Moon Boots and Dinner Suits by Jon Pertwee

Author:Jon Pertwee
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Published: 2011-09-26T17:12:58+00:00

1) It was adaptable to all weather conditions - in winter six more layers could be tied on, and in summer three or more layers taken off;

2) Wrapped up nicely, dirt couldn’t get in, making the washing of his person unnecessary; and

3) If it rained and the paper began to disintegrate, a few fresh layers would quickly put the matter right.

The only real disadvantage was that Jack was a fire hazard. Nightly, against avuncular advice from passing members of the Constabulary, Jack would build a fire for the combined purposes of warmth and cuisine. He could produce a ‘fry-up’ on the lid of a biscuit tin that was, so I have been informed by previous honoured guests, unsurpassable.

The only trouble was that if ‘Old Molly’ had been amongst the invited she would treat Jack to a few slugs of the Biddy by way of gratitude for the excellent repast. This was inclined to have disastrous results, as Jack, after a few snorts, would fall forward into his fire and instantly turn himself into a human torch, only to be extinguished by liberal cups of tea thrown over him by the other guests.

Shortly after the war, the Director of a picture I was working on needed a tramp.

‘I know the very man,’ I said, describing Jack. ‘Bung us a few quid to give him and I’ll make sure he turns up on the right day.’

Jack had moved to his country residence under the bridge at Chislehurst, and it was here I found him, crouched over his fire, in a crisp new brown paper suit.

‘How would you like to be in a film, Jack?’ I asked.

‘Does it pay?’ said Jack suspiciously.

‘Four pounds,’ I replied, ‘plus your meals and rail fare.’

‘That’s all right, Mr Jon, my sister’s got a jam-jar. She’ll bring me down, and I’ll save a oner.’

‘6:30 then, Jack, and don’t be late.’

‘Don’t you worry none, Mr Jon, I won’t let you down.’

By 7:30, the Director was worried. By 8:30, frantic!

‘The whole day’s shooting hinges on the tramp,’ he screamed. ‘Where the hell is he?’ Once again I searched the ‘extras’ dressing room. There was no sign of Jack, only a little man in an ill-fitting blue serge suit, with a short back and sides, sitting in the corner.

As I made to leave the room, he got up and said, ‘Are you ready for me yet, Mr Jon?’ It was Jack. Jack, as few had ever seen him. It transpired that as I had completely neglected to tell him that he was wanted as a tramp, he assumed that he was wanted for his looks and his talent. In order not to let me down, he had had a shave, a haircut and borrowed a fifty-shilling suit from his brother-in-law.

I never saw Jack again and was saddened by his disappointment at not becoming a ‘film-star for a day.’ Perhaps I was responsible for his retirement from the road and his adoption of standard dress in preference to brown paper and string.

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