During my two decades as a script writer for Bob Hope, unforeseen problems bedeviled every show to some degree, but by far the most ill-fated special Hope produced on my watch was taped at the Oscars Theater in Stockholm before Sweden's King Carl Gustav and Queen Sylvia in February, 1986.

Hope had agreed to emcee the black-tie gala entitled "Bob Hope's Royal Command Performance from Sweden," the proceeds of which were to go to the king's favorite charity, the Children's International Summer Village.  Hope would host the show and in return would retain the American rights which he'd license to NBC. It was a potentially profitable deal (not unlike many that Hope made over the years) since most of the production expenses would be picked up by the Swedish government.

But even before the Scandinavian Airlines 747 had been loaded with our luggage at LAX, the hex kicked in. As fellow writer Gene Perret and I sat in the executive lounge putting the finishing touches on a Viking sketch we were confident would have the Swedes in hysterics from Goteborg to Lapland, producers Elliott Kozak and Dick Arlett came in and hit us between the eyes with the news that Sweden's Prime Minister, Olaf Palme, had just been assassinated while walking his dog on a Stockholm street.

The room fell silent. Guest Glen Campbell, who had been sitting across from us noodling a few licks, put down his guitar and stared ahead blankly. Only moments before, we had entered the lounge filled with excited anticipation of what promised to be a fun-filled and interesting journey to a land few of us had visited.

Two other troubadours who would appear on the show, Shirley Jones and Emanuel Lewis, looked on in shock as transatlantic phone calls were hurriedly made to decide if the show would be canceled. Our departure was pushed ahead an hour while we all sat biting our collective show business fingernails.

Shortly, word arrived directly from the palace — since preparations for the gala were set and invitations sent out, postponing the performance, ruled the monarch, would cause world-class headaches all around. The show, as they say, must go on. Where this old saw originated, I have no idea, but there are instances where it flies in the face of common sense, and this was, undoubtedly, one of them.

Picture, if you will, taping the "Colgate Comedy Hour" just three days following the death of John Kennedy.  Same problem — similar reaction. The entire Swedish nation had been plunged into mourning. On our drive from the airport, we could see people lining the street, carrying candles and placing bouquets of flowers at the spot on the frozen sidewalk where the popular prime minister had fallen.

A pall hung over the capital — literally and figuratively.  Ships in the harbor stood at anchor, rigid and icebound — prisoners of a climate that almost half the year chills the bones and, one suspects, is no small contributor to the highest suicide rate in all of Scandinavia.

But forget all that. The assembled glitterati applauded dutifully as the king and queen were escorted to the royal box. The show began with a rambling, largely incomprehensible introduction of Hope by Swedish actress Liv Ullman. It was obvious that she would have preferred being somewhere else, and who wouldn't?

Hope did his best to deliver his monologue, but had about as much luck getting laughs as an athiest at a Southern Baptist Convention. The evening's slate of performers — Boy George and the Culture Club, Omar Sharif , Dolf Lundgren and Scott Grimes as well as Glen, Emanuel and Shirley — carried on like the pros they are, but the project was doomed
from the start. It was like watching the lounge act on the Hindenburg. It was a wake with entertainment.

We had written a sketch that cast Hope and Emmanuel Lewis, dressed in reindeer pelts and horned helmets, as a pair of Vikings on their annual spring plunder. As Gene Perret and I stood offstage, puzzled why our pillage jokes were drawing gasps, one of the Swedish technicians pointed out that we had named Hope's character, Olaf. In the confusion, no one had caught what now appeared to be an insensitive joke.

During a break, we told Hope what had happened and he immediately called a halt to the proceedings and apologized to the audience.  When our Swedish fiasco finally concluded and we were winging home to a much warmer Los Angeles, I remember thinking back that I
should have known from the start that the trip would turn out to be jinxed. Excited over my first junket to a Scandinavian country, I arrived at LAX without my passport!

A messenger from the production office was dispatched to deliver it, but to avoid a delayed  departure, a representative from the airline soon arrived and announced that my California drivers license would do the trick! My passport would follow on the next flight — without me. I learned later that Sweden had waived their usual customs requirements because I was
on a special assignment for the king, proving once again that it pays to work for someone who's close to kings.

But even with our problems in Stockholm, I do have one a great memory of the trip.  One night, after a long day of rehearsing, we returned to the hotel around nine o'clock. It was about 40 degrees below outside, and there was a nice fire going in the lounge, so Glen Campbell asked Gene and me if we'd like to join him for a nightcap. There was a fairly good jazz quartet — drums, two guitars, bass — that played there every night. We had noticed them before but were always too busy to stop.

We sat at the bar for a few minutes and were recalling our day in Birdseye-ville when
one of the guitar players asked Glen if he'd like to sit in for a number.  Usually, professional musicians hesitate to take anyone up on an offer like that since it's what they do for a living and is a little like asking Picasso to sketch something on a bar napkin.

But Glen isn't your usual pro. He loves to practice chords with his own guitar and often does — in airport lounges, television studio dressing rooms, and maybe even while showering.  Glen just loves the guitar. I suspect the guy in the quartet was a big fan, knew this, and also knew that Glen would have a hard time turning him down. He was right. "Okay, just one number."  Glen took the instrument, fine-tuned a couple of strings and began picking the melody of "A Foggy Day" — the house musicians were British.

Now the bartender is on the phone — "You're not gonna believe this... " in Swedish, of course, but you could tell what he was saying by the excitement in his voice. Several couples who had been sitting in the lobby drifted in and took a table near the bandstand. As other guests arrived, they could see and hear that something special was occurring in the bar.

Nobody headed upstairs and nobody left. Glen, as usual, was doing some astounding riffs. I asked him once how he got so damn good, and he said that as a kid, he would dream guitar chords and play them as soon as he woke up. That, my friends, is genetic. Even the owner of the guitar Glen was playing couldn't believe the sounds he was getting out of it.

Glen's "one number" was soon three and then five. The crowd had grown to thirty or forty people — some sitting, some standing, all mesmerized.  When he finally handed the Gibson back to its owner, the applause was enough to wake up guests in their rooms who had missed Glen's impromptu concert.  It was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments you just never forget.  And the best part was, it took everyone's mind off of the assassination.

Excerpted from The Laugh Makers: A Behind-the-Scenes Tribute to Bob Hope's Incredible Gag Writers published by Bear Manor Media and named one of Leonard Maltin's "Top 20 Year-End Picks."  To order:  http://bobhopeslaughmakers.weebly.com

Kindle e-book $2.99: www.amazon.com/dp/B0041D9EPO

To view photos in the book:  http//:bobhopeshowbackstage.weebly.com