WILFRED and Mabel are the royalty of “personality entertainment,” whose private lives delight us all because we feel they are “just like us” — or rather just as we’d like to be.

Away with any idea of mystery making for glamour (and imagine for one second if you can the vision of Wilfred being mysterious about anything!): it’s just not their cup of tea at all. They’ve broken all the accepted rules and made their own, and if you want to know if they’re successful … no, I won’t say it … ask Mabel this time !

When I tried to persuade her to talk about herself she said: “Wilfred knows more about me than I do myself really —don’t you, Wilfred?” To which he replied: “Well… you tell first and I’ll have a go afterwards!”

“Mother wouldn’t let me”

Mabel began: “I was born in Lancashire, as you probably know. All my family were connected with the theatre (my mother was a Tiller Girl) but Wilfred was just the opposite. Nobody in his family had anything to do with the stage at all — the professional stage, I mean to say.

“Mother decided that whatever happened I wasn’t going to marry anyone in the profession — it was too hard work and much too unstable.” Here Wilfred cut in: “She married a respectable builder who chucked it up and went on the stage!”

I asked if Mabel had ever wanted to act herself in those days. “My mother wouldn’t let me. Oh, I’d love to have been a principal boy!”

I wondered what her mother’s feelings were when the “respectable builder” turned actor. Mabel smiled, and said: “It was too late to stop Wilfred by that time, we were married then — we could do as we liked! She’s seventy-eight now, my mother is, and one of his greatest fans … no regrets at all.

“When Wilfred was thinking of becoming an actor, I was all for it. I encouraged him — oh yes, I did. He started broadcasting in Manchester, and of course all the time I knew him he was leading man in the Halifax Amateur Dramatic Society.”

In Wilfred’s book, Between You and Me, the story of his remarkable career is told in his own way — and of course his first meeting with Mabel at the dramatic society. But on a very busy morning (comprising a meeting at ten o’clock, me at eleven o’clock, recording a children’s story at twelve o’clock and the sitting-room table stacked with mail and charity requests) their comments on it were brief and typically amusing: —

Wilfred: “Yes, we met at the dramatic society. She was leading lady and I was looking on… so that was all right!”

Mabel: “We met and married in eighteen months.”

Wilfred: “Weddings are all much alike, aren’t they?”

Mabel: “You either wear white or you don’t.”

Wilfred: “On our honeymoon I gave the porter my only gold sovereign instead of a sixpence! It was because I was ashamed of the confetti in the car — I’d been going to have that sovereign made into a ring for Mabel. I told that story on TV and afterwards I got three of them sent in to me… I was bucked!”

Wilfred says he’s always “liked people — always liked to mix,” and he sat back remembering… “Way back in ’39, doing Billy Welcome you know, I met a tremendous number of people, and I got a knowledge of their trades too. I won’t ever rehearse them either. I learned that early and I’ve stuck to it: Ordinary folk are best the first time off. For instance…

“I said to a fisherman the other day, a man who was telling me about how he’d been in a ninety-mile-an-hour gale, ‘Did you say your prayers?’ and he said: ‘Well, I thought about it, but I was too busy with the compass!’ Of course it got a tremendous laugh. Now if he’d rehearsed that and it had been the second time, he’d have played it up and it wouldn’t have been nearly so funny, would it?”

Successful debut

I asked Mabel when she was going to appear in a play with him. She said: “They want me to, but I’m very happy to be a housewife. Oh, except for Ask Pickles. I enjoy that, but it was an accident that I was ever in it.

“People had heard me on the radio in Have a Go and when Wilfred asked them (as he still does, you know) what they’d like, they said they’d like to see me next. Then after the first one, when I was such a success because of helping with that dog, you remember? well, they kept me on! I’ve been in ever since and I love it too.

“As it is, we’re never apart anyway — twenty-four hours in the day we work together, and then there are Saturday and Sunday charity shows, and Wilfred’s mail, which is over a thousand letters a week, and that’s not counting what goes to the BBC.” (I’d already had some indication of the size of his post-bag because one of my own letters got embedded in the Pickles lot recently — it reached me — with profuse apologies — one month later!)

I asked what they did in their spare time, if any. “Books are Wilfred’s favourites,” said Mabel. “All sorts, novels, plays, biographies, but specially poetry — he’s very fond of that. I wasn’t very interested in poetry but I’ve got very keen now. I like it when he reads it out loud to me. If we do get an evening at home sometimes, we really relax and lie in bed and he’ll read to me. Yes… reads poetry beautifully, does Wilfred.

Opposite personalities

“We never have time to go to the pictures, I think we’ve seen one film in two years, but we love the theatre — all sorts of theatres — and television naturally. We’re specially fond of ballet. That’s the other way round you see, because I liked that and Wilfred’s got to like it, while he taught me to like poetry.

“I do all my own cooking (Yorkshire pudding’s my speciality, of course!) but I’m a shocker with a needle. I do my best with buttons but even then everybody laughs! Wilfred’s useless at odd jobs; I’m better at those, and he needs all his time and energy for his own job, anyway.”

At this moment Mabel was called to the kitchen and Wilfred went on: “Mabel’s capable… my goodness, yes. I never fill in a diary, she does that. She’s brought common sense to this life of ours. I’m a shocker — just say ‘yes’ to everybody, and no head for figures. But perhaps I taught her to like people, so it’s complementary really. We’re opposite personalities, but we don’t row — that’s unheard of in our house. The only time we ever stopped speaking to each other we had to laugh!

“I suppose you might sum up Mabel and me by saying … we work hard, we love life and people … and we’ve very simple tastes — thank God.”

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I, for one, would listen to Mr. Harding — at any given moment on any given subject — practically indefinitely. He is an excellent host, brilliant conversationalist, hideous opponent and — in a way — a poet. At once a phenomenon and a horror-child of the entertainment world.

His views on particular subjects at this particular moment are as follows. Do you agree with any of them at all? If not, do you think you would be prepared to argue the toss — to his face? And maintain your objections under fire from that alert legal brain, or charming humorous coercion? (And not knowing which you’ll get!)

I gave up. Being too entertained, stimulated and generally bemused, I just went on asking questions. Mr. Harding, in a sunny mood, went on answering. I enjoyed myself vastly. Mr. Harding got exceedingly hot. We parted good friends — he liked my hat.

Mr. Harding’s views on:—

People. I like all kinds of people for no particular reasons. There are a great many people who are very pleasant but whom I dislike intensely. And there are a great many people who are very unpleasant and I love them.

Public Figures. I admire some — envy others — and pity most. Dislike (for no particular reason) popular clergymen and evangelists. I hate people who pretend to pedal salvation.

Books. I like all books. Read practically everything except what I’ve outgrown. But the more I read modern novels, the more I find I go back to Jane Austen and biographies, histories, and books on travel — but I go on reading them.

Poetry. Oh yes. I’m very fond of poetry. And am firmly convinced it should be read aloud. Even by yourself. Apart from the steady romantics, Keats, Shelley, Tennyson, Byron, I’m extremely fond of the poetry of John Betjeman and John Pudney, and of Dylan Thomas and Louis MacNeice.

Paintings. Hmmm. Very partial to paintings. One of the few ways in which I have grown up is that I now tend to buy new ones rather than reproductions of old ones. I never say a painting’s bad — but sometimes that I can’t understand it. (I loathe formal “coloured photograph” painting and am unable to appreciate modern portrait painting, over which most people enthuse — but I put that down to lack of information.)

Sculpture. Same goes for that. And without understanding why at all, I’m very addicted to the works of Henry Moore — they fascinate me.

Dress. Don’t mind as long as it’s colourful and attractive. I’m talking of women’s dress. I’ve a great dislike of trousers and “cloths” worn round the head; can’t bear them. Men? Wish they would be more colourful and less conservative, but suppose it’s too late to worry about that.

Manners. My own are so bad that I dislike having to put up with the bad manners of others.

Newspapers. Read them all, with very few exceptions. I think, in general, the so-called “popular press” displays an unpleasant and quite often unhealthy curiosity about what can’t possibly concern it or anyone else.

Social Occasions. I detest all kinds of parties, especially the all-too-common kind of so-called cocktail party. To which too many people go, and make too much noise in too little space and drink far too much far too quickly, or what’s not worth drinking anyway. I can’t understand why it is that people aren’t content to spend an occasional evening at home with a few friends, instead of acquiring a headache in an hour and a half in a room full of strangers.

Houses. All I ask of a house is that it should be comfortable, have more than one water-closet, and that the plumbing should be intelligent. Oh — and a gas cooker.

Food. Like all food. Hot or cold. Not luke-warm. I like my own plain cooking and other people’s fancy cooking. I’m a very good cook.

Drink. Like all drink. I will drink anything provided there’s enough. But I find myself drawn particularly to the light wines of the Moselle, and in an extravagant mood, to the vintage Clarets and big Burgundies. I’m also a devotee of — though not an expert on — port.

Dancing. I’m just old enough to remember the time when one could enjoy dancing very much — really enjoy it. When there was grace and movement in the exercise, and one could waltz and foxtrot to rhythmic music with room to move around. Now, the sight of more and more people crushing and shaking about almost stuck together by their own sweat on a floor the size of a postage-stamp makes me wonder if we don’t deserve the atom bomb.

Laws. My blood-pressure rises several degrees when I think of the licensing laws (which I consider iniquitous) and the Lord’s Day Observance Act. Nor do I understand why I should not be allowed to buy a piece of cheese, without buying a packet of cheese, after certain times of night. Ridiculous nonsense!

The Theatre. I like to hear what people say without difficulty. I’m not deaf, but they won’t speak up. I regret that the plays of Mr. Christopher Fry don’t appeal to me — they drive me barmy. But I happen to be erratic and low-brow. I long to see the time coming when a long-suffering and high-paying public will rebel against paying for programmes, and against the hours and inefficiencies of the bar arrangements.

Films. I just don’t understand how people can make some modern Certificate A films like Prince Valiant; and I find it even more difficult to understand why anybody goes to see them. I really like French films. And I adored Henry V and still regret the death of Raimu.

Restaurants. They depend on mood, don’t they? I like the splendid or the obscure kind — all I ask is that they should be honest. Was it Swinburne or Gladstone who said: “I loathe luxury but adore splendour”?

Games. Bridge and Calypso.

Sport. Not much interested. I dislike cricket very much but enjoy going to Lord’s if someone’s got a box — I don’t mind watching in comfort. But can’t imagine why anyone wants to run a mile faster than anyone else—or swim the Channel — or climb mountains (when they’ve only got to come down again). I admire athletic men though. Healthy, decent chaps.

Do You Do The Football Pools? When I do, I hope I shall be locked up by my friends in a loony-bin.

Architecture. I dislike — loathe — Regent Street. It’s just the sort of architecture I detest — and Piccadilly Circus. Whereas I like Carlton House Terrace and Regent’s Park, and all Queen Anne things.

Sense of Humour. I’m amused by slapstick comedy, and subtle dry humour — as long as it’s not over my head. I dislike very much: jokes about deafness or deformity of any kind, physical or sexual, and jokes about mothers-in-law. And have a violent hatred of jokes at the expense of racial or religious minorities.

Prejudices. I hate all prejudices, including my own, which are violent and unreasonable. Loathe people who, because their skin is a different colour, or their nose a different shape, or their creed a different melody — think they’re better than anyone else.

Faces. The only face I’ve really detested was that of Himmler. I abhorred it on sight without knowing whose it was. And I have never seen anything so repulsive before or since.

Ambitions. I envy carpenters and bargees. And should like to have been a lawyer, barrister. Cardinal, happily married man with a family, actor, steeplejack… oh, so many many things.

World Affairs. No views. They puzzle me and fill me with despair.

Progress. Don’t know anything about it. When I think about our modern international misunderstandings, I don’t think about progress, but go back to Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar and deliberately misquote: “Judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts and words have lost their meaning.”

Heroes. I’ve changed so often… As a boy there was Buffalo Bill, Sexton Blake. Sherlock Holmes, Rupert of Hentzau… and so on. I NEVER wanted to be Oliver Cromwell, OR George Washington. I really don’t know which of them was the worse.

Heroines. Ah yes, now I feel very strongly about heroines, and have many of them; amongst them, if I may say so, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother. My first was Kate Barlass (the Scottish woman who used her arm as a doorbolt), then there was Florence Nightingale (in spite of Lytton Strachey). Mrs. Pankhurst — a wonderful woman. The Empress Theodora (Justinian’s wife). She was a tart, and an actress, then a mistress, then became Mrs. Justinian and an Empress — she didn’t do too badly one way and another. Lastly, Marlene Dietrich is an idol of mine.

Snobbery. On that subject I’m very clear — got that all sorted out years ago. A snob is a person who thinks he or the other person is worth knowing, for no particular reason other than wealth or title. I’m very sorry for snobs. I’m very sorry for inverted snobs who don’t like them for no particular reason other than wealth or title. I myself am a snob in as much as I revel in the society of prelates, poets and princes.

Unfavourite People. Edith Summerskill. And Queen Elizabeth I. I can just tolerate Bunyan because of one line: “The trumpet sounded for him on the other side.”

Taboos. The noise of other people’s wireless sets. Litter. Lipstick stains on cigarettes and cups. People who comb their hair in public. People who talk with cigarettes or pipes in their mouths. Parents who quarrel in front of their children. Beetroot in salad. Sugar-tongs. Refinement. Cruelty.

Tastes. I like everything else. It’s all been said far better than I can put it — by Rupert Brooke: “I love all beauteous things, I seek and adore them” — and that includes babies, “dear old things,” and everything in between.

* * * *

Thank you Mr. Harding!

Well — if you are prepared to battle with him I admire your courage, deplore your decision, and refuse to pick up the pieces afterwards. It is only fair to warn you, however, that the most formidable weapon wielded by this magnificent and monumental outrage (excuse me Mr. Harding) is a baffling sincerity when you least expect it. May I wish you a happy and unbloody death.

For myself, I prefer “for no particular reason” not to enter the lists. Believing that “vintage Harding” to be savoured and relished, but not disputed. It’s delicious! as Mr. Harben would say.

SO. MR. HARDING, I AM YOUR MOST NON-COMBATANT “FAN.”

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