Henry the Eighth and the Bernie Bus

by KENNETH E. HALL APRIL 27, 2021

My memories of the Sixties are wide and varied; “they go from the sublime to the ridiculous” as my PawPaw would have said. One on the ridiculous side was of a novelty song that was released in June of 1965 and topped the charts at #2 on July 14 of that same year. 

♫ Herman's Hermits recorded this song after their track "Mrs. Brown You've Got a Lovely Daughter" shot to #1 in the USA. Looking to follow it up with another old-timey single, they came up with a really obscure tune: "I'm Henry The VIII, I Am," which they had played before on stage. It worked, and the song rocketed to #1, incredibly knocking The Rolling Stones "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction) off the top spot.

Wow!

♫ Here are those deep and most intellectual lyrics, as I remember them:

I'm ‘Enery the eighth I am                                                                                                                     ‘Enery the eighth I am, I am                                                                                                                   I got married to the widow next door                                                                                                    She's been married seven times before                                                                                                And every one was an ‘Enery (‘Enery!)                                                                                                     She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam (nor a Sam!)                                                                                   I'm her eighth old man, I'm  ‘Enery,                                                                                                    ‘Enery the eighth I am!

Second verse - same as the first!

The original "I'm Henery The Eighth, I Am" dated way back to 1910 and, as I understand, had several verses, but the Herman's Hermits’ rendition has only one, which they repeated three times ("second verse, same as the first"). That is because the band only knew the one verse, (which is actually the chorus!) 

This was the height of the British Invasion, and it was much more than just the Beatles that crowded every juke box and radio playlist. This song was a “BubbleGum” song - it appealed to the teenyboppers, and definitely had the mid-Sixties sound - catchy, simple lyrics, British (Cockney) accents, and a band consisting of twangy electric guitars and a drum. This was a far cry from the synthesized buzzing, wailing, discordant music which was yet to come.

No, the music didn’t die - it just changed, as did we all. 

Henry the Eighth, which was constantly heard on all top hit radio stations, began with a tinny lead guitar riff which later brought something else to my mind: a gimmick they called the “Bernie Bus”. 

Just about a half year after old ‘Enery the Eighth had had his musical Fifteen Minutes of Fame, a local auto dealership in New Orleans East launched  a major publicity campaign to publicize its new suburban location. 

♫ Their radio jingle, which was also constantly played at this time went: “... In a brand-new Bernie-Dumas automobile! Go to 4600 Chef Menteur Highway - Get MORE save MORE the Bernie DU-MAS WAY! - See Bernie Dumas today!” 

At this time, radio jingles were all the rage;  just about every company that advertised had some silly, simplistic, and repetitious tune to get people to remember them or their product or service. K&B Drug Stores, Time Saver, Caloric Gas, Dixie Beer and others had catchy little mnemonic songs which I happened to like. I went everywhere with the Sony transistor radio that my grandfather bought in Japan, and if I was not listening to music, I was humming or singing it, much to my poor PawPaw’s chagrin.

“LET UP!” he’d holler. “I swear, you’re the LIMIT! You sound like a broken record!” he’d often bellyache. Although he was usually a good sport and put up with his rambunctious 13-year-old grandson on Saturdays, he hated radios and TV’s. He had been confined to bed in a large hospital ward just a couple of years before, and during his stay his poor ears were bombarded with a cacophony of radios and television sets all blaring at once, wailing well into the night. (Where's a bossy head nurse when you need one??) Now he was free of all that noise and here I come along and pester him by singing: ♫“Forty Five, Forty-five, Forty five, Forty Five, the Beer that makes you feel alive, you just can’t brew a finer beer than Dixie Forty Five!” I guess it was enough to drive anyone batty!

Besides a catchy jingle, though, Bernie-Dumas Buick had just relocated way out to the middle of nowhere - to an undeveloped area along Chef Menteur Highway, and had to get the word out. Someone at the dealership came up with a “crap-brained idea” (to quote my grand- father): they painted a large courtesy bus and ran it from somewhere downtown on Canal Street all the way out to their new place in New Orleans East, and provided rides free of charge. It was called “The Bernie Bus”. It was apparently supposed to bring in busloads of people ready to buy cars, but when I saw it, it was empty, and I doubt it ever hauled very many people. 

Whenever I’d hear the opening riff of “Henry the Eighth, I Am!” I’d sing along with it: “Bernie Bus! Bernie Bus!” just for fun - a silly song for an even sillier idea.

After a few months, Herman's Hermits faded from the radio, and likewise the Bernie Bus rolled into the garage for the last time and was repainted and sold, its mission accomplished. 

The Beatles might have described it thusly:

"It was a real nowhere van,

driving to a nowhere land,

making all its nowhere plans for nobody."

Life goes on, and we all moved on with ours. It’s been many years since I’ve thought about 1965. This little memory was a nice one of a simpler time that was not always too pleasant. The other day I heard this song and remembered just where I was and what I was doing - and remembered “Henry the Eighth” and the “Bernie Bus”. 

 Millennium Celebration in Paris     4/23/2021  Houston

It was late December, 1999. I looked at my schedule and saw that, of course, I had a trip to Paris that would make sure I was far away from home for the New Year’s. Then I thought of it: What if I invited Koky, my wife, to come along? Instead of a three-day trip, we had an additional day for our layover. That would be a lot of fun.

Koky was the manager of the Service Center where she worked, and when I told her of my idea, she sighed and told me that all managers were required to work on those days. She looked sad, but instantly added: “But you could invite your Mom!”

“Hey!” I shouted, “That’s a great idea!” and immediately called her on the phone to ask her if she'd like to go to Paris with me to ring in the new Millennium. 

“Oh, WOULD I !?!?!” she exclaimed, agreeing to it before I could say another word.

The next day being our departure date, we went to check her in. A gate agent I knew was working the flight, and he learned that I was taking my mother to Paris. Before I knew what hit me, he quietly slipped a First Class boarding pass into my hand, and wished me a Bon Voyage!

Now I have always been proud of Continental Airlines’ overall service, and especially our Business First, but the word got passed from the Gate Agent to the crew that my mother was coming aboard. I knew each and every member of that crew for several years, and knew that they would treat my Mom well, but from the moment she stepped onto the plane, my mother became EVERYONE’s mother. 

The QUEEN OF ENGLAND only wishes she could be treated as lovingly and as kindly as Mom was at the hands of my coworker friends. 

We enjoyed those two days in Paris immensely. It suddenly occurred to me that, in all my travels, I had never once invited my Mom to come along with me - even if it was a short trip. But this time I made up for all that as we stood among an international throng of revelers and watched the fireworks light up the Eiffel Tower from right across the Seine River. 

On the way back, it turned out that the flight was full. I had expected that and just hoped Mom would at least get on somewhere in Economy Class. We waited in line for our turn at the ticket counter. Employee pass riders are always taken care of last, as it should be, giving the best seats and preference to those who pay our bills.

Suddenly I got a tap on my shoulder. It was our Captain. 

”Hey, Kenny,” he asked, “What are you doing in the Economy Class line?” 

“Oh, we’re full,” I told him, “So there’s no way at all that she’ll get up to First Class.”

That’s when the Captain got upset: “Oh, NO! That’s just NOT ACCEPTABLE!” and he stormed up to the front of the line. 

Peggy, a very nice French gate agent I have seen many, many times before on my decade of coming to Paris, was swamped. Lots of folks to get checked in and accommodated, and very little time to do it. She was the one, in fact, who told me earlier that she could not get me First Class. She would have, if she could; this I know.

The Captain, visibly upset, went straight up to Peggy and said: “Why is Ken’s mother not in First Class??!”

“Well, Monsieur,” she answered quietly, “It is that we have so many passengers, so it is not possible…”

The Captain cut her off in mid-sentence and looked her right in the eye and commanded: “I am the CAPTAIN; FIX IT!” 

Peggy was startled, but she went right to her screen without a further word. In less time than that confrontation with the Captain took place, I received a tap on the shoulder. It was Peggy, holding a First Class Boarding Ticket in her hand. She smiled at me and told my mother “Bon Voyage.” 

Of course, my mother was treated once again to a warm hospitality that only friendship can bring, and the flight was yet another great part of a fantastic but all too short trip.

A week or so after the flight I got my photos developed, and I made a scrapbook for her, including tickets, receipts and other memorabilia. I went over for a visit to give her the binder full of memories, and she got teary-eyed. 

“You have no idea how much this trip has meant to me!” she said, and for a long time after that she still would mention the trip in conversation.

Then came the bad news that my mother had passed away. We were close, so the pain of loss was great. At the memorial service, her friends and fellow church members came up to me and said: “You know, Kenny, you just have no idea how much that trip meant to her. You know, she had this scrapbook and she brought it many times and showed us the pictures you took in Paris.”

Almost as painful as her loss was having to clean up and dispose of her belongings some time later. Among the items I found that touched my heart was the light green 3-ring binder that I used to make her scrapbook. I took it home where it and the cherished memories it contains will remain for as long as I live.