My meeting with Eric Morecambe was, to say the least, unplanned. The whole family were huge Morecambe & Wise fans – it was a show we all watched together – but my mother totally idolised Eric and cried for days when he died. She truly felt his like would never be seen again.
One summer, when I was about thirteen, Eric came to open the annual fête at one of the local nursing homes. It was an event my mother was determined to go to, as she thought it would be her only chance to see the great man in the flesh. My father, a psychiatric nurse on shift work, was unable to come with us but did drive us over to the home and drop us off in the car park.
While we were getting our bearings in the car park, another car drew in at snail’s pace, flanked by a few people running alongside. It came to a halt and Eric got out. Someone shouted, ‘It’s him!’ and, almost immediately, dozens of people came from nowhere and completely engulfed him. A couple of helpers pushed their way in but did nothing to ease the situation, and Eric, my mother and I ended up pinned up against the car.
Now, my mother – Betty Smith – was not a large lady in those days, but she did have a formidable presence (think Peggy Mount). She drew herself up to her full 5 ft and bellowed something along the lines of: ‘This is ridiculous, the poor man can’t move. He needs to be sat at a table, preferably in a room with an outside window where people can form an orderly queue for their autographs.’
Lo and behold, we were ushered away to said room and that’s exactly what happened. The upshot was, my mother and I found ourselves in the same room drinking tea with him as he chatted to all concerned. I still have the autograph he gave me to this day. On reflection, I do wonder if those in charge actually thought we were members of his party, but Eric certainly didn’t give us away!