Where Have All The Bullets Gone? Part 13

He arises and is full of the joys of chattering, farting, singing and cries of Hey hup la! He's down the stairs like a clockwork doll, into the dining-room, eats six breakfasts, sings, whistles and farts his way through ten cups of tea. Where was he last night? He went to a dance, met a pretty signorina hoi hup! and in a moment of Welsh hieraith hoi! hup! gave her his leather Army jerkin. From now on he froze froze.

[image] "The hit of the night was Bill Hall's trio. Bill's ecentric hot fiddling will take him far and his partners on ba.s.s and guitar make up the best act of the night." "The hit of the night was Bill Hall's trio. Bill's ecentric hot fiddling will take him far and his partners on ba.s.s and guitar make up the best act of the night."

The show opened at the Argentina Theatre; again the Bill Hall Trio are the hit of the show.

The act was basically very fast jazz numbers; 'Honeysuckle Rose', then 'The Flight of the b.u.mble Bee', 'Tiger Rag', all with visual gags. The response was unbelievable; we realized that here we might have something that would have great potential in civvy street.

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The Alexander Club, Rome, Harry Secombe (l) (l) willing Johnny Mulgrew willing Johnny Mulgrew (r) (r) to pay the bill. Bob Wayne standing to pay the bill. Bob Wayne standing.

Life was really better than I had ever had it. First-cla.s.s hotel accommodation, food, free all day, and a roaring success at night. Tomorrow didn't matter, except it kept arriving. By day we'd swan around Rome with the inevitable visit to the Alexander Club.

We had a sword of Damocles. It was Bill Hall. He was itinerant, and we never knew where he was or what he was doing. After the show he'd disappear into the Rome night and its naughty areas and we wouldn't see him till a few minutes before we were due back on stage. It got so bad that I would go on stage without him even being in the theatre; it was then I started to tell jokes just to hold the fort.

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Spike on top of the Colosseum

BOLOGNA.

Bologna Sunday. We are off to Bologna. Where the h.e.l.l is Bill Hall? Someone says Italy! We search the hotel, then his room; there's nothing in it though he's slept in both beds, left a tap running, and a pair of socks in the sink. Wait, what is this unshaven wreck with a violin case? It is he. He gets on the charabanc, ignoring the fact that we've been waiting half an hour. A desultory cheer greets him. Totally unmoved, he sits down. I watch a drip from his nose fall and extinguish his dog-end. I am seated at the back on a bench seat. I have placed my guitar case on the luggage rack and as we start, it falls off on to Hall's head. "You have-a musica on yewer brayne," says Mitzi. It is a good joke for a forty-three-year-old Hungarian accordion player.

We are heading inland and it's snowing. NO car heaters in those days! We are climbing the narrow road up the Apennines, and it's getting colder. All is not well. Nino the driver is shouting and praying in a stricken voice, the roads are very slippery, we'll have to put the skid chains on. We set to, straining and swearing. "What a bleedin' liberty," says Gunner Hall. "How can you put b.l.o.o.d.y skid chains on and be expected to play the violin." Lieutenant Priest answers that there's no need to play the violin when putting the skid chains on but as Gunner Hall is just standing and watching, it would help if he did. Fingers are aching with cold; finally it's done; a quick drink of hot tea from the thermos and we're off again. We are at three thousand feet, heavy snow, icy roads, very dark and very cold. We have all gone quiet as we sense that the driver Nino is none too brave. Then the sound of Hall's violin playing 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas'. There's a lot of laughter, then we all join in.

Varied lyrics: 'I'm dreaming of a white mistress', or 'I'm steaming on an old mattress'. Quiet again. We pa.s.s a chiesa, it's ringing out the Angelus; several of the Italian girls cross themselves.

"I don't understand 'em," says Bill Hall. "Last night they were all s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g themselves silly."

Lieutenant Priest pa.s.ses sandwiches down the charabanc. "Ham and cheese," he says. We are all stamping our feet and blowing into cupped hands. Sometimes we cupped our feet and stamped our hands: variety is the spice of life. It was an awful long cold boring darkness. It wasn't a moment too soon when we arrived in Bologna; with the Tower of Dante looming into the night sky, we pull up at the Albergo Oralogio. A fin de cycle building. All is Baroque, even the porters.

We are soon in wonderful bedrooms, faded but lovely. I have a huge marble bath with gorgon-headed taps, and a giant bra.s.s shower rose in a wooden boxed-in cabinet. The curtains are damask. It's a single room, so I'm safe from singing, farting, chattering Secombe.

"Hey, come and ha' a drink, Spike." It's Mulgrew, he's found a vino bar right next door. "We could do with one after that b.l.o.o.d.y journey." OK. I join him. The manageress falls for Johnny.

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Mulgrew set fair for free drinks The vino bar is the meeting place of all the local footballers. They have money, do we have anything to sell. Mulgrew puts up his soul. I have a fine officer's raincoat given me by my father. Can they see it? Not from here. I dash into the Albergo and return gasping. Oh, I'm in no hurry to sell, you understand, but how much? Five thousand lire. The word thousand disorientates the mind. Used to humble one, two, three in sterling but five thousand! Rich! rich! rich! Wrong! wrong! wrong! little international banker. It came to four quid: and it cost fifteen! It was brand new, and there it is going out the door to a football match. Still, four quid was four quid, but it wasn't fifteen.

Tired by the trip, elated by the five thousand lire, p.i.s.sed by the wine, I retired to my Baroque bedroom, laid out my mottled blue pyjamas, took a marble bath, a bra.s.s shower, got into the Baroque bed and rang for room service. There's b.u.g.g.e.r all: room service is 'finito'. What have they got? La fredda colazione!! Argggh, well it was better than nothing, though when it arrived I realized it wasn't. What's the old waiter hanging about for? All service after ten has to be paid for by cash. What? But I'm travelling on the King's warrant, this trip is all found. Well find a tip. No! OK, he'll call the manager. No, no, OK, I pay. Has he got change for a ten thousand lire note? Yes, he says, have I been selling raincoats to those footballers?

Again the Bill Hall Triumph. It's getting to be a habit. With the raincoat money I brought an old Kodak camera. I filmed everything, see over: The streets of Bologna were swarming with Italian Partisans wearing bandoliers, their belts stuffed with German stick grenades. They sauntered the sidewalks with a braggadocio air, waving their captured weapons and shouting Viva Italia. After a while it got a bit boring and Bill Hall said to one, "Le Guerre Finito mate." We climbed the six hundred steps up the Tower of Dante, only to find graffiti: "Viva La Figa."

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Spike feeding the pigeons in a piazza in Bologna. Photograph of no particular merit other than that the photographer would one day arise and find Sir in front of his name.

Christmas in Italy Our last show in Bologna was on Christmas Day. It was all very strange. On Christmas Eve, after a show to a very inebriated audience, I wanted to be alone. I went to my bedroom and wished I could be back at 50 Riseldine Road with my mum and dad and brother. I wanted that little Christmas tree in the front room, the coal fire especially lit to 'air the room' for Christmas Day. The simple presents, a scarf, a pair of socks, a presentation box of 25 Player's cigarettes, my brother's box of Brittans soldiers, a drawing book with a set of pencils. Very modest fare by modern standards, but to me then, still simple and unsophisticated, it was a warming and magic day. The lunch, and chicken chicken, that was something! In 1939, chicken was a luxury. And the tin of Danish ham! The huge trifle with custard and real CREAM. My father's pride in opening the Port, pretending he was a savant, smelling the cork. "Ahhhh yes," he would say, and pour it with the gesture of a sommelier at the Lord Mayor's banquet.

Here I was in a room in Bologna. I couldn't get it together. Outside there is roistering. Not me. I knew tomorrow there would be no stocking at the end of my bed. Father Christmas was a casualty of World War Two.

FLORENCE.

Florence City of Medicis, Savonarola, and chattering raspberrying Secombe, now freezing without his leather 'love gift' jerkin. This is the city of the artist, the artisan, the connoisseur. Our Hotel Dante is just round the corner from the Piazza del Signoria. I would be able to see places that I had only read about. The hotel is one built for those rich Victorians doing the Grand Tour. Sumptuous rooms, a wonderful double bed with duck eider, like sleeping in froth. Putting my egg-stained battledress in the bevelled gla.s.s and walnut cupboard was like wearing a flat hat in the Ritz. Secombe flies past chattering and farting up the Carrara marble stairs with its flanking Venetian bal.u.s.trades topped with cherubim holding bronze lanterns. He looks totally out of place, he belongs at the pit head.

I am standing on the spot, explaining that this is where Savonarola was burned. "Oo was Savonarola?" says Gunner Hall. I tell him 'oo he is'. "They burnt burnt him?" Yes. "Why. Were they short of coal?" I explain that he was at odds with the Medici and the state of Florence. "Fancy," says Hall. "Why didn't 'e call the fire brigade?" The same indifference applies to see Cellini's Perseus. With the head of Medusa, Hall wants to know why statues are erected to people being burnt or having their heads chopped off. "Why not someone normal like Tommy Handley?" Yes, of course: "Here is Cellini's statue of Tommy Handley from ITMA." That would look really nice in the Piazza. him?" Yes. "Why. Were they short of coal?" I explain that he was at odds with the Medici and the state of Florence. "Fancy," says Hall. "Why didn't 'e call the fire brigade?" The same indifference applies to see Cellini's Perseus. With the head of Medusa, Hall wants to know why statues are erected to people being burnt or having their heads chopped off. "Why not someone normal like Tommy Handley?" Yes, of course: "Here is Cellini's statue of Tommy Handley from ITMA." That would look really nice in the Piazza.

The Pitti Palace leaves me stunned; masterpiece after masterpiece, there's no end to it. From t.i.tian to Seguantini. You come out feeling useless and ugly. On the Ponte Vecchio Secombe and I ask Hall to take a photo of us. It comes out with the wall behind us in perfect focus, two blurred faces in the foreground. He was well pleased.

Now a divertimento. An English lady living in Florence has invited us to tea. She is Madame Penelope Morris, a 'relative' of William Morris, "the man who invented wallpaper'. She was sixty-nine, tall, thin, a white translucent skin with the veins visible; her neck looked like a map of the Dutch ca.n.a.l system. She wore swathes of bead necklaces - to the value of two s.h.i.+llings. Two pale blue eyes, very close together, sat atop a long bulbous nose. She had no waist, no bottom or bosom; she went straight up and down like a ; phone box. A small crimped rouged mouth like a chicken's b.u.m. She spoke with an upper-cla.s.s adenoidal voice that put her next in line to the throne. She ushered us into a cloying room that' smelt of stale unemptied sherry gla.s.ses and tomcat p.i.s.s. We sat in well-worn chairs with antimaca.s.sars. She rang a bra.s.s bell, the clanger fell out. "It's always doing that." The summons brought a thousand-year-old butler carrying a papier-mache tray loaded with what looked like papier-mache cakes. The tea ritual. "The cakes are made locally," she said, and should have added 'by stonemasons." It was all a ploy. She is a spiritualist in need. So, would we boys like a seance? So saying she pulls the curtains and we sit at a circular table not knowing what to expect. Now, would anyone like to get in touch with a loved one? Yes, says Marine Paul Robson, one of our shanghaied dancers. "I'd like to get in touch with my mother Rosie." Mrs Morris goes into a trance. "Are you there Mrs Robson, are you there Rosie..." A little louder. "Are you there Mrs Rosie Robson..." She opens her eyes. "She's not hearing me." What Robson hadn't told her was that his mother wasn't dead, but was living in Brighton. "She won't be able to hear from here," he said to a slightly bemused Mrs Morris.

Does anyone else want to get in touch? Yes. Bill Hall would like to contact his grandmother Lucy.. Forewarned, Mrs Morris asks, "Is she dead?"

"I hope so," says Hall. "They buried her."

"Are you there, Mrs Lucy Hall?" she intones, eyelids fluttering, as she places a collection box on the table, giving it a shake to agitate the coins inside. Suddenly Paul Robson lets out a scream and runs from the room. Mrs Morris calls a halt; he has ruined the 'balance'. We must all leave now as she is expecting another 'tea party'. In the hall we meet a group of unsuspecting soldiers who can't understand our stifled laughter.

We ask Robson why he had run out screaming. He says, "I felt there was something nasty in the room."

"There was," says Bill Hall. "The cat done it."

Secombe and I have hit it off with two waitresses at the hotel. One fat, one thin. He calls them Laurel and Hardy. They weren't exactly beauties, but then neither was Secombe or I.

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Hardy (mine) 12 stone 3 lb Laurel (Secombe's) 7 stone 3 lb stone 3 lb We would meet them 'dopo lavoro'. They will show us a 'nice Boogie Woogie Club'. It sounded like a weapon. By the kitchen we waited, our romantic interlude broken only by the slops boy emptying rubbish into the reeking bins. Finally they appear, smelling of cheap perfume and was.h.i.+ng up water. Secombe give me Hardy. She's too full for him. We were taken to what by day was a sewer. An Italian trio are trying to catch up 'with the jazz scene. Through a fug, a blue-chinned waiter shows us to a table the size of a playing card. By intertwining knees we are seated, we appear glued together. Secombe is chattering in Anglo-Italian: "You molto bello," he tells Laurel. There's another fine mess he's got us into. We drink some appalling cheap red wine that leaves a purple ring round the mouth; Secombe looks like a vampire.

Laurel takes Secombe to do the 'Jitterb.u.g.g.e.ry' and they are lost in the steaming melee. I too am sucked in by Hardy. I am trying to move her bulk round the floor, but I really need a heavy goods licence. Still, it was nice holding a girl, even if her load had s.h.i.+fted. A gyrating, arm-pumping, steaming, farting and chattering, all teeth and gla.s.ses Secombe zooms past. "Having fun?" he shouts. So that's what it is. Away he goes in twenty different directions. It's getting on for two a.m. The girls say they must 'andare a casa', they have work in the morning. There follows the traditional groping and steaming in the doorway.

A mist has risen from the Arno, infiltrating the town and Secombe's trousers. I can hear the hiss of steam as cold air hits his boiling body. We depart virgo intacto, trousers bursting with revolving t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es and dying erections. We retrace our steps to the hotel. We are lost. "Fancy," says Secombe. "Who in the Mumbles would dream that I was lost in Florence?" I tell him I gave up: who in Mumbles would know he was lost in Florence.

A tart hovers by. Lily Marlene? She knows the way to the hotel. Do we want a s.h.a.g? It's only fifty lire after ten, she'll do us both for forty. Sorry dear, we're training for the priesthood. OK, we can find our own f.u.c.king way back. Finally we did. "Home at last," says Secombe, "and forty lire to the good."

No, not home at last, locked out at last. "Open up landlord, we are thirsty travellers." We rang the bell. We hammered on the door. We tapped on the windows. We shouted upwards. We hammered on the bell. We rang the door. We tapped upwards. We shouted on the windows. "How much did she say for the two of us?" says Secombe. A sliding of bolts, a weary concierge opens the door. "Molto tardi signorini," he says. We apologize. I press a ten lire note in his hand. A low moan comes from his lips. "What did you give him?" says Secombe. "A heart attack."

I crawl into my dream bed. Peace. Relaxation, but no, wait!!! Something wet and 'horribule' is in my bed. It's a terrible soldier joke, there in my bed is an eight-inch 'Richard the Third', made from dampened brown paper. Wait, there's a note, a chilling message. It says: "The phantom strikes again." It bears all the hallmarks of Mulgrew, or is it the Mulgrew marks of Hall? I fell asleep laughing.

RETURN TO NAPLES.

Return to Naples Days seem to go by like water rus.h.i.+ng over stones. We leave Florence, having visited every possible sight. It was a city I can never forget. We are to return to Naples, with an overnight stay in Rome. There we dine again with the Eton-cropped manageress, whom we now know to be a lesbian. The discovery was made by Lt. Priest who had put his hand on her leg and had it crushed in a vice-like grip, all the while smiling sweetly at him. I got a bit worried when she said to me, "You are a very pretty boy." After dinner she asked the trio to come to her room and play. Drinks had been laid on, including a Barolo 1930! She asked us to play 'You Go to my Head', then sang it in Italian in a deep baritone voice. If we weren't certain before, we were now. Yes, there was the shaving soap on the windowsill. The more she drank, the more masculine she became, giving us thumps on the back like demolition hammers. "Let's get out of here," said Hall, "or she'll f.u.c.k the lot of us."

The last leg to Naples. All the while Secombe entertains us with insane jokes and raspberries. Does anyone know the Big Horse Song? No. He sings Big Horse I love you. The Hook and Eye song? No? He sings Hook and I live without you. The Niton Song? Niton day, you are the One. The Ammonia song? Ammonia bird in a gilded cage. There was no stopping him, he was like a dynamo.

"Are you on anything!" I said.

"Yes, two pound ten a week. Hoi Hup, raspberry." He used to be a pithead clerk.

"Were you good at figures?"

"Well, as long as I got within three or four s.h.i.+llings."

If what he told me was true, miners who hadn't shown up for a week ended up with double wages and the reverse. The day he joined the army, the miners held a pithead Thanksgiving Service.

Back in the old routine. Hall has been missing for days. During his absence, we transform his army bed into a magnificent four poster with a Heraldic s.h.i.+eld, satin drapes and a scarlet velvet bedspread. We time it to perfection. Hall comes in five minutes before the once-weekly roll call and inspection. He walks in a moment before the Inspecting Officer. Stunned, he stands by his bed. Enter Captain O'List. He too is stunned.

O'LIST: Whose bed is this? Whose bed is this?

HALL:.

Mine sir. Mine sir.

O'LIST: How long has it been like this? How long has it been like this?

HALL:.

Just today, sir. Just today, sir.

O'LIST: Why? Why?

HALL:.

It's my mother's birthday, sir. It's my mother's birthday, sir.

O'List couldn't contain himself. Weak-legged he walked rapidly from the room. On the stairs we could hear him choking with laughter.

Bari Yes, we are to ancient Barium where the meal-enema was invented. We are to entertain the bored soldiery. First thing, chain Gunner Hall to the bed. Louisa Pucelli, our Italian star, has dropped out of the show, and in her place we have Signorina Delores Bagitta, an ageing bottle-blonde Neapolitan old boiler, with a voice like a Ferrari exhaust. She looked OK from a distance, about a mile I'd say. She did a Carmen Miranda act, her layers of cutaneous fat shuddering with every move. "Amore, amore," she'd croak. It was monumental tat.

Bari is a dusty seaport on the Adriatic. There's Bari Vecchio and Bari Nuovo. No hotel this time, but a large hostel that seemed to be under permanent siege by lady cleaners. Even as you sat on the WC a mop would suddenly slosh under the door. The streets are heavy with bored British troops, and a heavy sprinkling of Scots from the tribal areas. The old city is really a museum piece, it's a time capsule dated about 1700: the Moors were here and left their mark -many a dark skin can be seen.

Secombe appears to be inflating his head; he is even inflating his face. Somehow the wind is escaping upwards. No, the man is in real trouble. Poor Gunner, struck down in his prime! Of all things he has illness of the face. It's true, folks, he has been using cheap Italian make-up which has affected all the cuts he gave himself during his screaming farting and shaving act. It gets bad, and the swelling closes both eyes. There was little pity. We had warned him if he didn't stop it, this is what would happen. The dramatic situation of temporary blindness gives Secombe a great chance for histrionics: he becomes Gunner King Lear. "I'm sorry lads, to have let you down like this, but remember the show must go on." He lay in his bed, not knowing that we had left the room. He develops a high temperature which speeds him up. When the ambulance arrives to take him, he is chattering, screaming and farting at twice the speed. "I'm sorry I'm leaving you lads, but I'll be back, the show must go on, thanks for all your help, remember me when you're on stage, tell the lads I did my best, Cardiff 3 Swansea Nil. Lloyd George knew my father, saucepanbach, Ivor Novello, when I come home again to Wales." As they drove him away we could hear s.n.a.t.c.hes of Welsh songs, rugby scores, rasp-berrying and screaming. When he arrived at Bari General Hospital they took him straight to the psychiatric ward where he gave three doctors a nervous breakdown.

His place in the show was taken by Delores Bagitta; dressed as a nun she sang 'Ave Maria' in a gin-soaked voice. Lt. Priest pleaded with her not to, but to our horror and amazement she got an ovation! There's no telling.

Surprise, surprise, after our first show, who shows up? It's lean lovely Lance-Bombardier Reg Bennett. What's he doing here? He was posted. He arrived with a letter to the Town Major who said. "I see Bennett that you are an expert on heavy dock clearance and port maintenance."

"No sir, I'm an insurance clerk."

Someone had blundered. He gets the plum job of Town Major's clerk. With it goes a private flat above his office. He invited me back. We took a taxi, so he was doing alright. We arrived at the flat and opened the door to find the Town Major s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g some Iti bird on the floor. "I'm afraid the room is occupied," he said.

We ended up at a restaurant in the Old Town; customers are up-market Italians and a few British officers. "All black market," says Reg.

"How can you afford all this, Reg?"

He grinned the grin of a man heavily involved in skullduggery. "I handle the NAAFI," he said. Ah! NAAFI, the crown jewels of military life. We spoke about an idea we had had back in Baiano. A nightclub on the Thames. It was pie in the sky. Bennett says. "Milligan, if we're going to dream, why stop at a night club on the Thames, why not a hundred-storey hotel in San Francisco? We've just had four b.l.o.o.d.y years of war, why go in for more trouble? No Spike, I've thought about it, if we all clubbed together we'd just about afford two tables and six chairs."

"We could get a bank loan."

"OK, eight eight chairs then." chairs then."

He was right. I said so: "You are right." I said, "To h.e.l.l with the hundred-storey hotel and the six chairs. Waiter, another bottle of Orvieto!"

Well p.i.s.sed, Bennett dropped me off at the hotel. An hour later he appears at my bedroom door. "He's still s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g," he said. I put him in the spare bed. "I'm not angry, just jealous," he said. Reg departed next morning. I was not to see him for another five years, by which time the Town Major had finished s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g.

The sound of chattering, farting and screams tells me that Secombe has been cured and released, and the hospital burnt down for safety. "h.e.l.lo h.e.l.lo, hey hoi hup, raspberry, scream, sing, on with the show hey hoi hup." He revolves round the hotel at speed. What had eluded scientists for 2000 years has been discovered by Gunner Secombe. Perpetual motion.

New Year's Eve A.D. 1946 is a few hours away as the show opens. The front row is filled with the well-scrubbed, pink and pretty Queen Alexandra Nursing Sisters, all crisp and starched in their grey, white and red uniforms. Hovering above them in the crammed gallery are hundreds of steaming Highlanders, all in the combustible atmosphere of whisky fumes. The Bill Hall Trio are a smash hit. We are going for an encore when to our horror we see, falling like gentle rain from heaven, scores of inflated rubber condoms floating down on the dear nursing sisters. Some, all merry with the festive season, start bursting them before they scream with realization. Military police go in among the steaming Scots and a fight breaks out; to the sound of smas.h.i.+ng bottles, thuds, screams, wallops and yells, a nun sings 'Ave Maria'. Happy New Year everyone.

After the show there's a party on stage, a table with ARGGGGHHH Cold Collation, the Bill Hall Trio play for dancing. A good time was had by all, and something else had by all was Delores Bagitta. Lt. Priest drinks a toast: "This is our last show and we will be returning to base tomorrow."

Naples Again It is 120 miles to Naples, a sort of London/Birmingham trip. Bill, Johnny and I sit as usual at the back on the bench seat. We start to talk seriously about a future in England. We agree to stick together and make our fortune. With the reception we've been getting, how can we go wrong.

January. CPA Barracks It was a sybaritic life. No parades, an occasional inspection, and a NAAFI open day. There were perks. "There's spare tickets for the opera," says gay Captain Lees, who is ever so lonely and rightfully in the Queen's Regiment. The opera? Fat men and women bawling at each other in front of cardboard trees, backed by a crowd of hairy-legged spearmen. OK, it was free. I was about to see what any opera lover would give his life for. Outside the San Carlo: "The WVS presents the world's greatest tenor, Benjamino Gigli." Gigli? Coleman Hawkins or Ben Webster, yes, but Gigli?

I have a plush box to myself it seems, but just before curtain-up a smelly Italian peasant carrying a bag of food and a bottle of wine is ushered in. "Scusi," he says, then starts laying the food out on a cloth. Overture, curtain up. Magic. Where have I been? Puccini! What an ignorant b.a.s.t.a.r.d I've been. Wait, the Italian is getting p.i.s.sed, and by the time Mimi's tiny hand is frozen, he's joining in the arias. He's sitting on the floor, the audience can't really see him, they're all shus.h.i.+ng at me me. The attendants come in, I have a struggle telling them I'm not the culprit. Eventually they drag the protesting Iti away, but leave his bread, cheese and wine which I am well pleased to finish.

The Opera continues. 'Mimi' sob, sob goes Rudolph, and crashes his twenty stone on top of the poor consumptive; the curtain comes down to stop her being asphyxiated. Curtain call after curtain call. I am on my feet shouting Beeeeseeee! Like all b.l.o.o.d.y musicians, the orchestra are trying to get out before any encores...they all escape but Gigli collars the harpist and sings Neapolitan folksongs, for an hour - magic. Gigli is gone to his rest, but that evening goes on...

A Bitter End The curse of the working cla.s.s! Piles! I am stricken, strucken and stracken with the things! Unlike other enemies, one could not come face to face with these things. Piles! The MO is no help: he is twiddling his his things and unsympathetic. things and unsympathetic.