As thrilling as Shirley Bassey. As spine-tingling as Monroe. No wonder I looked up to my wife!
Inexplicably, stardom was slow to arrive
FROM jobbing actor to nightclub performer, it took Ronnie Corbett a decade before he made headway as an entertainer. Here, in our final excerpt from his autobiography, the star — who died last week aged 85 — spoke about the tough early years, playing Othello opposite Danny La Rue’s Desdemona, and falling for his leggy wife …
HAve I mentioned how I met Sir Larry olivier, the greatest actor of his generation, and played ot hello? No? How extraordinarily remiss of me. of course, when I mention dear Larry, I shouldn’t like you to get the idea that theatrical giants like him left me feeling dazed or awed in any way. Goodness me, no. I was used to it.
Why, one of the first people I bumped into when I arrived in London in 1950, after completing National Service, was Sir Noel Coward. Well, I say I bumped into him, but actually it was more like spotting him from across the road. This peerless impresario and playwright was coming out of Floris, the perfumery in Jermyn Street, and stepping into an ordinary Hillman Minx, which I must say was a bit of a disappointment.
I was living in the basement of a house in St John’s Wood, owned by the mother of my actor pal edward Hardwicke, and trying out for every job going. I got a few minor parts, usually playing schoolboys in films you’ve never heard of, such as You’re only Young Twice with Charles Hawtrey, and Fun At St Fanny’s (I am not making this up) with Cardew ‘ The Cad’ Robinson. It began to look as if I was doomed to a long career in short trousers — which didn’t really appeal.
edward’s mother, a glamorous woman called Pixie, knew everyone, and it wasn’t unusual for me to be invited out of the basement to dine with the likes of Shakespearean titan Ralph Richardson or famous novelist J. B. Priestley.
Priestley rather frightened me, and I just sat there and listened — which was everything he desired in a fellow dinner party guest, of course.
The meal, incidentally, would have been cooked by Pixie’s butler, Burr, a grandly camp man who smoked handrolled cigarettes with his name embossed on them, and drank very strong Martinis in the kitchen all night. When my mother and Aunt Nell came to visit me in London, they were terribly impressed by Burr.
But the friend of Pixie’s who really helped me out was evelyn ‘Boo’ Laye, a luminous star of musicals, who took me under her wing and would book afternoons at Dinely’s, the rehearsal rooms off Baker Street, where she would teach me to sing and dance at the same time, and to thrust out my hands until my arms were extended as far as they would go.
Yet, inexplicably, stardom was slow to arrive. In fact, it was nine years before I began to make any headway in the entertainment world at all.
Finding that ambition alone wouldn’t pay the rent, I was obliged to take a number of temporary jobs. At the ex-servicemen’s victory Club on the edgware Road, I ran the canteen. I got on well with the chefs, who would tip me off when they were about to get a joint of beef or an apple pie out of the oven, so I could get a slice for myself.
This was rather grand, but I came down in the world with my next job, sitting in the kiosk at Regent’s Park tennis courts, where I took bookings and sold confectionery.
The job after that brought a real perk: a company car — a Standard eight to take me round the country, selling advertising space to the managers of cafes and pubs. The trick was to walk in without a briefcase, looking like a customer, and casually ask to see the boss as if you were looking up an old friend. It certainly developed my acting skills.
Working part-time and taking as much time off as possible to attend auditions, I wasn’t earning much and my lodgings reflected it.
During one patch of unemployment, I took a bedsit in a house in King Henry’s Road, Swiss Cottage. It had cold linoleum on the floor, and across the landing there was an Indian chap who worked at euston station and cooked curries in his room.
In the communal bathroom, a terrifying geyser dispensed hot water for a shilling: you put your coin in and it rumbled and moaned for a while, before exploding in soot, hot water and steam. The longer the rumble, the more ferocious the bang, which gave you fair warning and a chance to take cover.
I was grateful for any work, just so I could get better rooms. Sometimes I’d get a few weeks in a concert party, as a comic with a felt hat and a cane, playing second string to experienced comedians such as Graham Stark and Clive Dunn.
one of my favourite jobs was as a barman at the Buckstone Club, opposite the stage door of the Haymarket Theatre, because the clientele was so glamorous.
Sir John Gielgud, Sir Donald Wolfit, Joan Greenwood, Glynis Johns, Stanleys Baker and Baxter, they would all come in after the matinee to have poached egg, toast, raspberry jam and a nice pot of tea, while they did the crossword and waited for the evening performance.
Thanks to a summer season with a couple of other hardworking comedians, Jon Pertwee and Stan Stennett, I was able to afford my own car — a bullnose Morris, which I bought from a stage door keeper for £75. Jon and Stan were keen amateur mechanics and they helped me refurbish the engine — which made no difference whatsoever.
An old banger it may have been, but I was not pleased when I climbed into the driving seat after a long night at the Buckstone and, as I set off, became aware of a thundering noise from the back seat. A tramp had climbed in and was fast asleep on the upholstery. I made him get out. It was only a £75 Morris, but it had its dignity.
I got my first television break through a regular at the Buckstone called Digby Wolfe, who had his own variety show on the BBC and also wrote the material for The Yana Show.
Yana was a glamorous blonde who specialised in plunging necklines and novelty songs.
Digby got me bit parts on both programmes, and then brought me in to Winston’s nightclub in Mayfair, where he was staging the floorshow while the resident star, Danny La Rue, was away in panto.
Winston’s was the type of place where everyone knew a man who knew a man who could get you whatever you wanted, usually straight off the back of a lorry. I got a complete Wedgwood tea-set for 75 quid, and a double bed for a tenner. It was the late Fifties, and that’s just the way things worked then.
The nightclub was a long room with a small stage at one end. It
looked plush with its red velvet and chandeliers, but backstage the conditions were not quite so posh.
To get to the men’s dressing rooms, you had to go through the kitchens, so I usually changed behind a curtain next to the stage.
There was a little room for the hostesses, who would sit doing their needlework or reading a book until the manager stuck his head round the door and uttered a peremptory order, such as: ‘Suzie, table 14!’
This was a girl’s cue to go and sit with a well-lubricated customer at his table, encouraging him to buy more champagne and laughing at his jokes.
As the evening wore on, salesgirls would do the rounds, with teddy bears and negligees at extortionate prices. The customers would buy these as gifts for the hostesses, possibly in the hope of seeing more of the negligees later that night. Cigars and pyjamas were also popular lines.
It was all a scam, of course, and the girls would hand back their gifts to the management after the club closed, to be purchased again and again.
The clientele were mostly provincials, in town for the Motor Show or the Dairy Show, but there were other types there, too — friends of the owner, Bruce Brace, some of them sleek and prosperous men with a menacing look.
These men were East Enders who were often seen up West in the Sixties, driving drophead Aston Martins. I must say I got to know quite a number of villains there.
A few of the Great Train Robbers used to come in, in particular the man who planned the heist, Bruce Reynolds — though this was before they robbed the train, of course. One of our regulars was Charlie Mitchell, an associate of the Krays, who gave evidence against them at their trial and later died in mysterious circumstances on the Costa del Sol . . . two events which were possibly connected.
Smart people from Chelsea felt they were being dangerous and interesting by hanging out with men like Charlie and Bruce. The villains were social climbers in their own way, who thought they were moving up in the world by hobnobbing with the upper classes.
The shows at Winston’s featured people such as Barbara Windsor, Victor Spinetti, Barry Cryer and John Junkin, performing material that was fairly rude, always topical and often satirical. The dancers were always attractive girls, including four lovelies who paraded not quite topless in big feathers. When Danny La Rue, the unquestioned star of the place, returned from panto, he kept me on, which I was very pleased about — not least because I’d fallen for the Winston’s secret star attraction, the singer Anne Hart.
Anne had a really thrilling voice and she could put over a big number as powerfully as Shirley Bassey. I’ve got a cutting from the New York Times that says the only woman in the world who was Anne’s equal for sheer spinetingling talent was Marilyn Monroe. You can understand that I was hesitant about asking her out.
A lot of her confidence, I slowly realised, was a facade. Anne looked so assured that it was a shock to discover she suffered terrible stage fright before every show. She was married when I met her to a likeable chap called John, a singer in vaudeville shows, but the marriage had broken down.
One night, I summoned the courage to ask what she did before Winston’s opened for the night, and when she said she usually had a snack at her flat in Battersea, I suggested nonchalantly that she might care to join me for an omelette at the Buckstone.
It was the most exciting omelette of my life. I had never felt such heart-stopping attraction as this.
After that, we’d meet at the Buckstone every night. Considering it’s where I first ran into Ronnie Barker as well, there really ought to be a blue plaque on the wall.
Anne and I married at Brixton Register Office in May 1965, with just our parents and two witnesses present. After champagne and sandwiches at Anne’s house, we went back to Winston’s for the evening show.
My parents were at the best table in the place, and Danny, in full drag, made a huge fuss of my father all evening — until Dad turned to him and said: ‘You’re wasting your time here, son.’
Danny was a very handsome man and a very beautiful lady as well. For him, every number was a chance to wear new outfits. He took far more interest in the hats and the gloves and the furs than he ever did in the scripts.
Danny became so popular that he opened his own club in Hanover Square, and when Anne and I joined him the atmosphere was more dazzling than a glitterball. Every night we saw Judy Garland or Barbra Streisand, Princess Margaret or Rudolf Nureyev.
One evening I was limping rather badly and Princess Margaret asked me solicitously what had happened. I told her I’d fallen off a horse. Actually, I’d slipped on the step of our outside loo in New Cross.
This brings me to the point of my story, about Larry Olivier and Othello. We were performing this epic Shakespearean role at the same time — him at the National Theatre and me at the nightclub. His Desdemona was Maggie Smith: mine was Danny La Rue. I happened to know Robert Lang, the chap playing Iago at the National, and he procured tickets for Anne and me, with supper at Chez Solange afterwards.
Olivier joined us and conversation was fascinating.
But at the end of the night, there was a heart-stopping moment when someone suggested we should all go on to the club. I knew exactly what would happen if we did: as soon as Danny saw Larry, he would insist on performing our Othello.
‘Oh dear Lord,’ I prayed silently, ‘let Olivier say no.’
It was a close-run thing. Olivier and Lang, the great thespians, drove me and Anne to the door of the club — and then Larry said he was a bit tired and would we mind if he didn’t come in.
What a relief! I don’t suppose he ever did find out the terrible things that Danny and I were doing to that play.
AdApted from High Hopes: My Autobiography by Ronnie Corbett, published by ebury at £7.99. © Ronnie Corbett 2000. to order a copy for £5.99, visit mailbookshop. co.uk or call 0844 571 0640. Offer available until April 16, p&p free on orders over £12.
the
It was the most exciting omelette
of my life