If I Don’t Write It Nobody Else Will
Eric Sykes
Having read it
★★★★☆
A good and interesting read that started well, continued steadily and stately, like a gracefully ageing comedy legend of yore, sorry, Oldham, writing his own words but seemed to run out of steam for its latter pages.
Maybe that’s the autobiographical and comedy point he wanted to make of his life’s journey and, like he has found, performed, written, crafted and adapted throughout it, he did all right considering and met a few people on the way, including Muhammad Ali for an enjoyable chat.
The two tried to meet again after their own individual day’s efforts a few days later but unfortunately it didn’t quite work out. However, as Eric writes...
Muhammad Ali, passing through on the following Sunday, popped into the hotel to collect his [signed] photos [of Eric] and to sign mine [of Muhammad], and here is the most intriguing message he wrote on the photo: ‘To Eric Sykes. A man’s wealth is in his head not in the bank. If it’s in the bank, it belongs to somebody else.’
A good passage
The fireplace was the focal point of most households then, and even some of the poorest managed to find coal. During the winter our mother and father sat on each side of the grate, us children standing, the gas mantle flickering behind us as the wind whistled malevolently through the keyhole of the back door. Sadly in the present day the fire has been replaced by central heating, paradoxically warm yet heartless, and the fireplace is no longer the focal point of a room. Again regretfully families now sit grouped round the television set and this modern world is no better for the change. In the burning coals you could see whatever picture you wished, but from a television you only get what you are given.
A second good passage
Imagine my surprise when I received a telegram the very next day requesting that I report for a read-through of a new play on Monday. I was in two minds as to whether to attend or to forget it, but in my heart of hearts I knew that I would go. To a starving man half a slice of cold toast is a feast.
A third good passage
A few large blackbirds were circling in the sky, trying to work up an appetite for whatever was on offer. Ahead of us, a herd of wildebeest were nervously cropping the stark grass, knowing that they were the breakfast. We stopped but kept the engine running; we were the only false note in a normal routine. Suddenly to our right two young lions burst out of the undergrowth and from the opposite direction two more streaked forward. The wildebeest stirred in panic – all except one that had been selected. The kill was almost clinical, and as the lions struggled to drag the dead beast into a clump of bushes the herd calmly carried on munching the grass; it was as if they knew that they were not now on the menu. The hyenas furtively edged towards the corpse after the lions had had their fill; they were next in the pecking order, then the vultures, followed by the insects. There would be nothing left by the next day.
This protocol amongst the wild was a daily feature, every creature knowing their place in the scale of things. And what of the African walking blithely along with only a staff to protect himself? We who are supposed to be civilised were as much out of our depth in these surroundings as he would have been in Tesco – it is such a small world and yet we are so far apart.
On our last day in Jinja, the CO suggested that I might take the morning parade. Before I could laugh it off, he nodded towards the soldiers of the King’s African Rifles, who were formed up and standing at ease. Why not? For all they knew, I could be the Prime Minister. As I walked from the CO’s hut, a command rang out: ‘Parade! Parade! SHUN!’ There were several explosions of dust as two ranks of boots came to attention. The sergeant major, a massive fellow well over six feet, followed me along the ranks with drawn sword. I think I made a pretty professional job of it, having been in the forces myself during the war; I even walked with my hands behind my back like royalty. When I finished my inspection, I addressed the sergeant major. ‘A very good turnout indeed,’ and, carried away by my own deception, I added, ‘You may dismiss the parade.’ A flicker of uncertainty passed over his wooden expression, but he’d had his orders and as I turned to go he dismissed the men. When I returned to the bungalow, straight backed, head high, I was brought down to earth when the colonel, smiling said, ‘You were out of order there, old boy. You shouldn’t have dismissed them they’ll be off for the whole day now.’ It was then that the reason for the puzzlement on the sergeant major’s face became obvious.
‘He’s a good man,’ were the colonel’s parting words. ‘We could do with more soldiers like Sergeant Major Idi Amin.’
This enormous sergeant major was later promoted to lieutenant, then to captain, and from there took an amazing leap to the superheights of general, his last appointment being dictator of all Uganda.
While in these heady realms of power, he ruled with a malignancy and a vileness that shocked the world until he was finally deposed and inexplicably placed under house arrest in exile, allowed to live out his life in luxury.Had I revisited Uganda in the days of his prime, I might have ended a promising career as a snack for the crocodiles.