Spike: An Intimate Memoir - Norma Farnes

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out that he had had to swear his allegiance to the Queen. And Spike said, ‘Yes, but she’s your mother.’

      On a professional level, things became quieter for Spike. This marked the start of his obsession with the BBC. Like Harrods, it became a target for his campaigns of letter writing: I think this was a warped compliment from Spike, because he believed they were both great institutions which should maintain their standards. Then he was cast by impresario Michael White in Oblomov, based on Ivan Goncharov’s humorous novel about a Russian aristocrat too indecisive to leave his room. The run at the new Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith was a disaster, but somehow Spike persuaded Michael to let him rewrite the play and call it Son of Oblomov.

      After the first night at the Comedy Theatre in December 1964 Michael was certain they had a hit, and Spike’s performance was hailed by critics and actors, who fought to get seats. He had hit a brilliant streak of inspired humour and it all came pouring out during the run. He often stood the script on its head and improvised, which brought the best out of some of the cast, shattered the nerves of the remainder and provided much hilarity for the audience, some of whom saw it again and again because each night was guaranteed to be different. It ran until April 1966 when Spike was so tired he had to call a halt.

      The money poured into ALS and Spike became convinced that, rather than sharing a secretary from the pool, he should have a dedicated personal assistant. The others did not agree. Nobody else had one so why should he? He did not argue. He just moved out, taking his furniture with him. Eventually Eric and Johnny brokered a compromise. If Spike would pay half the PA’s salary then ALS would match the rest. With honour salvaged on both sides, Spike moved back in and employed me. It was love, light and peace again. But for how long?

       Chapter Five

      Many managers rightly have nightmares about their clients’ fondness for booze. Certainly, a day without wine was like a day without sunshine as far as Spike was concerned, but his normal consumption at dinner would be less than a bottle. Occasionally he had a few too many with friends and could be happily tight, but for all his numerous tantrums, traumas and depressions there were only two occasions when I saw him really the worse for drink. He was doing a one-man show at the Wimbledon theatre, but it seemed safe enough to accept an invitation to a morning tasting of Australian wines. He was fond of them and one of the first to extol their qualities. He had left for the tasting in what he considered to be quite a smart turn-out – that is, a striped shirt and wide red braces, no jacket – and said he would return to the office after the tasting, do some writing and leave in time for the show that evening.

      It said 11 a.m. to 12.30 p.m. on the invitation. When he had not returned by three o’clock I rang New Zealand House – an unlikely venue for an Australian wine tasting but there we are – to see if he had left. No, but he was leaving very soon. At four o’clock I rang again. Yes, he was on his way. It was ten to six before he staggered into the office, gave me an inane and happy smile and stumbled upstairs.

      Josie Mills was still in the office. I asked her to bring me some black coffee and steeled myself while she fetched it. With a steaming cup in my hand I marched into Spike’s office and lifted his head off the desk so that he could drink. He did not want it, ‘horrible stuff,’ and giggled. God, what was I to do with him? He staggered from the chair, laughing, and stretched out on the floor. I tried to pour coffee down his throat, but he refused. More stupid laughter. I could have kicked him. But he had a show to do at 7.30 p.m., so I tried to pull him up. He flopped down again, too heavy for me.

      I shouted for Josie and while I took him by the shoulders she grabbed the only thing available at the front: his braces. They stretched and he stayed exactly where he was, like something in a Laurel and Hardy sketch. Spike had hysterics. What a hoot.

      Between us we managed to get some coffee down him and by 6.30 p.m. it had started to have its effect and we got him as far as the steps outside Number Nine. I hid the keys of his Mini in case he decided to drive to Wimbledon. While Josie stayed with him I ran to the Bayswater Road and hailed a taxi. I got in the cab and directed him to Number Nine.

      We pulled up outside and he said, ‘It’s Spike Milligan then.’

      I nodded. Most taxi drivers seemed to know where he worked.

      ‘Wait here and I’ll get him. Then you can take him to Wimbledon.’

      ‘No, I can’t. Too far and I’m going home for my tea.’

      It was just our luck to get an awkward one.

      ‘I’ll give you an extra ten pounds.’

      His beady eyes never blinked.

      ‘I said I was going home for my tea.’

      ‘All right. I’ll double what’s on the clock and give you an extra tenner.’

      Spike appeared at the top of the steps outside the front door, propped up by Josie, and beamed at the taxi driver.

      The taxi driver took one look at him. ‘I’m going home for my tea.’

      I could have screamed. Spike had heard everything but I tried to calm the situation by explaining that the driver had not had anything to eat all day and needed his tea, hoping to appeal to Spike’s sympathies for the working class. Fat chance. In ringing tones he addressed the whole of Orme Court. ‘The fucking English taxi driver won’t take me, so the fucking English audience won’t see me.’ With a whirl and the suggestion of a stagger, he turned and marched back into the building.

      Johnny Speight was upstairs nattering with Eric. Neither man was averse to a drink so when I barged in on them they understood the situation immediately.

      ‘Take my driver,’ said Johnny, gazing hopefully at Eric’s collection of malt whiskies. ‘I’ll wait here.’

      Johnny’s driver had spent hours on end waiting for his boss all over London so he was not fazed by the situation. He would be delighted to take Spike to Wimbledon. There was one condition. I had to go too. Spike started to play me up as soon as we were in the car. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘there’s another condition. You must stay in the theatre with me.’

      I got Spike into the car and we made it to Wimbledon at 8 p.m.

      The theatre manager was outside the theatre, jumping from one foot to the other, a nervous wreck. He turned to me and said, ‘It’s not as though I could put an understudy on.’

      Spike went on stage, by now on a high, and gave one of his best performances while I stood watching on. At the end there was a standing ovation and he turned to me in the wings, arm outstretched, and announced, ‘My manager, Norma Farnes.’

      The old sod! I had had a fraught day, felt like death and probably looked like it. I knew from experience that he would have to win the round so, despite my appearance, I went on to take a bow. As we walked to the dressing room he said, ‘You’re a winner. We’re off to the Trattoo for dinner and you can have the best champagne they’ve got.’

      As I took the first sip, or more likely a gulp, I said, ‘I’ve put up with an awful lot of shit today for this.’

      He grinned. ‘You’d better enjoy it then.’

      And so the day ended with laughter.

      After the first few months I was used to the long days that shifted into evenings with the inmates of Number Nine. But although I had been shocked at the curses in Jack Clarke’s office nothing had prepared me for the language that was common parlance with Spike and Johnny. It was as if they were still in the barrack room. Spike was at his worst when something annoyed him; then he could rant and rave about anything and everything. Johnny walked in one day after one of his explosions and sensed I was about to walk out. He drew me aside.

      ‘Remember, he’s not shouting at you. He’s shouting at the world.’ I would often have cause to remember this rationale when the going got tough with Spike.

      It

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