Selinger agreed to represent Peter, but it appears never to have been an exclusive arrangement, since Peter had at least one other agent knocking on doors for him at the time, and many others followed suit over the years, either in concert with or apart from Selinger. Still, it was Peter himself rather than his agents or his mother who landed the first audition at the BBC. He'd written to request an audition in January 1948, was granted one in February, and in March he appeared on British television on an amateur hour called New to You New to You. The act consisted of impersonations and included this little jingle: I'm glad you've heard my name-it's Peter Sellers!

Peter Sellers can be gay as well as zealous!

And now it's my due, from the program New to You New to You, As one of Britain's up and coming fellas-perhaps.

He needed a writer. In any event, the bit survives only because Peter himself went out and bought a disk-cutting recorder, a rare and expensive machine for the consumer market, simply in order to memorialize the occasion of his BBC debut.

Peter did well enough on New to You New to You, but he was not immediately skyrocketed into stardom, and he still needed to find any work he could. When the producer Hedley Claxton needed a straight man to appear with the comedian Reg Varney in his Gaytime Gaytime revue, Peter auditioned. The final tryout came down to Peter and Benny Hill. Benny Hill won. revue, Peter auditioned. The final tryout came down to Peter and Benny Hill. Benny Hill won.

Peter set his sights, or rather his ears, back on the BBC-not television, which was still minimal in Britain, but radio. After all, he'd been listening to and mimicking BBC programming since childhood. Indeed, by this point he could have trademarked his ITMA ITMA routines had Tommy Handley himself not already done so. Besides Handley, Peter could do Neville Chamberlain, Winston Churchill, and a host of precise but anonymous American travelogue announcers. His renditions of any number of other BBC powerhouses were flawless. And he could prove it. routines had Tommy Handley himself not already done so. Besides Handley, Peter could do Neville Chamberlain, Winston Churchill, and a host of precise but anonymous American travelogue announcers. His renditions of any number of other BBC powerhouses were flawless. And he could prove it.

The setup: In 1948, Kenneth Horne was the star of a hit radio show called Much Binding in the Marsh Much Binding in the Marsh. Set on an RAF base, Much Binding Much Binding was one of several war-themed comedy shows that were popular that year. The patrician-sounding Horne played the commanding officer; the chirpy-voiced Richard Murdoch played his assistant. Roy Speer was a successful BBC producer. was one of several war-themed comedy shows that were popular that year. The patrician-sounding Horne played the commanding officer; the chirpy-voiced Richard Murdoch played his assistant. Roy Speer was a successful BBC producer.

"I was pissed off-oh, excuse me!, fed up fed up, right!-with getting nowhere fast," Peter told Michael Parkinson on the BBC in 1974. "Roy Speer was doing this show called Show Time. Show Time. The compere was Dick Bentley, and there were lots of new acts, you see? I'd written in I-don't-know-how-many times to try to get in on the show. No reply. The secretary said that Mr. Speer 'blah barumpfh hmpf.' So I've got nothing to lose, and I thought, well, I'll phone up. We were doing these impersonations, and one of the big shows on the air was The compere was Dick Bentley, and there were lots of new acts, you see? I'd written in I-don't-know-how-many times to try to get in on the show. No reply. The secretary said that Mr. Speer 'blah barumpfh hmpf.' So I've got nothing to lose, and I thought, well, I'll phone up. We were doing these impersonations, and one of the big shows on the air was Much Binding in the Marsh Much Binding in the Marsh with Kenneth Horn and Dickie Murdoch. I just thought I'd with Kenneth Horn and Dickie Murdoch. I just thought I'd do do it. You know, you it. You know, you do do things at certain times. You've got to get ahead! things at certain times. You've got to get ahead! You've got to [car noise] You've got to [car noise] vrummmmm vrummmmm! So I thought if I stay here I'm dead, [and] even if he kicks my ass out of there it doesn't matter as long as I make some impression as long as I make some impression. So I phone up, and... I thought if I click with the secretary, I'll get through, right? So, I said [deep, resonant voice], 'Oh, hello hmmm, this is hmmm Ken Horn. Is Roy there?' Once she said, 'Oh, yes he is, Ken,' I knew that I was alright. So, I got on there and Roy said, 'Hallo, Ken! How are you?' I said, 'Listen, Roy, I'm phoning up because I know that new show you've got on-what is it, Show Time Show Time or something? Dickie and I were at a cabaret the other night and saw an amazing young fellow called Peter ... Dickie, what's his name?' [High-pitched twit voice:] 'Uh, Peter Sellers! Sellers!' [Resonant voice again] 'Anyway, it could probably be very good if you probably had him in the show, you know. This is just a tip, a little tip.' He said, 'Well that's very nice of you.' And then he came to the crunch, and I said, 'Uh... I, uh... It's me, it's Peter Sellers talking and this was the only way I could get to you and would you give me a date on your show?' or something? Dickie and I were at a cabaret the other night and saw an amazing young fellow called Peter ... Dickie, what's his name?' [High-pitched twit voice:] 'Uh, Peter Sellers! Sellers!' [Resonant voice again] 'Anyway, it could probably be very good if you probably had him in the show, you know. This is just a tip, a little tip.' He said, 'Well that's very nice of you.' And then he came to the crunch, and I said, 'Uh... I, uh... It's me, it's Peter Sellers talking and this was the only way I could get to you and would you give me a date on your show?'

"He said, 'You cheeky young sod! What do you do?' I said, 'Well, I obviously do impersonations.'"

Speer was correct. Peter Sellers was was a cheeky young sod. In other words, he was a natural comedian whose intense insecurity was armored by the hide of a pachyderm. The child who'd gotten whatever he wanted had become an ambitious twenty-two-year-old man who wrote the letters and made the phone calls and white-knuckled his way through one wretched audition after another in pursuit of the blazing career he was convinced he was ordained to have. After his period of postwar malaise, the young Peter Sellers became exceedingly persistent in seeking work that would showcase his enormous talent, and he offended people all along the way. a cheeky young sod. In other words, he was a natural comedian whose intense insecurity was armored by the hide of a pachyderm. The child who'd gotten whatever he wanted had become an ambitious twenty-two-year-old man who wrote the letters and made the phone calls and white-knuckled his way through one wretched audition after another in pursuit of the blazing career he was convinced he was ordained to have. After his period of postwar malaise, the young Peter Sellers became exceedingly persistent in seeking work that would showcase his enormous talent, and he offended people all along the way.

The piano player at the Windmill found him pushy. A disgruntled Freemason claims that Peter joined the peculiar group in the late 1940s, became an unrepentant social climber, and broke the sacred covenant of secrecy-the code words and wacky handshakes and all the rest. "He bandied the phrases and signals about at the BBC," the bitter Mason reports. By doing so, he continues, Peter greatly embarrassed the good but gullible Masons who had sponsored him in the first place.

Spike Milligan offered a more empathic explanation for his friend's peculiarities. Peter, Milligan once said, "was just a nice, very quiet, and very complex simpleton. He was the most complex simpleton in the world."

The BBC broadcast Peter's Show Time Show Time program on July 1, 1948. A little over a week later, Leslie Ayre, the radio critic for the London program on July 1, 1948. A little over a week later, Leslie Ayre, the radio critic for the London Evening News Evening News, gave Peter his first postwar review. It was a very good one with one highly quotable nugget: "In Peter Sellers, radio brings us another really conscientious and excellent artist." An overjoyed Peg framed the whole review and kept it on the wall for the rest of her life. Dennis Selinger did something more practical: He had it reproduced as a three-column ad and ran it in the trades, complete with a glamorous-looking head shot of the suddenly rising young star, the new master of funny voices.

The ad, the review, Selinger's phone calls, and most of all Peter's performances rapidly earned him a slew of variety show bookings and cabaret engagements, not to mention more radio show appearances. Over the course of the next twelve months, Sellers and his proliferating voices turned up on the BBC on Workers' Playtime Workers' Playtime, Variety Band Box Variety Band Box, Ray's a Laugh Ray's a Laugh, Petticoat Lane Petticoat Lane, and Third Division Third Division. The seamless flow of dissociation his multiple characters produced was remarkable. Men, women, old, young, upper class, working class, the nasal, the clipped... Peter's endlessly redoubling accents were so naturalistic that listeners had to remind themselves that they were hearing only one man and not a crowd. And on the radio, at least, whatever genuine Peter Sellers there was tended to get lost. "Well, that's me me!," Peter announced on one show, only it wasn't his actual voice at all; it was the voice of a bland and anonymous BBC announcer as imitated by Peter.

On the strength of his reputation, the ex-nobody was even able to hook up his friend Graham Stark with steady BBC work as well. Stark and Sellers continued to enjoy each other's company, to the point of developing a double-pickup routine. Along with the disk-cutter, the increasingly gadget-prone Peter owned a then-novel automatic record-changer that accommodated a total of eight records, and so it served as a built-in timing device for two young men on the make. He and Graham would pick up girls and bring them back to Pete's place when Peg and Bill were out. "If we hadn't gotten anywhere with the girls by the fifth, we certainly wouldn't by the eighth," Stark fondly recalls. "This became a catchphrase which Peter and I used to bandy about: 'If you haven't made it by the fifth....'"

In late 1946, a year and a half before Peter appeared at the Windmill, a bulbous and good-natured Welshman took the stage with an edgy music hall routine. He sang, and not only in the fine Welsh baritone for which he would become world famous. The man sang both both parts of the sappy Jeanette MacDonaldNelson Eddy duet "Sweetheart." When "MacDonald" and "Eddy" were forced to sing at the same time, the Welshman yodeled incomprehensibly. But it was a warped shaving routine that caught the audience's interest most dramatically, for the man really did shave himself onstage using a big bowl of warm water, a well-used brush, an old-fashioned cutthroat razor, and ridiculous amounts of shaving cream, after which the comedian drank his filthy shaving water. parts of the sappy Jeanette MacDonaldNelson Eddy duet "Sweetheart." When "MacDonald" and "Eddy" were forced to sing at the same time, the Welshman yodeled incomprehensibly. But it was a warped shaving routine that caught the audience's interest most dramatically, for the man really did shave himself onstage using a big bowl of warm water, a well-used brush, an old-fashioned cutthroat razor, and ridiculous amounts of shaving cream, after which the comedian drank his filthy shaving water.

Harry Secombe was born in relative poverty in 1921 in the port city of Swansea on the south coast of Wales. His love of singing was established at an early age. According to his brother, the Reverend Frederick Secombe, "Harry's great place for singing was out in the ty bach ty bach. He used to sit and sing there for hours."

Like so many men his age, Secombe had gone through the war, though in Harry's experience-at least in Harry's telling telling of the experience-World War II tended to be rather more farcical than it probably seemed to others. He recounted one escapade, for example, that is said to have occurred in Medjaz-el-Bab, a tent somewhere in Algeria, where the myopic Secombe espied what he took to be a helmeted Nazi and slapped the enemy dramatically under arrest, only to learn that the Nazi was Randolph Churchill. ("He happened to be facing the wrong way at the time," was Secombe's explanation.) of the experience-World War II tended to be rather more farcical than it probably seemed to others. He recounted one escapade, for example, that is said to have occurred in Medjaz-el-Bab, a tent somewhere in Algeria, where the myopic Secombe espied what he took to be a helmeted Nazi and slapped the enemy dramatically under arrest, only to learn that the Nazi was Randolph Churchill. ("He happened to be facing the wrong way at the time," was Secombe's explanation.) Young Harry Secombe was amiable but driven. He married a Swansea girl, Myra Atherton, in 1948, and after a short honeymoon in Cornwall, Harry returned to London, Myra to her family in Swansea. They saw each other only when Harry needed to take a break from his heavy performing schedule. They stayed happily married for fifty-three years.

Secombe's six weeks at the Windmill ended with Vivian Van Damm etching Harry's name onto the honored bronze plaque, the one that augured greatness to those who had performed under Van Damm's roof. The gesture may seem to have been a pro forma honor, but bear in mind that in the seventeen months after Secombe appeared at the Windmill, the gruff Van Damm added only three names to the plaque before Peter's-Alfred Marks, Michael Bentine, and Bill Kerr.

When Secombe left the Windmill, the comedy duo of Sherwood and Forest moved in. Sherwood was Tony Sherwood. Forest was Michael Bentine.

Born in 1922 into an upper-crust Peruvian family, the Eton-educated Bentine was, in appearance at least, a sort of Beat-poet Rasputin. With his bushy black mane and beard, he looked, as the musician Max Geldray described him, "as though his parents had invented hair." Bentine's past was suitably shady. He served in the RAF; that much is certain. His exceptional intelligence is also verifiable. But the tales he told of his own exploits, contacts, and secret lives tended to shift so effortlessly from eyewitnessed fact to plausible circumstance to grandiose impossibility and back again that none of his friends ever really knew what to make of him. The pub owner and writer Jimmy Grafton reports: "I have heard him give accounts of exciting incidents as a fighter pilot, bomber pilot, parachutist, commando, member of the Secret Service, even as an atomic scientist. His claims to be an expert swordsman, pistol shot, and archer are substantially true. He is also a qualified glider pilot." Spike Milligan claimed that "he once told me, face to face, that his mother had levitated from the ground, across the dining table, and settled down on the other side."

"Bentine was forever telling people they were geniuses," said Peter Sellers. "I don't know why he did this, but he'd say to anybody anybody after a few minutes conversation, 'You're a genius!' And they'd usually believe it, because Bentine is the only one who's had any real education out of the three of us. He was the one who started nuclear physics, and all we could do was get through these three letter words like after a few minutes conversation, 'You're a genius!' And they'd usually believe it, because Bentine is the only one who's had any real education out of the three of us. He was the one who started nuclear physics, and all we could do was get through these three letter words like cat cat and and dog dog."

Whatever the actual facts of Michael Bentine's biography may be, he was impulsively creative and recklessly funny. He enjoyed disrupting quiet cafes by suddenly bursting into fake-Russian babble so as to create the illusion that he was a spy (albeit one who couldn't keep his mouth shut). Jimmy Grafton, the publican/writer, remembers being in Bentine's dressing room once at the London Hippodrome when Bentine picked up a longbow and fired an arrow directly at the dressing room door. Because it had been shot from a mighty longbow, the arrow penetrated the wooden door with ease and ended up protruding several inches through to the other side. The reporter who was approaching the door at the time was surely surprised.

In the summer of 1948, BBC radio's Third Programme was running a comedy series called Listen, My Children Listen, My Children. (After World War II, the BBC divided itself into three sections: the Light Programme, the Home Service Programme, and the Third Programme, which appealed respectively to working-class, middle-class, and upper-middle and upper-class audiences.) Produced by Pat Dixon, Listen, My Children Listen, My Children featured Benny Hill, Harry Secombe, and Carole Carr. Smart and funny, the show was popular enough that a follow-up series was quickly planned. It was originally to have been called featured Benny Hill, Harry Secombe, and Carole Carr. Smart and funny, the show was popular enough that a follow-up series was quickly planned. It was originally to have been called Falling Leaves Falling Leaves, but the title was changed to Third Division-Some Vulgar Fractions Third Division-Some Vulgar Fractions. Two new comics were added to the lineup-Michael Bentine and Peter Sellers.

Peter and his fellow radio comics recorded Third Division Third Division's first program in early December 1948. Five more shows were recorded before the end of the year, and they began airing in late January 1949. In the second Third Division Third Division show, Sellers performed a hilarious sketch-so hilarious, in fact, that Sellers kept it alive for many years thereafter. Written by Frank Muir and Denis Norden, it was a travelogue of a South London neighborhood. "Balham, Gateway to the South" was narrated by an overly enthusiastic, broadly Midwestern American (Sellers), who persistently renders the neighborhood's name in two sharp, twangy stresses- show, Sellers performed a hilarious sketch-so hilarious, in fact, that Sellers kept it alive for many years thereafter. Written by Frank Muir and Denis Norden, it was a travelogue of a South London neighborhood. "Balham, Gateway to the South" was narrated by an overly enthusiastic, broadly Midwestern American (Sellers), who persistently renders the neighborhood's name in two sharp, twangy stresses-Bal! Ham!

With snappy scripts by Muir and Norden, brought to antic life by Sellers, Secombe, Hill, and Carr, Third Division Third Division was a highly entertaining series of six programs. But it wasn't history-making. That would require the participation of a gaunt lunatic who was living in an attic room over Jimmy Grafton's pub, sharing space with a rhesus monkey. was a highly entertaining series of six programs. But it wasn't history-making. That would require the participation of a gaunt lunatic who was living in an attic room over Jimmy Grafton's pub, sharing space with a rhesus monkey.

Spike Milligan was born in Ahmednagar, India, in 1918, and first appeared onstage at the age of eight in the Christmas pageant of his convent school in Poona. He played a blue-faced clown, arguing shortly before curtain time (to no avail) that his face really ought to have been black. Then, feeling himself unfairly excluded from the pageant's concluding Nativity scene, the boy-clown burst in upon the manger. "I thought the clown should have a place in life," he later explained.

The Milligans moved to England in 1933, when Spike was fifteen. The family was decidedly poor, though no decision had ever been made. Spike joined the war as a gunner in the Royal Artillery, but he was not a natural warrior. In North Africa, his unit proceeded to fire a heavy artillery gun without having dug it in, thereby sending the thing recoiling down a hill, where it narrowly missed a truck occupied by Lance Bombardier Harry Secombe. The burlap covering opened at the back of Secombe's truck and a face popped in. "Anybody seen a gun?" Spike inquired. (Secombe's tale of the event runs like this: "We couldn't get the Germans out of these hills. We kept sending them letters, but they wouldn't go.... This huge gun jumped out of the gun pit, and it came pattering over where we were and missed us by a few yards, you know, in this little truck. And I thought, 'They're throwing guns at us.'") without having dug it in, thereby sending the thing recoiling down a hill, where it narrowly missed a truck occupied by Lance Bombardier Harry Secombe. The burlap covering opened at the back of Secombe's truck and a face popped in. "Anybody seen a gun?" Spike inquired. (Secombe's tale of the event runs like this: "We couldn't get the Germans out of these hills. We kept sending them letters, but they wouldn't go.... This huge gun jumped out of the gun pit, and it came pattering over where we were and missed us by a few yards, you know, in this little truck. And I thought, 'They're throwing guns at us.'") The comedy of Spike Milligan's World War II took a darker turn when he was blown up at Monte Cassino. His unit was taking cover in an olive grove outside an enemy-held monastery. "I was counting out my Woodbines and reached five when this weird sound hit my ears," Spike remembered. "I can't describe it. It was like a razor blade being passed through my head."

Spike was dispatched to a rehab hospital-the same one to which Harry Secombe had been sent after breaking his eyeglasses. (This is one of Secombe's explanations, at any rate. The other is this: "I had been invalided and downgraded after I got lost in a blizzard.") Whatever it was that put Harry Secombe in the hospital, Harry soon discovered that he and Spike shared the same antic sensibility. Spike described one day: "A crippled sergeant in a wheelchair came round and asked, 'Does anyone do entertainments?'" Spike responded by telling four jokes in quick succession, none of which produced a laugh-"so I picked up an axe and struck Harry Secombe."

Harry told of staying with Spike in a Roman military hostel, men sleeping on every available surface: "There was Spike all tucked up in bed, nice and comfortable with his pajamas on, so I poured a bottle of beer over his head."

In Milligan's case, one suspects that the unbalanced foundation of his worldview, or the solid foundation of his unbalanced worldview, had been formed before the razor sliced through his brain, but the war certainly exacerbated his despair. "I got used to seeing men jumping out of little holes and looking about with binoculars. Men looking out of tanks with binoculars. Always men looking out and throwing things at one another. I thought to myself, 'This is mad.'" Yes, it was. And so was he.

Chronically underhoused after the war, Spike moved into Jimmy Grafton's attic, whereupon his friends dubbed him "the prisoner of Zenda." The Grafton Arms, the pub on the first floor, had been in the Grafton family since 1848 and was now being operated by Jimmy, fresh back from the war, where he had served as an infantry officer. Grafton was no ordinary publican, however, since he also wrote comedy scripts for BBC radio. But it was not Grafton's scriptwriting talent that initially drew Michael Bentine and Harry Secombe into the pub as patrons. It was the fact that the Grafton Arms served drinks after hours. The Grafton Arms, the pub on the first floor, had been in the Grafton family since 1848 and was now being operated by Jimmy, fresh back from the war, where he had served as an infantry officer. Grafton was no ordinary publican, however, since he also wrote comedy scripts for BBC radio. But it was not Grafton's scriptwriting talent that initially drew Michael Bentine and Harry Secombe into the pub as patrons. It was the fact that the Grafton Arms served drinks after hours.

Bentine and Secombe had shown up at the pub one day in 1946 or '47 and immediately began complaining about the poor quality of a radio comedy show they had recently heard-Variety Bandbox, the author of which was none other than Grafton himself. Then again, Grafton was writing Variety Bandbox Variety Bandbox for the comedian Derek Roy, whom Spike described as "about as funny as a baby dying with cancer." for the comedian Derek Roy, whom Spike described as "about as funny as a baby dying with cancer."

Since Harry's strange friend Spike began spending a lot of time at Grafton's anyway, Grafton offered him the attic space, where Spike, too, began typing comedy scripts for Derek Roy's new program Hip Hip Hoo Roy Hip Hip Hoo Roy and peering through a keyhole at a monkey who was living in the next room. Milligan went so far as to claim not only that "Jacko" peed into the pub's pea soup but that he, Spike, actually watched the cook stirring it in. Jimmy Grafton disputes this repulsive accusation, though Grafton himself admits that another pet, a bulldog, came close to biting off Harry Secombe's balls. and peering through a keyhole at a monkey who was living in the next room. Milligan went so far as to claim not only that "Jacko" peed into the pub's pea soup but that he, Spike, actually watched the cook stirring it in. Jimmy Grafton disputes this repulsive accusation, though Grafton himself admits that another pet, a bulldog, came close to biting off Harry Secombe's balls.

But anyway, says Grafton, the monkey was a vervet, not a rhesus, and its name was "Johnny."

Whatever the case may be, Spike's relationship with the monkey was ultimately more productive than his relationship with Derek Roy, since Roy rarely found Spike's scripts very funny and most of them went unused.

A gang was forming, though none of the members knew it at the time. Peter knew Bentine and Secombe; Spike knew Bentine and Secombe; Jimmy Grafton knew them all. But Peter didn't know Spike, and that was to be the key.

They were living very different lives. While Spike was lodging with a monkey in Grafton's attic and writing scripts for the trash, Peter, flush with his new success as a radio personality and cabaret performer, was growing even more dapper in many new sets of clothes-and cars. Between the summers of 1948 and 1949, he bought and sold four of them. His comedy routines continued to center on impersonations and improvisations, but he'd also begun to court danger onstage by adding a surrealistic twinge to his act. On one occasion he walked brazenly onstage completely shrouded in a plastic raincoat, most of his face covered by the hat he'd yanked down well below its intended level, and delivered his entire routine without showing anything of himself to the audience. Although he was well on his way to becoming the sought-after talent he always knew he was, his very success was serving to intensify the distaste he had always held for the average spectator. They were, after all, the sons and daughters of the good citizens he'd seen gaping at his barely clad mother in Ray Brothers revues. Now that Peter himself was regularly facing the crowds, he was feeling more and more contempt for what he considered to be idiot audiences-"just a bunch of no-brow miners and tractor makers," he once declared. routines continued to center on impersonations and improvisations, but he'd also begun to court danger onstage by adding a surrealistic twinge to his act. On one occasion he walked brazenly onstage completely shrouded in a plastic raincoat, most of his face covered by the hat he'd yanked down well below its intended level, and delivered his entire routine without showing anything of himself to the audience. Although he was well on his way to becoming the sought-after talent he always knew he was, his very success was serving to intensify the distaste he had always held for the average spectator. They were, after all, the sons and daughters of the good citizens he'd seen gaping at his barely clad mother in Ray Brothers revues. Now that Peter himself was regularly facing the crowds, he was feeling more and more contempt for what he considered to be idiot audiences-"just a bunch of no-brow miners and tractor makers," he once declared.

On October 3 and 10, 1949, two successive Mondays, Peter earned 100 for opening for Gracie Fields at the London Palladium. They were his most important live performances to date, and as the theater manager Monty Lyon recorded in his journal, he was "very well received indeed." Peter's act consisted of a marvelous drag character he'd recently created, the plump and lovely Crystal Jollibottom, a dim-witted sod called Sappy (or Soppy), and a sentimental tribute to Tommy Handley, who had died rather recently. Sellers didn't simply perform these impressions one after the other; he tied them all into a sort of storytelling performance, gliding in and out of the mimicry in an ingratiating and conversational way.

The most extravagant bit was an avant-garde impression of Queen Victoria. This was no mere "We are not amused" queen. No, this was Victoria "when she was a lad."

Rude and hilarious, it involved Peter dressing himself in a ginger-colored beard, an undone corset, and combat boots, and walking to the footlights and announcing, "I'd like to be the first to admit that I do not know what Queen Victoria looked like when she was a lad." He may also have carried under his arm a stuffed crocodile. Accounts differ.

It was around this time that Harry Secombe was doing a show at the Hackney Empire. Called "a fucking death hole" by one of Spike's knowledgeable friends, the Empire was not known for the kindliness of its audiences, but Harry Secombe's shaving routine, followed by the Jeanette MacDonaldNelson Eddy duet, were crowd pleasers nonetheless. But it was not Harry's act itself that brought the evening to the level of an historical event. It was what occurred before the curtain went up that mattered-the meeting, in the Empire bar, of Peter Sellers and Spike Milligan. was not Harry's act itself that brought the evening to the level of an historical event. It was what occurred before the curtain went up that mattered-the meeting, in the Empire bar, of Peter Sellers and Spike Milligan.

"He looked like a nervous insurance salesman," was one of Spike's recollections of Peter that evening. Another: "Peter wanted to look like a male model-posh suit, posh collar and tie, Macintosh, gloves he carried in his left hand... oh, and a trilby hat" (a soft felt number with a deep crease on top). Milligan was struck by the faintness of Peter's voice ("I thought I was going deaf !") and also by his comportment: "He was quite dignified, apart from the fact that he didn't buy a bloody drink all night. Dignified but skint."

After the show, Milligan, Sellers, and Michael Bentine came around to Secombe's dressing room. For whatever reason, Secombe responded by removing the lone light bulb from its socket and plunging the room into darkness. Milligan re-created the dialogue, notably leaving out his own contributions: SECOMBE: Why are you all persecuting me like this? Are you from the Church? Why are you all persecuting me like this? Are you from the Church?

SELLERS: No, we are poor traveling Jews of no fixed income. No, we are poor traveling Jews of no fixed income.

SECOMBE: Oh, just a minute. (He replaces the bulb.) Oh, just a minute. (He replaces the bulb.) BENTINE: See! See the light! It is a sign! See! See the light! It is a sign!

SECOMBE: You must help me escape from here. I'm being kept prisoner against my dick! You must help me escape from here. I'm being kept prisoner against my dick!

BENTINE: You mean will. You mean will.

SECOMBE: No, Dick. Will died last week. No, Dick. Will died last week.

They clicked.

Joking, drinking, deriding other comedians, and carving schemes for professional advancement, Peter could now amuse himself in the company of kindred discontents at the Grafton Arms. The core group-Spike, Harry, Michael, Jimmy, Graham Stark, and the writer Denis Norden-were joined over the next year or so by other rising comedians like Terry-Thomas, Dick Emery, Alfred Marks, Tony Hancock, and even a stray woman, the comedienne Beryl Reid. They'd play pub games of their own invention. "We used to go through this insane mime routine, which kept customers out of the pub for months," Spike recounted. Another game they called "Tapesequences." It was a pseudo-narrative version of "Pass It On" in which one person would start to tell a story into a microphone in a voice so low nobody else could hear it, after which he or she would pass the mike around for the others to continue the would-be tale, which was necessarily nonsense. used to go through this insane mime routine, which kept customers out of the pub for months," Spike recounted. Another game they called "Tapesequences." It was a pseudo-narrative version of "Pass It On" in which one person would start to tell a story into a microphone in a voice so low nobody else could hear it, after which he or she would pass the mike around for the others to continue the would-be tale, which was necessarily nonsense.

At the heart of the group were four men suffering varying degrees of mental distress, a tendency Sellers, Milligan, Secombe, and Bentine codified by nicknaming themselves after the one-eyed mutant lugs in the Popeye cartoons.

Goons.

It wasn't a flattering label. Most people who have seen a few Popeye cartoons are familiar only with the relatively benign Alice the Goon, who in the later years of the series became so upstanding a citizen that she up and joined the Marines. But as the cartoonist E. C. Segar originally drew them, the primordial Goons were hulking, hostile creatures, verbally incoherent, prone to violence. Their charm was their charmlessness. They were butt ugly with brains to match, and Peter and his friends related to them. (The word goons goons also referred to the henchmen, usually dumb as planks, in American gangster movies; more peculiar by far is the fact that also referred to the henchmen, usually dumb as planks, in American gangster movies; more peculiar by far is the fact that goons goons are what RAF prisoners of war called their Nazi guards.) are what RAF prisoners of war called their Nazi guards.) According to Michael Bentine, it was he who came up with the term. "I was the first of the Goons to make a hit in London's West End," Bentine declared in his memoir, The Reluctant Jester The Reluctant Jester. "I have a two-page centre-spread from Picture Post Picture Post dated 5 November 1948, illustrated with pictures of myself and my chairback in action and headed 'What is a Goon?'" ("Chairback" is a reference to one of Bentine's standard comedy acts: appearing on stage armed only with the broken back of a wooden chair, he would proceed to turn himself into a jack of all props, with the chairback becoming in rapid-fire succession a rifle, a saw, a flag, a door, a jackhammer, a pillory, a cow's udder...) dated 5 November 1948, illustrated with pictures of myself and my chairback in action and headed 'What is a Goon?'" ("Chairback" is a reference to one of Bentine's standard comedy acts: appearing on stage armed only with the broken back of a wooden chair, he would proceed to turn himself into a jack of all props, with the chairback becoming in rapid-fire succession a rifle, a saw, a flag, a door, a jackhammer, a pillory, a cow's udder...) According to Milligan, it was he who came up with the term. "It was my idea for us to call ourselves the Goons. It was the name of the huge creatures in the Popeye cartoons who spoke in balloons with rubbish written in them. The name certainly predates the beginning of the war. I started using the [word] 'Goons' in the army."

What can one say, other than what Milligan himself used to interject, in his own voice, after a typically incomprehensible stretch of dialogue in the radio program he, Bentine, Secombe, and Sellers went on to create: "Mmmmmmm-it's all very confusing, really." the radio program he, Bentine, Secombe, and Sellers went on to create: "Mmmmmmm-it's all very confusing, really."

In any case, Milligan liked to doodle on his scripts. On one of them, dated November 1949, he drew a Goon. Its head is made up mostly of nose. Its hairy body is shaped like a large fat bullet. It vainly tries to conceal a medieval mace behind its back. The mace, of course, is spiked.

FOUR.

"He taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say."

"So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws.

Spike Milligan's imprisonment in Grafton's zoolike attic came to an end when Spike rented a flat in Deptford, a considerable distance away. After one particular night of joint carousing at the pub, Peter was aghast at Spike having to travel so far just to sleep and invited him to spend the night at his own place, which is to say Peg and Bill's. (Peter had more money than his friends did, not only because he seems to have been paid more for his more-steady work, but also because he still lived with his parents.) He packed Spike into his latest car, a Hudson, drove him to North London, and set him up on a slowly flattening air mattress on the floor, where Spike slept for quite some time.

Spike awoke the first morning to the sound of Peter crying out to his mother, a wail to which Spike grew accustomed. Spike, who was constitutionally unable to stop being funny, did a wicked impression of Peter's plea-a plaintive baby's squeal, except that the baby is postpubertal and his voice has long since dropped. "Pe-e-e-e-g? Pe-e-e-e-ggg-y?!" According to Spike, the object of the squeal would fuss swiftly into the room at the sound of her boy. "Tea, Mum," Peter would order, and off Peg would go to fetch it for him.

While eating scrambled eggs that first morning, Spike noticed a Durer etching on the Sellers's wall. "It's only a print," said a chain-smoking Bill. "Uncle Bert's got the original."

Spike gasped. "It must be worth a fortune!"

Peg, the dealer in antiques and objets d'art, rushed to the telephone and called her brother in extreme excitement. They'd be over immediately, she said. So they piled into Peter's Hudson and sped to Uncle Bert's only to discover that, no, Bert Marks of North London did not own the famous Albrecht Durer hare. she said. So they piled into Peter's Hudson and sped to Uncle Bert's only to discover that, no, Bert Marks of North London did not own the famous Albrecht Durer hare.

"I think Peter Sellers's father was dead, and nobody had the courage to tell him," Spike later opined. "He was like a ghost in the background. Occasionally he would be seen smoking a cigarette. Sometimes he'd play a few tunes on the piano. Very accomplished-smoking and playing the piano at one and the same time. The family was full of talent."

Spike, who slept often at the Sellerses and suffered the wretched air mattress in favor of the loneliness of Deptford, also recalled a distressing but characteristic incident involving Peter, a car, and a car salesman. In Milligan's telling: Peter was considering the purchase of yet another car that morning, so they drove over to the Star Garage in Golders Green to meet with "a salesman so Jewish in appearance as to make Jewish people look European." (Spike, prone to extracreativity, claimed the man actually had two two Jewish noses.) The salesman presented Peter with the car in question-a sleek green Jaguar. Peter asked if he could take it for a test drive and drove it all the way to Brighton. Spike expressed concern for the salesman. "Oh, fuck him," said Peter. Jewish noses.) The salesman presented Peter with the car in question-a sleek green Jaguar. Peter asked if he could take it for a test drive and drove it all the way to Brighton. Spike expressed concern for the salesman. "Oh, fuck him," said Peter.

Peter, Peg, and Spike dined at leisure at the Grand in Brighton, where Peter paid for the meal with a bum check. "Peter, darling," Peg scolded, "that's very naughty. Will it bounce?" Peter then explained to Spike the relationship he enjoyed with his banker: "I said [to the banker], 'Look-once a month I write all my creditors' names on pieces of paper, screw them up, and put them in a hat. I then draw one out and pay it. If you don't stop bothering me I won't even put your name in the hat.'"

The inevitable denouement: Upon their return to the Golders Green garage late in the day, Peter informed the now-apoplectic car dealer that he wouldn't be taking the Jaguar after all. "Like many people," Spike concluded, "he ended up on the Peter Sellers scrapheap."

Spike could be cruel when discussing his old friend, but it was cruelty born of love. The bond between Sellers and Milligan was forged as solidly as it was because the two men understood each other's hearts as well as their minds. For each of them, nonsensical comedy wasn't simply diverting. It was as restorative as fresh blood, and if it brought with it a bit of cruelty, selfishness, and antisocial behavior, well, that was the price others must pay. For Spike and Peter, comedy wasn't just comic-it was cosmic. That so few other people knew this spiritual fact only made the two depressives more convinced of its essential truth. Spike's sense of humor, deeply rooted in anguish, found its most appreciative audience in Peter, a childlike, superstitious English half-Jew with too many voices in his head. At first, Peter Sellers was just about the only person who truly got the joke that was Spike Milligan. It was an insane joke, sick and absurd, and it resonated in Peter, who, for his part, showed his appreciation by facilitating its resonance to the rest of the world. For Spike and Peter, comedy wasn't just comic-it was cosmic. That so few other people knew this spiritual fact only made the two depressives more convinced of its essential truth. Spike's sense of humor, deeply rooted in anguish, found its most appreciative audience in Peter, a childlike, superstitious English half-Jew with too many voices in his head. At first, Peter Sellers was just about the only person who truly got the joke that was Spike Milligan. It was an insane joke, sick and absurd, and it resonated in Peter, who, for his part, showed his appreciation by facilitating its resonance to the rest of the world.

Jimmy Grafton writes in his understated memoir that "all the Goons, like most compulsive comedians, were manic depressives to some degree," with Milligan taking a sizable lead in that particular race. But, Grafton continues, "If Spike was the most manic depressive, Peter was perhaps the next, though not to the same involuntary degree. His periods of elation after a successful performance or when sharing moments of fun with his friends were monitored by a shrewder, more pragmatic mind, as were his darker feelings of frustration."

Because of the Goons' subsequent professional triumphs, Goon minutiae abounds, trailing along with it a number of finer-points debates. It has been universally resolved that Jimmy Grafton, muse, drinkmeister, and friend, took on the Cold War espionage-sounding nickname KOGVOS. But that is where the agreement stops. For what did the acronym stand? King of Goons and Voice of Sanity? Keeper of Goons and Voice of Sanity? King of Goon Voices Society? Take your pick. Whatever his unmelodic title stood for, Jimmy Grafton was a generous fellow who not only perceived his eccentric friends' largely untapped talent but who respected and empathized with them as men, never seizing undue credit and always wishing them well. So good-natured is Jimmy Grafton that he even finds a positive note to strike about someone who never earned the praise and love of Peter's other friends. "I came to like and admire her greatly," Grafton writes of Peg.

Peter was romantically active as well. "I was introduced to Peter in 1949 by his agent, Dennis Selinger," says Anne Hayes. They met at the BBC's offices on Great Portland Place. "It wasn't instant attraction. That came when I saw him onstage for the first time." Anne was an Australian-born theater student and actress, pretty, blond, charming, and very nave. She says, from a safe distance, "I suppose I was happy in the beginning. I don't know that I ever thought about it." says, from a safe distance, "I suppose I was happy in the beginning. I don't know that I ever thought about it."

It wasn't just Peter's offstage physical appearance that failed to appeal to Anne at first, though he continued to cut a rather large figure. "He was really very fat," she affirms, "about fourteen-and-a-half stone. He had long, wavy hair, and he used to wear these huge suits with great, wide shoulders. He looked a bit like a spiv, really." (In other words, he weighed two hundred pounds and was a very snappy dresser.) Since Peter was given to great displays, a multitude of phone calls ensued from their first meeting, beginning with one placed by Peter the morning after they met in which he insisted that he was already deeply in love with her. Flowers flowed. Telegrams flew. Peter was in flaming pursuit.

His raging displays of affection were paralleled, of course, by an equally intense possessiveness, but in Anne's case Peter's jealousy raged to the point of despising his actress-girlfriend's audiences. On one occasion he appeared backstage before her show and announced that he had taken an overdose-of aspirin. (Peter would have had to have eaten at least 140 standard-issue tablets to have even made himself at risk at risk of death by aspirin.) Another evening, when she was performing at the Lyric, Hammersmith, Peter found a better solution to his passionate resentments: "He locked me in the bedroom to stop me going into the theater." of death by aspirin.) Another evening, when she was performing at the Lyric, Hammersmith, Peter found a better solution to his passionate resentments: "He locked me in the bedroom to stop me going into the theater."

Because of his smothering mother, Peter was a man unable to tolerate any separation from a woman he loved-that is, any separation that he had not initiated himself. He found no difficulty in scheduling his own performances. It was Anne's he found unsustainable. "Peter hated me being in the business," Anne explains, ascribing it not only to Sellers's possessiveness but also to the fact that he, too, wanted to do legitimate theater and couldn't seem to make it happen for himself. His ambition was boundless, but his theatrical training was nonexistent. Besides, at the time he was known strictly as an impressionist, not as an actor.

It was the performing Peter with whom Anne Hayes fell in love, the Peter of infinite color and possibility. It was the everyday Peter she dated, and yet she accepted his proposal of marriage in April 1950. The tantrums, the jealousy, the vigilance, the resentment of her career... Anne says she "got used to that in time. You'd think, oh, it was just Peter throwing a tantrum-like a spoiled child, really. At its worst."

"She only wants your body." That was Peg on the subject of Anne.

She was "an old harridan." This is Anne on the subject of Peg. "And the way she kissed him goodbye! I'd think, 'Ugh! Who's engaged to him, you or me?'" the way she kissed him goodbye! I'd think, 'Ugh! Who's engaged to him, you or me?'"

That awful question became less of an idle musing when, all in a period of a few days, Anne broke off the engagement during a spat and threw her triple-diamond engagement ring back at Peter, who handed it over to Peg, who quickly sold it.

Like everyone, with the notable exception of Jimmy Grafton, Anne blames everything on the harridan. Peg "would allow him anything anything. However badly he behaved as a child, he was allowed just to get away with it. That was instinctive in him. He thought all women would be like his mother." She found his eating habits infantile: "I don't think he knew the meaning of etiquette. He never knew which knife and fork to use, and he was the kind of boy who would immediately grab the first cake off the plate."

Still, Peter was also funny and engaging. His appeal outweighed his ability to enrage or appall, and the bright young couple soon patched things up again despite Peter's notable failure to replace the diamond ring. Not to mention the hostile telephone call Peg placed to Anne's mother: "Anne is going to ruin his life-his whole career! Surely you can recognize this. He is going to be a star. Keep your daughter away from my son!"

Peter Sellers married Anne Hayes in Caxton Hall, in London, on September 15, 1951. Peg made a point of staying home. Bill did, too.

Anne gave up her career. "I would think I probably laughed more with him than with anybody I've known in my life-probably cried more, too," she says in retrospect. "He was amoral, dangerous, vindictive, totally selfish, and yet had the charm of the devil." After all, it could be most entertaining to spend time with Peter and his multiple personalities, as long as his mood allowed it. As Anne used to remark to their friends, "It's like being married to the United Nations."

In January 1950, Peter and Harry, billed as "Goons," performed a bit of comedy business on the radio show Variety Bandbox Variety Bandbox, but their communal ambitions were running much higher than a single appearance on radio's answer to vaudeville. From Peter's perspective, this drive wasn't for lack of work. His solo career was prospering. In the two years after his initial Show Time Show Time appearance, Peter Sellers was heard on over two hundred radio appearance, Peter Sellers was heard on over two hundred radio broadcasts. He'd been on broadcasts. He'd been on Variety Bandbox Variety Bandbox any number of times, any number of times, Stump the Storyteller Stump the Storyteller and and Speaking for the Stars Speaking for the Stars, too, not to mention the comedian Ted Ray's hit show Ray's a Laugh Ray's a Laugh. (Late in his life, Sellers credited Ray with teaching him the crucial art of comic timing.) But group Goonishness held a powerful appeal, one that his solo gigs failed to satisfy. Playing four or five separate characters by himself was no longer enough; he needed to multiply voices in collaboration with others-an artistic hunger as well as an appetite to work with a team of good friends. Talk at the Grafton Arms continued to revolve around ways to crack the BBC together.

Because Peter was on the best professional footing at the time, Jimmy Grafton wrote a spec script featuring Peter as the centerpiece, with the other Goons in supporting roles. In fact, the program was called Sellers' Castle Sellers' Castle, and it focused on the stately but broke "twenty-second [a gunshot, a scream] I beg your pardon, the twenty-third Lord Sellers" and his schemes to keep his dilapidated residence from being taken from him. The four comedians recorded what they considered the best moments-Bentine and his mad scientist routine, Harry singing, and Spike filling in a bunch of outlandish voices-and through Grafton's agency they got their pilot-of-a-pilot to the BBC producer Roy Speer, who liked what he heard and quickly gave the go-ahead for a full-scale pilot to be recorded. But in a decision worthy of the military, the BBC decided not to assign Speer himself to produce the program but, instead, an inadvertent clown named Brown. Lord Sellers" and his schemes to keep his dilapidated residence from being taken from him. The four comedians recorded what they considered the best moments-Bentine and his mad scientist routine, Harry singing, and Spike filling in a bunch of outlandish voices-and through Grafton's agency they got their pilot-of-a-pilot to the BBC producer Roy Speer, who liked what he heard and quickly gave the go-ahead for a full-scale pilot to be recorded. But in a decision worthy of the military, the BBC decided not to assign Speer himself to produce the program but, instead, an inadvertent clown named Brown.

With wisdom born of instinct (comedians are born, not made) and stand-up experience (comedians may be born, but they die repeatedly until they learn what works), the Goons themselves knew that Sellers' Castle Sellers' Castle required the zip of a live, laughing audience. But despite the group's insistence, Jacques Brown felt that, no, a studio audience was not at all necessary for this particular comedy recording, and so required the zip of a live, laughing audience. But despite the group's insistence, Jacques Brown felt that, no, a studio audience was not at all necessary for this particular comedy recording, and so Sellers' Castle Sellers' Castle was taped in isolation and consequently fell flat. The BBC brass, whom Bentine later described as "a moribund collection of interfering knighthood aspirants," was decidedly underwhelmed by the pilot of was taped in isolation and consequently fell flat. The BBC brass, whom Bentine later described as "a moribund collection of interfering knighthood aspirants," was decidedly underwhelmed by the pilot of Sellers' Castle Sellers' Castle. They found it nutty and incomprehensible and scotched the program, thereby returning the Goons to the morose state with which they were most familiar.

Secombe described their situation coolly: "There was this terrible sense of humor that nobody else really understood." Grafton likewise, though with drier wit: "Spike was still searching for the right formula in between bouts of depression and withdrawal, alternating with occasional music hall appearances."

Enter Larry Stephens, a coscriptwriter for Spike. Grafton, whose memoirs display a sparkling knack for nailing the spirit of things without showing off his insightfulness, describes Stephens as "an ex-commando captain who had seen some tough service in the Far East. He had a natural flair for comedy scriptwriting." Having gone through the war, Stephens understood the Goons. Sellers, Milligan, Secombe, and Bentine possessed the core anarchic attitude; what they lacked was anarchic structure, and Stephens supplied it. "When we first met up we had this thing inside us," Sellers later said. "We wanted to express ourselves in a sort of surrealistic form. We thought in cartoons. We thought in blackouts. We thought in sketches." Stephens helped make this nascent style cohere-to a point.

In early 1951, the producer Pat Dixon pitched yet another new comedy series to the BBC. It was to be a series of bizarre sketches broken up by musical interludes. The comedians would do funny voices, make funny noises, and generally act strange, and then a jazz band would come on. Dixon was young and driven, and along with Larry Stephens he perceived the coherent incoherence behind Goon humor, the inchoate sense behind the nonsense. Perhaps more important than his appreciation for the Goons' sense of humor, Dixon had earned himself enough of a reputation at the BBC that he could make this pilot happen without Brown-ish interference. A talented young producer named Dennis Main-Wilson assumed the reins.

A pilot was recorded before a live audience on February 4, 1951. Spike recalled the experience: "The audience didn't understand a word of it. God bless the band. They saved it. They all dug the jokes."

The pilot was successful enough that the knighthood aspirants approved the production of a full-fledged series of comedy programs featuring Sellers, Milligan, Secombe, and Bentine, with scripts by Milligan and Stephens as edited by Jimmy Grafton. But with their fingers firmly on the pulsebeat of the bureaucrat in the next office, the BBC executives drew the line at the proposed title. The Goons, needless to say, desired that their series be called The Goon Show The Goon Show. The BBC declined, insisting that nobody would know what it meant. The first replacement title proposed was The Junior Crazy Gang The Junior Crazy Gang, but the Goons refused it, citing not only its demeaning blandness but also its pointless reference to an already-existing comedy troupe, the Palladium's Crazy Gang.

The BBC's second idea was revealing: They suggested Crazy People Crazy People. In their own dull way, these executives knew who they were dealing with. This group's comedy really their own dull way, these executives knew who they were dealing with. This group's comedy really was was evidence of mental illness. evidence of mental illness.

Sad to say, the BBC's paper-pushers were probably right to deny the Goons their billing of choice, at least at first. After all, the national communications corporation was about to unleash the Goons on an unsuspecting public, and it would take some time to make the show popular. The word Goon Goon could only come to mean what the Goons wanted it to mean could only come to mean what the Goons wanted it to mean on the air on the air. Even when the series was a big enough hit that the stars were granted their own famous title the following year, the four men who'd named themselves after a species of cartoon morons were still still faced with at least one clueless BBC planner who asked the question that continued to remain on many listeners' minds. What exactly was this "Go On" show about, anyway? faced with at least one clueless BBC planner who asked the question that continued to remain on many listeners' minds. What exactly was this "Go On" show about, anyway?

Peter was very much employed between the recording of the Crazy People Crazy People pilot in early February and the first program's broadcast in late May. He was busy making movies. pilot in early February and the first program's broadcast in late May. He was busy making movies.

Penny Points to Paradise (1951) came first. Despite its obscene-sounding title, it was little more than a tentative, practically undirected effort to provide employment and exposure for Sellers, Milligan, Secombe, and Bentine. (Also appearing were Alfred Marks, Bill Kerr, and Felix Mendelssohn and His Hawaiian Serenaders.) The 77-minute (1951) came first. Despite its obscene-sounding title, it was little more than a tentative, practically undirected effort to provide employment and exposure for Sellers, Milligan, Secombe, and Bentine. (Also appearing were Alfred Marks, Bill Kerr, and Felix Mendelssohn and His Hawaiian Serenaders.) The 77-minute Penny Penny was an insignificantly small movie even by the standards of bilge-budget British independent filmmaking in 1951, and it nearly achieved the supreme ignominy of never even earning a was an insignificantly small movie even by the standards of bilge-budget British independent filmmaking in 1951, and it nearly achieved the supreme ignominy of never even earning a bad bad review let alone a mediocre one. But by virtue of its stars, a term one must use loosely since none of them actually shone at the time, review let alone a mediocre one. But by virtue of its stars, a term one must use loosely since none of them actually shone at the time, Penny Penny survived to become a rare and important bit of Goon juvenilia. survived to become a rare and important bit of Goon juvenilia.

In the film, Spike tells Sellers about some scheme, using a hip slang reference to cash. "Spondulix!" the befuddled Sellers cries. "Dreadful disease!" Spike: "No, major, the spondulix! spondulix!" Spike makes the universal gesture for money-grubbing, prompting Sellers to reply, "In the fingers?! Worst place you can have it! It travels straight up the brain and crumbles the arm! No, no, it travels up the arm and crumbles the brain. Yes!"