Last night I made
Eric Morecambe’s son laugh. I’m chalking this down as a personal achievement.
(It was probably
out of politeness, to be fair. I don’t care: I’m still proud of it.)
The location of this momentous event was St Albans' Alban Arena (try saying that after a few drinks). I was there to watch my
friend Bob in the exceptional
Olivier-Award-winning one-man show Morecambe. I’d tell you to go and see it,
but you can’t, as yesterday was the final performance. If you
missed it, you missed out on a treat. Bob’s portrayal of the comic legend is
uncanny; as Eric’s daughter Gail said herself in a brief post-show Q & A:
“Even his shadow looks like my dad’s”.
It was during the
interval that I managed to score a couple of laughs from one of Eric's descendents. His son Gary was sitting front of house, signing copies of his latest
book on the nation’s favourite duo (not us). I’ve read a couple of his
books about his dad in the past and found them fascinating, so I couldn’t miss out
on the chance to say hello.
Our conversation
was brief, but lovely. He was very friendly. I also surprised him by saying that I owned a copy of one of his first books, ‘The Illustrated Morecambe’.
“Blimey, that’s
an old one” he said. “Where did you manage to get that?”
What made
him laugh doesn’t bear repeating. It doesn’t matter. To briefly amuse the son of one of
the funniest and most beloved men to walk the planet is
something to cherish.
(I promise he was
laughing with and not at me.)