Where have all the bullets gone_ - Spike Milligan [72]
The sound of chattering, farting and screams tells me that Secombe has been cured and released, and the hospital burnt down for safety. “Hello hello, hey hoi hup, raspberry, scream, sing, on with the show hey hoi hup.” He revolves round the hotel at speed. What had eluded scientists for 2000 years has been discovered by Gunner Secombe. Perpetual motion.
New Year’s Eve
A.D. 1946 is a few hours away as the show opens. The front row is filled with the well-scrubbed, pink and pretty Queen Alexandra Nursing Sisters, all crisp and starched in their grey, white and red uniforms. Hovering above them in the crammed gallery are hundreds of steaming Highlanders, all in the combustible atmosphere of whisky fumes. The Bill Hall Trio are a smash hit. We are going for an encore when to our horror we see, falling like gentle rain from heaven, scores of inflated rubber condoms floating down on the dear nursing sisters. Some, all merry with the festive season, start bursting them before they scream with realization. Military police go in among the steaming Scots and a fight breaks out; to the sound of smashing bottles, thuds, screams, wallops and yells, a nun sings ‘Ave Maria’. Happy New Year everyone.
After the show there’s a party on stage, a table with ARGGGGHHH Cold Collation, the Bill Hall Trio play for dancing. A good time was had by all, and something else had by all was Delores Bagitta. Lt. Priest drinks a toast:
“This is our last show and we will be returning to base tomorrow.”
Naples Again
It is 120 miles to Naples, a sort of London/Birmingham trip. Bill, Johnny and I sit as usual at the back on the bench seat. We start to talk seriously about a future in England. We agree to stick together and make our fortune. With the reception we’ve been getting, how can we go wrong.
January. CPA Barracks
It was a sybaritic life. No parades, an occasional inspection, and a NAAFI open day. There were perks. “There’s spare tickets for the opera,” says gay Captain Lees, who is ever so lonely and rightfully in the Queen’s Regiment. The opera? Fat men and women bawling at each other in front of cardboard trees, backed by a crowd of hairy-legged spearmen. OK, it was free. I was about to see what any opera lover would give his life for. Outside the San Carlo: “The WVS presents the world’s greatest tenor, Benjamino Gigli.” Gigli? Coleman Hawkins or Ben Webster, yes, but Gigli?
I have a plush box to myself it seems, but just before curtain-up a smelly Italian peasant carrying a bag of food and a bottle of wine is ushered in. “Scusi,” he says, then starts laying the food out on a cloth. Overture, curtain up. Magic. Where have I been? Puccini! What an ignorant bastard I’ve been. Wait, the Italian is getting pissed, and by the time Mimi’s tiny hand is frozen, he’s joining in the arias. He’s sitting on the floor, the audience can’t really see him, they’re all shushing at me. The attendants come in, I have a struggle telling them I’m not the culprit. Eventually they drag the protesting Iti away, but leave his bread, cheese and wine which I am well pleased to finish.
The Opera continues. ‘Mimi’ sob, sob goes Rudolph, and crashes his twenty stone on top of the poor consumptive; the curtain comes down to stop her being asphyxiated. Curtain call after curtain call. I am on my feet shouting Beeeeseeee! Like all bloody musicians, the orchestra are trying to get out before any encores…they all escape but Gigli collars the harpist and sings Neapolitan folksongs, for an hour — magic. Gigli is gone to his rest, but that evening goes on…
A Bitter End
The curse of the working class! Piles! I am stricken, strucken and stracken with the things! Unlike other enemies, one could not come face to face with these things. Piles! The MO is no help: he is twiddling his things and unsympathetic.
“There’s the operation,” he says.
“And it’s agony,” says I.
“That is true,” says he. Otherwise…what then? He shrugs his shoulders. I’m pretty sure that shrugging your shoulders is no cure for a sore arse. He gives me a