The day I was beaten up in front of Arnold Brown
Simon Ellinas Cartoonist and Caricaturist
Cartoonist and Illustrator drawing cartoons and caricatures for newspapers, magazines, books and websites
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
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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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