Thank goodness for the Popbitch mailing. Today, it has brought me news I hadn't heard, but it’s tinged with sadness. I was unaware that comedy renegade Malcolm Hardee had died last week, in a ridiculously tragic-comic way too, which seems entirely fitting. It seems he fell off his dinghy on the Thames, on the way from his pub boat on one side to his houseboat on the other, and drowned.


Malcolm must have known thousands of people in his 55 years on the planet, and I was lucky enough to be one of them, back in the late 80s/early 90s, while I worked at several Edinburgh festivals and then stage-managed (ie. did the sound) for a comedy promoter here in Birmingham venues for three years, with our regular comperes including Frank Skinner and Alan Davies.


"My duvet's like a packet of crisps,"

When Malcolm ‘organised’ and compered the late night comedy sessions in the cabaret bar in my first full year at the Pleasance, they were unmissable. All of us staff would hope to finish elsewhere in time to get into the cabaret bar for his act, because you never knew what Malcolm was going to do, although there was always a fair chance it would involve him insulting people and getting naked. He was the only act I’ve ever seen who did an impression of General de Gaulle by getting naked and placing his glasses above his cock and balls. He also had, as any comedy fan will confirm, the biggest pair of knackers ever seen, which just added to the comedy.
He had found fame in the 80s as one third of The Greatest Show On Legs, which helped to make the adult Tiswas, called OTT, so, er, over the top that it was taken off air. TGSOL’s naked balloon dance from that programme is legendary.


"Oi, oi!"


Malcolm was a complete one-off; a big, bumbling man, who wore dirty, ill-fitting suits and smelt of fags, but was absolutely hilarious when on stage. Sort of like Vic Reeves’ funny uncle, he was a strange combination of Frank Carson, Tommy Cooper and Eric Morecambe, with extra bawdiness. He scared me the first few times I encountered him, but I owe him a huge debt. In 1990 (I think), for some reason, he picked me from the Pleasance staff to be on his panel for the notorious 'Snakebite Awards'. This was his antidote to the Perrier Award, where he would get a panel together and announce nominations for the worst show on the Fringe. We had a meeting, which was filmed by a TV crew and shown on the then brand new BSB - the one with the squarials and the yellow logos - who were sponsoring the venue that year. (This was before they became BSkyB.) I’m not sure if anyone in the outside world ever saw the TV programme, as satellite TV was so new at the time. I certainly didn’t, but it was piped around the Pleasance with nervous little me nominating one of our own shows for the award. I remember thinking I’d made a huge mistake and was going to get sacked. (I didn’t.) I only ever had other members of staff coming up to me, saying, "I saw you on the telly." Thank you Malcolm for that.


Lots of little things stick in my mind about Malcolm, and I’ve dotted this piece with some of the lines I remember and associate with him. He always used to pronounce 'legend' as 'leg-end', and, to this day, whenever someone is described as a legend, I think of Malcolm Hardee saying it. When he was compering, he would sometimes bring on the next act with a "might be good, might be shit, fuck it", then shrug his shoulders and shuffle off stage, fag in hand. He would often play the harmonica on stage, then dip it into the drink of some poor sod on the front row and stir it round. Not to mention dipping his wick in punters’ pints as well.

"Before the next act comes out, let’s all hide."

The atmosphere in those late night sessions was thick with smoke, drunken, rowdy and absolutely amazing, and they continued at the Gilded Balloon in later years. People talk about edgy comedy, but you ain’t seen nothing on TV like the Edinburgh comedy clubs that only start about 1am. (Oh god, I must go back this year – writing this is making me so nostalgic!) As a member of staff, part of the joy for me was the repetition of some of Malcolm’s act, knowing what was coming, and seeing how different punters reacted to him. Sometimes people (okay, sometimes us) would just shout "taxi for Hardee" from the back of the room. Or "get your knob out!" Highly sophisticated stuff, but very funny when you’re drunk.


Malcolm Hardee could brave the rowdiest, most drunken, abusive, heckling crowds at Late & Live at the Pleasance or Gilded Balloon and take it all in his stride. I never saw him let any hecklers get under his skin. He either made a witty riposte (from his standard, well-rehearsed list) or just told them to f*** off.


"I met my wife in Australia. I said, “What are you doing here?”"

Malcolm was the first comic I ever heard come out with the following line, which others have repeated since, which cracked me up every time. He probably said it every night during that Pleasance run, with his heavily punctuated delivery, which left people hanging onto every word; "People say you only play this place twice in your career;.......once on your way up.............and once on your way down........................It's good to be back."


Malcolm Hardee was a father figure to the comedy circuit, in much the same way that John Peel was to music, but far less media-friendly and far more mad. He was too scary and unpredictable to do any substantial TV work, but he was a great British eccentric and I’m sad that he’s gone. Oi, oi!


There are some great tributes to Malcolm here, including some from a few famous people. Karen Koren is the person who ran the Gilded Balloon, and Malcolm Bailey is the promoter I ended up working with in the early 1990s and founder of the Birmingham Comedy Festival.
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