Ken Dodd has new material shock horror
My annual fix of Ken Dodd — the greatest performer I have ever seen live (or dead, for that matter) on stage — was not a disappointment at the Rose, Kingson, last night, though I feared none of us would make it on time.
Doddy turned up with his partner Anne Jones, black poodle and van load of props and costumes just ninety minutes before curtain up, hot foot and slightly exhausted from a two-night gig in Malvern. And the slow front of house and badly designed access in the auditorium meant a crush of seniors in the foyer not seen since the January sales at the Wincarnis and Complan counters in Boots.
My guests were Petroc Trelawny, the Voice of the Proms on Radio 3, and Roger Foss, editor of our Whatsonstage magazine. Petroc was a Doddy virgin, Roger had not seen the King of the Diddymen since the London Palladium date in September 1974; and that was ten years after Doddy had peaked in the national fame and television stakes, having played two famous Palladium seasons (the first of an astonishing forty-two weeks) in 1965 and 1967.
Petroc had told some friends he was going to see Ken Dodd. They thought, great, Candide! No, Ken Dodd. Never mind, Dodd is the best of all comedians in the best of all possible worlds, and Knotty Ash.
I remember that 1974 gig: Dodd tripped over a rostrum as he entered and shot a huge rubbery cow in the flies (that must have hurt) that effectively silenced the orchestra. He played a non-stop two hours. I remember my mother banging her head on the seat in front and gasping, “Tell him to stop, tell him to stop!” I didn’t know whether she was crying with laughter or laughing in agony.
In that show, Dodd was the second half of the variety bill. Now he plays for about four hours punctuated by one interval and a musical interlude by Anne Jones (stage name, Sybie Jones), at the piano and on the guitar.
Anne is a marvel of multi-tasking virtuosity. Having unpacked the van, ironed the costumes and set the stage, she mingled in the auditorium selling programmes, nipped backstage to announce the show, popped on and off with props and then played her stint with a robust optimistic belief in her own musical abilities: her technique and taste make Richard Clayderman look like Horowitz.
Her finest hour came, though, in a brand new — hold that front page, Doddy has a new comedy sequence! — sex therapy Q and A dialogue, dolled up as an unlikely Fifi the maid, and trying (vainly) not to corpse while Doddy struggled out of his floor-length red moggy coat and reached for his tickle stick.
Kenneth Arthur Dodd owns up in Who’s Who to being eighty-one next birthday. And the older he gets, the longer he seems to want to carry on. The running gag of the show is its length: optimists have booked taxis for twenty-past twelve; if you don’t laugh, he’ll add on another ten minutes; he’s seen young boys grow out of their short trousers during these shows; all over Kingston, baby-sitters are standing on the front door-step muttering, “Where the bloody hell are they?”
The sentimentality of his performance gets stronger, too, as he gets older. His marvellous ventriloquism with little Dicky Mint is more moving than ever. And the cheesy songs — ending with “Absent Friends” — are irresistible unless you’re dead.
A few people trickled away before the end, but then there was an unseemly rush of Kingstonian geriatrics for the car park round the corner, which closes at midnight. And as for Ken and Anne, there would be a short meet and greet with friends in the dressing room, perfectly re-called anecdotes of his comedy heroes Arthur Askey and Ted Ray, both fellow Scousers, maybe a sip of light ale, then a long drive back to Liverpool.
Later this week, it’s back down South again to entertain the seaside crowds in Worthing and Westcliff. How does he do it? It’s a miracle, nothing less. And I hear rumours of a gig later this year back in his favourite theatre, the London Palladium. I’ll be there and so, if you’ve got any sense, and sufficient energy, and the kidneys aren’t giving out, will you.