In the traditional sense of
the phrase the comedy double act is dead, replaced by solo comedians who are
too insecure to share the limelight, or the financial rewards, with anyone
other than themselves. You still get partnerships nowadays – witness
Reeves And Mortimer, Armstrong And Miller, or the appalling Lucas And
Walliams (even Smith And Jones still come together once every couple of
years to fulfil a contractual obligation, alas) – but the modern comedy
double act drips with post-modern irony, and is more a writing partnership
than a comedic pairing in the classic “you start and I’ll finish”
joke-telling tradition.
Morecambe And Wise, The Two
Ronnies, Cannon And Ball, Little And Large, Les Dennis And Dustin Gee –
these were true comedy double acts. And mostly, they were appalling.
Typically they’d adhere to the convention that each member was the
physical polar opposite of the other (in the case of Dennis and Gee, one was
a short, whining, irritating bastard, and the other some dead guy). One
member of the act would inevitably be the straight man – usually the
taller, thinner partner - tediously attempting to “Sing a song for the
ladies and gentleman”, while his shorter, fatter comrade would arse around
in the background, playing trumpets out of tune, putting on women’s
clothing, and falling over (“You’re ruining it for the ladies and
gentlemen… they came here expecting a song and you’re just ruining it
for them… Now go and stand over there while I finish, and don’t say a
word”).
It was very much the rise
of alternative comedy in the early 1980s that killed the comedy double act
(or, at least, relegated most of them to playing seasons at the Blackpool
Playhouse, barring the occasional appearance on The Generation Game or
Blankety Blank). For all its flaws, alternative comedy proved to people that
jokes didn’t have to be about mother-in-laws, or Harold Wilson (instead,
hilariously, they could be about periods, or Mrs Thatch’, or Mrs Thatch’
having a period).
Little And Large were
rarely off our screens until 1985, Syd and Eddie running through the same
tired format week in week out, Syd trying to play his guitar through his
metre-thick glasses, while Eddie came up behind him pulling faces, doing
impressions of Deputy Dawg and Cliff Richard… The same for Cannon And
Ball, who’d run through the same tired format week in week out, only on
the other channel, with Tommy trying to sing a song while Bobby hung around
in the background pulling on his braces, grinning gormlessly at the
audiences and occasionally yelling “Rock on, Tommy” to huge comedic
effect. Of course, these pairings were effectively talent-free, and only
granted series because TV bosses were left floundering in the wake of the
great Eric Morecambe’s death, desperately trying to fill a two-man gap
with whatever shite they could scrape out of Butlins’ rubbish skips.
The Two Ronnies did things
a little differently, coming from performing backgrounds rather than
traditional stand-up. And besides, they were always too posh to make a
living on the cabaret circuit. The minute their patronising Mockney accents
slipped the crowds would have descended on them with broken bottles and
snooker cues. And just observe Ronnie Barker’s dignified retirement to run
a - oh-hoo-lovely-do-you-hev-ennything-smaller-
then-a-pind-neyote? – antique shop (subsequently “exposed” by The Sun
newspaper for ripping off customers, or something).
The fact remains that the
comedy double act struggles today. The faux buddy-buddy innocence of it all
doesn’t wash with today’s audiences. Witness the embarrassing flop that
was Reeves And Mortimer’s stab at primetime, Families At War. We don’t
know why this should be. We don’t know whether it’s a good thing or a
bad thing that Cannon And Ball no longer have their own regular Saturday
night light entertainment spectacular. Like so many other things, it’s
just a thing. That said, if there was any justice in the world, it
wouldn’t have been Dustin Gee who bit the bullet… Les Dennis, you are a
travesty.