Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [95]
Back in the little dining-room the romantic mood had gone, and Jam-Jar Griffin was in the middle of a magnificent rending of ‘Poor Blind Nell’, who in thirty-two bars of music had more perversions committed on her than a victim of Caligula. Reg Bennett played ‘ ‘Blue Moon’, then ‘ ‘Follow my heart my dancing feet’, while I danced with the hat-stand, and Edgington a chair.
The denouement. Rosie says, “‘Ow about some Iti champagne?”
Champagne??? Gunners drinking Champagne? It was called Asti Spumanti, more like Proof Lemonade, but the sheer feeling of luxury made it even more heady.
“Cor. Champagne,” said Edgington, making it disappear at a great rate.
He was at the old piano again; we stood around and sang tunes that put an emotional seal on our generation. Along about two in the morning we paid the bill, bade noisy good-nights to Rosie and her husband, and started down the long winding road to Amalfi. It looked like a silver river. No one was drunk but we certainly weren’t all that steady, there was a lot of sliding and slipping on a sharp gradient…It was a mile to the bottom, and I think our gyrations added another three. The seafront was quiet, a few chinks of light showed through late windows. I slept to the sound of the sea and a tide of thunderous snoring from a Neolithic gunner in the next bed who was fully clothed and sick down the front of his battle dress, a perfect end to a memorable night.
Jam-Jar Griffin and Reg Bennett appearing as extras in a picture featuring a horse and driver.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1943
MY DIARY:
NOTHING.
FILDES’:
Memorable because saw the remains of Pompeii.
This day was memorable. All the lads left early for Pompeii; having seen it I opted to stay in bed. It’s a cold sunny day on this delightful coast. I miss ‘official’ breakfast, so go to the little cafe by the Cathedral steps; inside I find Gunner White, and a drunken Scot from 64 Mediums. I joined them.
“Aren’t you seeing Pompeii?” says White.
“Not from here—anyhows, I hate conducted tours.”
I order two eggs-a-cheeps from the Signorina.
“This place gets a bit boring after twenty-four hours,” says White.
For the first time the drunken Scot talks. “Aye—fookin toors—nae bloody gude—s’better here, ah fuck.”
Let me describe him. Short, stocky, black hair, red face and staring blue eyes in a sea of red veins, he had no mouth as such—it looked more like an incision. He reeked of alcohol. The front of his battle dress was a mass of red wine-stains—his teeth were Van Gogh yellow—he hadn’t a penny, and sat with anyone who could stand the smell.
“I can’t get rid of him,” said White.
I ate my eggs and yarned with White. The drunken Scot kept interjecting, with unintelligible Scots rubbish. “Yerur—nae—narraer—getar—arrr—Glasgae arrhh—fuck.”
Left to right: Edgington—Bennett—Iti Guide; behind them Ken Carter and Spike Deans. They are outside Pompeii Cathedral, where they belong.
We get on to the beach and hire a boat. “Yem—nae ach—aye, Glasgae—abl—fuck.” I took the oars and we pulled gently from the shore. Out loud I quote, “All in the lazy golden afternoon—full leisurely we glide.”
“Yer nae sael ger—Glasgae—ah—fuck.”
A hundred yards offshore, I stack the oars and we just drifted—wonderful! peace! smoking, with our feet up. The sun is warm, the air balmy, the waters calm, the terrible Scot is sick—not in the sea, in the boat. We rowed back hurriedly, with him downwind. “Arragh—wae gal—ferrr—Glasgae ah fuck,” he said.
Left to right: Jam-Jar Griffin, Vic Nash, Spike Deans.
We climbed the sea wall and ran away from the reeking Scot. The afternoon we walked along the coastal road towards Positano—the afternoon sun was like a warm caress, we slung our jackets over our shoulders.
To our right are granite cliffs—“What’s caused that?” White points to a great cleavage in a hill.
“That’s a fault.”
“Fault? Whose bloody fault?”
Carefully I explain its geological