The day I was beaten up in front of Arnold Brown

IF ANYONE IS going to notice that life is often funnier

than comedy it must surely be a professional

comedian. Even when the incident may seem tragic at

the time. And why not?

Arnold Brown is the self-styled ‘Scottish Jewish’

comedian and has made a long career with an

observational stand up act ever since the ‘alternative

comedy’ boom of the late Seventies during which he

appeared at the opening night of London’s Comedy

Store. Recently awarded the Lifetime Achievement

Award at a Scottish festival, Arnold said: ‘It's always

been great to be regarded as the comedian's

comedian, but my real ambition has always been to be

the bank manager's comedian.’

I had the pleasure of befriending this dark, slightly built

ex-chartered accountant in the mid-Nineties when

we had a brief collaboration, over cappuccinos in

Hampstead, towards the production of an even briefer

humour publication. Along with his claim to fame for

supporting Frank Sinatra at a Glasgow concert, he first

met me at a Cartoon festival at Chelsea Town Hall. He

was always a keen cartoon aficionado.

Over the years we would have occasional meetings

in various cake shops around London (“I’m a patisserie

kind of guy” was one of his catchphrases) even though

he would very rarely eat anything more fattening than a

tomato and onion salad.

Our meeting places included such legends as

Bunjie’s Coffee House, around the corner from The Ivy,

in Litchfield Street; Marino’s in Rathbone Place and

Stockpot in Old Compton Street. Restaurateurs must

fear that there is a Curse of Arnold Brown, because all

of these establishments have sadly shut down.

Fortunately, the extremely cake-y Maison Bertaux in

Greek Street continues to struggle on.

It was more of a mild friendship than anything

business-inclined, with him critiquing some of my latest

works with avuncular, yet constructive enthusiasm. He

always had the air of the slightly tortured artist, his thick

bushy brows knitting together above intense eyes as

he intellectualised one experience or another. “I was on

an existentialist tube train the other day. The announcer

said: Mind the gap between your expectations and

reality.”

And it was on tube station when, for me at least, we

had the most memorable encounter. It was on a

platform at Euston underground station (still open for

business in spite of Arnold’s presence) which is where

we return to the observation about comedians

observing tragedy.

Laden down with baggage, I was en route from the

Northern Line platform up to the mainline station and

swerving around the corner into the concourse leading

to the escalators. My shoulder slightly rubbed that of a

roughly-dressed young man going in the same

direction. Thinking nothing of an encounter that any

Londoner has several times a day, I muttered an

apology only to find the man’s fist forcefully swinging

into my jaw. At that precise moment of shock and pain,

my eyes focussed quickly enough to see, opposite me,

with an equally shocked expression, my old comedian

friend Arnold. “Are you alright?” he enquired naturally

enough as I watched the ruffian, who was staring back

at me, ride up the escalator. Yes, there was nothing

broken, I checked, just a severely rattled jaw, the ache

and memory of which would seriously disrupt my sleep

over the following few nights at my assignment in

Birmingham. Arnold’s expression was identical to the

photo on the cover of his book “Are You Looking at Me

Jimmy?”

Shocking though it was at the time, putting on an

impromptu performance of inner city violence for one of

the UK’s leading comedians may well have been my

finest hour. It’s easy to laugh about it now and, indeed,

a friend has embellished the tale further with his tastefree

joke that he had been gang-banged on Holborn

Viaduct at exactly the same time that Stephen Fry

walked past.

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