He was straight man in the comforting close-warbling team of Flanagan & Allen, beloved in Britain and the Empire since the early 1930s. That’s when they became famous as propagators of the pleasures of sleeping on cobblestones in “Underneath The Arches”. To this haunting melody they ambled across the stage at an easy pace, with Ches’ hand on Bud’s shoulder, a picture of good pals heading for a snug room in a four ale saloon where the baccy ruled, as opposed to wifey, while the Great Depression howled outside.
    Bud dressed as a tramp but Ches, oddly, was always dapper in three-piece tweed suit and angled trilby. He looked ready for the races, eyes twinkling with tips, yet when he sang scoopingly with his old pal it was invariably about a different outdoors: “Why, listen to the patter of the raindrops come over the twilight!” he recited in “Free” in an accent just short of genteel. Off they’d go wandering along, stopping off to meet nice people with no money, making sure the rabbits ran fast from the farmer’s gun. This was in late 1939, before the war grew nasty.
    Even in the neo-crazed 1960s the team continued to sell records and win hearts. Bud got an OBE from a Queen whose mother had long smiled on him, but Ches got nothing except peace—he’d retired in 1946. I wondered where he hid. I’d been lovingly playing the records even as I bought Elvis and Roy Orbison. Eventually, thanks to our own Jeremy Lewis, I learned Ches was holed up in a small hotel in Midhurst, Sussex. There I cornered him and his Mrs. in the bar one wintry evening in the early 70s, as Disco was descending.
    “You just missed Bud”, he said as he hoisted a cream sherry to me and the world in general. “He went to the Water Rat Lodge in the Sky recently--the brothers threw a very nice memorial—and I was lucky enough to skewer Eddie Reindeer, the comic, and remind him he still owed me the ten bob he’d borrowed just after D Day--and d’you know what he said? He said he hadn’t finished with it yet. I ask you!” “Now, now, Chesney”, said the Mrs. “Do you indulge?” said Ches. “I can only offer Craven A”. He pulled out a silver cigarette case. “Saved me in the first war, it did-- stopped a few bullets. Dad gave it to me—he was a master builder, you know. Built a lot of Brighton, not that you’d notice. Met Bud in that war, at an estaminet in Poperinghe where they did a tasty egg and chips. Bud was a Jewish gentleman back then--changed from Chaim Weintrop in the 20s-- we teamed up as a crosstalk act later—the toff and the tramp, standard stuff. Lean times they were at first—Bud went back to taxi driving and we were on the verge of becoming bookies when we suddenly scored at the Argyle in Birkenhead. Bud’s songs did the trick. Then, in 1926 at the Hippodrome in Derby he sang me ‘Arches’. Got a beaut of a memory, haven’t I?” “Gertcha!” said the Mrs. “It’s only because he’s told the story so many times” “Haven’t you finished that cardigan yet?” The Mrs. took her cue and bid goodnight. “Now where was I? Oh yes—I knew ‘Arches’ was a hit. Got the conductor Noel Vincent to write it down because Bud wasn’t schooled.”
    I mentioned how I loved the up-dating of the “Arches’ idea in songs like “They’re Building Flats Where The Arches Used To Be”, which, I added, was backed on the Columbia 78 by “What Happens To The Breakdown Man (When The Breakdown Van Breaks Down?” “You’re not only a gentleman”, said an astonished Ches, “But you’re a scholar too! Have the other half?”
    I grew reckless: was there a chance he’d duet with me on my latest composition, “They’re Parking Camels Where The Taxis Used To Be”? He wagged his Craven A: “My boy, we’re getting too near the knuckle. Never forget that we are entertainers and therefore our task is to pour cream on oily waters”. I quickly said I’d got my ukulele in the car. “A sensible place to keep it”. No, no—could I persuade him to join me in a song?
    And so, in the snug bar Chesney and I performed “Underneath The Arches”, with me as Bud and he with his hand, in the tradition, lying gentle on my shoulder. As we processed slowly across the carpet Ches whispered, “Don’t forget the special move”. We about-turned and processed slowly back to our seats. Nobody clapped. All eyes were on a TV screen. “I almost forget”, said Ches. “It’s time for the Des O’Connor Show”. Then he paused and gave me a kindly look through rheumy eyes: “You are a credit to your generation. And I’ll tell you what---I’m going to treat you to a spirit!”
    A few years later he was dead. At the memorial service “Cheerful” Charlie Chester, MBE, read out the poem he’d written about Ches: “The curtain has come down/ On the Crazy Gang’s last stalwart/ The straight man to the clown”

 

Ian Whitcomb,
Altadena, California,
Otcober, 2007.

 

Ian Whitcomb is a highly respected performer, composer, and music historian. You can find all of his CD's, DVD's, Books, and Songbooks by clicking here.

 
You can find Ian's main website at ianwhitcomb.com