Tony Hancock 'Artiste' - A Tony Hancock Companion

Preface by Harry Secombe

Comedy is the business of a comedian and laughter is the prerogative of his audience. It follows, therefore, that whereas a comedian must deliver his comedy, the audience does not have to give up its laughter. He is then, at the beginning of his act, in a state of conflict with his audience.
      To understand a comic one has first of all to analyse the requirements of his job. He must have a certain mental toughness, a quick wit, the ability to shrug off a bad reception, and at the same time possess the sensitivity to be aware immediately of the mood of his audience. Two options are open to him - either he gives them what he wants or he provides them with what they want. If he takes up the former he is liable to finish up returning to the rice pudding factory from which Hughie Green plucked him.
      Yet such are the vagaries of the comedy profession that in the days of radio, one catch phrase repeated often enough by an indifferent performer could pervade the national consciousness and make him a star. The duration of his stardom depended upon his capacity to back up his gimmick with solid comic ability so that when the time came to cash in on his radio popularity in the theatre his act had some kind of substance. The shrewd performer crying 'Open Sesame' as he rubs his magic lamp before the Aladdin's cave of show business should be careful to take out an insurance policy in the event of the non-appearance of the Genie. The comic David facing the Goliath audience has to be prepared with a song and dance routine in case his sling shot misses its mark.
      Anyone who does a job of work and at the end of the day has nothing tangible to show for it, apart from his salary, has every reason to feel insecure. You can't frame applause, you can't place cheers on your mantelpiece and you can't plant a chuckle in a pot and expect it to raise laughs. All the average comic is left with at the end of his career are some yellowing newspaper cuttings, perhaps an L.P. or two and a couple of lines in The Stage obituary column. But, if he is one of the few greats, he leaves behind a legacy of laughter when he has gone, especially - and such is human nature - if there has been an element of tragedy in his life. The public likes to think that there is drama lurking behind the laughter - agony caused, ironically, by the insecurity induced by the creation of that laughter.
      Tony Hancock was one of those rare ones who are bedevilled by success. He was never completely happy in the variety theatre; the strain of doing the same performance night after night and trying to invest it with an apparent spontaneity was more than he could bear. His timing and delivery were never better than when he was doing something fresh - creating and not re-creating. That was why he took to television so well; it removed him from the treadmill of the music hall and the twice nightly revue and gave him new situations in which to work his magic.
      Of the rampaging, drunken, self-destroying Hancock depicted in so many stories, I knew very little. I have drunk with him and been drunk with him in the days when we were both young and inexperienced comics fresh from the services, but it was all good-natured tippling then. The truth for which we were searching wasn't far away - it was there in the bottom of the glass.
      Strangely enough, the time I remember Tony with most affection was when we were playing on the same bill at Feldman's Theatre, Blackpool in April 1949. 'Out of season' isn't the best time to be in a seaside town, and to make matters worse we were received with indifference by those who formed the small audiences. I was then doing my shaving act and Tony was doing his Gaumont British News impressions and some hesitant patter. On the opening night, Monday 11th April, at about ten past eight I was rushed to the manager's office to receive a phone call telling me that my wife had given birth to our first child, a daughter. I waited until Tony came off - he was further up the bill than I was - and told him the news. 'We'll celebrate, lad,' he cried.
      We had about twelve shillings between us and although champagne was out of the question, we were determined to wet the baby's head. It was a most frustrating night because by the time we had taken off our make-up the pubs had shut and the only place open was a fish and chip shop near the theatre. We sat together over our plates of frizzled rock salmon and toasted my first born in Tizer - an aggressively non-alcoholic drink with a high gassy content. Later we wandered down to the sea front, drunk with the occasion and each other's company. We shared the same dreams of success and we argued about what we would do with the world now that we had fought to save it, leaning over the iron bars of the promenade, looking into the dark sea and seeing only brightness.
      I met him many times later and at one time stood in for him on his radio show. But I will always think of Tony Hancock as he was then, pristine and shining with ambition at the threshold of his career. What happened to him subsequently is for others to chronicle and argue about. I found him gentle and self-mocking then. The demands of his profession shaped him, destroyed him and eventually killed him, but he served it well. If anyone paid dearly for his laughs it was the lad himself. May he lie sweetly at rest.
Harry Secombe

 

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