03/05/2024
I'd written my column đ for the June issue of Reader's Digest, which of course now won't ever be printed đĽ˛.
Fittingly, it is a reflection on death...
Since it won't make it into the magazine, I thought I'd post it here:
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Forty years ago, Tommy Cooper died on stage. If youâre of a certain vintage, you may even remember watching it, on Live At Her Majestyâs, as ITV cut hurriedly to a commercial break, and called in the paramedics.
Perhaps, like my friend Brett, you were actually in the room, guffawing along in the Stalls as the great comedian suddenly collapsed, and the curtain came down. Brett thought it was all part of the act; unsure what heâd witnessed until he got home and switched on the News at Ten.
I was only two at the time, but the story reached me via oral tradition, in the form of pub trivia (thanks mainly to its metaphorical potency: âYou know how comics always talk about dying on stage? Well, Tommy Cooper actually did!â).
But â until this week â I had never actually seen âthe momentâ for myself. All the documentaries Iâd ever seen about Cooperâs life and career had tastefully slowed down, faded out, or blurred the footage of his final performance one or two frames before he keels over.
And I hardly felt as if I was missing out: Iâm not an innately morbid person. I visit friends in hospital without glancing into neighbouring wards; I scroll social media without lingering on War-torn towns; I bury dead pets without peering into their eyes. In general, I try to avoid witnessing tragedy when I can.
So - though I recall hearing, about a decade ago, that unedited footage of Cooperâs cardiac arrest was now viewable on YouTube (from tabloid websites affecting outrage, yet embedding the clip within their articles) â Iâd never felt tempted to watch it.
For one thing, I feel a personal connection with Cooper. He was my grandmotherâs favourite performer: sheâd hoot with laughter when he was on the box. After she died, Dad watched Cooper re-runs with me - because it reminded him of watching them with her â and, continuing the cycle of nostalgia, whenever Iâd then encounter Cooperâs comedy on Gold or BBC Four, it reminded me of Dad, who has also now passed.
I didnât want to tarnish these wholesome associations by rubbernecking the darkest moment of his career. (Side note: I appreciate that, for some fans, subsequent revelations about Cooperâs off-stage behaviour have damaged their perception of him as a âfamilyâ entertainer anyway. Fair enough, but, for me personally, his drinking and philandering evaporates once he dons the fez).
Plus, Iâve never bought into the common misconception that dying on stage was somehow âWhat He Would Have Wantedâ. Itâs true that the last thing he would have heard would be the audience laughing and applauding⌠but it seems to me very obvious that heâd be devastated to have so lost control of the gag.
Cooperâs act â an apparently unplanned shambles, clumsily stumbling around the stage, gurning, failing at various silly magic tricks â was, in reality, a carefully crafted and choreographed ballet. Like a âfree soloâ rope-less rock climber, he pulled off the feat of seeming to be simply responding to events because he had, in fact, meticulously prepared for all eventualities. His schtick was that his tricks failed, yes, but in precisely the way he had planned for them to fail: not as a result of him copping it halfway through.
However. One of the podcasts I present (âToday in History with the Retrospectorsâ) has a specific mission to revisit curious moments, and, as the fortieth anniversary of Cooperâs death approached, it became evident we would inevitably cover it. Given that many of our listeners would have unwittingly watched Cooper die on live TV on the day in question, I felt I couldnât really express an opinion without having seen it myself.
So: this week I sat down and watched the death of one of my comedy heroes. Repeatedly.
My first thought? I really wished I hadnât. It is, of course, terribly sad. There are some compelling details: the dramatic irony of knowing what is about to happen; the bizarre dissonance of the orchestra striking up a jolly theme as the curtain descends. But, basically, grim.
But, then, having processed it⌠I felt a bit better about this notorious televised fatality. Itâs so brief! Ten or twenty seconds, perhaps? Not his first heart attack, after all. And it seems (relatively) painless, compared to other unexpected fatalities that could have befallen him, such as a road accident or (how my own father died) falling downstairs.
Then, I clocked the âRelated Videosâ recommended by YouTubeâs algorithm. Some were equally distasteful incidents caught on camera â none of which exactly whetted my appetite. But others were Cooperâs classic sketches: the hat routine, the glass bottle, the Duck TrickâŚ
And I thought: there are perhaps now millions of people around the world who only know about Cooper because of how he died. But, by seeking out the footage, they might then be exposed to his best work. And, if they were to click on it, theyâd be likely to smile, laugh, and feel good.
And, that â THAT â is What He Would Have Wanted.