Bring Me Sunshine

It's now forty years since we lost Eric Morecambe; a comedian so named after his excitable nature during BBC bukkake parties (don't Google that at work). Seven months after his death, Thames Television aired a star-packed tribute titled Bring Me Sunshine, held – of course – at the Palladium, which for me, having sat through so many Jim Davidson benefit concerts and Royal Varieties there, is like having my ghost dragged back to the scene of my own murder. Stood outside in a bow tie, Michael Parkinson introduces the show, which is raising money for the Hart Foundation, presumably to help fund their battles against Demolition and the Nasty Boys– sorry, British Heart Foundation. Yes, that makes much more sense.

The Duke of Edinburgh's there as witness, shaking the hands of various managing directors; men with names like Sir Cyril Clark and Brigadier Thursby-Pelham; men who've never had to pick the plastic cover off a microwave meal. Last in line is Eric's widow, of whom Parky remarks “and she's looking absolutely smashing!” Calm down, mate, Eric's barely cold. Anyway, she'll be watching from the Royal box, so good luck competing with Big Phil. Everyone's on their feet for the Anthem, in a situation few people will ever experience outside of when the birthday cake's carried in; having to stand while everyone sings a song about your wife. Think he kept himself amused by mentally reciting his own lyrics? “She has got massive jugs. My God they're massive ones. God save my wife.”

We open with a Broadway style Bring Me Sunshine where gold-jacketed dancers jazzily bop to herald the arrival of Ernie Wise at the top of an illuminated staircase like he's back from visiting his old pal in the afterlife. An emotional Ernie cuts a rather sad figure through the night, with the sombre appreciative manner of a widower mingling at a wake, and gives a lovely eulogy about their friendship – “two boys met, and they decided to do a double act... one of them isn't here tonight,” before breaking into song. Max Bygraves comes out to join him, and shockingly – if your sole knowledge of Max comes via the one hand-me-down impression every comic does – he's not shaking a pair of limp wrists like he found himself without paper towels at a public sink, or voicing his desire to tell you a story.

The boys do self-effacing banter about the old days and Val Parnell; “most acts got a mirror to dress up in, I used a puddle,” and Max goes into a music hall number, boater on his head, jazz-handing it, with reminiscences which have a touch of the Lee Anderson – “there were carousel rides, we had short back and sides, back in those good old days!” The Tiller Girls run in circles and kick their bare legs, once again, a dance that always seems to be saying, “I've got a fanny up here, and perhaps on the next kick you shall see it...” (and I will not be made to feel a pervert for saying what we're all thinking!). Hoofing their way into the wings, the line re-emerges with Angela Rippon on the end, in a call-back to her scandalous appearance on M&W, which was shocking behaviour for a newsreader at the time, though eclipsed a couple of years later when Trevor McDonald did the balloon dance and we all saw his worm.

The son of Jimmy James (confusingly named James Casey and not Casey James) does to a tribute to Sr's act, with his cousin Eli Woods and Roy Castle. Casey smokes a cigarette throughout, Eli confuses the words guitar and catarrh, Boy George is “neither one thing nor the other,” and there's a gag implying Eli will stick a trumpet up his arse. This is pure Music Hall, every joke misunderstood wordplay, plus an allusion to people from Peking as 'nips', and the surprising origin of Danny Baker's “I'll stop you going to those youth clubs” catchphrase.

Max then introduces The Half Wits, a load of lads in fancy dress doing somersaults and cymbal-crashing falls over on a trampette, who I assumed to be the oft-seen-on-here Acromaniacs under a different name. However, unless someone with greater knowledge can put me straight, this seems not to be the case, and that The Half Wits and Acromaniacs were two different (albeit completely identical acts), with a potential third group called The Dingbats further muddying the waters. Is this a Bucks Fizz situation, where a split resulted in multiple groups, or just a boom period for troupes of men dressed as policemen and superheroes and Groucho Marx rapidly launching themselves over a hobby horse onto blue PE mats over the sound of slide whistles?

So far, the entertainment's all very 1900's, so thank goodness when Max announces “and now ladies and gentlemen, someone from the young generation... Jim Davidson!” I've literally seen Jimbo perform on that stage more times than anyone's told me they love me (though the same is true of Bible John's Palladium appearances). Jimbo opens with a very young-person greeting of “alright?” and then “as you know, I'm just back from the Falklands...” No, I've never heard you talk about it. This is a distinctly less foul-mouthed routine than those from Aids both Gulf and Ferry, with digs at Paul Daniels, and judicious use of the Chalky voice, first in his famous bit about asking for directions, with the punchline “I said thank you very much, officer,” which gets the night's biggest laugh so far. A black policeman!! Wish they'd cut to Phil at this point. He must've been getting a butler to slap his thigh for him. The OBE is cemented with a Chinese restaurant routine – “I said 'this chicken's rubbery', he said 'fank you velly much!'” And in closing, “Chalky was gonna be here tonight, but he couldn't get out of bed, someone put Velcro on the headboard,” which is a lovely tribute to Eric Morecambe.

In the other side of the light-ent mirror, Leslie Crowther does Eric's paper bag trick with Ernie, getting Philip to throw an imaginary coin down from the box. At no point during the many one-sided interactions with The Duke do cameras show him, as he's undoubtedly sat stony faced like a dad refusing to clap along at a panto, muttering under his quail-breath. When the stage begins revolving to the Sunday Night at the London Palladium theme, atop a silver stair, Brucie bids us good evening, and I feel like I've come home. Pronouncing it pi-ahh-no, he tickles the ivories for a rare earnest recital, though you kinda want him to go all Jerry Lee Lewis and start running down the length of the keys with his chin.

There's a lovely bit of business involving a brutish stage-hand replacing a piano stool with a much taller one, causing Bruce to adopt a toes-out semi-Thinker pose while playing, before tap dancing across the stage, which leaves me pondering the sheer speed at which I'd divorce the most beautiful woman in the world if she said something bad about Brucie. Musical numbers continue; Petula Clark in a billowing dress, Brucie in smoking jacket as Noel Coward; Dickie Henderson, doing an off-key singer routine like a vocal Les Dawson piano; Bertice Reading accompanied by Kenny Ball and his jazz band. If Kenny's not wearing a wig, he should sue his barber.

Into this Art Deco Great Gatsby setting, Ernie introduces former guests from The Morecambe and Wise Show, entering like couples into a fancy ball, hand in hand, announced by a doorman. These are interesting pairings if you imagine them as lovers. Fulton Mackay and Nanette Newman, Michael Aspel and Lulu, Dickie Davies and Angela Rippon – oh, the shapes they could make together. They don't get to speak, merely sashaying down to kiss Ernie or shake his hand. But the greatest of all “what if they done it?!” couplets come with a song and dance to All That Jazz by Lionel Blair and Suzanne (Carry On Emmannuelle; The Boys in Blue) Danielle, whose simmering eroticism is so off the charts, you barely have to imagine it. Slightly less so when Wayne Sleep and Cherie Gillespie do a turn, mind.

Tarby opens the second half, winning applause merely by witheringly shaking his head and mentioning the name Scargill. “Is that his own hair?” he asks, which is a bit rich considering the Lego-man bouf balanced on his bonce. He's mostly there to introduce “a man who conquered America with British comedy.” True Identity's Lenny Henry?! Surprisingly, it's Benny Hill, who looks more alone than the grieving Ernie Wise, all by himself with no little bald fella to slap, nor young nurses in bras and knickers. It's strange seeing him do character stand-up, dressed as a headmaster behind a lectern for a school assembly routine, which includes a joke I loved as a kid but didn't really understand “What is a Hebrew? A male tea bag.” It's mostly a version of the Rowan Atkinson 'reading off the register' bit, with names like Hugh F. O., Little Willy, and Large (pause for comic effect) Richard. Though Benny can't be arsed sticking to the format, having you believe kids are called things like Steel Helmet, Smelly B. O. and Smelly P. U.. Going on far too long, the audience are unable to offer more than polite laughter as Benny crams in every weak name-pun he can think of, like North C. and Ship Rex, which could've been a Garbage Pail Kid. Then he reads out a lengthy poem where the Ps and Fs have been switched, which isn't good enough to grace Ronnie Barker's bin, and mostly seems to bemuse a restless crowd – “she could see that he was peeling paint...” I'm curious if Benny ran into Jim backstage, considering seven years later he'd do the comedian's equivalent of dropping a diss track on Des O'Connor Tonight.

We're gonna need something big to bounce back from that. What's that, Ernie; “two fellas who are packing the theatres all over the country”?! This could go one of two ways, and it's not Syd 'n' Eddie who emerge into the light, but Bobby and Tommy, immediately into an argument as a brace gets twanged. Reliable. Dependable. “Look who's over there, Tom, Raquel Welch. Oh no, it's two bald headed men sat together.” But their set about Bobby's failure with women (“I just can't pull a bird”) doesn't work so well when you've sat through their gospel show and heard how he was banging away on a different groupie every night, his little afro wobbling back and forth, tash all sweaty. Hell, this show pre-dates his Born Again conversion, so poor Ernie Wise probably had to squeeze past as he gave it to a lucky dancer up against the cold wall of the Palladium wings. As Tom pretends to be a lass so Bob can practise his chat-up lines, he gets called a “woolly woofter,” and as a treat, they sing Together We'll Be Okay, which has unironically become my favourite song, even though every time I mention or think about it, it torments my brain twenty-four hours a day for months.

The final act opens with Ernie in a Princeton sweater amid sock-hoppin' bip-boppin' 1950's dancers and Bonnie Langford. Mike Yarwood demonstrates a beautiful impressionist's pirouette as he transforms with a “let's hear from this gentlemen,” leaving, in his place behind the mic, a “hello, good evening, and welcome.” He's less nervous than at Gulf Aid, but gets a much more muted response than Jim's Chalky stuff did – “also today, 300 people queued at Patrick Moore. They thought he was a jumble sale.” Still, with big crowds and no re-takes, that stage fright never seems to be far away, messing up his lines badly as Ronald Reagan, though playing it off well by hanging a hat on it as one of Reagan's blunders. But the accent seems to go and he keeps stumbling. And then, the arms go stiff, the corners of the mouth turn downwards, and Prince Charles is with us.

Eric's perennial punchline, Des O'Connor, does an impression of the pair, seeming to use an accent both Irish and American, confirming all their digs about him being rubbish, but provides the night's most moving moment, telling us he saw all the Christmas decs on Regents Street while driving in, and it dawned on him that “the brightest light has gone out on the Christmas tree.” He does a heartfelt number which thanks Eric for the memories of relentless piss-taking, as if to tempt his spirit from the wings to crack one final zinger – “they'll never be another youuuuuu!” Elaine Page finishes us off with Midnight, and it's felt very odd to get through one of these with no Michael Ball or tribute to The Magic of Disney.

Ernie's out last for the curtain call as Parky gives a closing speech, where they can't find the cheque, everyone accusing each other, and for a brief moment, I imagine Prince Philip will bring it out before bounding offstage with the Bring Me Sunshine dance. However, it's in Ernie's wallet, and disappointingly, even though there's £151,000 on it, it's just a regular sized cheque, and not one of those Royal Variety ones you could slide down a hill on. We do see the royal handshakes though, with the sole beat of tension what's going to happen when Phil gets to Bertice Reading, the show's lone non-white performer, but if it happened, we don't see it, so perhaps he scarpered before reaching that end of the line. At least we have a splendid turn of phrase from the commentator, succinctly summing up British light entertainment with “Dickie Henderson, he does a lot of work for charity.”

The final word's left to Ernie, and if Eric had been there, he'd have asked “what do you think of it so far?” to which the audience reply as one “rubbish!” For once, they kinda have a point, and with its disjointed focus on the time periods before he was born, anyone who hasn't heard of Eric Morecambe is going to assume he was some kind of long-dead jazz man. If he was indeed, as inferred throughout, looking down on them, most probably he gave it a polite ten minutes before asking God to switch the channel to something less weird and depressing, like a live-feed of famine.