HOW MUCH A WEEK?

Evening Post, Volume CX, Issue 41, 16 August 1930, Page 26

HOW MUCH A WEEK?

RpBEY EXPLAINS WHAT HE IS. WORTH

I have been asked to explain why I am worth £500 a week, and obediently I went to the mirror to ask myself, writes George Robey, in the "Sunday News." ■■■••.■ I can only say that I looked, at myself most insolently, and asked instead: "Why ami worth only £500 a week?" It's all a matter of the pint of view, as the oldest inhabitant said when he was thirsty. My point of view, is.a funny one. It's like the case where the party of tourists found a dead Indian, and one said: "Wharra Pity—he might hey lived to be a great chief with deeds of pep and valour to his name, and in my v! 'W this is a hero warrior lost!!" But a live Indian nearby said: "Huh! from red man's point of view—dead squaw!" I know I haven't answered myself yet, as to why I am not worth more than £500 a week. Well, I will answer. ' ■ • ■ I. beg to state with characteristic modesty and truth and yet with the brutal frankness of a war novel about sex, that the question doesn't arise, because I am worth more, vastly more! Indeed, an increase of stipendiary emolument or honorarium (or is that a place where they keep fish—no, I am thinking of an effluvium) for the Prime Minister of Mirth, is nearly as much overdue as—well,' never mind, you have your own troubles no doubt. ■ So you see, the, point'is not that I am not worth it, but merely that I don't get it, which is known as the pons asinorum or the bridge that went slam; I know; I-am Worth more. Take a typical ■ conversation overheard by a friend of mine as two duchesses emerged from the gallery one night. ■ ■ ■ t One said "Coo! what a lad George is—my inside fair aches with laughin'!" ' ■' "Same 'ere," said the other, "wot

must it be like/to know 'im, and just fancy 'aviug 'im for husband, and 'im at breakfast with 'is funny little 'at an' twiddlin' them eyebrows at ycr!" Of course, it is well known that I sleep in my little hat. Well, you know what I mean. And I am a scream at breakfast. I can imagine Mr. Snowden saying I ought to twiddle my eyebrows a bit more for my own amusement, and then he could charge me entertainment tax on myself. His minions have tried everything else, arid I am sure they -would agree with those two. girls that I am worth more, and probably they will take care that I am, to them! However, I shall not submit to being assessed on myself as a Joke Factory employing, two hands. And they won't get away with it if they ask for my returns as a Haulage Contractor on receiving information that I draw heavy bookings. But haulage, yes! Music Hallage. If a full house' and a squash is all the place will hold, they blame it all on to Robey and cut him down to £500. I call that reducing me to absurdity. If you compare me with the latest typo of battleship, I'm hero for a song. And look at the cost of. living. Everything has gone iip—eyebrows have gone up. . And I've just bought a big drum, and any morning I may come down and find a family of kettledrums to feed as well. But what, does anybody care? Nohpdy cares as long, as I remain Prime Minister of Mirth, because it is my professional pride and joy in that capacity to see that tl;ey don't care, that they forget care and have a\hearty laugh, and at £500 a.week it works out jolly cheap per thousand! , And think how I am helping the Chancellor of the Exchequer. But that isn't the funny part of earning a large', salary.