PANTOMIME SPOOFS AND JOKES
Harry Tate and I--Together we found the order of “The Beautiful
Swells”--The Birmingham spoof supper--A mouth-watering menu
--The “Beautiful Swells’” anthem--Cockroach soup--Property
viands--A mysterious waiter--Ernie Lotinga’s little joke--
The spoofers spoofed--A pigeon pie that flew--A surplus of
farthings--Rehearsing for pantomime--My first rehearsal--I am
“fired” out of the theatre--Pantomime in Hoxton--The gallery
boy’s irony--A cutting retort--I get married--Courting under
difficulties--The married chorus-girl and the lovesick manager--
Supper for two in a private room--Hoaxing the police--A sham
tragedy and its sequel--The fat policeman and the big lobster--
Sold again.
During the pantomime season of 1910-11 I was principal comedian at the
Prince of Wales’ Theatre, Birmingham, and Harry Tate filled a similar
rôle at the Theatre Royal in the same town. Together we founded there
the order of “The Beautiful Swells”--a spoof secret society, with
signs, grips, passwords, etc., after the approved pattern.
Out of this spoof society there sprang the famous spoof supper,
organised by me, and the full and complete story of which is now given
to the world for the first time. It was held at midnight, and “pro.’s”
were there from all parts. Nobody would have recognised us for what we
were, however; in fact, we could not recognise each other. For I had
caused the fiat to go forth that everybody was to make up as somebody
else, and the somebody else must be as unbeautiful as possible.
The result was that there were assembled together at the appointed
hour as strange and heterogeneous a collection of human oddities as it
is possible to imagine. Charlie Peace, the burglar, was not the least
beautiful of the guests. Two of them, with cutting irony, had elected
to make up as myself; and there were no fewer than four White-Eyed
Kaffirs. Three Lloyd Georges vied one with another in ugliness. There
was a Scarlet Pimpernel, with a nose the size and colour of a beet.
Everybody, in short, was anybody but their real selves, and nobody knew
which was which, or who was who.
The price of the supper tickets had been fixed at half-a-crown payable
in advance, and part of the arrangement was that this was to be
returned after the meal to all who put in an appearance, and fulfilled
the stipulated conditions as to make-up, etc.
I had arranged an elaborate menu. The mouths of the guests watered
as they read it, and a confused murmur of pleasurable anticipation
pervaded the supper-room. “By Jove, Carlton, old man, you’ve done the
thing in style.” exclaimed one well-known comedian to me. “It must have
cost a pretty penny.”
So it had, but not quite in the way he supposed. Here, however, is the
menu. Let the reader judge for himself.
_Hors d’œuvres._
Royal Natives.
Plovers’ Eggs. Melon Cantaloup.
_Soups._
Real Turtle. Consommé Marie Stuart.
_Fish._
Loch Tay Salmon. Filets de Sole Carlton.
_Entrée._
Ortolans aux Raisins.
_Joints._
Haunch of Venison. Saddle of Mutton.
_Sweets._
Soufflé au curaçoa. Ice pudding.
Wines. Liqueurs. Coffee.
The proceedings were opened by Harry Tate, the chairman, who announced
that all were to sing standing the “Beautiful Swells’ Anthem,” written
by himself. It ran, as nearly as I can recollect, as follows:
Good evening, my beautiful swells,
My rollicking pippins as well;
My golden russet, my sweet-scented friend:
Is this the beginning or is it the end?
We’re just beginning to like you,
So lots of money we’ll spend.
Then join in this ditty,
And have a sweet nippy,
My piscatorial friend.
_Chorus_:
For we’re all getting older and older,
Older ev’ry day.
We’re all getting older and older,
Soon we’ll all be grey.
So if you want some wrinkles,
To keep you young and frisky,
Keep late hours and drink plenty of whisky.
Casey Jones got another papa,
Casey Jones, the Cunard Line.
Casey Jones got another papa,
Got another papa on the Cunard Line.
Pom-tiddly-om-pom! Pom--pom! pom!
This latter part of the ditty was emphasised by the banging of fists,
knives, bottles, glasses, in fact, anything to make a noise; and
the resultant din, as may be imagined, was terrific. So was the
cheering at the end, and the general hilarity; but the latter was
checked somewhat, so far at all events as regards the major part of
the assembled guests, on seats being resumed, for these found that
while they had been upstanding the waiters had deftly removed their
beautifully printed menu cards, and had substituted in their place
others not nearly so ornate and which read as follows:
_Hors d’œuvres._
Very likely.
_Soups._
If lucky.
_Fish._
Very sorry it’s off.
_Entrées._
Hard lines.
_Joints._
You never can tell.
_Sweets._
Perhaps.
_Choice Wines._
I don’t think.
[Illustration: THE “BEAUTIFUL SWELLS” SPOOF SUPPER--A PAGE OF
CARICATURES BY TOM WEBSTER]
Some of the guests now began to suspect that the whole affair was a
spoof, but many did not; and the altercations between these innocent
ones and the waiters, the latter of whom were all in the know, were
frequent and highly diverting. A man, for instance, would order salmon,
or venison, or saddle of mutton, and would have pig’s trotters and
potatoes, the latter boiled in their jackets, almost literally thrown
at him. No matter what anybody called for, the result was nearly always
the same--pig’s trotters and potatoes.
The soup was of the cabbage-water variety, in which floated
“property,” cockroaches; these the waiters would remove with their
fingers, purposely grimy for the occasion. To add to the confusion
some few of our guests, here and there, were actually served--by my
instructions--with the venison, salmon, or whatever else they ordered.
Those sitting to the right and left of these lucky ones regarded them
with envious eyes, and tried to force back on the waiters their own
unsavoury trotters and potatoes. As a result, of course, confusion
soon became worse confounded. Nor was it allayed in any degree by the
tactics of Harry Tate, who was continually jumping up from his chair
in order to make some such announcement as follows, delivered in
tones of becoming gravity: “Gentlemen: I am sorry, but the plovers’
eggs have not arrived; gentlemen, I regret to say that the salmon is
off; gentlemen, it is very annoying, but I’m afraid we shall have to
dispense with the ortolans--there are none to be had in the market.”
In despair some of the guests tried to eat their bread, but found that
the seemingly crisp and inviting-looking little rolls were filled, as
regards their interiors, with nothing more edible than cotton wool.
Everything on the table, or served up at the table, in fact (bar the
trotters and potatoes), was of the “property” variety, got specially
from Paris at considerable trouble and expense. The eggs and bacon
looked real, and they were, in fact, served with real gravy; but the
eggs were china imitations, and cemented to the plates at that, and the
bacon was of similar material. The luscious-looking peaches and grapes
on the central fruit-stands were waxen imitations. Those who tried the
cheese spat it out again hurriedly; finding it to be soap--mottled for
the gorgonzola, yellow for the Cheddar. The coffee and the liqueurs,
the soda and the whisky, were anything and everything but what they
were supposed to be. Even the cigars and the cigarettes went bang
directly one started to smoke them.
The waiters acted their parts to perfection, especially the head
waiter; who indeed, as time went on, began to rather over-act his. At
least so I commenced to think. So, too, did Harry Tate, when the fellow
shot a load of hot potatoes and trotters on to the seat of his chair
when he (Harry) was in the act of standing up to speak--and left them
there. Harry sat down in them; with what result may be imagined.
The climax came when this particular waiter upset a huge dish of gravy
all over me. “Here,” I said, “don’t you come it too far. I told you
beforehand that you were not to play any games on me or Harry.”
“Oh, you go to h--ll,” replied the fellow. “Who do you think you are?
Damn you and your spoof suppers. I’m a waiter, I am; not a bloomin’
knockabout comedian. Pay me my money, and let me go.”
I jumped to my feet at this, really angry, and was proceeding to give
him a piece of my mind, when in a changed voice, that I knew well, he
cried: “All right, Carlton, old man; keep your hair on.”
I gasped in amazement. So did all the others standing round. It was
Ernie Lotinga. He had made himself up as a waiter after sending us a
spoof telegram from London regretting his inability to be present, had
bribed the real waiter I had engaged to allow him (Lotinga) to take
his place for the occasion, and had spoofed us, the spoofers, and every
other person in the room during the entire evening.
It was the most wonderful piece of play-acting, and the most perfect
piece of disguising, that has ever come to my knowledge. Every man in
the room knew Lotinga perfectly well. Yet not one of us had suspected
him for a single instant. He had altered his voice, as completely as he
had altered his facial appearance.
After the roar of laughter created by this unexpected discovery had
subsided, Harry Tate rose to make a few remarks. We had had our little
joke, he said, and he hoped nobody had taken it amiss.
Several voices: “No! No! Harry! But”--plaintively--“we’re deuced
hungry.”
“Quite so,” replied Tate. “I’d thought of that, and there’s one thing
good to eat that we have provided, and that I can pledge my word is
what it purports to be, and that’s a pigeon pie.”
With that a burly waiter bore into the room an immense pie, and placed
it before Harry to carve. He inserted the carving-knife and fork
solemnly and deftly, while the mouths of our famished guests once more
watered in pleasurable anticipation. Then he removed a generous portion
of the crust--and out flew a number of live pigeons.
This was the last of the spoofs of the supper proper; the remainder
of the time being occupied in consuming sandwiches, bottled beer,
whisky and soda, and in smoking the supply of very excellent cigars and
cigarettes we had provided. It took some time, however, to persuade
our guests to settle down to the consumption of these; for, after the
evening’s experience, they feared being hoaxed over again.
When all were at length comfortable, an impromptu entertainment was
held, each guest being required to give an imitation of the character
he represented. It was great fun. Lastly came the refunding of the
money paid for the supper tickets, as previously announced. The guests
entered an ante-room one at a time, having first been blindfolded, and
after being subjected to sundry mock tests and ceremonies of the order
that would not look well in print, each had his half-crown returned to
him, or rather its value--in farthings.
There were more than fifty guests present, so that over six thousand
farthings were paid out. I had previously arranged for these through
one of the local banks, and for days afterwards certain of the
Brummagem “pubs” habitually frequented by “pro.’s” were deluged with
farthings, greatly to the disgust of the landlords, some of whom
resented being tendered sixty-four farthings in exchange for a couple
of whiskies and sodas.
This particular supper was arranged to celebrate the close of the
pantomime season. It sounds perhaps rather odd to the uninitiated
outsider to talk about “celebrating” the close of a season that means
a steady and settled income, so long as it lasts, for every performer
engaged in the run of the piece. But as a matter of fact pantomimes
are not popular institutions with music-hall artistes. The money they
receive for performing in them is. But that, as Kipling would say, is
another story.
Rehearsals are particularly galling. I recollect that at the very
first pantomime I ever rehearsed I got into hot water almost directly.
This was at the Chester Theatre Royal, where Mr. Milton Bode was
producing “The Babes in the Wood.” I was cast for the part of Bumble,
the village beadle, and of course I was perfectly ready and willing to
rehearse the special “business” pertaining to the part, but Mr. Bode
insisted on my rehearsing my own specialities as well.
This struck me as being supremely idiotic, and a waste of time into the
bargain, and I said as much. Bode, who was by way of being a bit of an
autocrat, flew into a violent temper, and threw his hat at me. One word
led to another, and in the end he ordered me out of the theatre.
I went--as far as the “pub” opposite. “That’s done it,” I said to
myself. “You silly ass! Here have you been wishing for a panto
engagement ever since you’ve been in the profession, and the very first
chance you get, you take and chuck it away. You ought to go and kick
yourself to death.”
Presently, enters Milton Bode. “Hullo, Carlton! Have a bottle?”
I ventured to remind him of what had happened less than an hour
previously.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” he replied genially. “You don’t know what the
responsibility of producing a pantomime is like. Why, I’ve just thrown
my hat at one of the chorus-girls, and told her to go away somewhere
and drown herself. She won’t take any notice, and neither must you.
It’s all in a day’s work. Don’t forget--rehearsal to-morrow morning
again at ten sharp.” And he bustled out, all smiles and geniality.
Another pantomime reminiscence! At the Variety, Hoxton, one Boxing
Night, “The Forty Thieves” was produced. The panto was not precisely
up to Drury Lane standards, either as regards the scenery, or the
number of performers engaged. Instead of there being forty thieves,
there were only ten, and these marched from the wings into the cave,
then out at the back, and round to the front again, said operation
being repeated four times, so as to make it appear as if the orthodox
number was present.
The gallery boys were not deceived, however, as was evident from a
chorus of voices demanding, “Hi, guv’nor, where’s the other thirty
thieves?”
Quick as a flash came the retort from the chairman: “They’re up in the
gallery.”
There was a roar of approving laughter. The Hoxton gallery boys
realised that the chairman knew what he was talking about. Some amongst
them possibly had had the “honour”--and a very great honour it was
considered there and then--of sitting at his little table with him, and
incidentally standing him a drink.
It was while performing in pantomime at Leeds that I met and married
my wife, who was also on the stage there at the time. We had never met
one another before, and I had to do most of my courting behind the
scenes in between the acts, with stage carpenters bustling round, and
chorus-girls pushing backwards and forwards between us without so much
as “by your leave.”
However, we fixed it up all right, and got married while the piece was
still running. The wedding was celebrated at the Oxford Chapel, in the
City Square, which was packed with people, the happy event having been
well boomed beforehand. A cinematograph operator was there ready to
film us, but the press was so great that he and his machine were both
overturned, and we were not “featured” after all.
As soon as the ceremony was over we were whisked back in a motor-car to
the theatre for a matinée performance, and the same evening the “book”
of the pantomime was considerably altered, though unofficially, owing
to practically every performer with a speaking part introducing a “gag”
having some reference or other to the “happy event.”
The orchestra, too, took it upon themselves to strike up the “Wedding
March,” on my first appearance on the stage; and news of the marriage
having got bruited about, the theatre was packed from floor to gallery,
amongst the audience being the Lord Mayor of Leeds.
Shortly before the termination of my pantomime engagement I asked the
manager of the ---- Theatre if he would give me a week’s engagement
to follow on, seeing I had done so well there; but I was told, none
too politely, that my terms of £40 a week that I was then asking were
ridiculous.
I rather got my back up at this, and so as not to be done I took the
Coliseum, Leeds, a huge place, capable of seating between four and five
thousand people. It was in fact so big that nobody had ventured to
open it as a music-hall before, it having been used mostly for musical
festivals, and things of that sort.
I paid £80 for the use of the hall for a week, and about as much
again for advertising my forthcoming show. All this, of course, as a
preliminary! Managers and artists alike said that I would never make it
pay; that I was mad.
Maybe! But anyway there was method in my madness. I reflected that,
as usually happens at the termination of a provincial pantomime
engagement, practically all the artistes at the two pantomimes running
in Leeds would be “resting,” which means, of course, being temporarily
out of a job, and that they would probably be willing to engage with
me at a very reasonable salary. And this, as a matter of fact, the
majority of them were only too glad to do.
Then I hired a coach and four, and drove myself round, made up as on
the stage, to all the schools. There are about forty schools in Leeds,
and my method of procedure was the same in each one of them.
“Good morning, sir,” I would remark, addressing the head master. “May
I have permission to entertain your little scholars gratis for a few
minutes?”
In every case permission was readily given, whereupon I would give
a short conjuring show, bringing in the usual “bunny rabbit” trick,
always a prime favourite with children, and a few others.
Naturally they were highly delighted, and as soon as the applause died
away I made a short speech something after this fashion: “Boys and
girls, I am glad you appreciated my little performance. Now, as some of
you may have heard, I got married the other day, and to celebrate the
event I have taken the Coliseum for a week. All the principal artistes
now performing at the two pantomimes will be there, and I would like
you all to come and see them and me. These tickets”--here I handed
round one to each child--“will admit you at half-price, _if you come
accompanied by your parents_.”
The result of this little plan of mine was that I had the hall packed
every evening, and had to give extra matinées, and I cleared £287 for
myself after paying salaries and all other expenses.
I rather think that that manager was sorry he didn’t engage me and pay
me the £40 I asked.
A few months afterwards I was running a show of my own at a well-known
music-hall in the West End of London, and my wife took a part in the
performance. After the first performance, enter the manager of the
theatre into my dressing-room:
“Nice lot of girls you’ve got in your show, Carlton!”
“Fairish,” I replied.
“Humph! There’s one of ’em I’ve rather taken a fancy to. Will you
introduce me? She might be willing to come and take supper with me
after the show.”
“Very likely!” I said. “Which one is it?”
“The little dark girl in the corner,” he replied.
“All right!” I said, smiling inwardly to myself. “Come round to-morrow
night after the show, and I’ll introduce you.”
The next night he was there to time, extra spruce and well groomed, and
with a big white camelia in his button-hole. I pretended not to notice
him, however, and bundled the girls off directly they had finished
their performance. Afterwards I made pretence to be awfully sorry,
saying that I had forgotten all about the matter.
“But,” he exclaimed ruefully, “I’ve ordered supper, a bird and a
bottle for two, in a private room at the X----,” mentioning one of the
swellest and most expensive restaurants in Town.
“Never mind,” I said, “it won’t be wasted. You and I will eat it
between us. Then you can order another one for to-morrow night, and
I’ll speak to the girl in the meantime, and fix things up for you with
her.”
“All right,” he agreed. “But don’t forget a second time.”
Well, we ate the supper, and the next night he was behind the scenes
while my show was on, hopping about here, there, and everywhere like
a cat on hot bricks. Directly it was over he advanced, smirking and
smiling; and the introduction he craved was performed--as follows:
“Mr. So-and-So, this is Mrs. Carlton--my wife: Marie, my dear,
this is Mr. So-and-So, the manager, who is desirous of making your
acquaintance.”
I never saw a man so utterly taken aback in my life. He didn’t know
what to say or do, but simply stood stock-still, and stared, and
gasped. Afterwards we had a hearty laugh together over the incident.
“You had me properly,” he said; “but you might have told me.”
“Well,” I replied, “let it be a lesson to you not to go running after
the girls in a show without first making sure that they’re single.”
At a certain northern town where I once performed in pantomime the
police were inclined to be somewhat uppish and disagreeable, and the
male artistes who were there at the time formed themselves into a
committee of the whole house, and resolved to be even with them. So one
night the neighbourhood near the central police-station was aroused by
a tremendous disturbance coming from the inside of a third-story room
of a house situated almost opposite. The police turned out in force. A
crowd collected, gazing excitedly upward.
A tragedy was being enacted before their eyes. There was a light
burning inside the room, and on the drawn blind were silhouetted the
figures of two men furiously struggling. Presently the blind was torn
aside, and one of the combatants, a big, strong fellow, threw the other
bodily out of the window. A shriek of horror burst from the crowd,
and the policemen on duty below rushed forward to try and break his
expected fall.
However, the man who had been thrown out did not drop immediately, but
grasped the window-sill with his hands. His assailant, bent apparently
on killing him outright, started to beat him about the head and
shoulders with what looked like a heavy iron bar. The next instant four
or five policemen rushed into the room, having darted upstairs and
burst the door open.
Then they discovered that the man who was hanging out of the window
was in no danger of falling, being secured by a strong thin line. The
“iron” bar, with which he was being belaboured, was a “property” one of
soft rubber.
“Why, what’s the meaning of all this?” asked the puzzled inspector.
“Oh,” replied the man inside the room, as he assisted his chum to
clamber back through the window, “we’re just rehearsing a scene for
next year’s pantomime; the one in the harlequinade, you know, where the
Bobby comes in.”
One of the constables who climbed the three flights of stairs to the
room on this occasion was fat and somewhat wheezy, and he naturally
felt hurt. A few nights later he tried his best to get a bit of his own
back. A friend and myself were bidding one another good-bye outside the
theatre after the performance, when he thrust himself roughly between
us and told us to “move on there.”
Knowing that expostulation on our part would only lead to our being
locked up on a charge of loitering and obstructing the police, we said
nothing, but promptly did as we were bid. The next morning, however,
we shadowed our tormentor from a distance, and discovered that he was
stationed on point duty of an afternoon not far from a big fishmonger’s
shop in one of the main streets.
On the day following, in the middle of the afternoon, my friend sidled
furtively up to the shop. A fine lobster was prominently displayed in
the centre of the marble slab. The fat policeman was there.
Suddenly my friend put out his hand, seized the lobster, and took to
his heels. The policeman took after him. There was an exciting chase of
a mile or more, but eventually my friend allowed himself to be caught,
and haled back in triumph to the shop.
“What’s the matter?” cried the fishmonger, coming out on to the
pavement.
“This fellow has stolen your lobster?” panted the policeman.
“Have I?” inquired my friend innocently, addressing the fishmonger.
“Of course not,” he replied. “You bought and paid for it an hour ago.”
“Sold again!” cried my friend, turning to the policeman; and the crowd,
to whom the joke now became apparent, roared with laughter; while the
officer walked away in high dudgeon, muttering under his breath things
that cannot be set down in print.
As a matter of fact my friend had purchased the lobster, at the same
time telling the fishmonger that he need not wrap it up for him. “Leave
it on the slab where it is,” he remarked as he handed over the purchase
money, “and I’ll call for it presently, and take it away just as it is.”
Which he did.