Clowning Through, as told to John Aldridge

Part 6

Clowning Through – Part Six

As told to John Aldridge

Royal Command – A Wonderful Evening

I suppose laughter is the great universal equaliser. “Laugh, and the world laughs with you,” somebody once wrote.
Well, I’ve proved it often enough.

I have watched some of the proudest, straightest faces in the world collapse into helpless laughter at the oldest gag of them all—the clown slipping on an imaginary banana skin.

When we played before the late King of Denmark, he sent a message before the performance:
“When I laugh, please don’t look at me.”

I understood why. The King was a very tall man, and the sight of him in the royal box, doubled up with laughter until his chin almost rested on his knees, was unintentionally comic in itself. No wonder he didn’t want the clown drawing attention to him.

King Manuel of Portugal was another royal who adored the circus. Father and I frequently performed for him, and after every command performance he would receive us personally and present each of us with a gold coin bearing his profile.
“Better than a medal, eh?” he would quip.

I clowned twice before Hitler at Nuremberg, but those are not among my happiest memories. A command performance for the Führer was always a nightmare for performers. Hours before the show, the SS would form a cordon around the entire theatre. Every entrance was armed and guarded. No artist was allowed to leave the dressing rooms except to enter the ring. Even the toilets were sealed.
A most chilling experience.

How different from that wonderful evening in Blackpool, when I had the honour of appearing in a command performance before Her Majesty the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh!

I must tell you a story about that night.

You may have noticed that during my act I often give a friendly little flip-flip wave of my fingers—my own personal greeting to the audience. Well, before the performance someone backstage said to me:

“You’d never dare wave at the Royal Box, Charlie!”

But I did.
And to my delight, the Duke leaned over the edge of the box and waved back—perfectly imitating my own flip-flip gesture.

Later, when I had the honour of being presented to the Queen and the Duke, I apologised for working him into the act.
“Only too happy to oblige, Charlie!” grinned the Duke.

A wonderful, happy moment for me—and a wonderful picture it made in all the papers the next day. A framed copy hangs above my dressing-room mirror now.

It was just the same when, a year or two earlier, I had the joy of performing before the great lady Queen Mary. She attended my show at the London Casino and afterwards spent several minutes discussing the act with me

I soon discovered what many people had already told me—she was a shrewd critic of the theatre, not only drama but all branches of show business.

She quickly detected that I was not exactly speaking the Queen’s English.
“You are a foreigner, are you not?” she asked.

I explained that although I was a British subject, I had been born in France.
Without a moment’s hesitation she continued the conversation in perfect French—the French of a native, almost without accent.

That is typical of the Royal Family. They possess a rare gift for putting one completely at ease—no doubt because they themselves are always completely at ease.

Meeting them taught me something I shall never forget:

A clown may look up at a queen and never be ashamed of his make-up.