This Is Your Life: Jimmy Logan

Jimmy LOGAN (1928-2001)

THIS IS YOUR LIFE - Jimmy Logan, entertainer and impresario, was surprised by Eamonn Andrews - on his birthday - following a meal with friends at a central London hotel.

Jimmy, who was born into a family of entertainers in Glasgow, sold programmes at his parents' shows as a child and later became assistant manager of the Victoria Theatre in Paisley. By the mid-1940s, he was performing full-time in his parents' shows and, at 19, was the principal comedian at the Metropole Theatre in Glasgow.

Having devised the revue Five Past Eight, which had considerable success at Glasgow's Alhambra Theatre, he later appeared in around 150 radio shows with Stanley Baxter. His act of character-based sketches transferred well to television, and he landed his own BBC show, which ran for four years from 1957. He also had a long association with pantomime, and as variety declined, he branched into straight acting.

programme details...

Edition No: 355
Subject No: 356
Broadcast date: Wed 4 Apr 1973
Broadcast time: 7.00-7.30pm
Recorded: Wed 4 Apr 1973 5.35pm
Venue: unknown
Series: 13
Edition: 21

on the guest list...

Gina Fratini - wife
Aimi MacDonald
Clive Francis
Jack Short - father
Buddy - brother
Annie Ross - sister
Bert - brother
Heather Capaldi - sister
Nick Capaldi Snr - brother-in-law
Nick Capaldi Jnr - nephew
Jean Lawton - aunt
Lorenzo Toma
Gordon Jackson
Bruce Forsyth
Arthur Askey
Barbara Windsor
Bill Simpson
Didier Saada
Patricia Saada

production team...

Researcher: unknown
Writer: unknown
Director: Margery Baker
Producer: Malcolm Morris

names above in bold indicate subjects of This Is Your Life

related pages...

That's Entertainment

there's no business like it

Arthur Askey

Barbara Windsor

Jimmy Logan recalls his experience of This Is Your Life in his autobiography, It's a Funny Life...

...Eamonn Andrews presented me with the Big Red Book on This Is Your Life. It was a great accolade, and I was so proud. But at the end of the night I found myself among all the guests - who were there to pay tribute to me - gathered around my father playing piano. Even in my finest moments he still managed to steal the show.

There are few greater accolades on British television than being presented with that Big Red Book, and hearing those immortal words: "This is your life." It was a sign that someone had made a decent enough contribution to the public good – in whatever way – to merit some sort of tribute in front of the watching millions.

When Eamonn Andrews presented the programme, This Is Your Life really was a national institution. It's no exaggeration to state that many people particularly looked forward to his appearance on screen each week, and loved the mandatory few moments trying to anticipate on whom he was about to pounce.

The first time I was associated with the show many people thought I would be on the receiving end. It was in the days This Is Your Life was broadcast live, and Eamonn Andrews opened proceedings standing outside the King's Theatre in Edinburgh. Inside I was bringing the first half of the pantomime to a conclusion – timing it exactly for Eamonn's grand entrance in front of a startled audience and cast.

His target on this occasion was our principal girl, Louie Ramsay, a lovely girl from Stonehaven who suddenly became completely paralysed one night after a performance in a theatre in London. For months she was confined to bed unable to move, but slowly made a brave and full recovery.

When she came to do the pantomime I knew nothing about this, and I noticed her crying after rehearsing one scene where she had to be "flown" across stage.

"What the hell's up with you?" I said.

She replied: "Oh, I'm just in a bit of pain."

"Away, don't be daft. You'll get over that."

I only found out her situation when the This Is Your Life team told me they wanted to do Louie for one of their shows. The day of the surprise show I took Louie and her husband for a meal in Cramond, and a long walk along the banks of the Forth.

She told me one of her closest friends was Pat Hitchcock, the daughter of the famous film director Alfred.

"God knows if I'll ever see her again," Louie said. "She lives in California."

Of course I knew Pat was in Edinburgh, as was the television crew setting everything up for the live show from the theatre that night. I told the cast that the cameras were there to film the performance for prosperity – to get a fine example of pantomime on screen.

But during the first half I could sense that Louie thought something was up. The television people were giving me timings, so every time I was on stage I was adding or cutting bits to make sure we finished at exactly the right moment. As the comic, I was able to do that.

And Louie would be staring at me as if to say: "What on earth are you doing? Get off."

When the first half finally came to an end the curtain failed to come down, and Eamonn Andrews stepped out from the back of the stage. The moment the audience spotted him they went absolutely daft.

"You've been on television for the past few minutes," Eamonn said to the cast. "Well, tonight, one of the leads of this great pantomime is going to be the subject of this red book."

And, of course, everyone thought it was going to be me. But as the rest of the cast formed into a half circle, Eamonn approached a somewhat shocked principal girl, and announced: "Louie Ramsay – this is your life."

The show went out there and then, and the audience lapped up every minute of it. We were all drained when we came off – and then remembered we still had the second half of the pantomime to do.

The second This Is Your Life I was concerned with provided me with a great deal of pleasure because it couldn't have happened to a nicer chap, my great friend Chief Constable Willie Merrilees. His life story was utterly remarkable. A 5 feet 6 inches he was impossibly small for a policeman. On one hand he had only three fingers – that's what he was left with after his hand was caught in a machine.

He grew up among the masses of unemployed people in Leith, some of whom resorted to chucking themselves in the Water of Leith to relieve their problems. On no less than three occasions the public-spirited Willie dived in to pull those poor people out. And someone suggested his bravery should be rewarded with a job in the police force.

Given special dispensation by the Secretary of State for Scotland because of his height, Willie was signed up to answer the phones at a local police station. On the Saturday before he was officially due to start he went in to have a look around – and was called upon by detectives going on a raid.

"They'll never suspect you of being a polis," one said. "You're coming with us."

So Willie took part in a raid before he was sworn in. Then when he was sworn in, those same detectives said they wanted him as part of their unit. Willie sat all his exams and became a detective himself. During the Second World War, a stranger arrived at a train station in the north of Scotland with a suitcase and wet trousers. Not surprisingly the staff were suspicious he was a German spy, and alerted stations down the line. When this guy got to Edinburgh he deposited his bag in left luggage. Police went through it and found a transmitter so, when he returned to pick the case up, wee Willie was waiting dressed as a porter, and grabbed him before the spy could reach for his gun.

Willie's career took off from there until he eventually became the chief constable of Lothian and Peebles, one of the top jobs in the country.

Anyway, on this occasion, I met him on the train down to London.

"Hello Willie, how are you?" I said. "Where are you going?"

"Oh, I'm going down to London."

Of course I knew exactly why he was going to London even if he didn't. I was on my way down to be a guest on his appearance on This is Your Life.

As he stepped off the train the camera crew and Eamonn Andrews caught him. They reckoned if he was allowed to go into the city he would soon have smelled a rat, and their plans could have gone tragically wrong.

I was on This Is Your Life on other occasions. The great pantomime dame I had performed alongside, Douglas Byng, was honoured when he was 90. And I was one of about a thousand people who walked on at the end when Jimmy Shand got his Big Red Book [Bigredbook.info editor: Douglas Byng was not a subject of This Is Your Life].

My own turn to be presented with that Big Red Book came in 1973 when I was starring in a play called The Mating Game at the Apollo Theatre in London.

On my birthday, April 4, Gina told me the management had invited everyone to a big lunch in a hotel.

"Wear your kilt," she said. "Everyone will like that because they've never seen you wearing it."

Of course I thought nothing of it and went to the hotel for a marvellous meal. But after a while I was thinking that the whole thing seemed to be dragging on a bit. I even told Gina that it was time to leave.

"Wait a minute," she said. "There's a wee surprise for you."

Then I learned that some of the people from the Benevolent Fund in Scotland, who I had helped rasie money for in the past, had come down with a small gift for me. My instant reaction was one of complete shock; surely if they were coming all that way they could have asked them to the lunch.

We all went down to a big room where a massive cake was waiting for me, and all the people from the Benevolent Fund said 'Happy Birthday'. There were a couple of cameras and a spotlight. I thought the hotel were doing some kind of publicity stunt.

I smiled as they sang their hearts out, but I was very embarrassed. They really should have been invited to the meal. I couldn't get over the fact they hadn't been invited.

Then there was a small tap on my shoulder. I turned round, and there was Eamonn Andrews.

"Oh hello Eamonn," I said. "Nice to see you."

I just thought he had coincidentally been in the hotel.

"Well hello Jimmy..."

Looking down I noticed he was holding that Big Red Book of his, only this time my name was on the front of it.

"Jimmy Logan – this is your life."

Now I had been involved with a number of his shows in the past but there was a completely different sensation when suddenly I was the subject of his attention.

All I could say was: "You're joking, you're joking. You must be joking."

Of course he was anything but joking, and I was whisked off to a big suite in another hotel to prepare for the recording of the show in the BBC studios that afternoon.

It was just wonderful when I walked into that studio to be met by applause, music and Eamonn Andrews. Gina was already there, and as the show progressed everyone I had ever known seemed to come in. My sister Heather had flown over from Florida with her husband and son, Buddy was there, and Annie and my brother Bertie had come from New York. My dear Aunt Jean had come all the way from Gourock. She just wouldn't stop talking when she was introduced.

"What was I like as a child, Aunt Jean?" I said to her, fully aware of the reply she would give.

And sure enough she turned to Eamonn and said: "Beautiful child. Beautiful child."

The Toma family who owned the ice cream shop below our house in Gourock came into the studio, as did a number of stars including Barbara Windsor, Clive Francis, Gordon Jackson, Bruce Forsyth, Arthur Askey and Bill Simpson.

Of course my father was there as well, and did his usual take-over bit. Unbelievably the whole thing finished with him playing the piano, and everyone else in a crowd – including me – round the piano singing.

It was a wonderful experience, but absolutely shattering. It lasted 30 minutes but I felt as though I had been on stage for six hours. It's not every day that people you thought were on the other side of the world suddenly walk in from behind a door, and say: "Hello Jimmy, how are you?"

That night I had to rush back to the West End for the play, and when I got home all my friends were waiting. We stayed up until well after three o'clock in the morning.

The following day I arranged to meet some of those people for lunch, but I did a Rip Van Winkle, and ended up missing them. That's how shattering an experience it was.

Series 13 subjects