. I appeared on three occasions during the show’s run, enjoying myself thoroughly each time. These were great shows to be involved in, not least because they were aimed primarily at a US audience (even though they were filmed at Elstree Studios – as was a popular Tom Jones series, also produced for US television, and later in the seventies The Muppet Show), with American production values. Everything was always very well organized and professional.
LOOKING AT THIS PHOTO of me dancing with Millicent, I must say I’m really rather envious of my younger self. It’s many years since I’ve had that rather stylish, cool look about me!
Millicent was a wonderful artist whom I always enjoyed working with. We appeared together on numerous occasions, including a full Summer Season in Blackpool in 1967 and I was thrilled when much later she found a whole new audience for her talents, playing Daphne’s mother in the hit US sitcom Frasier.
JUST AS I’M THINKING about Elstree Studios, I’m going to leap forward briefly to the mid-1970s when I found myself back there in perhaps the most ‘sensational, inspirational, celebrational’ show of my life.
Yes, I was a guest in the first ever series of The Muppet Show, one of only three British entertainers to appear in that debut season (Peter Ustinov and Twiggy were the other two). Bearing in mind that the primary market for the show was the US, where I wasn’t particularly well known, why was I included? Well, the Muppets’ vaudeville theatre setting demanded considerable versatility from the guests: acting, singing, dancing. In the eyes of the producers I fitted the bill. I cannot tell you how pleased I am that they gave me the opportunity.
As with Piccadilly Palace, everything about the show was so slick. On my arrival I was given a glossy folder with the Muppets logo emblazoned on it, and inside my scripts were neatly laid out. The rehearsals for each number were beautifully planned and executed, some of the most enjoyable I’ve ever done.
As for the actual recording, I became so immersed in the world they had created, that I forgot there wasn’t an audience in the ‘theatre’. I didn’t think of the characters I was talking to as puppets: they were human, with their own personalities.
TAKE A LOOK AT this photo, for instance. You can see in my face that I honestly felt I’d built up a special relationship with Kermit. I was actually talking to him, not the legendary Jim Henson underneath the set who was manipulating rods and putting on the voice. To me it was an actual person, I mean frog, in front of me. I found the way in which they managed to create and maintain that atmosphere absolutely astonishing.
DEAR NORMAN MAEN WAS the choreographer for my dance number with these two huge birds! At one point in the routine I was standing facing the ‘audience’, unsure where one of my bird friends had got to, when suddenly he put his long neck right between my legs, scaring the life out of me. It looked very funny but it was cut, deemed too suggestive for the American audience. Back then they were really rather prudish, which is hard to believe these days, when you watch some of the American TV shows.
I made one mistake during my extraordinary visit. As I was leaving, the guy who was showing me out asked, ‘Would you like to see where we keep them?’
‘Oh, yes, I’d love to. I’ve had such an enjoyable day.’
He took me to a room where all these characters that I now regarded as friends and fellow performers were hanging upside down on pegs. I had become so attached to them – we had just done a show together for goodness’ sake – and now here they were, cast aside. I’d wanted to celebrate with them, but instead I left feeling terribly, terribly sad.
RIGHT, BACK TO THE sixties where I am again enjoying my role as a guest, this time on Juliet Prowse’s Showtime in July 1968.
Now, I know I have referred to many of the entertainers who have featured so far in this book as being hugely talented, but I make no apologies for doing so once again – Juliet Prowse was a big, big talent who led a big life, which was cruelly cut short by cancer. I was devastated when I heard the news.
Juliet was a one-time fiancée of Frank Sinatra, had a brief affair with Elvis while they were starring in the movie GI Blues, and appeared in a musical-movie called Can-Can that was described by Russian premier Khrushchev as ‘immoral’. She could dance, sing, act, was gorgeous, with famously long legs, and enjoyed an extremely successful stage career, starring in hits such as Mame and winning awards for Sweet Charity, which she brought to London in 1967. That was when I first got to know her well. She also featured in the same series of The Muppet Show as me, as their first ever guest. As I said, a big life.
Juliet was also incredibly good fun to be around, as I think this photo of us fooling about ably demonstrates. Laughter was never far away in Juliet’s company.
AS YOU CAN SEE opposite, I’ll do anything for a laugh!
These shots come from two different Showtime sketches and illustrate how varied the programmes were back then. You had to be adaptable – that’s the key word.
I’ve always known I was adaptable, able to fit in with whomever I was working with in order to get over to the public what we were trying to achieve. For me, I think that has been a vital ingredient for my success and longevity. I feel I can work with anybody – whether in a play, a musical number, dancing – and shape my performance so that it gels with the people I’m working alongside.
Take, for example, my appearance in Noël Coward’s short play Red Peppers, broadcast on the BBC in December 1969. Consider the cast – Dora Bryan, Dame Edith Evans, Cyril Cusack, Anthony Quayle: some of the very best actors of their generation. And me. What a privilege (and mildly terrifying experience) to be in the company of such a fine cast.
It was a black comedy about an awful double act, George and Lily Pepper, struggling on the variety-theatre circuit. It was a wonderful piece, which reflected real life. The characters Dora and I played, the Peppers, were so beautifully observed by Coward because he based them on people he knew when the music halls were flourishing. It was a big departure for me from what I was known for, and I loved every moment of it.
VITUALLY THE WHOLE PLAY takes place in our dressing room as we change into our costumes for our second number after a disastrous opening song. Cyril Cusack is the musical director, whom we are always arguing with, Anthony Quayle the house manager, who eventually sacks us, and Dame Edith Evans plays the top of the bill who complains about all the noise from our dressing room.
The producer of the show was Michael Mills, a very clever and ingenious man. He had the scenery constructed in two halves, so that sections could be removed, allowing him to shoot the entire first take from one angle, and then from an entirely different perspective for the second run-through. That way he could intercut between the two in the editing. I’d never seen anything like that before. I thought it was brilliant.
DURING MY CAREER IN the sixties, television studios were not the only places I found myself recording. Between 1960 and 1969 I released half a dozen singles, plus the cast recording of Little Me, and also appeared on a charity compilation album entitled No One’s Gonna Change Our World in support of the World Wildlife Fund.
That last one is a particular favourite as I’m listed on the cover alongside the likes of the Beatles, Cilla, the Hollies, Lulu and the Bee Gees. My contribution, appropriately enough, was ‘When I See An Elephant Fly’. Back at the Express Theatre, Brixton, in the mid-fifties, I would undoubtedly have said that was a more likely occurrence than me featuring on a record alongside some of the biggest ever names in popular music.
No One’s Gonna Change Our World was not the only stellar ensemble in which I found myself in the sixties. In 1965 I took part in a rather bizarre but brilliant recording of Alice in Wonderland, with a cast including Dorothy Squires, Dirk Bogarde, Kenneth Connor, Peggy Mount and Harry H. Corbett.
I played the March Hare and sang on the track ‘The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party’ with Tommy Cooper and the young girl you can see here, Karen Dotrice. Recognize her? From a film that had been released the previous year? That’s right. She played Jane Banks in Mary Poppins.
Next to Karen is another cast member, Fenella Fielding, who many people will know best from Carry on Screaming, which is very appropriate because Fenella was an absolute scream herself. She really was. During rehearsals one day she was growing a little concerned that she didn’t fully understand when she was meant to come in on her track (as the Dormouse). Young Karen, playing Alice, was sitting right next to Fenella. Most definitely in earshot. She would have been barely ten years old. Fenella and the producer, Norman Newell, were discussing how it was all going to work.
‘Norman,’ Fenella said, in her very breathy and upmarket voice, ‘will you please tell me exactly where I come in? You see, it is a little confusing with everyone singing at the same time. And I don’t want to be the only one who is fucking the whole thing up.’
Priceless.
