IT was George Burns, the veteran American comedian, who claimed he read the paper first thing every day to see if he was dead. Those of us born in the 1950s are reaching that awkward stage of our lives when it seems like every time we open a newspaper another of our childhood heroes has left the stage.
The last month or so has been particularly traumatic with the loss of Beatle George, John Thaw and now Spike Milligan. It’s not just that we’ll miss their various talents, but rather that, last time we looked, they were just young men at the start of their careers. Now it seems, they’ve dashed straight along the lane marked “National Treasures” and gone on to join that awards ceremony in the sky.
In death, their memory tends to be slightly manipulated. For many of my generation who claim lifelong allegiance to The Goons, the truth can only be that the original radio shows were broadcast too long ago for accurate recall. Maybe the television imitation, The Telegoons, planted the names of Seagoon, Bloodnok and Eccles into our memories, but for most of us, Sellers was Clouseau, Secombe was Mr Pickwick, Bentine was It’s a Square World and Milligan was Q.
Nevertheless, Spike Milligan’s contribution to humour is undeniably epic, and much was written suggesting his type of humour died with him. Well, I’m not so sure.
There’s a pupil in my first-year writing group who seems to inhabit a very similar part of the planet as the late lamented Spike. The first week I met her, she introduced me to all her many pens by name and then showed me the tricks they could do. (“Roll over and play dead” was my favourite.) After two months, she put her hand up in the middle of class and said: “Sir, I didn’t know you had a moustache.”
Last week, we were pursuing “functional writing”, aiming to produce a tourism leaflet for West Lothian. We discussed what interests tourists, and what we have in the locality that would qualify: history, scenery and famous people all got a good kick of the ball.
Then, as they settled to work, I reminded them that a good headline was vital. I mentioned Linlithgow Palace and “Mary, Queen of Scots got her head chopped off” as an example.
Attempting to read this pupil’s spidery scrawl, the blood drained from my face: “What does the headline say?” I gasped.
“You said it had to attract people’s attention!” she reminded me.
“Yes, but . . .”
“See, it says ‘Big Tips’ - you know, all that shale mining you were talking about.”
I had to laugh. Spike lives!!!!!
