from FUNNY TALK
In this business we so lovingly call "show," the grim spectre
of Death is omnipresent. We don't fail - we "die;" we don't
involuntarily laugh - we "corpse" and a regular topic for
discussion whenever comedians congregate is the scene of their most horrible "death."
Mine was at The Cliffs Pavilion, Westcliff-on-Sea on Saturday November the 8th,1985. I was the opening act for accapella singers The Flying Pickets, a group I had successfully worked with many times before. This was to be my first stand-up show in nearly two months following an accident when I'd come off my racing bike head-first over the handlebars and subsequently smashed my face into the tarmac. My nose was broken and for the first week following the operation my head resembled that of The Elephant Man after his out-of-the-bag experience. When
I arrived at the theatre I still had fresh scars which I
attempted to disguise by growing a scrubby beard.
Once in my dressing-room I pulled my wrinkled and musty stage suit from out of the Sainsbury's carrier-bag and enquired of a passing Picket as to what kind of audience I might expect. "Crazy," I was informed, "really wild." I was not fully convinced of this, and, as I checked out my reflection in the mirror I was faced with an apparition of a crumpled, down-at- heel wino, an image compounded, I'm sure, by the quarter bottle of cognac I'd consumed during my train journey to stave my growing nerves. Comedy, you see, is a muscle that must be flexed regularly in order to stay in condition.
I heard my name announced over the p. a. system and I made my way to the microphone. Instead of my usual opening routine involving a few well-honed lines, I could hear myself launching inappropriately into topics relating to, amongst others, Norman Tebbit and Cancer.
The Devil himself, it seemed to me, had taken possession of
both my mind and my mouth. I attempted, in vain, to halt the runaway train my act had become but, alas, it was too late. I caught my first glimpse of the audience and saw that I was facing a mass of people as old as seventy and as young as six.
Suddenly there was no moisture in my mouth and my speech started to falter. The only reaction to my first seven minutes or so had been shocked silence but now a thorniness was becoming detectable as a few voices expressed their indignation. Then there were more voices and clearly distinguishable words were forming - "Rubbish" "Get off" and "Crap" being just four of them. At this point it occurred to me that not only had I severely "lost-the-plot" but, worse, that I had found it again in the local cemetery with my name on the headstone.
"Do you want me to go?" I dismally enquired. A question of
such sublime pointlessness could only have been uttered by our present Prime Minister. Two thousand foaming mouths bayed back to me in the affirmative. Disconsolately I grabbed my bag and guitar and slunk off to my dressing-room. Uproar ensued. I could hear one of The Flying Pickets apologising to the crowd; he then came backstage and cursed me frostily. I left the theatre by the stage door and headed for the station. 

 With Southend safely behind me I sobbed helplessly on the journey back convinced that this night's debacle was the harbinger of further failure, penury, and the spiralling vortex of madness. But then, having virtually stabbed my self-esteem to death, I attempted to rally myself. OK. It was a disaster, the ultimate defeat but apart from one group of acappella singers and a couple of thousand fuming strangers surely no-one need hear of this night-from-Hell.

"Filthy Comic Booed Off," screamed the front page of The
Southend Evening Echo the following week. The story also made small corners of the Sunday nationals.
"Ronnie Golden will never again work on the same stage as The Flying Pickets." (The Flying Pickets)
"He is banned for Life from performing in this theatre"
(E.F.Mundy, Manager Cliffs Pavilion. Apart from a supportive phonecall from Brian Hibberd I was being publicly rubbished by a group of people I had, until then, felt a strong affinity with.
Now, dear reader, let me take you forward in time to January 1991. I am master-of-ceremonies at a star-studded bill at The Duke of Yorks Theatre in London's West End, proceeds of which are going to Amnesty International. The atmosphere in the theatre is all warm expectation and I am, I have to say, "firing on all cylinders.'' Having noted that a certain singing group was on the bill, I'd dug out my old "obituary" from The Southend Evening Echo.
I show it to the audience and precis my woe-filled saga to
general guffaws. I then recall the line about "never working
on the same stage etc." and announce the next act " .... and
here are the people responsible for that statement, Ladies and Gentlemen ... The Flying Pickets!" Enter stage left: one embarrassed Picket line.
The next and, you'll be relieved to hear, dear reader, final
stop on this ride of redemption occurs on Nov. 11th 1993 when yours truly has been booked into - guess where - yes, The Cliffs Pavilion. I am reaching the end of a month-long tour as opening act for Don McLean - no, not the toothsome "Crackerjack" presenter - but Don "I-could've-told-you-Vincent-if-you-hadn't-cut-yer bleedin'-ear-off" McLean. For the second time since the Night from Hell I tucked my dog- eared copy of the Echo in my bag and, as my performance has been greeted with a warm and appreciative reaction I feel duty-bound to produce it quoting the comment made by the manager about me never appearing in his theatre again. Having
taken leave of the stage I was told that he himself had been
in the audience with several governors of the theatre and had not recognised me until my expose. When he realised that I was the same "evil purveyor of filth" he flew into a rage and refused payment to both myself and Don McLean's management on the grounds that they should have known that I was banned for life. I mean, blimey, child molesters only get ten years! They, of course, had to succumb and payment was duly made. I left that theatre through the same door I had exited from almost exactly eight years earlier. Then in humiliation; now in exultation. Once again the intrepid comedian had cheated death and I could feel my heart beat with the rhythm of mischievous victory.
Revenge IS sweet, let no-one tell you different. It is also
(if I may paraphrase) a dish best served cold

. click to read