Memories of Milligan. Norma Farnes
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amicable and I saw the colour come back into his cheeks.
But when you get two highly combustible people working together there’s invariably an explosion, and it came one day when Spike and I disagreed over one word. It was either ‘the’ or ‘and’. I said it was import ant to put ‘the’ in and Spike said it wasn’t, and I said it was. This got so heated that Spike picked up a paperweight and threw it at me. Now, had I been prepared I would have ducked, in which case I would be in the graveyard, but I didn’t. I stood there, frozen, and it missed me by about a foot and went through the window – remember we were on the fifth floor – to smash itself onto the pavement. When I collected myself I walked straight downstairs, picked up the pieces, came straight back and put them on the desk in front of him and I said something very banal, which was, ‘Remember what day this was.’ It was like a B-movie. It was silly, it’s like a sentence that would go down in history and he was a bit sheepish at the same time. Also he was wearing an open-neck shirt and I saw these red spots on his chest and neck that I hadn’t seen before and I realised that his manic depression was something physical. And so I said, ‘I’ll tell you what, Spike. You write one week and I’ll write another.’
So for a few Goon Shows that’s how we wrote, until one Sunday I went to the recording of one of my scripts and they were standing round looking gloomy, the three of them. Peter Eton was the producer and I said, ‘What’s happened?’ And Peter said, ‘It’s not funny,’ and the three of them were mute – Spike, Harry and Peter. Suddenly, I lost my rag and I said, ‘Listen! Whatever happens, it’s too late now to do anything about it so you’ll have to go on and do it tonight. And I’ll tell you something. I’ll never set foot in a Goon Show studio again.’ And with that I made my exit, better than made by Laurence Olivier.
Every Sunday night after the show we used to eat at the Czech restaurant in Edgware Road. I went and had dinner alone and when I came out a taxi pulled up and Peter Sellers got out. He came over and he was actually crying and he said, ‘That’s the funniest show we’ve ever done,’ and he flung his arms round me. Me being a Lancashire lad, thick and stubborn, said, ‘But remember what I said. I’ll never set foot in a Goon Show studio again.’ And I never did and I’ve never forgiven myself for that.
Spike and Peter, the three of us, remained friends after that. It was a friendship and I was relieved not to have the responsibility of writing the Goon Shows. After all, I was only copying Spike’s style and I didn’t want to paint the shoes of a choirboy on a Michelangelo painting. But when I think back to those days when we rented that office in Shepherd’s Bush, I think it was so natural. Spike and I were drawn together as if we’d been brothers. We just went together like bacon and eggs.
NORMA: Eric and Spike shared an office for fifty years. For Eric the Goon Shows are ‘golden nuggets that will last for eternity’. And thanks to Mary Kalemkerian at BBC Radio 7, Eric’s favourite radio station, they are still played frequently. Surprisingly, Eric admitted that he had not been the butt of Spike’s outbursts. He explained that from the moment they had first met it was understood tacitly that he was the governor. There was no way Spike would lose his stripes by behaving badly in front of him and he never expected it of him.
ERIC: That side of Spike had to be borne on your poor young shoulders, but for all those readers who are starting to grieve, you survived and so have I.
In a way I was a bit strait-laced and Spike was free of his corsets. I remember we went from Shepherd’s Bush, moved up into Cumberland House in Kensington. This was before the hotel was built opposite and I remember the Aldermaston marchers were marching past. Spike and I were both going through somebody else’s scripts and Spike looked up, saw them through the window and he dashed out and joined Father Huddleston and Michael Foot at the head of the procession and he walked with them to Trafalgar Square. I thought, ‘What a cheeky sod. Those poor devils have walked for miles and I bet when he gets to Trafalgar Square he’ll be breathing heavily as if he’s done the trip.’
Then from Kensington we moved to Orme Court. We spent the rest of our days as writers. And Spike was very fortunate – he met you. You and Spike came together when you were a green shoot and Spike was on the bottom rung of the ladder, and you moulded each other into a whole. You became his manager, his mentor and, if the occasion demanded it, his mother.
Spike led the life of a slightly retarded gypsy. He would sometimes lock himself away in his room with a notice on his door not to come in, but that’s polite. It was F.O. When you saw that on the door you knew that to enter you were taking your life, and even the building, in your hands. As far as writing was concerned I had gone my way and he’d gone his, but we used to get up to some real pranks. I remember one day Spike’s secretary came in with an envelope addressed to me. Our offices were only across the landing, five paces. I slit open the letter and it said, ‘Dear Eric, where do you fancy going for lunch?’ And I got my secretary to type ‘Dear Spike, I think Bertorelli’s would be very nice. But it’ll have to be about 2 p.m. Sincerely, Eric.’ And that was delivered and his secretary came back again with another letter. ‘Eric, why 2 p.m.? Sincerely, Spike.’ And I wrote ‘Because I’m in the middle of something and I don’t want to break the thread. Sincerely, Eric.’ Then the door opened and Spike came in and said, ‘We’ve got to go now.’ And I said, ‘Why?’ and he said, ‘Because I’m running out of paper.’ And so we both went to lunch.
On another occasion he came into my room and he was stark naked. He was carrying a script and he put the script in front of me and said, ‘What do you think of that?’ and I read it. ‘Well, that line can come out there,’ and I made certain criticisms. ‘The end is fine like that.’ Then Spike said, ‘You bastard! Here I am bollock-naked and you haven’t mentioned it.’ ‘Yes, but you asked me to read the script, not examine you.’
NORMA: Eric explained that Spike was ‘driven by his whims’ and could be unreliable. He remembered once Spike was in the car when his first wife (he thinks it was his first wife, not the one he eventually ended up with) was driving and they were having quite a row. They were driving in the Bayswater Road and Spike had had enough, opened the door and got out. They were doing forty miles an hour. That could hardly be called the action of a responsible person. Eric also remembered one time when Spike was due to appear on stage.
ERIC: I think with Peter Sellers and Harry Secombe. Something upset him and he locked himself into his dressing room. They couldn’t get him out and he wouldn’t go back on stage. This again doesn’t stoke up a CV of reliability. Peter and Harry had to go on to fill in. It’s very difficult to tell an audience that Spike will not be appearing as he’s locked himself in his dressing room, because that would take away some of the steam.
Although he was unreliable, he was trustworthy. And I say this, because if you left a thousand pounds on your desk and he came in, it would still be there when he left. And also you could leave your children with him knowing he would enthral them and entertain them with his stories and poems. Which reminds me of a hilarious Christmas Eve. His wife had left him and rather than spend a lonely festive season we invited him to spend Christmas with us in Weybridge, which he accepted because he had no intention of cooking the turkey. The four children, two of ours, Kathy and Susan, and his two, Laura and Sean, got on like a house on fire. They were all the same age, five or six years old.
Spike was the sole organiser. It was pitch black and my wife Edith had given him empty jam jars that he filled with candles. He dotted them all around the lawn, those flickering little lights. He told the children they were fairies, then speaking through a tube from the Hoover, through a little gap in the window behind the curtains, he said, ‘Ho! Ho! Ho! This is Father Christmas speaking. Now where exactly are you staying tonight?’ and they were all whispering they’d heard Father Christmas himself and he was coming to see them. Spike’s energy was boundless. He was creating things for the children and I realised he’d hit the bullseye. I envied him this because I was less attentive to my brood, I knew Edith would bring them up properly. The children loved it. It was a very happy Christmas Eve.
We saw the children into bed and filled their stockings. As usual on the Christmas morning Edith and I, and the four children, were