I noticed that in his column in The Times yesterday Frank Skinner was on the same wavelength as us regarding Norman Wisdom. He begins
Norman Wisdom might not seem funny now. But you don’t get that big without being special.
In a week where the phrase "end of the pier" took on a whole different meaning, I was sad to hear that Norman Wisdom had died. I know that it’s officially Sir Norman but all that title proves is that the Queen doesn’t understand comedy. Audiences laughed at Norman because he was the little man, the loser. "Sir" spoils the joke.
Tony Benn understood. He knew that he’d never be able to carry off that left-wing voice-in-the-wilderness thing if he became Viscount Stansgate. He wouldn’t even risk Anthony.
I wonder if Norman’s working-class hero status in Albania was damaged by that "sir". Anyway, I met Norman a couple of times. The first time, he shook my hand so enthusiastically that it developed into a hug. In fact, not so much a hug as a lean - I became aware that he was laying his whole weight on me. Those around all laughed at my plight. If I stepped back he’d fall at my feet, if I stepped forward it could lead to dancing.
When you meet some comics they give you a signature or a photo. With Norman, you got a short but memorable spell as his straight man - or indeed woman. The next time I met him he did the same thing to my girlfriend.
Obviously, two brief meetings don’t constitute knowing someone. I’m not trying to get on the tribute bandwagon. I’m just celebrating the fact that Norman was one of those comics who was never off. Some comedians put on their funniness like a coat. It’s essentially stage wear. I’d say, in Norman’s case, it was more like a vital organ.
Before comedy was my job, I used to be a desperate character when it came to making friends laugh. I didn’t really have conversations. It was just routines and responses. I would use props, impressions - anything to get laughs. When I got a professional outlet for all that showing off I was finally able to relax a little in social situations. I didn’t need to get a laugh with every line. I would occasionally allow the bow tie to cease revolving. I’m not sure that Norman ever reached that stage. I admired his relentless pursuit of the next laugh, on stage or off.
Perhaps the saddest thing about the death of great old comedians is that the modern audience can never really appreciate how funny they were. Doing comedy is like sculpting in ice. It isn’t meant to last for ever. A lot of people will have seen a clip from one of Norman’s films this week and wondered what all the fuss was about.
Comedy from the past can seem like an alien world. You might laugh at the odd gag - something that has, by chance, survived the journey - but often we find ourselves just staring at it, as the American comedian Bill Hicks said, like a dog watching a card trick.
I’m not talking about an artist’s declining creativity here. That phenomenon rarely colours our judgment of his golden age. You might think that Paul McCartney hasn’t written a good song for years but you still enjoy his golden-age songs. The same is true with the works of novelists, painters, and so on but with comedy the golden age itself tarnishes. And it tarnishes quickly.
I found, during a recent viewing, that even Fawlty Towers is starting to slip away from me. I got the warm glow one sometimes gets from watching old comedy but that warm glow replaces laughter the way that cosy friendship replaces passionate sexual desire. I don’t laugh at Dad’s Army any more. I don’t even smile. I just glow. Norman Wisdom’s comedy was essentially gurning and tumbles. Physical comedy seems to have an even shorter shelf life than verbal comedy. I loved the Marx Brothers when I was a kid but Harpo is now just glow. Groucho, however, got funnier as I got older. ...
