Bournemouth on a Sunday evening is a byword for torpor, as Ken Dodd knows well. "Are you all from the same home?" he enquires, surveying his audience at the Pavilion Theatre. It seems almost cruel that a man not himself young - Dodd will be 80 in November - should have to rouse this geriatric crowd, but Dodd is not in the least phased.
He appears to dawdle into his act, beginning conversations with people in the front row. After a bit of mumbled discussion with one chap, he says, "Yes, I could see you were a man of the world, sir... Not necessarily this world."
People who've never seen Dodd on his constant perambulations around the provincial theatres of Britain, and remember him only from his 1960's TV shows, might expect a cheeky-chappie bursting with infantile catchphrases: 'Hello folks - how tickled I h'am...!' In fact, his tone on stage is Northern, chuntering, tough |
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andrew martin is tickled by Ken Dodd’s mix of grittiness and innocent surrealism
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- "Keep going Kenny," he mutters to himself at one point, "they're only trying to stare you out," - and this is complimented by a beautiful, innocent surrealism. Recalling his deprived childhood, he says: "The boy at the end of the road refused to let me be his imaginary friend..."
At 79, Dodd looks like Keith Richards: pale, haggard face; mascara; flyaway hair - and he has the same vampiric love of night. The show started at 7.30. The interval, grudgingly granted, was at ten. Towards midnight some people began to leave. "The doors are locked," Dodd informed the rest of us, "so they're not going anywhere. You'll see them all stacked on pallets in the foyer."
Returning to my hotel at 1.15am, I wondered about those people who'd walked out. Do they think there's always going to be another Dodd waiting in the wings?
For tour dates, see chucklebutty.co.uk.
FIRST POSTED APRIL 19, 2007
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