I didn’t get where I am today without denting celebrity egos
Reggie Perrin creator David Nobbs, who died this week, was a comic genius. But his uproarious memoirs reveal some of the stars he met were no laughing matter
WELL, that’s i t,’ Leonard Rossiter said to me in the bar after the show, and then he a dded o ne of those bursts of disconcerting bluntness that were so typical of him. ‘You and I will never work together again.’
I was shocked. ‘You know why?’ he asked. He didn’t like me? He’d hated the scripts? He was terminally ill? He was giving up acting?
His voice relented. His eyes gleamed. He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Whatever we did, they would say it wasn’t as good,’ he said. ‘ That’s what they’re like, in this country.’
I realised afterwards that this was his way of saying thank you for the story of Reginald Iolanthe Perrin. This was the Seventies TV series The Fall And Rise Of Reginald Perrin, adapted from my novel, in which Leonard so brilliantly played a middle-aged, middle-manager driven to despair by his job at Sunshine Desserts.
Praise from Leonard Rossiter came like the coin in a Christmas pudding. You had to search for it. But, when you found it, you knew it wasn’t counterfeit.
At the beginning, when James Gilbert, head of comedy at BBC TV, asked me if I had anybody in mind to play Reggie, I said: ‘Yes. Ronnie Barker.’
‘Excellent,’ said Jimmy. ‘Terrific. Leonard Rossiter it is.’
I realised afterwards that the decision was made not because Len would be any better than Ronnie, but because the BBC had three series with Ronnie already and wanted a share of Len, who had recently starred in the ITV series Rising Damp.
I met him for the first time in the bar at Yorkshire Television. He told me Reggie Perrin was the second best novel by a young English writer he had read that year. The best, according to Len, was A Touch Of Daniel by Peter Tinniswood, who happened to be my best friend.
Later Len admitted that he had known this, had been trying to rile me — and had been disappointed by his failure to do so.
When we started studio filming for Reggie Perrin, he was charming with the audience, in a gentle, unforced way. Every week he made a deliberate mistake early on, said: ‘ Oh s**t’, and walked backwards very fast as if he was rewinding hi mself. I t was brilliantly done and he had them eating out of his hand before we’d even really begun.
Once, just once, in three series of filming Reginald Perrin, I felt the need to make a suggestion. ‘Len,’ I said, ‘I think there might be another way of saying that line which . . . might . . . um . . . be . . . um. . . well . . . better.’
‘Oh?’ said Len with ominous intensity. ‘Tell me.’ I told him.
‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘ Well, I’m impressed by the strength of your feeling. I’ll do it your way.’ He did it my way, and it got a huge laugh.
‘Well, I was right, wasn’t I?’ I said to him in the bar afterwards
‘No,’ he said. ‘You were wrong, and so were the audience.’
Len had a very keen sense of humour. He was also sharp, incisive, deadly. Socially, he was usually charming. And he did have a great deal of charm at times. But when it came to the context of work, stupidity was unforgiveable.
On one occasion, a l ady j ournalist asked him, i n my presence, if there was anything of Reggie Perrin in him.
‘No,’ he replied in the exaggerated tones that he reserved for idiots, in which he would speak much more slowly than usual and emphasise every word.
‘I am an actor. I take roles. I speak words that have been written by writers. I have played Macbeth. I have never murdered anybody.’
Long after Reggie Perrin finished, Len and I went on meeting for dinner and I went to see his many stage performances.
He died in October 1985, too young at 57, while appearing in the masterly black comedy Loot, which is all about death. It struck me at the time as an ironic coincidence.
This most energetic of actors died in his dressing room and was found sitting peacefully in a chair. It was too soon, much too soon. There were some great performances to come.
How wonderful he would have been as a grand old man of our stage, i n the manner of the Oliviers and Gielguds. Len shone like gold even in a golden age.
TANGLING WITH TOMMY COOPER
I HAVE had difficulty talking about Tommy over the years. He was so deeply loved by the public and there didn’t seem to be any point in telling people that I didn’t find him lovable. Why spoil a dream?
And why should people be lovely as well as brilliant? I wouldn’t have wanted t he boozing, disreputable poet Dylan Thomas anywhere near my house, but I’d love to have Under Milk Wood piped through to my bathroom every morning.
When I was commissioned to write for Tommy, the writers were commanded to assemble in a dark, dismal room, somewhere deep in the bowels of the BBC Television Centre.
Here, we were addressed by Miff Ferrie, Tommy’s agent.
‘A few hints about Tommy,’ he said. ‘He’s superstitious. Doesn’t like the colour green. So, nothing green. OK, lads? The other thing is, he can’t say his Rs very well. So, if you’re thinking of setting a sketch i n Rochdale, say, or Rotherham, or Retford, my advice is, don’t.
‘Set it in, say . . .’ For a moment he couldn’t think of anywhere that hadn’t an R in it. ‘Bedford. Or Preston. No, that has an R in it.’ He thought again. Inspiration struck. ‘Hull. Goole.’
He searched his memory again, as if he felt that he hadn’t quite made his point. ‘Leeds. Swansea. OK, lads?’
It seemed so bleak. There was none of the spirit of comedy, of that glorious absurdity that burst through the curtains when Tommy Cooper arrived on stage.
Something needed to be said. We weren’t clerks. We were comedy writers. Didn’t like green; couldn’t say his Rs. ‘ Bang goes my Robin Hood sketch,’ I said.
I thought it quite funny. But Miff Ferrie just glared at me.
Tommy really didn’t need writers, and he wasn’t easy to write for. If he saw a rule, he would break it.
I wasn’t just warned about Tommy’s ‘Rs’, but also about his legendary meanness. I had heard that he would ask taxi-drivers if they’d like a drink, then slip a teabag into their pocket.
I had heard that he sometimes also said to them: ‘Wait a minute. I haven’t given you a tip.’ He would pause, while they waited expectantly. ‘ Don’t plant your azaleas till mid-April,’ he would say. ‘A late frost could kill them.’
On one occasion, a visiting ‘suit’ (as we called all management people) offered to take us all for lunch. ‘No, no,’ said Tommy. ‘I’m taking the lads down the pub for a pie and a pint.’ Tommy took us all down the pub and ordered pies and pints for us all.
At the end of the meal, he inquired: ‘ Anybody any good at maths?’ My parents and all four of my grandparents were maths teachers. To me fell the task of dividing the bill by 12.
Now when I look back, I see all those little laughs as having a slightly uncertain timbre to them, almost an expression of halfhidden doubts.
And then I began to wonder about those stories about taxidrivers ’tips. Was it j ust meanness, or was it something more? Did he have an urge, an obsession even, to be funny and prove himself to be funny?
Other people have spoken of Tommy’s fraught relationship with his wife. I once worked with his son and did not get a picture of a happy relationship there, either.
It’s no secret that he drank a l ot, and t hat his drinking increased over the years. It’s clear that he did not lead an altogether happy life.
Millions in this country and far greater millions throughout the world f ound Tommy Cooper hilarious, but I don’t think he found himself hilarious at all.
If that is so, then for me, a comedy man, it’s a tragedy.
BOOZING BUDDIES WITH OLIVER REED
IT WAS a pleasant summer’s morning on the delightful Channel Island of Guernsey, but there was a treacherous little wind blowing through the picturesque, hilly streets of St Peter Port, and I decided to have a gentle, peaceful pint before returning to the beach and my family.
I chose the Old Government House Hotel, the best of the old school, not truly pubby, not remotely trendy and redolent of better days.
It had a large bar, and seemed very empty. That suited me perfectly. I didn’t want to get caught up in anything. I didn’t want to be led astray.
It was not long past noon, and there was only one customer. He was at the far end of the counter, seated on a bar stool, sipping a
pint. I walked up to the counter, and stood there, not too close to him, careful not to invade his space. I ordered a pint of local bitter.
My wife was a Guernsey girl and I liked everything local on principle. Besides, there was something about the man at the end of the bar which made me think I’d look silly drinking a gin and tonic.
I raised my glass vaguely towards him and said: ‘Nice morning.’ He gave a cautious half smile. I thought I had seen him before.
And then all of a sudden it dawned on me. This was the actor Oliver Reed. I knew that he had a house on the island. I knew that he was there a lot. I think somebody had told me that he often drank in the Old Government House.
I knew that he was quite regularly arrested. There were rumours that they had built a special, small prison just for him.
In searching for a quiet, safe pub where I would not be led astray, I had found a bar in which the only other customer was a man who had not long ago been the highest-paid actor in the country — and who was one of the most notorious drinkers and hell-raisers of the century.
I should avoid him. I should most definitely avoid him. But what sort of a man avoids the chance to talk to Oliver Reed?
I can’t remember my first remark, but i t was about Guernsey. I mentioned that my wife was a Guernsey donkey ( that’s what they’re called, it’s not an insult) and his love of the island shone out.
We had a lovely conversation as we drank our pints. If you are not a drinker of pints, you will perhaps not know that men tend to drink beer at roughly the same rate as each other. It’s instinctive.
He wasn’t drinking particularly fast and wasn’t raising hell at 12.30 on a quiet Saturday afternoon.
Of course, once one has accepted a pint, one has to offer a pint. So, I was committed to three pints. I was, therefore, also committed to annoying the family, making them wait for their lunch.
We moved on to discussion of other lovely places in the world. We touched upon the West Coast of Scotland. What sort of man discusses the West Coast of Scotland without mentioning whisky? My friend Oliver felt a whisky chaser would help our third pint along, and who was I to contradict?
I needed to go soon, but Oliver was my friend. My new friend. Hadn’t he just told me so? ‘David, you’re a man after my own heart. You’re a jewel in a dull world.’
And now he was saying it all over again. The two of us were quarried from the same stone. He had been looking for the perfect drinking companion. Where had I hidden myself all these years? I should move to Guernsey. My wife was a Guernsey donkey, was she not?
Well I saw nothing to disagree with in all this. He was perhaps being a bit over the top, but nothing had been excessive. Our beer glasses were now empty. Oliver put his glass down firmly on the counter.
‘Same again, gentlemen?’ the barman smarmed.
‘Absolutely not, Pedro,’ said Oliver Reed. ‘The world out there is full of dullards who say: “Same again”. My new friend and I do not. We are r ather s pecial. We are not “Same Again” guys. What shall we try next, David?’
I knew this would not be easy. ‘Oh no, nothing for me, thank you, Oliver,’ I said ‘I have to go.’
‘Go?!’ he thundered, and in that moment I learnt something of his amazing power as an actor. He said that one word with all the astonishment, contempt and disbelief of Oscar Wilde’s Lady Bracknell saying: ‘A handbag?’ ‘Go?!’ he repeated. ‘Yes, I have to see my family.’ ‘But we’re drinking together, David. You and me. We’re drinking together. We’re friends. You’re my wonderful new friend. We’re mates. You’re my new drinking mate. You can’t go.’
‘I have to, Oliver,’ I said. ‘It’s been wonderful, but I really do have to go.’
He changed in less than a second. ‘Well f*** off, then,’ he said. ‘F*** off.’
He clambered down from his stool. He approached me. His face had become ugly. ‘F***ing f*** off,’ he shouted. Images of him as a musketeer hung in the air. I had a vivid picture of him wrestling with Alan Bates in the 1969 Ken Russell film Women In Love. I noticed for the first time how muscular he was.
I f***ing f***ed off.