Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [82]
“It’s an insult,” he said, “why didn’t they send the Rolls?”
“Rolls? You still bloody hungry,” I said. “Let me take the Royal Big Pack, and count the Royal Cigarettes.”
He’d done alright for fags in Naples. “I bought ‘em on the black market,” he said, as I unearthed ten packets.
Edgington is walking behind, holding up Kidgell’s overcoat like an ermine cape. Bombardier Deans spots the entourage, runs forward with his groundsheet and throws it before the dwarf driver.
“‘Tis the Virgin Queen,” he chortles.
He’s timed his arrival well. Lunch.
“Where’s the cookhouse?” he said, forming a queue on his own. The sight of our well-prepared stage had impressed him. “Bloody marvellous,” said he, “can you eat it? Where’s the cookhouse?”
We watch as Kidgell devoured a third helping of duff as though he’d been adrift with Captain Bligh. Kidgell licks his knife. “My motto is, today I live, tomorrow I die.”
“Well, it won’t be from bloody starvation.”
Meanwhile, back at the stage, Sid Carter and a group of minions are performing miracles, using coloured crepe-paper and bunting; the stage looked splendidly seasonal, even front curtains on runners. ‘Manglewurzel’ Wenham had installed footlights.
“Watch this,” he said, and lowered the lights.
“Cor,” said appreciative Kidgell, “nearly as dim as you.”
“You bugger,” said Wenham.
The piano has arrived. It is an aged black upright. Edging-ton supervises the unloading as though it were a Bechstein, however it was to sound more like a Frankenstein. As he struck the first chord the response was like running an iron bar around the spoke of a bicycle.
“What bloody fool chose this?” gasped Edgington.
“I did,” said Lt. Walker. “Isn’t it satisfactory? I mean…it looked alright.”
“Oh, it looks alright, that’s all you can do, look at it.”
“Oh dear.” Lt. Walker was obviously distressed, after all, he was an officer, and here he was being told he was a musical ignoramus. “That piano has set me back to the tune of 800 lire.”
“Well, sir, that’s the only tune you’ll get out of it.”
That afternoon, armed with pliers, Edgington and I tuned the piano; as he tightened the first string, it snapped with the sound of a bullet ricocheting. BSM Griffin entered at the moment to see us flat on the floor.
Kidgell reads the piano manufacturer’s name. “Bertorelli. Milano.”
“Bertorelli? Don’t they make ice cream?”
“Yes,” said Edgington. “They mix it inside.”
By sheer effort we managed to tune the piano to a reasonable state. Getting the thing on the stage we dropped it.
“Oh, fuck nooo,” groaned a despairing Edgington.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” said Shapiro, our khaki Jew. “It can only make it better.”
The Concert
We had been overwhelmed with a mountain of jokes, ideas, etc., most of them too terrible to perform; some suggestions were impossible to perform—who in God’s name would tolerate Gunner Chalky White singing Ave Maria nude save for army boots?
“The best we can do is pick the least offensive,” I said.
“They’re all bloody offensive,” said Jam-Jar Griffin, who was ‘Manager’ for the Company.
Gunner White gives a soppy grin and says, “General Alexander says we must be on the offensive all the time.”
“You can’t sing Ave Maria in the nude, man. Some of the Iti farmers and their wives have been invited.”
“I’ve got a good voice,” said White.
“You’ve got a big prick as well,” I said.
“They don’t have to look at it.”
“How can they miss it.”
“Ities like good singing’.”
“Not with yer prick hanging out.”
Edgington, Fildes and I had ‘written’ a reasonably funny hillbilly act. We set about making beards by unravelling rope, and brushing it into shape. We used boot polish to blacken them.
“Behold!” says Jam-Jar Griffin, holding up four ragged shirts. It was just what we wanted for hillbilly costumes. Where did he get them?
“Pinched ‘em off a washing line, keep yer eyes open for four Ities naked from the waist up.”
Using miles of adhesive tape, Edgington and Fildes are affixing megaphones to the muzzles of our