hearts, as well.
‘Why are they called Pierrots?’ asked Nora outside the Pier Pavilion.
‘Because they do their stuff on piers.’
I love the artificial dark of the matinée, the same, exciting dark you get when you draw the curtains after lunch to go to bed. The sea was swishing back and forth beneath the Pier Pavilion and it was moist and warm, inside, and full of holiday scents of Evening in Paris and Ashes of Violets mixed with dry fish, that is, fried, from outside, and wet fish, that is, dead, from down below, and hot tin, from the roof, and armpits. Nobody there to take a ticket; the first half of the show was nearly over so we sneaked in at the back.
The Pierrots were standing around in their white frills, looking spare, and there was a comic up on stage halfway through his act. He’d got on a pair of plus-fours, huge things, big as a couple of hot-air balloons, in the kind of pink Grandma called ‘fraizy crazy’ (crushed strawberry, to you; work it out for yourself) – shiny pink satin plus-fours tucked into mauve golfing socks with pink clocks plus a pair of pink suede brogues with big, mauve, flapping tongues hanging out. He’d got a golf club in his hand, to go with his outfit, and he made lewd gestures with it; mothers covered their children’s eyes.
I’d never heard of him in those days, though he made a big name for himself later on, but when he started out, you’d have thought it was going to be a name you couldn’t print in a family newspaper. He called himself . . . he called himself . . . I’ll remember it in a minute. He had a catch phrase, ‘Nothing queer about our George.’ He popped up again in Hollywood, in The Dream , with us, what a surprise; he played, of course he would, what else, Bottom.
Gorgeous George. He billed himself as Gorgeous George.
‘. . . and this boy’s thoughts turned lightly to’ – big poke in the air with the golf club – ‘so he says to his dad, “I want to get married to the girl next door, Dad.”
‘“Ho, hum,” says his dad. “I’ve got news for you, son. When I was your age, I used to get me leg over –”’
Roars, shrieks, hoots; but all so much titillation without any substance, I tell you, because he gave them a shocked look, pursed his lips together, shook his golf club in reproof.
‘ Filthy minds, some of you have,’ he grieved in parenthesis. Renewed hoots and shrieks.
‘What I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted . . .’
That was his other catch phrase.
‘. . . was, I used to get me leg over –’
Mothers covered their children’s ears.
‘– I used to get me leg over the garden wall –’
He made a fierce lunge in the air with his golf club and looked around, working his eyebrows as if to defy misinterpretation.
‘. . . and, cut a long story short, you can’t marry the girl next door, son, on account of she’s your sister.’
The air turned blue. Mothers forced reluctant children outside, bribing with ice-cream.
‘So this boy buys a bike’ – he straddled his golf club, mimicked pedalling, renewed roaring – ‘and pedals off. Pedals , I said, Missus; what d’you think I said? He pedals off to Hove.’
Wonderful diction. Grandma herself couldn’t have done more with that long ‘O’.
‘He comes back, he says to his father: “I’ve met this nayce girl from Hove, Dad.” “Hove?” says Dad. “Sorry to say, son, I frequently hove to in Hove when I was your age and –”’
He halted, working his eyebrows, manipulating his golf club. Say no more. They laughed until they cried.
‘This poor boy, he buys himself a day return, he goes up to Victoria, he meets a girl under the clock. Clock , I said, Missus. But his father says: “We had trains in my young day, son . . .”’
Appreciative gurgles.
‘The boy goes into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Big sigh. His mum says: “You’ve got a face as long as a –”’
Eyebrows. Golf club. Roars.
‘What I was
‘Why are they called Pierrots?’ asked Nora outside the Pier Pavilion.
‘Because they do their stuff on piers.’
I love the artificial dark of the matinée, the same, exciting dark you get when you draw the curtains after lunch to go to bed. The sea was swishing back and forth beneath the Pier Pavilion and it was moist and warm, inside, and full of holiday scents of Evening in Paris and Ashes of Violets mixed with dry fish, that is, fried, from outside, and wet fish, that is, dead, from down below, and hot tin, from the roof, and armpits. Nobody there to take a ticket; the first half of the show was nearly over so we sneaked in at the back.
The Pierrots were standing around in their white frills, looking spare, and there was a comic up on stage halfway through his act. He’d got on a pair of plus-fours, huge things, big as a couple of hot-air balloons, in the kind of pink Grandma called ‘fraizy crazy’ (crushed strawberry, to you; work it out for yourself) – shiny pink satin plus-fours tucked into mauve golfing socks with pink clocks plus a pair of pink suede brogues with big, mauve, flapping tongues hanging out. He’d got a golf club in his hand, to go with his outfit, and he made lewd gestures with it; mothers covered their children’s eyes.
I’d never heard of him in those days, though he made a big name for himself later on, but when he started out, you’d have thought it was going to be a name you couldn’t print in a family newspaper. He called himself . . . he called himself . . . I’ll remember it in a minute. He had a catch phrase, ‘Nothing queer about our George.’ He popped up again in Hollywood, in The Dream , with us, what a surprise; he played, of course he would, what else, Bottom.
Gorgeous George. He billed himself as Gorgeous George.
‘. . . and this boy’s thoughts turned lightly to’ – big poke in the air with the golf club – ‘so he says to his dad, “I want to get married to the girl next door, Dad.”
‘“Ho, hum,” says his dad. “I’ve got news for you, son. When I was your age, I used to get me leg over –”’
Roars, shrieks, hoots; but all so much titillation without any substance, I tell you, because he gave them a shocked look, pursed his lips together, shook his golf club in reproof.
‘ Filthy minds, some of you have,’ he grieved in parenthesis. Renewed hoots and shrieks.
‘What I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted . . .’
That was his other catch phrase.
‘. . . was, I used to get me leg over –’
Mothers covered their children’s ears.
‘– I used to get me leg over the garden wall –’
He made a fierce lunge in the air with his golf club and looked around, working his eyebrows as if to defy misinterpretation.
‘. . . and, cut a long story short, you can’t marry the girl next door, son, on account of she’s your sister.’
The air turned blue. Mothers forced reluctant children outside, bribing with ice-cream.
‘So this boy buys a bike’ – he straddled his golf club, mimicked pedalling, renewed roaring – ‘and pedals off. Pedals , I said, Missus; what d’you think I said? He pedals off to Hove.’
Wonderful diction. Grandma herself couldn’t have done more with that long ‘O’.
‘He comes back, he says to his father: “I’ve met this nayce girl from Hove, Dad.” “Hove?” says Dad. “Sorry to say, son, I frequently hove to in Hove when I was your age and –”’
He halted, working his eyebrows, manipulating his golf club. Say no more. They laughed until they cried.
‘This poor boy, he buys himself a day return, he goes up to Victoria, he meets a girl under the clock. Clock , I said, Missus. But his father says: “We had trains in my young day, son . . .”’
Appreciative gurgles.
‘The boy goes into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Big sigh. His mum says: “You’ve got a face as long as a –”’
Eyebrows. Golf club. Roars.
‘What I was
Similar Books
