Still Standing: The Savage Years (24 page)

‘When embarking on a new venture,’ I remember Aunty Chris saying when she was promoted to manageress of Ashe and Nephew’s off-licence, ‘be prepared for all eventualities.’

Just as well I was, for on the very first Thursday night I walked out on to the stage of the Vauxhall and straight into a veritable heckle hole. They came thick and fast for the three hours I was on stage, but just as in the Elly I somehow managed to shoot them all down in flames, wiping the floor with the most persistent of hecklers with a relentless flow of venom that never seemed to dry up.

I needn’t have bothered with the nocturnal preparation as the put-downs came naturally and, more important, instantaneously. It’s no good dithering with a heckler, you have to go for them with the speed of a cobra – and it never ceased to amaze me that I always managed to do it. I had always had a bit of a reputation for possessing a ‘sharp tongue’, a gift undoubtedly inherited from my mother and her sisters – but that’s where any similarities to Lily end.

For the years I performed as Lily I was constantly being asked in interviews who was the inspiration behind her and I can honestly say that it certainly wasn’t my mother. Lilian Maeve Veronica Savage was a divorcee single mother of two, not averse to a little light prostitution to supplement her income and prone to shoplifting and receiving stolen goods. She drank, smoked, openly took drugs, fiddled her gas and electricity meters, believed in plain speaking and possessed a mouth that would make the inbreds who appear on Jeremy Kyle blush.

Apart from the plain speaking my mother had none of these attributes. She neither drank nor smoked, and apart from nicking the odd cutting off a plant from the gardens of the stately homes she visited over the years she was incapable of dishonesty. Infidelity and divorce were things that occurred among couples ‘down south’ and the only drugs she ever took, overlooking the night we were snowbound and
housebound and got accidentally stoned after eating some dope that I’d been given at a party, were thyroxin and Valium, the latter for ‘the nerves’. My mum’s world revolved around her grandkids, her knitting and her garden, the Birkenhead Central Library, solitary bus rides to visit places she’d ‘always wanted to see’ and the Catholic Church.

Lily’s world was a lot darker. The only flora that she ever cultivated were ‘marahawana’ plants, and libraries were places to pop into for a pee if she was caught short or to dump some ‘stash’ if she were being pursued by the police. Yet despite her shortcomings or maybe because of them she was a leading light of the Union of Catholic Mothers, an organization with which as a child I went on many a coach trip to the various spots dotted around the country where the Virgin Mary had put in an appearance.

I’ve always thought that comedy is formed in your childhood years, and now experiences from my past were being resurrected, repainted and morphed into pieces of Lily’s life. The edges between us frequently blurred and sometimes as I was painting the slap on in a mirror I’d become aware that I was unconsciously aping Aunty Chris as she applied her warpaint back in Lowther Street, and on many occasions I noticed that I was adopting both her and my mother’s way of delivering a punchline. Both of them were mistresses of the impeccably timed throwaway line, and more than capable of stopping you in your tracks with a pithy put-down.

Lily was an amalgamation of characters I’d encountered both in real life and in the fantasy world of TV and film who had left a lasting impression on me. Lily’s roots (origins not hair) and lifestyle were strictly working class but her dress sense owed a lot to the ladies of
The Avengers
, the gaudy
dance hall hostesses from the film
Sweet Charity
and the ubiquitous saloon gals and hard-boiled gangsters’ molls who brightened up all those old movies, frequently stealing them from under the stars’ noses.

The white wig that became a sort of trademark came about because it was the only colour that I really suited. Three times a year I’d make the trip to Lisson Grove on the 2b bus for a couple of 96Ks from Hairaisers, stopping off for a mooch around Alfie’s Antique Market beforehand and annoying myself in the process as I could never afford the many curiosities that I desperately coveted.

I loved what I called ‘mooching’, just strolling around taking my time, mulling over all that was going on in my life, both the good and the bad, as I explored unfamiliar districts and shops as well as favourite old haunts like the New Piccadilly Café in Denman Street, a shrine to the fifties now sadly demolished, where I’d sit at a window table with my usual meal of sausage, beans and chips selected from the horseshoe-shaped menu over the serving counter and worry about the future.

As one wig wasn’t sufficient for the required height and volume that I was seeking I always bought two which Hush would pin together, stuffing a bin-liner and some bubble wrap between them before launching an attack armed with the familiar tailcomb and brush until they resembled a mass of gravity-defying snow-white candyfloss. The addition of the black roots didn’t come until much later on when I was at a photo shoot for
Gay Times
one afternoon. Finding myself hanging around between shots I came across a can of black spray paint, and for want of something better to do I squirted a bit on the hairline of the wig and combed it in, creating black roots in the process. The look suited the type of
character that Lily was developing into, and from that day on I never wore a wig without the roots.

The Thursday night audience soon tired of their relentless heckling. Unable to get the better of me, they eventually gave in and allowed me to sit back and let my imagination run riot. Fuelled by the endless stream of whisky and cider sent up to the stage by the punters, I began to mould and create what would become Lily Savage.

Lilian Maeve Veronica Savage was born on the steps of the Legs of Man public house, Lime Street, Liverpool, on a policeman’s overcoat. Her mother, the lady wrestler Hell Cat Savage, had no such luxuries as gas and air or an ‘epidermis’ to relieve the pain of labour; she just bit down on the policeman’s torch, recovering afterwards with the aid of a large pale ale at the bar of the pub she’d just given birth outside. According to Lily she was a rare beauty as a child, a former Miss Pears and the holder of the title ‘Little Miss Duraglit’, winning this accolade for being the only child able to suck the wadding without flinching. Despite her libertine attitudes she was a convent-educated girl and even considered taking the veil herself as a girl, entering a Carmelite order for a brief period as a novice, a habit – no pun intended – that she would return to much later on in life when I decided to kill her off. The convent of the Flagellated Flesh of St Philomena of Wigan was a silent order and the nuns were only allowed to say two words each year.

After the first year the young Lily approached the Mother Superior and spoke her two words.

‘What have you to say, Lily?’ the Mother Superior enquired.

‘Damp beds,’ Lily replied.

The following year Lily once again stood in front of Mother Superior’s desk and delivered her two words.

‘Anything to say, Lily?’ Mother Superior asked.

‘Lousy food.’

In the third year Lily repeated the process.

‘Speak your two words, Lily,’ she was told.

‘I quit,’ she said.

‘Thank fuck for that,’ Mother Superior replied. ‘You’ve done nothing but fuckin’ moan since you got here.’

A lousy old gag that I can promise is funnier in the telling and the only one I can ever remember. I never told structured jokes of the old-school variety as I’d invariably stray from the plot and forget the punchline.

After abandoning the convent Lily took on a variety of occupations ranging from working on the line in Cadbury’s packing fudge to whoring, earning herself the international soubriquet of the Deadly White Flower of the Wirral among her many naval admirers.

There was a spell in St Risley’s Remand Home for Girls following a raid by the police on a council house on the Woodchurch Estate, the headquarters of a thriving porn industry. One of Lily’s films was shown as evidence during the sensational trial that sent sales of the
Birkenhead News
soaring thanks to such lurid headlines as ‘Tranmere Tramp in Three-in-a-bed Lesbian Romp’. This film, entitled
Nativity 2 – Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the stable
, had been released as that year’s big Christmas blockbuster only to be withdrawn two hours after its premiere, deemed as obscene and blasphemous by Christian fundamentalists. Lily was packed off to St Risley’s and her co-star, Neddy, retired to a donkey sanctuary outside Blackpool once they’d managed to get it out of the rubber suit.

Incidentally,
Nativity 2
is considered these days to be an art house film with a respectably sized cult following and the few prints that remain are highly prized among collectors. It’s particularly popular in rural Sweden where it is shown regularly every year at the film festival of St Botvid of Kodhe.

On her release from the months of incarceration in St Risley’s Lily embarked on a short-lived career as a beauty queen following her crowning as Miss New Brighton Baths, a title she defends to this day, refuting all malicious claims that her success owed nothing to her uncanny resemblance to the stunning Hollywood actress Kim Novak but everything to the fact she’d had it off with all the judges beforehand round the back of the baths.

The young Lily was much in demand after her success at New Brighton, landing her some dubious cheesecake work for
Reveille
and
Saturday Titbits
, posing in a see-through chiffon nightie on a fake fur rug in front of a two-bar electric fire claiming that ‘she loved working with animals and that she knelt by the side of her bed each night and prayed for world peace’. There was also a memorable spread in the
Angler’s Weekly
when she appeared suitably attired as the ‘Queen of the Crustaceans’, wearing nothing but two winkles and a scallop shell.

Life was good for a while until the morning she set out for an engagement in Bury to pose tastefully caressing a link of black pudding and was overcome by a violent bout of nausea. At first she put it down to a suspect kebab she had eaten the previous night, but as the vomiting continued she paid a visit to the doctor and was told that she was pregnant.

Her grandmother, Erica Von Savage, advised her to sit in a hot bath and drink a bottle of gin, a practice that she kept up long after the baby was born. Being a good Catholic girl at
heart, Lily tracked down the father of her child and after a little persuasion (Lily was the one on her knees when he proposed) she sailed down the aisle in virginal white, six months pregnant.

Following the birth of her daughter Bunty, the man she had married – who thought it great sport to fart in bed and then hold her head under the blankets until her rollers melted into the pillowcase – abandoned her, forcing her to seek employment in the Blue Balloon, a notoriously low strip club, as one of the featured strippers. It was the young Lil’s first taste of showbiz and prompted her exodus to London, with her daughter, her whippet Queenie and her sister Vera Cheeseman in tow.

It was great fun thinking up all this nonsense, and at the Vauxhall I had plenty of time between the acts to spin all manner of impromptu yarns, creating a highly improbable and bizarre world for Lily to live in. I was to learn later that in comedy circles this was known as improv, a skill that was much admired, but at the time I just thought of it as ‘letting my soft out’. I wrote Lily’s history down in a book called
An A to Z Sort of Thing
with some glorious photos of the old slapper and her kin taken by my favourite photographer (Nicky Johnston, if you’re interested).

Paul eventually left the Vauxhall, and the landlord, Pat McConnon, and his wife Breda took up residence with their family in his place. Pat was the former landlord of the Coleherne, the famous Earl’s Court pub beloved of the leather queens, who had turned me down years earlier when I’d applied for a job as barman – a fact of which I constantly reminded him. Pat was a good-natured sort, the type of landlord one rarely finds running a boozer any more. He and
Breda became trusted friends and part of our ‘London family’.

Pat loved the craic, enjoying nothing more than a session slinging good-natured abuse, and I was happy to oblige. Our relationship became a running gag over the years as I sniped at him from the stage. ‘You know why there are no snakes in Ireland? Cos they’re all running gay bars in London.’ My jibes slid off Pat like water off a duck’s back, his response being to dismiss me with a cheery ‘Yer a feckin’ bowsy, Savage, a feckin’ bowsy’.

As well as the regular stable of ‘talent’ inherited from the Elly, ‘Stars of the Future’ began drawing other hopefuls out of the woodwork who craved the spotlight. Sometimes there would be over twenty acts waiting to go on, most of which were dire. However, occasionally some real gems came along. One night I announced a new act called Betty Legs Diamond who spun confidently on to the stage and proceeded to go into a dance routine that would have had the judging panel on
Strictly Come Dancing
wetting their knickers. Simon Green (Betty Legs) was a professional dancer who had appeared in many a West End show and entered ‘Stars of the Future’ just for the sheer hell of it. He used to tear the place apart and I’ve never seen anyone, then or since, male or female, to rival him. He went on to be the star of Blackpool’s Funny Girls for years, choreographed lots of my early shows and is currently residing in the Boulevard Show Bar in Newcastle.

Another favourite with both me and the crowds was the diminutive Tilly, who in full Brunhilde drag would give the crowd a taste of grand opera to thunderous applause as enthusiastic as any Dame Kiri received at Covent Garden. His other great crowd pleaser was ‘The Lonely Goatherd’, to which he’d lead the audience in a rousing chorus while
flinging himself around the stage, a performance that was all the more remarkable considering Tilly was disabled, not that he ever let such a trifling matter bother him. Tilly got on with his life in a way that left supposedly able-bodied people behind in the dust.