Adolf Hitler_ my part in his downfall - Spike Milligan [31]
Now, whereas wartime Hailsham offered boredom of an evening, nearby Eastbourne offered a greater variety of it. As a local said “There’s nothing wrong with Hailsham, there’s always the streets.” On nights off Harry and I would thumb a lift to Eastbourne. As empty vehicle after empty vehicle went by we realised what a lot of bastards people were. A Canadian truck approached. When I saw it was not going to stop I waved it farewell. Immediately the truck stopped, backed up, and out jumped a furious noisy-voiced Canadian officer. He was incensed that I dared wave the truck farewell, “I’m not having any two bit private being a smart alec at my expense.”
“Oh there’s no expense sir,” I said, “I did it free.”
“It’s forbidden for military vehicles to stop to give anyone a lift.” Having had his moment of power he drove away, taking his tiny mind with him. What can you say or do to a person like that? I mean, I was wishing he’d get killed the first day in action. My God, he started a chain reaction from then on I never gave any Canadian officer a lift, ever. Aren’t I a swine? (Heh-heh-heh-heh.)
Our first visit to Eastbourne led us to a pub from which issued forth music. The customers were all squaddies and their girls. The music was supplied by three elderly gentlemen on a small rostrum. Piano, violin and cello. They made desperate attempts to be ‘with it’ by playing ‘In the Mood’, ‘Beat me daddy eight to the Bar’ etc., but one felt that death was nigh. Suddenly, in the middle of a tune, the violinist downed his violin, started to collect the empty glasses which he took to the bar.
“What an original arrangement,” said Harry. “Sixteen bars solo, then eight bars collecting empties. This could open up a whole new field of entertainment.” I agreed. “What’s wrong with sixteen bars solo, then eight bars painting the landing, and another eight bars chopping wood. Great.”
Harry spotted it. The fiddle player only got down to collect the empties when the tune went into more than three flats. We spent the rest of the evening listening for the key changes; “This is it, he’ll start collecting ‘em now,” said Harry gleefully, as the maestro did exactly that.
Ever on the search for money, we’ asked the landlord if he’d like us to play some Jazz one evening. He was a tall, very fat man. His face so red it appeared to have been sandpapered. He liked the idea but, “I’ll have to speak to the Missus. Florrie!” Florrie arrived from the dark recesses of the saloon bar. “Jazz?” she said, “isn’t that the noisy stuff?” We assured her that it wasn’t. It was finally agreed we would be given a try-out the coming Saturday. There was no money, but we could have drinks on the house, and we didn’t have to collect the empties. It was nearly the last Saturday of my life.
Eastbourne and excitement are foreign to each other. Peacetime Eastbourne with its frail old ladies or russet-faced gentlemen dozing in wicker bath-chairs varied little from wartime. The town .had been evacuated. The great wedding-cake hotels were boarded up or occupied by the Services. A few diehards remained. You’d see them mornings, sitting in bus shelters reading The Tames, or ladies in deck chairs knitting Balaclavas. “Which war are we knitting for, Penelope?” They all objected to the triple skeins of barbed wire that ran the length of the sea-front disappearing towards Bexhill and Beachy Head. Who in their right mind would want to attack Eastbourne? It would get the town a bad name. They were still trying to live down the fact that Van Gogh once stayed there. I mean,