I grew up listening to the comedy of Spike Milligan, which not only influenced and shaped my sense of humour, but paved the way towards the books I read, the music I listen to, the way I think. He died yesterday, and a small bit of all of us who felt some kind of kinship with God’s Jester died too. Here is his obituary, written by Spike himself:
“At last a journalistic enterprise, the ultimate ego trip. Write your own obituary! Well, I’ve actually seen mine, by seducing an office girl from the Brisbane Courier-Mail. It went like this: Spike Milligan was born Terence Alan Milligan on the 1 April, 1918, in a hospital in Ahmednagar, India. When he grew up he wrote the Goon Show and died.
Well, I was educated first at the Convent of Jesus and Mary where I consistently passed top of the class. While I was there the nuns had 16 immaculate conceptions.
To Rangoon (the Rangoon Show folks) and the Brothers de Salle – despite the earthquake of 1929, I passed all exams with honours, especially English lit. I then wrote the Goon Show and died.
In 1933, I returned to England where I learnt to sing like Bing Crosby. In 1936, won silver cup crooning at Lady Florence Institute Deptford. Act of heroism – 1937, on ferry crossing to Falmouth, friend Jim Cherry fell off and was rescued by me; Falmouth Chronicle carried the story thus: CROONY CONTEST WINNER SAVES FALLING CHERRY. Wrote Goon Show and died.
Then I learnt the trumpet. Won Melody Maker contest silver medal at Lewisham Town Hall, presented by Benny Carter. Benny Carter was my hero; after the operation he became my heroine.
Now I was 19, held together by pimples, Brylcreem and Durex. My first sexual encounters of a thud kind – I fell off. She lost hers, I lost mine, snap! Wrote Goon Show and died.
Then came the war: North Africa, promoted in the field (they wouldn’t let me indoors). Mentioned in dispatches: nothing positive, just mentioned. Heard playing with Army jazz band by L/13 Div K Carter (later producer of the Benny Hill Show), put in concert party.
Invasion of Italy – blown up at Monte Cassino – came down again unaided. Demoted as “unstable”, spotted by gay colonel: was his chauffeur. He said if he could hold mine he’d promote me; after one stripe he found one bigger who soon became sergeant.
I and my trumpet were posted; breaking out of the parcel found I was in the Central Pool of Artists, Naples – a depot of bomb-happy squaddies. Wrote Goon Show and died. Secombe there. He’s seen Naples but didn’t die; there was too much him. He was doing an act of shaving and singing – yes, shaving and singing. He knew what he was doing – there was no Shaving and Singing Regiment in the country.
The Bill Hall Trip who, well, I was a good rhythm guitarist like Django’s brother. Seated one day at the guitar, I was weary and ill at ease. And fingers wandered idly over the ivory keys … (bang, there goes another elephant).
I was joined by a jazz violinist, then a jazz bassist; we became the hit of the Central Mediterranean Forces, nabbed by Gracie to appear on VE night concert, Argentine Theatre, Rome – we are the hit of the show; we escape, before she can sing Sing As We Go. Wrote Goon Show and died.
The war ends, we seek fame in the UK – failure. I go solo; that is, I’m out of work on my own, meet up again with Secombe, then Bentine, then Sellers, then … Dorita Trent! Forget the others, no, I must write a show for them, yes. Between doing Dorita, I wrote the Goon Show and died.
I had long been aware of the state of the environment, so with Jean Scott formed the Finchley Society, saved building from a witless Finchley council.
TV had arrived, Sellers asked me to do a script for TV. I wrote A Show Called Fred, the very first Producers and Directors Award. Divorced, for doing it to Dorita, now I went into oblivion. I marched with Bertrand Russell on the anti-nuclear 100 Committee (looks like we’re winning), I joined all environmental groups; whenever I got the chance, I preached the disaster of over- population. Wrote Goon Show and died.
No work in England; Australia – radio and TV; out there saved an unrecorded Aborigine cave, carvings and paintings of the extinct Dharug tribe. I found and saved the convict-cut stone cottage of major early Australian poet Henry Kendall (now a museum). I could have gone on, stopped there and waited for the knighthood, but no. Instead, they relieved me of my British passport and I was obliged to become Irish with the title of Mister.
Writing poetry for my children, eldest Laura said: “Why don’t you make a book, Daddy?” I did. Success. Wrote Goon Show and died. Feel I have shaken off the working class curse. Feel good!
Supporting the salvage of SS Great Britain and HMS Warrior. Saved old gas lamps of Constitution Hill. Started two-year restoration of Elfin Oak, Kensington Gardens. I yearn for a good film part, Bernard Miles renews my flagging spirits by giving me role as Ben Gunn in Treasure Island. Success, but nothing comes of it. I write Puckoon, bestseller. I then wrote the Goon Show and died.
Under direction of idiots at MGM I make three “comedy” films. I had no say in the writing or direction and it showed.
Back to Oz to do a second radio series. Got a telegram from Sellers saying short film I wrote and directed, Running, Jumping and Standing Still, has won awards!
I’m cast in a boring Russian drama, Oblomov. First night disaster. I ad lib the play to success. It breaks all box-office records for the Comedy Theatre; everybody comes – Olivier, Barbra Streisand, the Royal Family.
Finally BBC2 allows me to do a series of TV shows I call Q. The style was pounced on by all the up-and-coming comics, Python among them.
Clubs: Ronnie Scott’s. Hobbies: writing Goon Shows and dying.”
Goodbye, Spike.
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