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Eric and Fiona Castle (Roy Castle’s wife) take each other’s photos
Eric, Joan and their daughter, Gail, along with additional family members Barney, the Retriever, and Chips.
Eric relaxing at Elbow Beach Hotel in Bermuda, on the way home from appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show in New York.
Gail points out her first boyfriend to her father.
Gail and Gary with Eric and Joan in the garden of their home in Harpenden, just after Gail’s confirmation.
Eric with his mother in law, Alice
Eric relaxes by the family pool with wife Joan and children Gail and Gary. In fact, Eric couldn’t swim and never once went in the water.
1969, the day Apollo 11 got back, carved by Eric, with his initials, on a tree in his front garden.
Chez Eric. Left to right: Gail, Joan, Eric and Gary.
A new addition to the family: Joan and Eric’s adopted son, Steven.
Eric and Ernie – tears of a clown.
Eric: I’m not a complete fool.
Ernie: Why? What part’s missing?
‘I’m not saying his ears were big, but when you saw him from the front, he looked like the FA Cup.’ Eric, before his mother Sadie started taping back his ears, to stop them sticking out.
EVEN THE CIRCUMSTANCES of Eric’s birth were vaguely comical. He was born John Eric Bartholomew on 14 May 1926, at 42 Buxton Road, Morecambe, but his mother and father actually lived a few doors away. They’d had to move in with neighbours while their own house was repaired. Once their proper home was patched up they moved back in again, but within a year it had become unfit for human habitation. Eric’s earliest memory was the ceiling collapsing. It must have been pretty awful at the time, of course, especially for his hard pressed parents, but looking back it sounds like a slapstick scene from one of his favourite silent films.
Although he was already taking dancing lessons, and entering local talent contests, Eric’s boyhood dream was to become a professional footballer. And unlike most of his teammates, this was no idle fantasy. A fine left winger, he attracted the interest of several league scouts, but his father, who’d suffered a crippling injury as an amateur, advised him against it. In those days there was no money in it, and your career was over by the time you were thirty, so Eric subsequently decided it would be a better bet to settle for show business instead.
Buxton Road is the sort of terraced street you see in Lowry paintings, full of kids playing football, but by the time Eric was old enough to kick a ball his parents had moved into a new council house, 43 Christie Avenue, behind the main stand of Morecambe Football Club, where Eric lived until he left home. By modern standards, Eric’s childhood home in Christie Avenue looks pretty Spartan, but back in the 1920s it was a proletarian dream come true. It had three bedrooms, its own front door, and best of all, its own garden – still a rarity in those days, especially for folk of the Bartholomew’s humble social standing. This garden was the summit of Eric’s father’s expectations. Luckily for Eric, and the future of British comedy, his mother’s aspirations weren’t confined to this pleasant but unprepossessing patch of lawn.
Eric’s parents both came from similar working class backgrounds, but their personalities could hardly have been less alike. Orphaned at an early age, his mother Sadie was a sharp and restless woman who was always striving to better herself – and her family. His father George, on the other hand, was one of those rare individuals who are utterly contented with their lot. One of life’s plodders, he toiled away serenely as a council labourer from the day he left school until the day he retired, entirely satisfied with the modest cards he’d been dealt. Like the soldier in the wartime song, he really did whistle while he worked. Despite their contrasting attitudes – or perhaps, in part, because of them – George and Sadie got along very well. In their very different ways, they each nurtured Eric, and he formed a close bond with both of them that would sustain him throughout his life. Eric’s incredible career was a testament to his driven (and hard driving) mother, but his happy go lucky stage persona was a tribute to his easy going dad. ‘George was a character,’ says his grandson, Gary. ‘I remember giving him some aftershave for Christmas, and him ringing up and saying it was the worst sherry he’d ever drunk.’ It sounds like a classic Eric Morecambe one liner.
Some of the earliest photos of Eric with his mother, Sadie.
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