We see Sellers doing a pratfall over a garden wall; we see him grasping a rifle being shadowed by an Angel of Death figure in a black shroud; we see him swinging his arm around and rapping Harry Secombe straight across the face.

Peter emerges in a shower cap and towel: "This is a bathroom and not a confounded beehive!" he explains, only to return to the same business a little later and declare, "Madame, this is a bathroom and not a nursery!" (In both cases the towel threatens to slip off, and one notices that David Lodge's description of the youngish Peter was substantially correct: He was was big, and he was hairy, too, with great tufts of the stuff on his shoulders.) big, and he was hairy, too, with great tufts of the stuff on his shoulders.) Sellers shows up again as a fast-talking American salesman, complete with chewing gum: "I represent my friend the Wonder Atomic Aspirin Company, our product is guaranteed to banish any any headache, take two of these red pills and your headache will vanish, but your hair falls out. [Conspiratorial giggle.] Don't worry though, take two of these green pills and your hair grows again and your eyebrows fall off...." headache, take two of these red pills and your headache will vanish, but your hair falls out. [Conspiratorial giggle.] Don't worry though, take two of these green pills and your hair grows again and your eyebrows fall off...."

"It was an awful film," Harry Secombe once said with a hearty laugh, and he's probably right, though Secombe's claim is difficult to prove. Only snippets of the movie have ever been screened since its brief release in the late spring of 1951 to no attention whatsoever.

More noteworthy if only by degree is Let's Go Crazy Let's Go Crazy (1951), a short-subject cabaret show with Peter in the center spotlight. He does five good impersonations in the course of the half-hour film, but singers, tumblers, and a comico-musical group called Freddie Mirfield and his Garbage Men keep breaking in. "Moderate variety filler" was (1951), a short-subject cabaret show with Peter in the center spotlight. He does five good impersonations in the course of the half-hour film, but singers, tumblers, and a comico-musical group called Freddie Mirfield and his Garbage Men keep breaking in. "Moderate variety filler" was Today's Cinema Today's Cinema's seen-it-all-before assessment, though Peter's subsequent superstardom now provides the spark the film lacked when Peter actually made it. It's riveting to see brilliance in the making. In one characteristic skit he's Giuseppe, the cabaret's broadly Italian maitre d', who sports a huge handlebar mustache. Giuseppe laboriously attempts to talk a wealthy diner into ordering something Italian, but all the man wants is boiled beef and carrots. Giuseppe weeps.

Even better is Peter's delightful Groucho Marx-not a caricature at all but an appreciative and subtle rendering. Groucho asks the waiter (Spike) if the restaurant serves crabs. Receiving an affirmative response, he hands over a crab and introduces it as his friend.

It's not the gag itself that makes it work; Let's Go Crazy Let's Go Crazy's writing is about as inspired as an elbow. (The waiter appears a little later and bumps a diner. "That was a close shave!," the diner says, whereupon the waiter begins to shave him-a Loony Tunes shave complete with seltzer in the face.) It is instead the warm precision of Peter's style that connects, the odd sort of painterly quality he lends to what is essentially a cheap burlesque. Countless other mimics have been drawn irresistibly to Groucho routines over the years-the stooped, leggy walk; the black Brillo eyebrows; the inevitable cigar incessantly flicked-but, being lesser talents, they tend to out-Groucho Groucho. Peter underplays him, and out of it emanates the essential spirit of Marx. sort of painterly quality he lends to what is essentially a cheap burlesque. Countless other mimics have been drawn irresistibly to Groucho routines over the years-the stooped, leggy walk; the black Brillo eyebrows; the inevitable cigar incessantly flicked-but, being lesser talents, they tend to out-Groucho Groucho. Peter underplays him, and out of it emanates the essential spirit of Marx.

Peter's Groucho is an aficionado's pleasure, but he could also play to the raucous mob. Toward the end of Let's Go Crazy Let's Go Crazy there's an all-too-brief appearance by the proud and robust Crystal Jollibottom. Wearing an absurd boa, she sits on a flaming celery stick. It's the best moment in the film. there's an all-too-brief appearance by the proud and robust Crystal Jollibottom. Wearing an absurd boa, she sits on a flaming celery stick. It's the best moment in the film.

May and June 1951 were bustling months for Peter Sellers. On Monday, May 7, Peter began an eight-week run at the Palladium. Since his last Palladium gig he'd played several other London houses-Finsbury Park, Balham, the Prince of Wales, the Hippodrome. He was by that point a proficient stand-up comedian, impressionist, and crowd pleaser. But as the theater management report pointed out, his audiences' responses were largely if not entirely dependent on their familiarity with radio characters-others' as well as Peter's own-because those were the voices upon which Sellers played.

The manager also noted a certain tendency in Peter's onstage demeanor, one that his friends had been noticing in his private nature: "I think that this act is getting better with each visit and could be exceptionally good if only there was a little more personality."

On Sunday, May 27, 1951-less than halfway through his run at the Palladium-Peter, along with Spike, Harry, and Michael, showed up at a small studio on Bond Street to record the first official episode of Crazy People Crazy People. It aired the following day at 6:45 P P.M. Sixteen more programs followed in the first series, one per week, over the course of the next four months.

As disjointedly manic as Goon Show Goon Shows were in the years to come, the first year of the series was even more so. Each Crazy People Crazy People program was composed of staccato, essentially unrelated comedy skits interspersed with irrelevant jazzy musical numbers-irrelevant to the comedy, that is. The Ray Ellington Quartet, a singing group called the Stargazers, and Max program was composed of staccato, essentially unrelated comedy skits interspersed with irrelevant jazzy musical numbers-irrelevant to the comedy, that is. The Ray Ellington Quartet, a singing group called the Stargazers, and Max Geldray on the harmonica provided a form of musical relief from the comedy, though apparently the Stargazers weren't relieving enough because they got bounced in the middle of the second series. Geldray on the harmonica provided a form of musical relief from the comedy, though apparently the Stargazers weren't relieving enough because they got bounced in the middle of the second series.

Despite the show's chaotic nature, certain themes began to develop. Druggy in a world before drugs, Crazy People Crazy People was irreverent, illogical, and not a little cynical. Authority was skewered, logic dismembered. The show was a triumph of facetiousness in the service of pointlessness-a philosophical statement. Even its title was inconsistent. BBC program listings called it was irreverent, illogical, and not a little cynical. Authority was skewered, logic dismembered. The show was a triumph of facetiousness in the service of pointlessness-a philosophical statement. Even its title was inconsistent. BBC program listings called it Crazy People Crazy People for the whole first series, but the Goons themselves insisted on referring to it on the air as for the whole first series, but the Goons themselves insisted on referring to it on the air as The Goon Show The Goon Show.

Goon comedy is a mix of pa-dum-pum jokes-Q: "Do you mind if I take a gander 'round the shop?" A: "As long as it's house trained."-with centrifugally disintegrating plots and significantly dumb noises. Like the poetic play of Lewis Carroll, 'twas brillig in a profoundly British way; it was Alice in Wonderland Alice in Wonderland after the Great Depression and two devastating world wars. What held it together, increasingly so as the series progressed, was a group of recognizable if distinctively unrounded characters. For Spike, these creations erupted out of the bogs of his emotional landscape. For Peter, they gave a distinct if malleable structure to what had previously been merely feats of impressionism. Milligan later insisted that Sellers's Goon characters were "the boilerhouse of his talent." Spike brought out Peter's loyal side; Peter, he was quick to say, "was instrumental in getting me into the BBC. He was very kind like that." This particular kindness entailed a certain risk on Peter's part. Max Geldray, for instance, reports that Spike stormed into the staid BBC "with all the panache of a walking unmade bed." after the Great Depression and two devastating world wars. What held it together, increasingly so as the series progressed, was a group of recognizable if distinctively unrounded characters. For Spike, these creations erupted out of the bogs of his emotional landscape. For Peter, they gave a distinct if malleable structure to what had previously been merely feats of impressionism. Milligan later insisted that Sellers's Goon characters were "the boilerhouse of his talent." Spike brought out Peter's loyal side; Peter, he was quick to say, "was instrumental in getting me into the BBC. He was very kind like that." This particular kindness entailed a certain risk on Peter's part. Max Geldray, for instance, reports that Spike stormed into the staid BBC "with all the panache of a walking unmade bed."

As for Peter, he credited Spike with shaping him into a work of art: "[I was] just a vase of flowers," Sellers once said, "and Milligan arranged me."

Sellers believed, as any performer must, that his characters actually had blood and muscle. "To all of us, they absolutely lived," he claimed. His personalities became British legends.

He was Major Denis Bloodnok, English military man par inferiorite par inferiorite, whose dimness was only outpaced by his flatulence. (The name stemmed from Peter's use of "nok" to describe a nose; he'd call someone with a pointy proboscis "Needlenok.") He was Henry Crun, an elderly gentlemen with a crackly, halting voice who forever bickered with Spike's magnificent, equally doddering Minnie Bannister. who forever bickered with Spike's magnificent, equally doddering Minnie Bannister.

He was Hercules Grytpype-Thynne, a devil of an aristocratic villain who harbored a sly, insinuating voice and, in Spike's off-air written descriptions at least, an insistent taste for other men. (Spike writes of Grytpype-Thynne's shady background: "Subject of a police investigation on school homosexuality"; "subject of a military police investigation on homosexuality"; "subject of a prisoners' investigation on homosexuality"; "implicated in homosexuality with a Masai goat herd"; and "recreations: homosexuality.") And he was the young and endearingly unlovable Bluebottle, who tended to arrive late in the proceedings of whatever muddled story Spike had concocted that week, injecting himself into the midst of the chaos with a high-pitched, nasal, and truly hellish whine: "Cap-i-tan, my Cap-i-tan, I hear my Cap-i-tan call me!" Bluebottle was not a bright boy. He tended to read his own stage directions. "Wooky wooky wooky!" Bluebottle might shriek, after which Peter would squeal, in the same voice, "Make funny face, wait for applause!" And as Sellers told it-and the basic scene has been confirmed by the man himself-Bluebottle actually did live!

Peter: "This fellow came over one evening, I'll never forget it. He was tall and wide-he wasn't fat, but he was wide-and he was dressed as a scout leader. In fact he was was a scout leader. He had a blue briefcase and a scout hat [and] a big red beard and red knee socks and all the insignia, you know. He said-and I'm not kidding, this is how he spoke: [a daffy high-pitched whine, crammed through the sinuses] 'Could I carry in for a moment, please? I have just seen Michael Bentine and he said that I am a genius.'" a scout leader. He had a blue briefcase and a scout hat [and] a big red beard and red knee socks and all the insignia, you know. He said-and I'm not kidding, this is how he spoke: [a daffy high-pitched whine, crammed through the sinuses] 'Could I carry in for a moment, please? I have just seen Michael Bentine and he said that I am a genius.'"

Harry Secombe noted that Peter didn't merely do do the voices. He the voices. He became became the characters: "He physically changed as he did the voice. He'd shrink for Crun, and then get very small for Bluebottle." The comedy writer Eric Sykes put it in biological terms: "You'd be in a taxi with Peter, and he'd listen to the taxi driver talking. And when he would get out, he would the characters: "He physically changed as he did the voice. He'd shrink for Crun, and then get very small for Bluebottle." The comedy writer Eric Sykes put it in biological terms: "You'd be in a taxi with Peter, and he'd listen to the taxi driver talking. And when he would get out, he would be be the taxi driver. But not only in words and voice. His whole the taxi driver. But not only in words and voice. His whole metabolism metabolism would have changed." That Peter was performing Bloodnok et al before a live audience may not have mattered to his style in the least, for like all of Peter's characters, they were just as alive for him when he was alone. would have changed." That Peter was performing Bloodnok et al before a live audience may not have mattered to his style in the least, for like all of Peter's characters, they were just as alive for him when he was alone.

Michael Bentine, meanwhile, played the toothy, chirpy Captain (or Professor) Osric Pureheart, a variation of the mad inventor character he'd been toying with for several years. Pureheart's notable skill was to invent warped variations of well-known, contemporary British products-a popular new race car, for instance, or an on-the-drawing-board airplane that had been in the news that week. On one episode Captain Pureheart supervised the launch of the Professor) Osric Pureheart, a variation of the mad inventor character he'd been toying with for several years. Pureheart's notable skill was to invent warped variations of well-known, contemporary British products-a popular new race car, for instance, or an on-the-drawing-board airplane that had been in the news that week. On one episode Captain Pureheart supervised the launch of the Goonitania Goonitania. The following week he led the salvaging of the Goonitania Goonitania.

As befitted his essentially good nature, Harry Secombe played the expansive Neddie Seagoon, hearty and well-meaning, dispatched on important missions he inevitably bungled, rarely comprehending much of anything but never losing hope.

And then there was Spike's Eccles, the prototypical Goon. If Seagoon was a genial British Everydope, Eccles was an inadvertently dangerous Everycretin, a man without a mind. A press item appearing a few days before Crazy People Crazy People's first broadcast attempted to define to the average Brit in the street what precisely this outlandish-sounding Goon creature was: "Something with a one-cell brain," it explained. Eccles was precisely that human amoeba. Armed with a voice like a Manchester Goofy, Eccles was too stupid to be malicious, too oblivious ever to be considered criminal, and for these very reasons he was terrifying. Eccles was obviously a product of Spike's wartime experiences.

"Gradually," Milligan reflected, "piece by piece, this chemistry of Secombe, Bentine, Sellers, and myself... suddenly we were like a magnet drawn toward itself, unexplainably so. We only told lunatic jokes. Everything was lunatic. It wasn't like any other jokes you'd hear." And strangely, week by week, audiences began to embrace them. The Goons' comedy began as a kind of idiolect and turned into widespread slang.

From its genesis in the Grafton Arms, Goon humor was always clubby and fraternal, but thanks to the BBC, now it spread across the airwaves like a social disease, a kind of mental herpes. The Daily Graphic Daily Graphic predicted as much: "Listeners who like it will, according to the Chief Goons, become Goons of varying degree, depending on the strength of their liking. They will be associate Goons, honorary Goons, and Goon followers." The prophecy was fulfilled. The first predicted as much: "Listeners who like it will, according to the Chief Goons, become Goons of varying degree, depending on the strength of their liking. They will be associate Goons, honorary Goons, and Goon followers." The prophecy was fulfilled. The first Crazy People Crazy People episodes attracted listeners in the 370,000 range, but by the end of the first series of seventeen weekly broadcasts the audience was up to 1.8 million. episodes attracted listeners in the 370,000 range, but by the end of the first series of seventeen weekly broadcasts the audience was up to 1.8 million.

Still, only a relative few of these listeners could possibly have realized that they were the first initiates in what would become a fanatical worldwide cult, one that would eventually destroy the minds of millions, including John Lennon, John Cleese, Michael Palin, Elton John, and Charles, Prince of Wales. that they were the first initiates in what would become a fanatical worldwide cult, one that would eventually destroy the minds of millions, including John Lennon, John Cleese, Michael Palin, Elton John, and Charles, Prince of Wales.

Like children left unsupervised in an isolated orphanage, the Goons developed their own private language, only some of which they shared with their listeners. Secombe recalled the genesis of what became a classic Goon expression, an utterance so devoid of meaning that its very idiocy resonated as profound. Other comedy shows were full of catch phrases, Harry once explained, so Spike decided that the Goons needed one as well: "And he made up 'Ying tong iddle I po,' which means nothing. Within weeks people were saying 'Ying tong iddle I po,' in the street. It frightened us a bit."

"Ying tong iddle I po"-a truly meaningless string of sounds with vaguely Chinese undertones. Because it meant absolutely nothing, "Ying tong iddle I po" was the perfect repeatable nugget of Goonspeak, a motto of linguistic anarchy, a kind of password. Spike inserted it in his scripts randomly, as was of course its very nature: SEAGOON: I'm looking for a criminal. I'm looking for a criminal.

BLOODNOK: You find your own-it took me years to get this lot. You find your own-it took me years to get this lot.

SEAGOON: Ying tong iddle I po. Ying tong iddle I po.

Just among themselves, the Goons' private language could be rather more vulgar. "Secombe read a book on South America," Spike once noted with glee. "There's a South American monkey who, when it's attacked, shits in its hand and throws it at the opposition. So whenever Secombe and Sellers used to meet, one would go 'ptthhp!'" At this point in the telling Spike reached down to his ass, grabbed an imaginary handful, and hurled the contents aggressively forward. "And the other would go 'mmmhmmmhmmgh!'" 'mmmhmmmhmmgh!'" Under threat, the second monkey emitted an equally intense straining sound, reached back and grabbed nothing, and threw his hands in the air in a gesture of abject surrender. Under threat, the second monkey emitted an equally intense straining sound, reached back and grabbed nothing, and threw his hands in the air in a gesture of abject surrender.

This was how they dealt with one another out of the range of the microphones.

The Goons didn't do comedy the way anyone else did. "Probably," says Harry, "because we couldn't tell jokes very well. I could never remember the endings." Harry, "because we couldn't tell jokes very well. I could never remember the endings."

With Anne, Peter moved out of his mother's domain and into a penthouse overlooking Hyde Park. Anne had already introduced her best friend, June Marlowe, to Spike over dinner, an evening that was enlivened greatly by the fact that Peter had earlier convinced Spike that it would be a lot more fun if Spike pretended to be Italian. The unsuspecting June spent much of the dinner trying to teach English to the happy immigrant. They soon became engaged.

With the notable exception of Beryl Reid, women were largely excluded from the Goons' professional world, a fact Milligan tended to reiterate with some degree of pride. Spike: "Do you know there were only three women who appeared in The Goon Show The Goon Show? The first was Margaret McMillan, a classy girl. I was going out with her at the time." Spike again: "The girls appeared from time to time according to who was dating them. Peter Sellers had one. Her name was Charlotte Greenwood, and I wrote a line for him to say to her: 'You're a dull scrubber!' Peter said, 'I can't say that to Charlotte-I'm going out with her!'" Where was Anne, one wonders? He was married at the time, after all. Or are Spike's recollections to be fully trusted?

In December 1951, Charlie Chaplin's Burlesque on "Carmen" Charlie Chaplin's Burlesque on "Carmen" (1916) enjoyed a brief revival run in England, albeit in a newly burlesqued version that wasn't approved by Chaplin. Chaplin had made the film for Essanay as a takeoff on Cecil B. DeMille's 1915 (1916) enjoyed a brief revival run in England, albeit in a newly burlesqued version that wasn't approved by Chaplin. Chaplin had made the film for Essanay as a takeoff on Cecil B. DeMille's 1915 Carmen Carmen. DeMille's epic melodrama starred Wallace Reid as Don Jose and Geraldine Farrar as Carmen; Chaplin's spoof starred himself as Darn Hosiery with Edna Purviance as the eponymous gypsy, with the cross-eyed clown Ben Turpin doing a turn as the lover of the fat Frasquita.

But with the new release of Charlie Chaplin's Burlesque on "Carmen," Charlie Chaplin's Burlesque on "Carmen," English audiences were treated to a burlesque of a burlesque, for Chaplin's comedy now sported a facetious voice-over commentary by Peter Sellers. Chaplin's original two-reeler was left open to this farcical adulteration from the start. He left Essanay soon after filming it, whereupon the company shot new footage and doubled its length without his participation at all. Charlie sued, lost, and was distraught, but as he wrote in his autobiography, English audiences were treated to a burlesque of a burlesque, for Chaplin's comedy now sported a facetious voice-over commentary by Peter Sellers. Chaplin's original two-reeler was left open to this farcical adulteration from the start. He left Essanay soon after filming it, whereupon the company shot new footage and doubled its length without his participation at all. Charlie sued, lost, and was distraught, but as he wrote in his autobiography, "It rendered a service, for thereafter I had it stipulated in every contract that there should be no mutilating, extending, or interfering with my finished work." There are no reports as to whether Chaplin ever saw or heard Peter Sellers's interference. "It rendered a service, for thereafter I had it stipulated in every contract that there should be no mutilating, extending, or interfering with my finished work." There are no reports as to whether Chaplin ever saw or heard Peter Sellers's interference.

As one of the British trade papers sniffed, Sellers "impersonates the characters of the story, plugs away energetically and may amuse the unsophisticated." It would take a few more movies for him to rise above that level.

FIVE.

In March 1952, after being married to Peter for six months, Anne suffered a miscarriage, a tragedy that only served to enflame Peg's maternal instincts. While Anne was recuperating in the hospital, Peg invited Peter to dinner every night, along with a series of his former girlfriends. Ever thorough, Peg is said to have made a point of including one who Peter believed had borne him a daughter (and put her up for adoption) during the war.

Peter Sellers was the painstaking product of a terrible mother, the fucked-up labor of her love. As even his best friends acknowledge, he could be a selfish, childish man, responsive to every need as long as it was his own. His cars, gadgets, and RAF and Goon Show Goon Show buddies (not to mention his mother) occupied at least as crucial a place in his heart as his wife, with the RAF and buddies (not to mention his mother) occupied at least as crucial a place in his heart as his wife, with the RAF and Goon Show Goon Show buddies (not to mention his mother) outlasting all the others in terms of duration. When, for instance, in the spring of 1952, Peter and Anne moved to a house in Highgate, Spike moved in along with them and stayed until he got married. "He was tired of sleeping under people's carpets," Anne later explained. buddies (not to mention his mother) outlasting all the others in terms of duration. When, for instance, in the spring of 1952, Peter and Anne moved to a house in Highgate, Spike moved in along with them and stayed until he got married. "He was tired of sleeping under people's carpets," Anne later explained.

There was little restraint in Peter's life. Interests became manias. After Graham Stark became a proficient photographer, Peter, always entranced by mechanical equipment of any sort, grew equally fascinated by his friend's ability to convince beautiful women to pose for pictures. Photography had much to recommend itself-one of his best friends loved it; it involved instruments that could be purchased and replaced; and girls, girls, girls-so Peter swiftly developed a passion for the art. At the very start of it, according to Stark, Peter beelined "to Wallace Heaton's in Bond Street, the Rolls-Royce of camera dealers, and apparently bought every piece of equipment in the shop." Stark claims that Peter even called in sick for a Goon Show Goon Show recording one Sunday so he and Stark could meticulously retouch the breasts and buttocks depicted in one of Graham's bikini-oriented pictures. recording one Sunday so he and Stark could meticulously retouch the breasts and buttocks depicted in one of Graham's bikini-oriented pictures.

At the same time, Peter could be good-hearted and generous, sometimes exceedingly so. He simply could not keep himself from buying gifts for people he liked. He He wanted things, and so, he concluded, must they. And if, stubbornly, they would not acquire these objects for themselves, he would step in and provide them. "He used to call me when he wanted to go downtown in London," the wanted things, and so, he concluded, must they. And if, stubbornly, they would not acquire these objects for themselves, he would step in and provide them. "He used to call me when he wanted to go downtown in London," the Goon Show Goon Show harmonica virtuoso Max Geldray remembers. "He would say, 'I'm going to the camera shop'-which he did all the time-'and why don't you come with me?' One particular time he said, 'I'll pick you up in ten minutes.'" Geldray told him, no, he had other errands to do and he'd meet him there, especially because he, Max, needed a new flashbulb for his own camera. When he got there, Peter was admiring a new and very small Swiss camera. harmonica virtuoso Max Geldray remembers. "He would say, 'I'm going to the camera shop'-which he did all the time-'and why don't you come with me?' One particular time he said, 'I'll pick you up in ten minutes.'" Geldray told him, no, he had other errands to do and he'd meet him there, especially because he, Max, needed a new flashbulb for his own camera. When he got there, Peter was admiring a new and very small Swiss camera.

"Look, it has a brighter picture, but the amperage is much lower," said Peter. "And he went on about the thing," Geldray continues. "He said to me, 'Why don't you get it?'"

"'I don't need it,'" Max replied. "Several hours later, I opened the door of my home, and in the middle of the living room was a package. He and Anne were sitting in my living room. He didn't say anything-he just pointed at the package. I opened it, and there was the new Swiss camera. I said, 'I don't need need a camera!' He said, 'Yes you do. Yours is broken.' a camera!' He said, 'Yes you do. Yours is broken.'

"He meant the flashbulb. For him, that was 'broken.'"

Technicalities failed to impress Peter. He didn't have time for them. Graham Stark describes the frenzy that accompanied every new purchase: "Pete believed in brute force. He'd tear the box open, ignore the instruction book, and press every button until something worked."

His equipment fever didn't stop at still photography. New movie cameras were also purchased, used, and replaced by still newer and fancier models. Off-hour Goons were a favorite subject of Peter's cinematic eye, as were his wife and mother. As he would continue to do for years to come, he recorded his free time in the form of reel after reel of home movie footage-Harry mugging in a striped bathrobe. Peter hamming it up in a park. A glamorous-looking Anne posed in the driver's seat of a shiny new red sports car. Spike trying to keep hold of a manic dog. A gas station attendant filling Peter's mouth with gasoline. Anne, in a comedy skit, being served a poisoned cocktail by Peter..."We liked undercranked film," said Harry, the manic, fast-motion effect being characteristically Goonish. And, he also adds, "We were all devotees of Buster Keaton rather than Charlie Chaplin," by which he meant that Keaton's dark absurdity resonated much more deeply than Chaplin's comic ballets, not to mention the fact that Chaplin's Victorian sentimentality had no place in the brutal, existential world of the Goons. that Keaton's dark absurdity resonated much more deeply than Chaplin's comic ballets, not to mention the fact that Chaplin's Victorian sentimentality had no place in the brutal, existential world of the Goons.

"He had a 16mm camera," Spike noted a little more brusquely. "He was richer than we were-richer by 8mm."

The second series of The Goon Show The Goon Show began in late January 1952. To the Goons' great satisfaction, the title of their program now actually began in late January 1952. To the Goons' great satisfaction, the title of their program now actually was The Goon Show was The Goon Show. This victory, like many others, came at a price, one that was paid largely by Spike Milligan. "I was trying to shake the BBC out of its apathy," Spike reflected in the mid-1970s. "And I had to fight like mad, and people didn't like me for it. I had to rage and crash and bang. I got it right in the end, and it paid off, but it drove me mad in the process, and drove a lot of other people mad. And that's why I don't think I could be a success again on the same level-because I just couldn't go through all the tantrums." By July, when the second series finished recording, Spike was twitching in the direction of a mental collapse.

Peter, in contrast, tended to treat his Goon work precisely as the workmanlike job it was. He was always "the most serious of the group," says Max Geldray, but then he could afford to be. Unlike Milligan, Sellers didn't have to face the pressure of writing a hit series comedy script every week only to perform it on the weekend. Instead, Peter showed up on Sundays for the recording sessions, read the script, did the voices, and went back home. His talent, at this point anyway, wasn't agony.

That said, the Goons' joint ambition was, if anything, intensifying. They didn't want to do just radio. Plans for the Goons' first television appearance, Trial Gallop Trial Gallop, were drawn. The program was scheduled to air in mid-February, but George VI put a crimp in the Goons' schedule for achieving stardom by dying in his sleep at Sandringham on Wednesday the sixth. The Goons' comedy show, which would necessarily have been in bad taste even in the best of circumstances, was canceled. Peter and the others had to wait until July 2 to make their joint television debut; they did so with the one-shot Goonreel Goonreel.

And they still wanted to make a good Goon movie. Penny Points to Paradise Penny Points to Paradise had apparently taught them little. One can appreciate their artistic ambition, but the execution remained problematic. At the core of the issue was money. It wasn't as though the big British studios-J. Arthur Rank, had apparently taught them little. One can appreciate their artistic ambition, but the execution remained problematic. At the core of the issue was money. It wasn't as though the big British studios-J. Arthur Rank, Ealing, Hammer-were clamoring for the Goons. They were, at best, interesting new radio stars, still too small to generate movie buzz. If Sellers, Secombe, Milligan, and Bentine were to make another film together, it would have to be rock-bottom cheap. And so, Ealing, Hammer-were clamoring for the Goons. They were, at best, interesting new radio stars, still too small to generate movie buzz. If Sellers, Secombe, Milligan, and Bentine were to make another film together, it would have to be rock-bottom cheap. And so, Down Among the Z Men Down Among the Z Men (1952). (1952).

Filmed in two abrupt weeks in April in a small studio in the northwest London neighborhood of Maida Vale, and faring poorly at the box office upon its release, Down Among the Z Men Down Among the Z Men takes the four Goons and, in an apparent effort to broaden their appeal, strips them of most of their Goonishness and replaces it with a low-conventional story, a pretty girl (Carole Carr) who sings two songs, and a dozen tap-dancing chorines. Spike's Eccles and Bentine's Pureheart emerge most clearly from the murk, but Peter's Bloodnok (promoted here from major to colonel) is so anemic a rendition that it takes a few moments to recognize in Bloodnok's introductory scene that the dull-looking gray-haired man sitting behind a military desk is actually supposed to be Sellers's familiar and colorful radio character. takes the four Goons and, in an apparent effort to broaden their appeal, strips them of most of their Goonishness and replaces it with a low-conventional story, a pretty girl (Carole Carr) who sings two songs, and a dozen tap-dancing chorines. Spike's Eccles and Bentine's Pureheart emerge most clearly from the murk, but Peter's Bloodnok (promoted here from major to colonel) is so anemic a rendition that it takes a few moments to recognize in Bloodnok's introductory scene that the dull-looking gray-haired man sitting behind a military desk is actually supposed to be Sellers's familiar and colorful radio character.

Then again, this was never meant to be art. On the first day of shooting, Peter cornered the director, Maclean Rogers. "I feel," he began, "that the character I am playing has certain undercurrents of repression, which I might best express by having a noticeable twitch." Maclean was blunt: "I've got eight minutes of screen time a day to shoot. Do it quickly."

It's a caper. Spies try to steal a secret nuclear formula. They fail.

Harry Secombe cuts the back off a woman's skirt with a pair of scissors. Michael Bentine pulls Harry's apron down. The best comedy bit is taken by Spike and Harry: "Guerrilla warfare? I know that!," at which point they both begin doing a chimp routine. There's a laughing-gas/crying-gas sketch that would have made even Shemp blush.

The chorus girls, corralled into an earlier Army-camp-workout-turned-dance-number, reappear toward the end of the movie in an ENSA-like evening's entertainment for the camp. Backstage, Carole Carr turns to Spike and Harry. "I'm on next!" she tells them. "As soon as I'm through I'm going over to get the formula back before my second number!"

Inanely-and not in a good way-Colonel Bloodnok takes the stage after Carr's song and proceeds to amuse the audience with an impersonation of an American army officer from a Hollywood movie he saw the week before. It's Peter, not Bloodnok, and it makes no sense, especially since the whole point of the beloved Bloodnok is that he has little talent for anything but intestinal distress. Forced by circumstance, however-the circumstance being that the producer, E. J. Fancey, needed to pull this bit of cheap taffy into a feature-length thread-the bumbling Bloodnok reveals himself to be a cabaret star of exquisite skill. The routine is just an excuse to let Peter shoehorn in an impression routine: a Midwestern American army man and his fast-talking, Brooklynesque subordinate. being that the producer, E. J. Fancey, needed to pull this bit of cheap taffy into a feature-length thread-the bumbling Bloodnok reveals himself to be a cabaret star of exquisite skill. The routine is just an excuse to let Peter shoehorn in an impression routine: a Midwestern American army man and his fast-talking, Brooklynesque subordinate.

Osric Pureheart comes on next with an equally misplaced nightclub schtick. It's Bentine and his old chairback routine.

More disturbing, and consequently a lot funnier, is the fact that Down Among the Z Men Down Among the Z Men provides a rare chance to provides a rare chance to see see Bentine's Pureheart as well as hear his voice. In addition to Bentine's ridiculous hairiness and drastic British underbite, he gives Pureheart a truly wacky bandy-legged walk, the ghastly gait of a madman with testicular issues. Bentine's Pureheart as well as hear his voice. In addition to Bentine's ridiculous hairiness and drastic British underbite, he gives Pureheart a truly wacky bandy-legged walk, the ghastly gait of a madman with testicular issues.

The Goons' main focus (for good reason) remained the BBC radio, where The Goon Show The Goon Show was evolving artistically from its initial run. It wasn't necessarily better yet, as the Goonographer Roger Wilmut notes. It was increasingly popular with audiences, but it remained relatively unrefined. was evolving artistically from its initial run. It wasn't necessarily better yet, as the Goonographer Roger Wilmut notes. It was increasingly popular with audiences, but it remained relatively unrefined.

Musical numbers by Max Geldray and the Ray Ellington Quartet continued to break each program up into discrete episodes, even as the plots (or what passed for them) became more or less coherent. These interruptions became a standard part of the show for the duration of its long run. They served to regularize the chaos, and they did so in a familiar sort of music hall way that the absurdist Goon Show Goon Show's rather less-than-intellectual listeners could hook into whenever the senseless noises and bizarre jokes got to be too much. Ying tong iddle I po, and here's Max Geldray with "I'm Just Wild About Harry."

Even Goonish senselessness hadn't quite hit its stride yet. Spike, it comes as little surprise to learn, was a more or less undisciplined writer. And the Goons were all anarchic as performers. They did what they pleased, and what pleased them included mumbling and stepping on each others' lines. The producer, Dennis Main Wilson, was tolerant of their unpredictable behavior as well as their equally lawless comic thrust-possibly to a fault. Only during the third series, after Wilson left and Peter Eton took over as producer, did The Goon Show The Goon Show begin to achieve its lasting quality. begin to achieve its lasting quality.

Peter Eton was scarcely humorless, but it wasn't easy to make him laugh. It took work and self-restraint. As a result, this new, tough audience of one was therefore able to exercise some control over what Wilmut calls the Goons' "tendency toward self-indulgence." It was not an easy task, though the Goons themselves grew to appreciate the beneficial effect Eton had on them. Harry Secombe credited Eton as being the program's best producer. Before he came on board, Secombe noted, the Goons' "tendency toward self-indulgence." It was not an easy task, though the Goons themselves grew to appreciate the beneficial effect Eton had on them. Harry Secombe credited Eton as being the program's best producer. Before he came on board, Secombe noted, The Goon Show The Goon Show had little in the way of shape, and in Secombe's description, the characters all spoke so fast that "it was a gabble." Eton, though, "was great. He used to get quite choleric [and] go all red and shout, 'You bastards sit down!' Peter Sellers would say, 'I'm pissing off,' and Eton would just say, 'Well, go then.'" had little in the way of shape, and in Secombe's description, the characters all spoke so fast that "it was a gabble." Eton, though, "was great. He used to get quite choleric [and] go all red and shout, 'You bastards sit down!' Peter Sellers would say, 'I'm pissing off,' and Eton would just say, 'Well, go then.'"

Still, Max Geldray declares, no matter who was producing the program, "it was Spike who was the manic and inventive driving force behind every detail of the production." Spike, of course, could also be "one of the most annoying people you could meet." The BBC executives loved the show's success, but as the months went by they grew to despise Milligan, who, as Peter once remarked, had a wonderful knack for explaining the simplest things in such a way that nobody could possibly understand them.

The end of the second series signaled the departure of Michael Bentine. Creative differences were cited. He and Spike were seeing eye-to-eye less and less. According to Secombe, "Only when Michael Bentine left did The Goon Show The Goon Show really begin-really take shape." It was also becoming legendary, not only with the average bright Briton, but with the next generation of satirists, comics, and puckish intellectuals. really begin-really take shape." It was also becoming legendary, not only with the average bright Briton, but with the next generation of satirists, comics, and puckish intellectuals.

For instance, the physician- turned- comedian- turned- avante-garde- opera- and- theater-director Jonathan Miller remains a dedicated fan. "The Goon Show really is the best thing Sellers ever did," Miller declares. "He did some films that are interesting, and of course really is the best thing Sellers ever did," Miller declares. "He did some films that are interesting, and of course Dr. Strangelove Dr. Strangelove has some nice jokes, but I think the characters that everyone in England remembers, and will remember all their lives, were from has some nice jokes, but I think the characters that everyone in England remembers, and will remember all their lives, were from The Goon Show The Goon Show. At its best it was as good as Lewis Carroll."

Does the director of such works as Leo Janaek's Katya Kabanova Katya Kabanova at the Metropolitan Opera really think that at the Metropolitan Opera really think that The Goon Show The Goon Show is art? Dr. Miller is insistent: "Unless it's printed, people don't think it's literature, but actually, at its best, is art? Dr. Miller is insistent: "Unless it's printed, people don't think it's literature, but actually, at its best, The Goon Show The Goon Show is on a par with is on a par with Alice in Wonderland Alice in Wonderland. I don't think people have registered the importance of Milligan's imagination; Milligan is an important writer.

"It's a series of pastiches of English boys' literature of the '20s and '30s, which they grew up on- which they grew up on-The Lives of the Bengal Lancers and that sort of thing. People in England of my age, people in their fifties, can still speak to each other in very detailed and that sort of thing. People in England of my age, people in their fifties, can still speak to each other in very detailed Goon Show Goon Show voices-particularly Bluebottle and Bloodnok and Grytpype-Thynne." Miller proceeds to prove the point. voices-particularly Bluebottle and Bloodnok and Grytpype-Thynne." Miller proceeds to prove the point.

"There's a session between Bluebottle and that sort of Mortimer Snerdlike figure called Eccles. They're soldiers in a trench, and Bluebottle says, [in perfect imitation of Bluebottle's nasal squeal] 'What time is it, Eccles?' Eccles says [again in impeccable imitation], 'I don' know, but I'll tell you sumthun'-last night a very kind gen'leman wrote down the time on a piece of paper for me.' And Bluebottle says, 'Show me that. Hey! This piece of paper is not working!'

"It's such a brilliant, logical logical joke, that. Carroll would have given his eyeteeth to have made a joke of that quality. joke, that. Carroll would have given his eyeteeth to have made a joke of that quality.

"These characters are a brilliant gallery of British social life. That wonderful character Sellers plays-Major Bloodnok, a sort of drunken, gin-shaken, shortly-to-be-cashiered English major living on the northwest frontier and afflicted, obviously all the time, with catastrophic attacks of Indian diarrhea." Dr. Miller can't help but launch into another routine from memory: "'Meanwhile, in the smallest and coldest room in the fort on the northwest frontier, Major Bloodnok is experiencing difficulties.' And then you hear this wonderful pppffoooosh pppffoooosh. [Bloodnok's huffing voice:] 'Oh, it goes right through you, you know-I'll never eat Bombay duck again!'

"I don't know if that comes across to Americans," he admits with a touch of scolding. "You Americans get very prudish about lavatory jokes. You think they're infantile. I think it's far more infantile when you don't don't laugh at them." laugh at them."

John Lennon, too, found it all precisely, gloriously English and expressed concern that others just wouldn't get it: "I was twelve when the Goon Show Goon Show first hit. Sixteen when they finished with me. Their humor was the only proof that the first hit. Sixteen when they finished with me. Their humor was the only proof that the world world was insane.... What it means to Americans I can't imagine (apart from a rumored few fanatics). As they say in Tibet, 'You had to be there.'" was insane.... What it means to Americans I can't imagine (apart from a rumored few fanatics). As they say in Tibet, 'You had to be there.'"

The third series began recording in November 1952. Bentine's departure and Eton's arrival were not enough to dispel all the tension. Geldray tells of the time a young BBC underling rushed up to him and breathlessly reported the day's gossip: He'd heard that Spike had just charged over to Peter's house with a gun. "Yeah? So what else is new?" was Geldray's response. Peter's house with a gun. "Yeah? So what else is new?" was Geldray's response.

In late December, Spike actually suffered the nervous breakdown.

Always high strung, on the brink, too many thoughts in his head and many of them unhygienic, Spike crashed. The pressure of weekly creation-and the success it was bringing him-pushed him over the edge. He was hospitalized and ended up missing a total of twelve shows-nearly half the third series, though he began contributing scripts after only a few tentative weeks of recovery. Madness was the point, after all.

In 1953, Peter made his phonographic recording debut under the production of George Martin, who went on to produce the Beatles. His first single, released by Parlophone, was a skit called "Jakka and the Flying Saucers"-a Chipmunk-voiced boy, Jakka, and his doughnut-shaped dog, Dunker, both from Venus, embark on a quest for the Golden Cheese.

Martin once called it "probably the worst-selling record that Parlophone ever made."

But Peter was undaunted; "Jakka and the Flying Saucers" was followed by many more successful records in the 1950s alone, including the singles "Dipso Calypso" (1955), "Any Old Iron" (1957), and a rather sick rendition of the detested "My Old Dutch" (1959), the song Peg made him perform as an infant in white tie and tails. These 45s and 78s performed substantially better in the marketplace than "Jakka and the Flying Saucers."

Around this time Peter suffered a disappointment of a more personal nature. Max Geldray reports that Sellers had gone to see the French comedian Jacques Tati's most recent film, M. Hulot's Holiday M. Hulot's Holiday and was tremendously impressed-so much so that he wrote a fan letter to Tati, who replied with a casual invitation to Peter to visit him some time. Peter left immediately for France. and was tremendously impressed-so much so that he wrote a fan letter to Tati, who replied with a casual invitation to Peter to visit him some time. Peter left immediately for France.

He returned deeply let down. Tati spent most of their time together lecturing Peter on the subject of comedy. As Sellers told Geldray, "All he did was talk to me about how great he is." Years later, Tati wrote his own fan letter to Peter after seeing one his pictures. Peter didn't bother to reply.

The Super Secret Service (1953), released in late summer to little notice, works much better than either (1953), released in late summer to little notice, works much better than either Penny Points to Paradise Penny Points to Paradise or or Down Among the Down Among the Z Men Z Men, perhaps because it's too short to require much in the way of plot or structure. A 24-minute comedy scripted by Spike and Larry Stephens, the film begins with Sellers, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a thin mustache gracing his lip, opening a door into a bleak film-noir office. He frantically reaches into his trenchcoat pocket for a gun. Unable to find it, he waves sheepishly at the camera and backs out of the room. The credits roll.

In the film, Milligan and Stephens's music hall absurdism takes the place of Z Men Z Men's misguided conventionality: GRAHAM S STARK: The phone is ringing. The phone is ringing.

PETER S SELLERS: Then answer it! Then answer it!

STARK: But we haven't got a phone. But we haven't got a phone.

When the phone is located-it has been filed under T T in the filing cabinet-Sellers answers it, but only after putting on a wig to disguise himself. in the filing cabinet-Sellers answers it, but only after putting on a wig to disguise himself.

A gun battle ensues-in the top drawer of the desk. Smoke comes pouring out to the sound of bullets.

A rock comes crashing through the window. There's a note attached: STARK: What does it say? What does it say?

SELLERS: Fred Smith, window repairer. Fred Smith, window repairer.

STARK: I wonder what he charges? I wonder what he charges?

[Second rock]

SELLERS: Three shillings and fifty pence. Three shillings and fifty pence.

Enter Miss Jones. It's Anne, coming out of Peter's enforced retirement long enough to put on a big black beard: PETER What are you trying to hide? What are you trying to hide?

ANNE: This! (She pulls off the beard to reveal a goatee.) This! (She pulls off the beard to reveal a goatee.) And suddenly, for no reason, the comedy grinds to a halt in order to give the Ray Ellington Quartet a chance to perform a jazzy version of "Teddy Bears Picnic."

Thanks to Peter's extended family, Highgate, where Peter and Anne were living, was turning into a neighborhood version of the Grafton Arms, a place where Goons and their friends could spend even more time together when they weren't actually working as a team. "We became friends early," Max Geldray says, "because we lived rather close. Peter had a cousin who was a real estate man, and he heard of a bunch of new apartments being built in Highgate. Peter called me and said, 'My cousin tells me there are several apartments available there. Are you interested?' That's how we all came to live in Highgate-all meaning Spike Milligan and Ray Ellington [and Geldray and Sellers]. Actually Ray and I lived in the same apartment building. Peter lived around the corner."