The Job Interview It was early 1973. I had been invited to the Midland Hotel, Manchester, to be interviewed for a position as a Butlins Redcoat. The lady at the reception desk directed me towards the Interview Room. I knocked, and was told to "Come in." I expected to be walking into a hotel room, but it was just a small, plain room, with a desk and my interviewer sat behind it. "Tell me why you want the job," he opened with. 'I want to become a comedian,' I blurted out. 'And when do expect to become a comedian,' he asked. 'Within a year,' I said confidently. 'So, if I give you some stage time and you get a few laughs, is that going to make you feel as though you don't need to do any work?' 'Oh
no! I want to mix with the guests all day.
I like sitting and talking to people, and organising things. That's why
I
want to be a Redcoat.'
'Well,"
he summed up just a few minutes later,
"I'm Alan Ridgway. I'm the Entertainments Manager at Skegness.
Normally,
I make applicants wait about 6 weeks till we've done the allocations
for
all the camps, but I'm telling you now you've got the job, and I want
you
to come and work for me at Skegness.'
I couldn't believe it. I'd had a week's holiday at Butlins Pwllheli in 1966, and it was the best holiday I'd ever had. And only the previous year, 1972, I'd had a week at Butlins Filey. And now - I was going to be a Butlins Redcoat. That's me centre, A.J Marriot, on my Butlins Pwllheli 1966 Holiday I
thanked him profusely, and virtually floated
out of the room. Once outside, I just wanted to tell anyone and
everyone
I was a Butlins Redcoat. I was approached by a placard-bearing
Christian,
peddling the merits of Jesus. I told him I'd just got my dream job.
'Jesus
gave you that job,' he asserted.
'No!
It was a Mr. Ridgway,' I
retorted.
The
fifteen mile bus journey back to my hometown
of Atherton, situated roughly between Wigan and Bolton, took an
eternity.
As soon as I descended I ran the rest of the way home, and burst into
the
house. My mum was sat there with her sister, my Auntie Mildred.
"Mam!
I did it. I'm going to be a Redcoat."
Before
the feeling of deep joy could spread, and
the congratulations pour in, my Auntie Mildred chipped in: 'YOU - A
Redcoat?
I thought you had to be talented to do that.'
Cue
mental picture of a boy jumping up in the
air with joy, and a ceiling fan cutting off his head.
You can always rely on your family to bring you down to earth. ------------------------------- ON THE FACE OF IT It
was June 1974, partly in to my second season
as a Butlins Skegness Redcoat. Paddy and Irish Jesson suggested to
Ents.
Manager Alan Ridgway that I deserved to be given my own competition to
compere.
He agreed and, on Thursday 6th June, I was assigned to the 'Lovely Legs
Competition.' Assisting the young ladies was Chief Redcoat Norman Cox.
Secretly,
I think he'd been sent to make sure I didn't get a bit too risque with
my
comments. If that were so, the logic behind this was well-founded, as
the
devil within me soon materialised:
Girls
were very reluctant to raise their skirts,
and rightly so, for fear they might reveal a little too much. I came up
with
a war cry, designed to put the fear of God into them. I would say to
the
audience: 'On the count of three, I want you to all shout, at the top
of
your voices: 'Get 'em up!' Are you ready, one two three ... ' at which
several
hundred males voices, and a few that hadn't yet broken, yelled "Get 'em
up."
Some used a different preposition to 'up' and had to be admonished.
The
tactic paid instant dividends, and the girls
began raising their skirts higher than they would otherwise have chosen
to
do. As the spectacle continued, with one set of eight contestants being
replaced
by the next eight, my ad-libbing skills came in to their own. As the
audience
yelled: 'Get 'em up' one young lady raised her skirt above her waist,
then
immediately realised she'd exposed something she didn't want us to see,
and
immediately lowered it. But I'd seen it, and was going to make sure the
audience
knew exactly what it was she was hiding. I approached her and, with a
little
bit of coaxing, got her to raise her skirt again to reveal - a CLOCK
FACE
imprinted on the front of her knickers. The hands were set at 7.20.
'Twenty
past seven,' I blurted out, 'What's that
- OPENING TIME?'
Time
stood still, while I awaited the reaction.
My spell as Redcoat Compere could live or die on what happened in the
next
split second. The Chief Redcoat looked me straight in the face. He
didn't
know wether to kiss me or kill me. But then came a burst of laughter
like
I'd never experienced before, as the whole of the audience in the
Empress
Ballroom erupted.
Ken
Dodd once said that 'the art of the comedian
is not to offend,' and I hadn't done so. I'd chanced a comment that I
thought
was funny, and the audience had gone with me one hundred per cent.
Irish
and Paddy had been secretly observing me from behind a pillar. They
immediately
left, but they too were giggling. They took their report back to Mr.
Ridgway
and, from then on, I was given the Lovely Legs competition on a weekly
basis.
Only four weeks later I was offered the "full" Compere's at Skegness,
but
chose instead to take over the vacant compere's job at the Butlins
Metropole
Hotel in Blackpool.
In
1975 I turned full-time professional Comedian,
a vocation I pursued for twenty years. But it had all started with that one quip about
the lady with the clock-face on her knickers. You might say: 'I'd been
in
the right place, at the RIGHT TIME.'
o-o-o-0-o-o-o-o THERE'S A BABY CRYING
Remember
the 'Baby Listening' service patrol they
used to do at Butlins? The nursery staff would ride up and down the
chalet
lines, listening at the doors of those who had registered for the
service,
to search for any babies that might be crying. They looked quite a
sight,
with their laundry blue uniforms, and their blue capes blowing behind
them
as they cycled along. They gave campers the same reassurance that the
residents
of Gotham City got from knowing Batman was patrolling the neighbourhood
(on
the day he couldn't start the Batmobile.)
Whenever the ladies found a crying child they would write down the Chalet number, and take it to the venue the parents had listed on the registration form, and put up the Chalet No. on a specially made board, stage-side, then flick a switch to make the lights flash - and thus attract the audience's attention. They would also pass a written note to the compere, whose responsibility it was to read it out as soon as he had finished the particular song or spiel he might be in the middle of. One
night, Bobby got a note passed
to him by one of the nurses, but put it in
his pocket to read later - then forgot. The following day there was a
complaint
by the parents, who were very irate that their baby had been left in a
very
distressed state for far longer than need be. So, Alan Ridgway (the
Ents.
Manager) issued a directive that, in future, all notes must be read out
IMMEDIATELY, regardless of what any comperes were doing at the time.
The following night, whilst he was in the middle of singing 'Is This the Way to Amarillo?' Bobby was passed a note on which was written the Chalet No. where there was a baby crying. Without missing a beat he sang: Is this the way to
Amarillo Show me the way to
R129 Brilliant! o-o-0-o-o THE PAY OFF In
1973, the weekly pay for a Redcoat was £10.50p. So, over nineteen weeks
of working 14-16 hours a day, six days
a week, I earned the gross sum of £199.50. Fast forward to September
1988: I was in to my fourteenth year as a professional comic, and had
just
finished touring in the Gary Wilmot Show. My old buddy pal Barry Cheese
had
been doing weekly cabarets at Butlins Barry Island, and Butlins
Skegness
for the season, but couldn't do the last week, so I was put in. I duly
went
to Skegness and did 22 minutes in the Pig & Whistle Bar (which I
was
told was the record length of time a comedian had lasted in there, all
season).
I then went across the road, and did 40 minutes in the Roman Bank Bar.
For
my total of 62 minutes of comedy I received £250, which was £50 more
than I'd got for the WHOLE of the
nineteen-week 1973 season. That more than made up for the end-of-season
bonus
I never got in '73, even though it had taken 15 years before Butlins
paid
up.
o-o-o-0-o-o-o JUST LIKE THAT Around
the second week of the 1973 season at Skegness,
the Late Night Cabaret was comedy showband 'The Barron Knights.' When
they
were due to arrive, Alan Ridgway sent me to the gate to get them
cleared
to come in, and then escort them backstage at the Queens Showbar. Duke
d'Mond,
lead singer of the Barron Knights, informed me that they had some
guests
coming to see them, and would I see that they got in OK. So, I went
back
to the security gate and brought them through. It turned out they were
the
singing group Design, who were in summer season on Skegness Pier, in
the
Tommy Cooper Show.
I
looked after them during the show, then took
them backstage, for which they expressed their gratitude by inviting me
to
their show. The following week, on my day off, I duly went along and
watched
the show, in which Alan Randall, and Ray Alan & Lord Charles were
support
acts to Tommy Cooper. In the bar after the show, Design, Alan Randall
and
I were stood talking in a circle, when in walked Tommy. I was holding
the
audience so Tommy said nothing and quietly joined the circle. By now I
was
getting some real good laughs from my 'circle of friends' when suddenly
the
little old dear behind the bar shouted: 'TOMMY! Don't get them them
laughing
at this time of night. I'm trying to lock up and go home.'
With a chastised child's look on his face he turned to her and said: 'It's not me - it's HIM getting all the laughs.' What a boost that was to an apprentice comic's ego. I flew for miles on that. o-o-o-0-o-o-o DODDY A similar story to the Tommy Cooper one happened when Ken Dodd was our Late Night Cabaret star. I got chatting to one of Ken's regular writers. After Ken had finished his act (about four in the morning) the writer took me backstage to meet him. There were several people around Ken, but I gradually got in on the conversation, and began to extract some good laughs. The writer looked at Ken and said: 'You'd better watch it, Ken - he's sharp.' To which Ken replied: 'I can see that. I'm keeping my mouth shut till I can think of something funny.' It's comments like that, which convince wanna-be comics to take the plunge. It worked for me. o-o-o-0-o-o-o KEN AGAIN Late in 1975 I was touring the Cabaret venues as a stand-up comic. One night, while staying in Derby, I went to see Ken Dodd at the 'Talk of the Midlands Cabaret' venue. Again, after the show, I was taken to meet Ken. He signalled to me to wait while he dealt with a man and wife couple from the audience. As he went to greet them, the lady opened the conversation with: 'Hello Ken. Eh! We went to see Tommy Cooper last night. Now HE was funny!' Ken
and I exchanged glances, and I just shook
my head in disbelief. Ken had just come off stage after holding the
whole
audience in fits of laughter for over two hours, and here's a woman
making
no comment about him, but telling him that someone else was funny. She
didn't
mean it to sound like that - it was just her naivety.
o-o-o-0-o-o-o THE INDOOR POOL IS NOW OPEN One night I was patrolling the Princes Ballroom dance floor, greeting and smiling at people, which was the ritual when not actually dancing, when I came upon a pint of beer that had been knocked over. This was a common occurrence, as people would place their drinks on the floor then, when they stood up, the tip-up seat would return to a vertical position, and knock the glass over. I politely informed them that, if they reported it at the bar hatch, someone would come and mop it up.
On
my second circuit, the beer still hadn't been
mopped up, and the culprits were still sitting there, watching it
spread.
By the time I did a third circuit, the pint of beer had spread to the
size
of a duck pond, and was on obvious hazard. Annoyed that those
responsible
had not bothered to go and fetch a cleaner, I sarcastically enquired:
'Are
you opening your own indoor pool?' and walked on
The
next day I was informed that a party of TEN
guests had reported me for insubordination, and were about to form a
deputation
to get me sacked, unless I apologised. If I didn't, they threatened to
leave
the Camp immediately, never to to return.
On the Wednesday, the Ents. Manager Alan Ridgway called me into his office and informed me that 10 guests had been in to his office, complaining about a comment I made, regarding a spilled drink. Thinking he might insist that I apologise to them, or that I might even get sacked, I simply said: 'And ............. ?" 'And
............ ,' he said, 'they've left the
Camp.'
And
that, was that. I never heard another word
about it. Alan Ridgway had weighed up my value as a Redcoat against the
complainants, and judged that it was better to get rid of ten horrible
guests
then get rid of me. Thanks! Alan. Good call!
To be continued. See also: I WAS A BUTLINS SKEGNESS REDCOAT - 1973 and 1974 'A.J' MARRIOT - Author and Comedian o-o-o-0-o-o-o |