Cook
by Simon King

 

 

Few comedians could have looked back on such a glittering career as Peter Cook. A perennial figure on British television – on chat shows, skits and the occasional movie – he was the exemplary comic. Other comics sought to reach the comic heights which he reached, but failed. He even impersonated the British prime minister Harold Macmillan in his presence. The surreal, absurd, high-octane British comedy of the 1970s would never have existed without him.

But all of that was now in the past. Cook had not been involved in a creative project of any sort for three years. His last project had involved two uncouth Cockney characters. The project was a deliberate exercise in bad taste and it was not universally loved. Since then, Cook had withdrawn from the world and spent most of his time at home.

Indeed, his comic partner, Dudley Moore, had gone to even greater success. He had left parochial Britain behind for the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. The diminutive comic had become an unlikely sex symbol, starring in several blockbuster releases.

Whilst Moore enjoyed drink and excess, he functioned. Cook, on the other hand, had been ruined by his alcoholism. Although conventionally attractive, he had now gained weight. He looked slovenly. His house, similarly, was untidy and dirty. It teemed with discarded cigarette butts, empty bottles of whisky, beer and wine, with used clothes, with old magazines and newspapers and with dirty plates. It did not bother Cook; he had grown accustomed to the grime and the clutter.

He liked reading the newspaper and reading the occasional book, but he spent hours watching television. He no longer appeared much on it himself, but he was insatiable consumer of popular culture.

A new technological innovation had arrived – the VHS. One could now rent movies, one did not have to trawl over to the local movie theatre. Just as well, he would probably be recognised and harried by admiring fans. Cook did venture to the local shop to rent films and he brought them back to his home to view them.

The latest movie which he had rented was especially significant – it was Arthur, starring Dudley Moore. The whole film centred on the character played by Dudley Moore.

Cook had already consumed two bottles of wine. He lost track of time – he could not remember whether it was a week day or the weekend – and he was not lucid because of all the alcoholic beverages which he had imbibed. He occasionally scuttled over to the bathroom to vomit, but for now he remained seated. He had opened a bottle of whisky and he poured himself a glass.

He stumbled over to the VHS and inserted the video. The film started with Dudley in a limousine, cackling rather effusively. Yes, it was a cackle he knew all too well. Cook could make anyone laugh, but nothing gave him greater pleasure than hearing Dudley laugh. In the episodes of Pete and Dud, Dudley always had to supress the corpsing.

There was no question that Cook was the funnier of the two. Dudley did have excellent attributes – he was an excellent musician and a competent actor – but Cook was funnier. It riled him that Dudley had deserted him and flocked to Hollywood. Not only had he gone there, but he was very successful at it, too. Cook longed to be together with him again, appearing on BBC Two with Not Only but Also. Instead, he had sequestered himself in his house, drinking copious amounts of alcohol.

The movie played on. It was fairly insipid stuff – pretty schlocky even by Hollywood standards – but Dudley was amiable and endearing. However, Cook in a drunken frenzy, seethed with rage. He drank more and more of the whisky until he was half-way through the bottle. He took out a pack of cigarettes and started smoking them. As the movie progressed, he started shouting obscenities. (Not unlike the uncouth cockney characters.) Dudley was the star of the show and Cook resented this.

Cook kept slugging the booze and puffing his fags. The film progressed and each shot centred on Dudley, which angered Cook. He shouted more and more obscenities.

Half way through the movie, Cook threw his bottle of whisky at the television, which bounced off and the liquid streamed across the squalid carpet. He could not continue to watch it, so he once more stumbled over to the VHS and turned it off.

Why did he subject himself to this? He knew that the movie would upset him, so why did he watch it? Why was he so envious? Why could he not be appreciative of his former side-kick’s endeavours? However, Cook, who had once been so chummy with Dudley, seethed with envy. His own career had fallen into a quagmire whilst Dudley had scaled new heights. No-one saw him anymore on television anymore. Even his friends had grown estranged from him. He had not seen his ex-wife for years and former colleagues had also grown estranged.

Yet he had once shown so much promise. He was the king of British satire, the funniest man in a country which prided itself on its own idiosyncratic brand of humour. Now he could only drink, smoke and watch television. Seeing Dudley in movies drove him barmy, so he resolved to never do this ever again. The funniest man alive was now cantankerous, reclusive and bitter. 

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