Today is the 5th January, and it is the late Malcolm Hardee’s birthday.
Had he lived he would have been 64 today.
(If you don’t know who Malcolm Hardee was, Google him).
Here is a wee Malcolm story that you might have not heard before.
The year was 1997 and Malcolm, Bob Mince (I have changed this name to protect those who like to appear innocent), and myself went off to the city of Johannesburg in South Africa to do some gigs.
We had all performed at the Glastonbury Festival the weekend before so when we boarded the flight on the Monday morning we were pretty much the worst for wear.
During the flight Bob and I nursed our hangovers while Malcolm cured his by getting drunk and staying drunk for the next three weeks!
The promoter of the gigs had arranged for us to have the use of an apartment that belonged to some local comics who where away on tour.
The promoter was a bit of a flash, wide boy type and a bit of a cunt, so I shall refer to him from now on as Mr. Wideboy-Cunt.
Mr. Wideboy-Cunt showed us round and left us to fight over who got the rooms and who got the sofa.
Bob got the sofa.
Before he left us to settle in, Mr. Wideboy-Cunt chucked three paper wraps onto the coffee table saying;
“there’s some coke for ya, just let me know when you need some more”
Of course I had the lines chopped out before the door even slammed shut.
Wisely I tested a small amount of the alleged cocaine by dabbing a little onto my gums.
No numbness, just a horrible chemical taste.
“This is definitely not cocaine,” says I, “its some sort of cleaning product, Ajax or something like that”
I have quite a discerning palate when it comes to cleaning products.
Undeterred Malcolm snorted a line anyway and came up spluttering and coughing, his eyes watering, gasping for air!
“That is definitely not cocaine,” says he.
“I told you so” says I.
After a couple of minutes of coughing and spluttering Malcolm had recovered.
“That is definitely not cocaine” says he.
And then he did another line.
The gigs were good fun, we closed the show with the Balloon Dance every night.
This photo is of Malcolm and The Greatest Show On Legs. (its not Bob and I as unfortunately no photos of us doing the balloon dance exist.
If they do i would be prepared to pay a lot of money for them, if only to embarrass Bob).
Both Malcolm and myself were very relaxed about being naked on stage but Bob was terrified every night.
If you are worried about being naked in front of an audience, being terrified does not help the cause.
The gigs were good, the crack was ninety, and Malcolm stayed drunk all the time.
By this stage Malcolm had messed up all his own clothes, and rather than do any laundry, he started to wear the clothes of the guy who lived in the apartment.
As it turned out the guy was the same size as Malcolm and quite a dapper dresser.
Malcolm looked great in slacks and a smart blazer.
Well he looked great for about 10 minutes until he spilled food and drink all over the himself.
Luckily the guy had quite extensive wardrobe.
(By the end of the three weeks, Malcolm had worn, and fucked up almost all of this guys clothes. I don’t expect that he was very pleased to return from tour to find a wardrobe full of soiled clothes).
Malcolm had many talents, and soiling clothes was definitely one of them.
Only the good die young.
My friend Malcolm was 55 when he died.
I will leave you to draw your own conclusions.