Bring me sunshine, in your smile..
In which I go and see a production of Morecambe at the theatre, and feel both achingly nostalgic, and home, for the first time.
(Apologies for any incoherency or spelling mistakes. It's late. I'm tired, and still frickin' ill.)
Morecambe and Wise were, quite plainly, not my generation; Eric died six years before I was born (in Cheltenham General hospital, strangely enough; a fairly ominous place that I've walked past on the way home from work many times), and Ernie when I was only eight. I was never really aware of their history, their detail.
But I fell in love with them when I was a child, thanks to my Dad; he had all sorts of sketches and clip shows recorded on ricketty old cassette tapes, and I have so many memories of watching them with my parents and brother - years before I was old enough to understand most of the gags, I expect. But there was slapstick; overlong legs and arms, and fiddling with Ernie's hair, and silly sentences that made no sense, and celebrities making fools of themselves; it had everything. Andrew Preview. Glenda Jackson. 'Verbal compost'. Bring Me Sunshine. All the old classics, and more.
Seeing Morecambe tonight, a one-man show about Eric Morecambe's life, brought it all back in an instant. I was sceptical at first. I thought Eric Morecambe was inimitatable, but Bob Golding was absolutely outstanding. All the little habits and quirks you recognised from Eric were honed to perfection, and he was camp and silly and energetic and touching and never stayed still for more than a second. He went all the way through his life, all on his own; with radio announcements, dance numbers, sound effects, playing all different characters. Except Ernie, of course, who was a ventriloqist's dummy. Really! And it worked so well, particularly towards the end; the dummy provides all kinds of comic relief, until Eric gives it a little kiss on the forehead at the climax - I choked up; it was terrible.
I think it had a special resonance in Lancaster, too; Morecambe is only a stone's throw away from here. When my parents and I reunited for the first time since I left home, it was at Eric Morecambe's statue in the Bay; my Dad hugged me so hard he lifted me off my feet. There was so much affection coming from the audience, it was heartwarming - finishing off his most famous jokes and (if they were anything like me), laugh-crying at the final line; when an ambulance sound is heard, and he pauses to listen, looking so lost, and uses one of his best jokes - "He'll never sell any ice creams going that fast."
And, although I'm not sure why, seeing it suddenly brought home to me how happy I am here, in Lancaster. Maybe it's the discovery of the Duke's Theatre, which is absolutely lovely and so genuine in what it puts on (the Everyman in Cheltenham was choking on mediocre plays filled with spot stars), or possibly meeting professional writers from Lancaster (Ian Martin again! He bought me another drink; he's very lovely.), but I feel...settled. Comfortable. I'm living in student accommodation in the city next year, right on the canal, amidst barges and swans, and even though I'll be glad to be moving out of the bubble, campus feels so achingly familiar, it's wonderful.
If you told me now that you could pluck me out of here and plonk me into Cardiff, all expenses paid, no questions asked, no going back, I'd flat out refuse. I'm already home.
Also, although it was barely an election as I was the only one running (against what I'd originally thought), I'm now Bisexual Campaigns & Welfare Officer for Lancaster uni's LGBTQ committee! Hurrah! Let the endless paranoia that I'm going to be completely shit begin.