I’ve never considered hiring a sheepdog on expenses, but there is always a
first time. Well, you try getting seven mature, excitable comedians
to stand still to have their photos taken at the Winter Gardens, Blackpool.
But eventually we manage it, just after Frank Carson has explained that he
recently had a pacemaker fitted: “Now every morning when I go out there’s a
Nigerian who runs in front of me.”
The 82-year-old Irish motor-mouth, who lives in Blackpool, is the resident
compere on the Best of British Variety Tour 2008. All the other acts, apart
from the Eurovision veterans Brotherhood of Man, are present to stir distant
memories of BBC Seaside Specials. There is Cannon and Ball, Paul
Daniels, the Krankies and Jimmy Cricket. They may not be the most
cutting-edge comedians, but slice them in half and they would have comedy
running through them like Blackpool through a stick of rock.
Watching these old campaigners circle one another is as fascinating as
watching an Attenborough documentary. Daniels (with nontouring Debbie McGee
in tow, possibly as a bit of a trophy wife) is keen to be top dog. Cannon
and Ball are as relaxed as you would hope from a duo of reborn Christians.
Carson is constantly on (“What’s the difference between Frank Carson and the
M1? You can turn off the M1”). Jimmy Cricket is refreshingly normal until
switching into simple-minded welly-booted character. And the Krankies. Well,
they are weirdly walnut-coloured.
Yet get them together and eventually they do what is asked of them. Bobby Ball
tugs on his trademark braces. Paul Daniels fans out a deck of cards and
pulls his man-of-mystery face. Janette, aka Jimmy Krankie, says
“Fandabidozi”.
So why are they touring? The money is good, but the main reason is that they
cannot stop what they love. Jimmy Cricket, 62, puts it best: “It’s a great
job. I feel like I’ve never done a day’s work in my life.” Carson, in a rare
moment of seriousness, suggests that “Laughter is an addiction. There is no
retirement age for comedians.” He will go on cracking pacemaker jokes until
his pacemaker packs up, but it – or he – shows no signs of quitting: “When I
fart the garage door opens.”
These are acts that have been there, done it, lost it, got some of it back and
now have their feet firmly on the ground again. They might want their coffee
brought over to them from the catering trolley but that is more to do with
dodgy knees than diva temperaments.
But are the old codgers relevant? Do they even know about modern comedy?
Cricket, whose daughter Katie has recently started on the circuit, using her
real surname Mulgrew, is the most clued-in, singing the praises of
gagmeisters Harry Hill and Tim Vine. He thinks, rather optimistically, that
Hill and Vine’s success suggests the time might be right for a return to
clean-cut family entertainment. “You’ve just got to hang on. Comedians are
like clothes. If they stick around long enough they come back into fashion.”
When Cricket’s television career was stumped in the late Eighties the
Irishman found other ways to make his talents pay. “You’ve got five
fingers,” he explains, coming across like a Cookstown Confucius. “If you
lose one you’ve still got four. In the Nineties I had better radio shows
than telly shows.” Cricket resisted the move into I’m a Celebrity
. . . reality TV that gave Cannon and Ball a postmodern boost. “It’s not
my scene. My barometer for telly is will it bring in any more people on a
cold night in Cleethorpes? Jokes do, but I don’t think reality TV does.”
As we chat, Janette Krankie walks up and she and Cricket engage in hat
comparisons: “Only two in 33 years,” says Cricket. Janette is still on her
first school cap: “I’ve got others, but I prefer the original, it still
feels comfiest.” She is very firm that she is only wee Jimmy Krankie when
she is working: “I’m still Janette under here,” she says, tapping her head.
The Krankies know Cricket from panto in Glasgow. Janette was Pinocchio; he,
naturally, was Jiminy Cricket. Recollections of digs ensue. Winnie in
Weston-super-Mare was a favourite because of her fairy cakes. The idea of
the mythical battleaxe landlady is promptly dismissed: “The women put the
acts up because they loved the business,” Cricket says.
Paul Daniels strides around, lording it up a little. After 40 years in the
business, starting out supporting Val Doonican, this is allowed. Now 70, he
says he is touring just for fun, now that Debbie has a show on Radio
Berkshire: “I’m a man of leisure, Debbie can support me . . . The real
reason I took the show is I never did traditional package shows so I said
yes to have the experience.”
At his peak Daniels was the Derren Brown of his day, but began at a time when
magicians could not get arrested. Luckily he found a gimmick. “I was staying
in a guesthouse in South Wales with Joe Brown and the Bruvvers and one of
them said, ‘You’re not an illusionist, you’re an unusualist.’ I’ve used that
ever since.”
He has been heckled by Carson at plenty of charity events so has an inkling
what to expect. “We are not doing this for the audience, we are doing it for
us.” At that point Carson wanders over and puts Daniels down: “You were so
low down the bill you were getting orders from the printer.” I’m not sure
what it means, but yes, the way Frank tells it it is funny.
It is time to chat to Carson. Or rather be chatted at. From the tale of
starting out as a blacked-up nine-year-old minstrel (“do that today and
you’d be arrested”) to meeting the Pope, Carson is brimming over with
stories. His favourite modern stand-up is Jack Dee: “But I hate them all
because they are young.” After 58 years of marriage his wife is his biggest
inspiration: “I gave her a kiss this morning. She jumped out of bed and did
a lap of honour.”
Photos finished, everyone tucks into the biscuits. And then we are told that
we are doing more photos on Blackpool’s Central Pier. We head out in search
of cabs, which involves a spontaneous high street meet-and-greet. To see the
number of phone cameras being pulled out of Primark bags you’d think they
were royalty. And in a way, here at least, they are.
I share a cab with Ian and Janette Krankie, real surname Tough. The duo, both
61, spend winters in Australia, hence the nutty tans. They do pan-to and
cruise ships but refuse to do holiday camps “. . . having to compete with
the disco at the other end of the room,” they say in unison.
Janette thinks this tour is a timely idea: “If this doesn’t work then variety
is definitely dead. But Britain’s Got Talent has shown that
there is more to entertainment than just singers.” Despite disappearing Down
Under, the husband and wife (the father-son act started as a one-off, was a
hit and stuck) have kept their profiles up, appearing with Peter Kay and on Absolutely
Fabulous. “If you aren’t on TV you don’t exist.”
On the pier the sun is shining even if the wind is strong enough to blow a
layer of skin away. The magnificent seven are in their crowd-pleasing
element. They scoff candyfloss, jump on rides and engage in banter. People
treat them like old friends: “Come and have a go on this Paul and I’ll do a
trick . . . ,” says one gobby stall-holder. “I’ll make your money
disappear.” Eventually everyone sits on the Miami High Roller, which can
propel thrill-seekers skywards. Janette Krankie does not reach the height
requirement and the ride is not turned on. Besides, I don’t think Frank’s
pacemaker could take it.
Afterwards I sit down on a bench with Tommy Cannon, 70, and Bobby Ball, 64,
overlooking the vast beach. The phone cameras are out in force again, much
to Ball’s bemusement. “Cameras in telephones? I can’t even understand the
flush toilet.”
Alongside Daniels, the pair are arguably the most famous performers. Their
2005 appearance on I’m a Celebrity . . . introduced them to
audiences who had never heard Bobby bellow, “Rock on, Tommy”. They have no
regrets, chuckles Bobby. “They paid us lots of money and we thought, ‘Let’s
have a blimming good adventure.’ ” Ball lives in nearby Lytham St Annes,
which is where Liverpool foot-ballers like to buy, but Cannon lives on the
other side of the Pennines near York with his new wife. They don’t think
this tour is bringing variety back, because they don’t think it has ever
been away. “We work 46 weeks a year,” says Ball. Having barely been on
speaking terms at one point during their golden years, they are now closer
than ever. “It’s like being brothers and being married. We can never retire
because Cannon keeps having children.”
The seaside is in their blood. “We did the Pier, the Grand, the Opera House –
12 seasons,” Ball says. He looks tearful, though it might be sand in his
eye. “The history of the place is unbelievable. I remember the side-shows –
Pay a Penny to See a Man Eating Fish. It was a bloke having cod and chips.”
The Best of British Variety Tour starts at the Embassy Theatre, Skegness,
on August 7 (www.tdpromo.com
0844 8471726)
