Barry and Paul Elliott were best known as the Chuckle Brothers – one of the most successful kids’ comedy duos of the 1990s and 00s. Born in Rotherham in 1944 and 1947 respectively, they joined a family of comics: their father, James, was a gang show performer known as Gene Patton; while two of their brothers, Jimmy and Brian, performed under the name the Patton Brothers. Barry and Paul became household names with their slapstick show ChuckleVision, which aired from 1987 to 2009. They toured together until 2015, and appeared in panto until Barry’s death from bone cancer in 2018. Paul is an ambassador for Marie Curie, the end-of-life charity that provides support for people living with terminal illness and their families.
Barry was my older brother, but the comedy dynamic between us was always that I was the boss – the one putting my feet up and saying “Faster!” while he was pedalling the Chuckmobile. When this photo was taken, we were filming series four of ChuckleVision and the BBC wanted some shots to advertise the show. It was a hard schedule at the time: the TV crew would come up for six weeks, film ChuckleVision all day, then Barry and I would do a stage show in the evening as we were doing summer season in Scarborough. We wouldn’t get to bed until after midnight, but we were young. I was only 42. I don’t think I’d be able to do it now.
No matter how busy we were, we’d always have such a great time. We kept the same crew for 23 years and we were good at finding new ways to have a joke. There was one scene where Barry was meant to be stuck in a tent and trying to get out. As Barry went into the tent, our director said, “Action,” and left the camera rolling while the rest of us went to the pub. Barry was wrestling with the tent, waiting for someone to say “Cut.” In the end, he poked his head out and realised no one was there. Fun times. Not fair on Barry, but fun times.
Barry and I had a great childhood. We lived on a council estate and used to put shows on in the garden, charging a ha’penny for neighbours to come and watch. We would get ninepence a week for pocket money on Saturdays, which paid for a bus ride to the centre of Rotherham, where we’d wander around the market and the toy shops. After the bus fare, we had no money to buy anything, but we didn’t seem to need it in those days.
Barry was three years older than me, so when he was a teenager he didn’t want his little brother hanging around with him. He had his mates, I had mine, but we always got on. If we ever had a row, there’d be a moment when I’d think: “He’s never going to speak to me again.” Five minutes later we’d be playing football. Mum brought us up, as Dad was touring for 52 weeks a year. He’d sometimes have Sunday off. If we misbehaved, she’d tell us: “You wait until your dad comes home!” Not a nice thing to say when we didn’t see him much, but we would panic, so it worked!
I never imagined I’d go into show business as I was pretty good at football when I was young. I got to play for Rotherham Boys, but when I was 14 I got injured and was told I’d never be able to play professionally. I thought: “Now what do I do?” Barry was already performing, doing working men’s clubs, and he suggested: “Let’s do a double act like our brothers.” Within a few months we were at our first gig: 1963 at Edinburgh Palladium, in suit, collar and tie. I didn’t have a moustache then. I didn’t grow that until I was 23 and I’ve only shaved it off once, for Marie Curie. I looked dreadful. I won’t be doing that again.
Back at the beginning of our career, we were singing and dancing. Audiences were reluctant to take comedy from someone under the age of 40. If you were a teenager, people would say: “What do you know about life to be funny?” Because of that, we didn’t do comedy until we were in our 20s. Barry was always the comic with the punchlines, and I was the feed. We got our first pantomime in 1967 after we won the TV talent show Opportunity Knocks, and have done panto every year since. It was brilliant having that early success with my brother, and it got even more exciting when the first series of ChuckleVision went on TV. People started recognising us in the streets. After 23 years slogging around the country on stage, we were an overnight success.
Barry died in August 2018. He must have been going through a lot of pain, and he showed it sometimes. He said his legs hurt, but he blamed sciatica. I always thought it was unusual as it was in both legs, but if I asked, Barry would just say: “That’s what the doctors said.” He covered up that it was cancer. His wife knew, I think. They didn’t want me to find out as I would have said: “Get yourself sorted. Forget the work, your life comes first.” But work was very important to him. He wanted to die on stage like Tommy Cooper – work right until he dropped, and he more or less did. Barry worked until he couldn’t any more. About seven weeks after I found out that it was cancer, he passed away.
Because we were on TV for so long, people often come up to me and mention Barry. They mainly say: “Sorry about your brother.” They don’t ask questions. They just want a selfie. That’s pretty constant. I enjoy meeting people. But the majority of people call me Barry. That hurts a bit. They say: “Barry! That’s you, isn’t it?” I have to say: “Barry passed away five years ago.”
I’ve had a lot of deaths in my family. The first time I was married, we had a baby girl and she died at 12 weeks. I thought nothing would ever be as bad as that. The next was 12 years later when my father died. Since then I’ve lost my mother, Amy, my sister, Sheila, and my brothers Colin, Barry and Jimmy. There’s only me and Brian left, and he is 90. What I’ve learned from those experiences is that grief is a pain. It hurts inside. If someone dies you’ve got to let out the tears. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. There was footage of me carrying Barry’s coffin at his funeral on TV, and tears were falling from my face. But I am glad that I did that. You’re no less of a man because you cry. You’re a human being, and you get over the grief quicker if you let it out.
Before he died, Barry said: “You’ve got to carry on the business.” I said: “I’ve got to try as I’m too old to do an apprenticeship.” So I’ve carried on smiling and making people laugh. While it is hard to perform without him, I still think Barry is with me. Especially when I’m working. I’m a lot funnier now than when I was feeding Barry the lines. I feel that he’s inside me, like he is delivering the words; the timing is all his. It’s a nice feeling. But it’s not nice knowing that I’ll never work with him again. We’d always end up laughing hysterically whenever we were performing. We had so much fun together. That I will always miss.
