HANCOCKS LAST HALF HOUR
"The title tells all. Barricaded in his Sydney hotel bedroom with plentiful stocks of vodka, the lad from East Cheam casts a bleary eye over his wrecked career and marriages before swallowing the last handful of pills. Hancock's battered mind jumps dazzlingly about, through the wilderness of comic theory including Freud ("how would he go down second house at the Glasgow Empire?") confiding in a moose-head on the wall, and sending up disconsolate prayers to Bertrand Russell even though, as he finally observes, "There's not a clown in the sky.'