There are other directions in which an artiste’s life is not exactly all beer and skittles. A young friend of mine found this out on his first visit to Wigan. His was not a bad turn of its kind, but Wigan is notoriously a “hard” town to work for artistes hailing from the south of England, and the people there didn’t at all appreciate his particular business. Monday night was a dead frost. He didn’t get a hand.
He couldn’t make it out, and he went round to the front entrance as the people were streaming out in order to try and overhear what the audience really thought about his show. Of course, they didn’t recognise him without his make-up. Not that it would have mattered much, probably, if they had.
The poor chap heard enough. Those who weren’t slating his performance, were asking each other what Wigan had done to have such a “dud” as he was dumped down there. Next night he got the bird. On Wednesday he got more bird. On Thursday he got most bird. On Friday morning he decided to take a long walk into the country, and try and forget it all.
He walked, and walked. Presently he came to a village. A barber’s pole sticking out caught his eye, and he turned into the shop to get a shave.
Barber: “’Ast bin t’Empire at Wigan this week, laad?”
Pro. (shortly): “No, I haven’t.”
Barber: “Well, aw did. And aw saw a turn there, worst aw iver saw. If he comes in here aw’ll cut his bloomin’ throat!”
Personally I think the worst insult I ever suffered was rubbed into me while I was performing at Glasgow, very early in my career. I was working at the old Tivoli and Queen’s, a very rough house. I had to give two shows a night for £5 a week, and the return fare from London cost me £3 6s.
Friday was amateur night there. That is to say that on that evening the first performance commenced an hour or so earlier than usual, and all sorts of budding “pro.’s,” or people who imagined themselves “pro.’s” were encouraged to come on the boards and make exhibitions of themselves.
Well, the people there didn’t approve of my show. My prize jokes were received in dead silence. My best gags evoked no responsive laugh. Finally a voice from the gallery rang out clear and shrill: