FOREWORD

BY MIRANDA HART

If someone were to ask me what the most memorable day of my life was, I would, with relative ease, answer: 7 May 2011. This was the day that I was asked to visit Eric Morecambe’s widow, Joan, and his son, Gary, at the house where Eric and Joan had lived since 1968. They had read that I had been inspired by Eric’s work and was a fan and very kindly got in touch to see if I would like to meet them and come to the house. I jumped at the chance.

Now I confess I have never been married or had children, so I am not sure whether a wedding or the birth of a child would bump this day into third position of wonderful days in my life. I have a suspicion possibly not and it might remain firmly at number one. I’d better explain.

Put simply, Eric Morecambe is my hero and inspiration. From an early age, he has had a profound effect on my life. For those of you who have bought this book, you might feel similarly. You might be able to say, hand on heart, that Eric is your hero. He’s your chosen dinner-party guest of all human beings past and present. He’s your favourite comedian. Well I concur. But for me, and I hope I don’t lose all of you here, it was more than that.

In Eric Morecambe, I felt I found a friend with whom to share my life. Such was the immediacy of his humour and the warmth of his on-screen persona that I would put on a Morecambe & Wise video on a gloomy day, a day when the Black Dog might have been prowling, and the show would gently wash over me, lifting my mood. He would help me escape from how I was feeling, relieve the darkness. It wasn’t just in bad times. I would laugh at him as I was laughing about positive things in my life, thereby sharing joyful moments with my beloved comedian too. He was there for me. I am not sure there are many comedians who are that open, endearing and approachable in their work to have such an effect on audiences. He was, simply, unique.

So, how did it all begin, this passion and sometimes obsession with Eric Morecambe? I was born on 14 December 1972 and I imagine that I would have been in my mother’s arms, or upstairs with the noise of laughter creeping upwards, a couple of weeks old, as they watched that year’s Morecambe & Wise Christmas special. I like to believe some sort of comedy osmosis began then, right at my very beginning. In my opinion, and I believe Gary Morecambe agrees with me, their best sketch and when they were at their absolute peak of brilliance was the 1971 Christmas special André Previn routine. It is incredible to think they had been working as a double act since 1941, their first television show Running Wild was broadcast in 1954 and there they were in 1971 at the height of their game. Not only were they popular enough to maintain audiences over so many years (and increasing audiences) but also they were always improving, always evolving, always working, so that after thirty years as a partnership and seventeen solid years of television they produced one of their finest comic moments.

It is well documented that Eric was concerned the sketch wouldn’t work. Amongst other things, they were unable to rehearse the hours they normally would because of André’s availability. But, luckily for Britain, they didn’t drop it and forty years later you can often hear one of its famous lines being retold. ‘I’m playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order.’ At the end of the sketch, I believe you can see the relief, joy and excitement in Eric’s face as he claps, realising that that was probably the best thing he had ever done. He was clearly aware of the pure magic that had just happened on stage – everything had come together to create something truly special. And his face in that moment proves how important it was to him, how much he wanted things to work so as to avoid letting himself or the audience down.

So, in 1972, our national treasures were riding high on the previous year’s success and they produced another fine programme for the nation to savour at Christmas. It’s strange to think I had only just been born when sketches such as miming along behind Jack Jones in pink dresses to ‘Dream Dream Baby’, the ‘Life is a Cabaret’ ending with Glenda Jackson, and the iconic image of Eric and Ernie dressed as reindeer were first being aired. They are part of my heritage now and so familiar to me forty years on. The BBC website still runs clips of that reindeer sketch. And what a testament to Morecambe & Wise, and all the creatives behind the show, that it can stand that test of time. There aren’t many entertainers you can watch repeatedly and still find funny even when you know what’s coming. As Jimmy Carr said to me once, there are some comedians who audiences just want to be in a room with, just want to watch, be in their company, it doesn’t really matter what they are doing or saying. And there are some comedians for whom the script and their jokes are the selling point. Jimmy was putting himself in the latter – his razor-sharp one-liners, his close-to-the-knuckle shocking gags – these are things the audience is expecting from him as he maintains a formal, fixed position centre stage. Eric and Ernie as performers belonged to the former category. Of course the sketches were brilliantly written and honed, but it was Eric’s character – energetic, playful, silly – that we were desperate to spend time with. He drew us in. He could say and do very little and we would laugh. So, even now, when we know what’s coming, we have a childish excitement just to be in the room with him again. His work doesn’t tire. 

I was about five or six when I actually first remember watching a Morecambe & Wise show. I don’t know exactly what sketch or programme it was. It would have been 1977–78, so it could have been their last BBC show, or the first one on Thames Television where they moved for their final years in 1978. All I remember is dancing along to a routine and being absolutely mesmerised when this round-faced, puffy-eyed, cheeky man smiled a ridiculous grin at me down the camera. I distinctly remember the feeling it gave me. Obviously, I laughed. But I also remember feeling loved, like a best friend was inviting me into their play world.

Since that day I have not only found a friend in Eric Morecambe, but I have also had a need for the ‘silly’. I have wanted to play. I always hated being told ‘don’t be silly’ when I was younger. It used to make me very cross indeed. And I can distinctly remember thinking, ‘If Morecambe & Wise can be silly and have fun in life, when they are grown-ups, then I am going to darn well be silly too!’ I think I probably knew then, in some way, that I wanted to be a comedian. And from that age, in terms of televisual watching, they had instilled the need for big, bright, light entertainment shows to pour gently over me and wash the trials of the day away. Other favourites of that generation that I would watch, according to my parents, standing mesmerised, mouth agape, quite close to the television, included Tommy Cooper, Joyce Grenfell and The Two Ronnies. But it was Morecambe & Wise and Eric in particular who had my heart.

In my late teens, I realised for certain that I wanted to be silly for a living. I wanted to be in comedy. I wanted to give people what Morecambe & Wise gave me. I saw the effect of their job, as we would all sit down as a family and watch, tears of laughter pouring down our faces. I wanted to see whether I could be in what I thought was a very important industry in bringing those emotions to people in their sitting rooms. What a gift. It seemed like a very arrogant thing to want to do, so it took me twenty-six years to admit it.

In my early twenties, or rather ‘the tricky post-university, trying to cope with the real world for the first time’ years, the Eric & Ernie Live video got me through. I knew it backwards. I was particularly enamoured by a video of their live theatre show, as opposed to the TV recordings. It made their work even more immediate and exciting. And, for me, it’s them at their funniest. They seemed more alive, more free, less guarded and formal in their delivery. I suppose the pressure was off. They had the thousand-strong audience in front of them, but it was contained to just that. Their television shows at this point were getting twenty million plus viewers. That’s serious pressure. But here that was momentarily relieved. They were completely natural, slightly cheekier, and slightly rougher round the edges, doing what they did best. And what, I suppose, they were born to do. I loved it. Still do. So Eric & Ernie Live, the video, was my refuge in my early twenties. I spent many a night, when my friends were all out clubbing, learning the dance routine they did to the song ‘Pretty Baby’. I would learn a couple of the moves, pause the video, rewind to make sure I had it, and continue until I could do the whole routine with them. Not the most usual pastime for a young person just moved to the bright lights of London, but I was happy. Although, I confess, no one knew (probably until now) exactly what I was doing!

I had an extraordinary day two days before going to see Joan and Gary, when I had been asked by Ronnie Corbett (another comedy hero) to take part in a programme he was making for ITV about young comedians and who had inspired them. He asked me to choose an iconic place that related to a comedy hero, and we would go there to film for the day. Without hesitation I said Fairfield Halls in Croydon where the Eric & Ernie Live show was recorded. I had never been there but I could visualise the stage, the curtains, the floor, the wings so clearly and I knew I would dearly love to see it for real. So, on the morning of 5 May 2011, I arrived at Fairfield Halls and Ronnie, on camera, showed me around. We arrived at the stage door and walked the walk that Eric would have done to the stage. I suddenly stopped in my tracks. Ronnie asked me what was wrong. I had seen the beginnings of the wood floor of that stage I knew so well from the video. My heart started racing. I was going to stand on the very place Eric stood all those years ago. We walked through the curtains and I was confronted with a surprise. They had put an old 1960s microphone, just like the one Eric and Ernie used, and a band at the back of the stage (again, just like the video) and, when I walked on, the band burst into an arresting version of ‘Bring Me Sunshine’. I was transported. And then I cried. And then I did the Morecambe & Wise dance across the stage a couple of times! 5 May 2011 was probably the second best day of my life.

As I got older, temping in offices and trying to pursue my dream of getting into comedy, Morecambe & Wise’s legacy kept me going. They reminded me of the necessity of laughter in the world. It was hard work, very hard work to get into the industry. It took me seven or eight years to get my first job. But I will never forget when I walked into BBC Television Centre for the first time – I was totally overwhelmed by the fact that this is where Eric and Ernie worked. Eric would have trodden the same corridors as I now was. Along with Tommy Cooper, Tony Hancock, The Two Ronnies. Such a rich history. That feeling when I arrive at the BBC never leaves me. Now, when I am feeling like writing is too tough, I go and stand at a balcony that overlooks one of the studios they filmed in. There is a big picture of Morecambe & Wise in black tie leaning against a lamp post in the gallery. I look down and imagine them on the floor recording my favourite sketches. One of them being the silliest and simplest of routines involving Eric miming with horses’ reins, sitting on a carriage. Ernie is singing a love song to his ‘girlfriend’, Eric is a Russian-looking carriage driver. Every half a minute or so, Eric says, ‘Giddy up,’ and is then pulled out of frame by the reins as the horses in effect suddenly speed up. His Russian hat goes flying, his fake moustache comes loose, he then climbs back up on the carriage and starts again. I know what’s going to happen, but I still find it hilarious. And you can see Eric’s joy in doing it too, his tiny wry smile colluding with the audience. ‘We all know what’s happening here,’ he is saying. ‘We don’t know why it’s so funny, it just is.’ I look down and imagine him filming that. I remember what I owe him, and it keeps me going.

Each year that I work in comedy, it seems to get harder, more pressure, trickier to think of new ideas. And with that I become fully aware of the sheer hard work, the dedication and sacrifices Eric would have made for his long career. Recently, I started to become incredibly grateful to this man who probably pushed himself far too far, to the detriment of his health and sometimes possibly his family life. I know he worked on a Christmas special while on a family holiday in the summer and generally found it hard to switch off. But he did this predominantly to honour his audiences and make them laugh as much as he could and to the best of his abilities. Gary and Joan might have wanted their father and husband more present on a holiday, but I am one of millions of audience members grateful for the energy he gave to his job. I don’t think there are many entertainers who are as committed as he was; who believe so wholeheartedly in what they are doing; who do their job for others not just themselves. He knew that people needed another Morecambe & Wise show and he wasn’t going to let them down. And he pushed himself to the limit to do this over a forty-year career spanning radio through television at the BBC, then ATV, BBC again for the ‘golden years’, and finally back to ITV, ending in 1983.

So I am very grateful to Eric for being a friend through good times and bad, for making me laugh, for inspiring me to get into comedy, and all this by smiling that famous smile down the camera lens. From the moment that first happened I dreamt of having my own show on the BBC when I could look down the camera to people in their sitting rooms myself. I didn’t think it was remotely possible I would ever get a show made, let alone one that some people might watch and like. And I find it exciting and humbling to think that, when I smile down the lens, I might be having a small per cent of the effect Eric Morecambe had on me. I have him to thank for it all.

So, with all that he meant to me, all those shows that I had watched, all those books I had read and pictures I had studied of him with his family in their family home, on 7 May 2011, I was suddenly heading to his very house to meet Joan and Gary Morecambe. I was incredibly nervous. Could I just quiz them all about him? Are they bored with talking about him? Would I get over-emotional? I drove up to Harpenden from London. I had my dog with me. I was about half an hour early, so I pulled up in to a field to walk the dog and pass the half hour. I took her off the lead and, in the one moment I took my eye off her, she found some fox poo (or possibly something worse) to roll herself in. Nightmare! I couldn’t turn up to Eric Morecambe’s house with a stinky, shitty dog. I had a water bottle with me and poured the water all over her to try to rinse it off. No dent was made in the overwhelming stench. I was convinced I could hear Eric’s voice from on high laughing: ‘Brilliant, wouldn’t want it any other way.’ It was a hot day, and I arrived in a bit of a nervous sweat explaining that my dog reeked so she would have to stay put in the car, and apologies if I smelt at all odd but I might have some fox poo on me. Not the best of starts.

But Gary and Joan were absolutely charming, kind and lovely. But what was surprisingly hard to deal with, however, was that as I walked into their sitting room I realised that everything was the same. I recognised the curtains from a photo I had studied of Eric in a book. I sat down on a sofa. Gary explained that was where Eric would sit to watch his own shows. It was the same sofa. The only thing that was different in the room was the television. There were photos everywhere. I found it incredibly moving. I couldn’t believe I was so close to him. I felt a sort of grief. As if I had just found out about his death. He’s so alive on the shows I re-watch. But here, despite a presence, there was a hole.

After a lovely lunch (amazingly with some of my favourite food, to add to the perfect nature of the day), Gary asked if I would like to see his father’s study. Of course! We walked upstairs and into a calm, quiet room that overlooked the garden. Gary explained this was the room where his father would do all his writing and thinking. When he was here, he was not to be disturbed. As I took it in a bit more, I realised that this was just as it would have been too. The bookshelves had all his notepads in, old books, clocks, awards. Gary showed me the smoking jacket on the back of the door – with the elbows worn out from leaning on the desk. The coat I had seen in photos that he wore at Luton football ground was also hanging on the same hook. It was all still there. And then I nearly jumped as I saw a little face peering out of a cardboard box. It was Charlie. Charlie the ventriloquist dummy from the live video I had watched over and over again. Gary let me pick Charlie up. I did a couple of the jokes that Eric did while holding it (most notably ‘his mother was a Pole’) and worked out how to move his eyes. Eric had touched this. It was so extraordinary. I had to bite my lip not to cry. I didn’t think it was my place to cry. Gary might think me very odd weeping over his father, whom I never knew. A particularly difficult moment was when (and he had given me permission to snoop) I opened a box – it was a pipe box. The smell of tobacco hit you as if he could still be in the room. It was all a bit much. It was as difficult as grieving for a long-lost family member or very close personal friend.

I bumped into Stephen Merchant (another Eric fan) a few days before I was going to the house, and told him about my offer to visit. He was gobsmacked. I said I would ask Gary if he minded if he came along too. But Stephen said not to. He said he thought he’d find that a bit too much. A bit strange and possibly difficult. I thought that seemed odd. I thought he was mad for missing out. But, standing in that study, I got it. Eric was an entertainer who meant so much to his viewers, probably particularly to those of my and Stephen’s age who started watching him in our formative years, that we did treat him like a father and brother.

After a cup of tea, I felt I might have outstayed my welcome – I could have stayed for hours more, days in fact. I felt really at home. But I pulled myself away. And, as I turned out of the drive, I found myself bursting into tears and I could not stop the whole drive home. I got a few strange stares at traffic lights as I blubbed uncontrollably. I kept saying to myself, ‘This is ridiculous, why am I crying so much?’ I reflected and realised the day was a culmination of my life. I remembered feeling the silliness and joy of being a child watching Eric. I was grieving for the tough times when I watched him for respite. I was finally patting myself on the back for getting into comedy and I felt overwhelmed with tiredness at how the job had taken its toll. But I realised it was worth it. I was in a job that sells love and joy, without which no one can flourish. And when I wasn’t flourishing, there was Eric. And I was more grateful than ever for his dedication to providing such abounding love and joy. It was the best day of my life because it punctuated all that had come before it.

You might think I am being over the top. And I am sorry, and slightly embarrassed, if it sounds it. But I am just telling you how I honestly feel. And I don’t think I will be alone. I think the strength of our feelings shows the importance and particularly resonance of comedy. But most of all they indicate the unique creation and genius that was Eric Bartholomew. How extraordinary that an ordinary boy from Morecambe could have a life that affected so many people, so deeply. Thank you, Eric.

Thank you, Gary and Joan, for my 7 May 2011. Thank you for the honour in asking me to write this foreword. And thank you for continuing Eric’s legacy by providing us with this new book.

Miranda Hart

London, 2012