by Harry Hill
‘Eh?’ said Dickie, looking up from his precious list. ‘Yeah, what?’
‘Er … don’t get me wrong. All that’s great, what you’ve got planned – some of which I need to think about … Um, but I am, or should I say my main interest, is in stand-up comedy, so what I’m really keen to do is some gigs. So I’m wondering if somewhere on your list you’ve got me down to do any … you know, some of the clubs in London?’
‘Stand-up?’ said Dickie.
‘Yeah, you know like, maybe some ten-minute spots to try out some new gags, building to some paid twenties?’ said Matt hopefully.
‘Oh! Yes! I have got you a nice stand-up gig – I almost forgot! You’re gonna love this. It’s ten minutes and it’s really well paid.’
‘Great!’ said Matt – it sounded too good to be true. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘You know it. In fact you’ve actually played it before …’ said Dickie.
Matt was confused. He’d only done four gigs in his whole life, three if you didn’t count the school talent show.
‘Not the Cavendish?’ he asked trying to work out what Dickie was on about.
‘Not the Cavendish, whatever that is …’ said Dickie.
‘Surely not the Rose and Crown, Sossinghurst!’ said Matt.
‘Of course it isn’t some poxy pub in the middle of nowhere!’ replied Dickie.
‘Well,’ said Matt, still confused, ‘the only other gig I’ve done is the Apollo so …’
‘Exactly!’ said Dickie with an oh-so-pleased-with-himself look on his face. ‘I’ve only got you booked on the top stand-up show on TV! Stand-up at the Apollo! Ha ha!’ He punched the air in triumph and then held it up to Matt for a high five – but Matt didn’t offer his hand in return. He sat back, feeling like he’d been kicked in the stomach.
‘The Apollo … but … but Kitty said I wasn’t ready for the Apollo …’ he said.
‘Kitty says this, Kitty says that! If I hear that name one more time I’ll … I’ll …’ snapped Dickie. ‘When I start taking the advice of a schoolgirl I’ll know I’m really in trouble. Forget her, Matt, put her out of your mind. That was the advice of an amateur and now you’re with the professionals!’
Matt shuddered – that word ‘amateur’ again. It was the word Matt had used to describe Kitty. If only she knew what he was up to now.
‘Yeah, you’re on with my boy Russ as a matter of fact – Russel Perkins. Yeah, I finally got them to take him. Nice wedge on it too, so we all get our snouts in the trough!’
Dickie Hart stopped talking for a second and took a good long look at his client who had gone as white as a sheet.
‘What’s up with you?’ he said.
‘I … I … I dunno …’ stuttered Matt. ‘I mean, I’ve always wanted to do that show, but I … I need to do a lot of work to get match fit for it don’t I?’
‘Oh, you’ll be fine,’ said Dickie, batting Matt’s concerns away like they were a couple of paper planes. ‘Besides, I’ve already booked you in so …’ he said absent-mindedly.
‘You’ve what?!’ said Matt.
‘Relax! I’ve booked you in, but don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to get yourself straight for it.’
‘Wow!’ said Matt starting to come round to the idea. If he had enough time to work up some new material then surely it was a good idea wasn’t it? Dickie had a point – Stand-up at the Apollo was the show Matt had most wanted to do when he’d started out. He’d never missed an episode. Surely, provided he had enough time to work on some new material, it could be a really big break – in a way a kind of relaunch.
‘When did you have in mind then?’ said Matt taking out his phone and looking at his diary.
‘Tomorrow!’ said Dickie.
‘What?! B-B-B-B-B-but I’ve got no new material!’ said Matt.
‘What do you need new stuff for? Just do the stuff you did on The T Factor – that had them rolling in the aisles! Bish bash bosh! Job’s a goodun’! You get paid! And more importantly so do I!’ said Dickie with a smirk.
‘But you don’t understand,’ protested Matt. ‘They’ll have heard all my jokes before – no one will laugh!’
‘Pah! I wouldn’t worry about that! Besides, if no one laughs they can dub them on in the edit! Job’s a goodun’! Right, that’s enough chat for one day,’ said Dickie, getting up to leave. He put his hand deep into his trouser pocket and produced a roll of fifty-pound notes, more money than Matt had ever seen in his whole life. He peeled off a couple and threw them on to the table.
‘There’ll be a car to pick you up tomorrow afternoon at three. I suggest you get workin’ on that act of yours! Cheery bye!’ And with that he was gone.
*
That evening Matt sat in his hotel room looking at his set list. His gums were still sore from where that dentist had tried to whiten his teeth. He looked in the mirror. ‘The only reason my teeth look whiter is that my gums are bright red,’ he thought to himself. What was happening to him? He looked over at his two new suits hanging on the back of the door. There was no doubt that they were beautiful, but it wasn’t the kind of new material he was looking for. He needed new jokes and stage-time to run them in, and he knew that between now and 3 p.m. the next day when the car was due to pick him up, he wasn’t going to get either.
He flicked through his notebook. Sure, there were some really strong ideas for gags and routines but without trying them out in front of a crowd, how could he possibly know which ones would fly and which would drop like stones? He looked around the room. It was much nicer than his room at home, but it wasn’t his room and he had no one to share it with. He was bored witless. There was absolutely nothing to do. There were only so many times you could press your trousers in a Corby trouser press, and a limit to the amount of Highland shortcake biscuits a twelve-year-old boy could consume. He picked up his phone and scrolled down his list of contacts. The person he really wanted to talk to was Kitty Hope but of course that wasn’t possible.
Next on his list was Rob Brown. He clicked on his number and walked over to the hotel room window with the phone to his ear. There was a click as Rob picked up.
‘Hello? Matt?!’ Rob was shouting over what sounded like a Nicki Minaj number. Matt could hear shouting and laughter in the background.
‘Oh, hi, Rob!’ said Matt, incredibly pleased to hear his old friend’s voice. ‘What are you up to? Sounds like you’re at a party or something?’
‘Eh?!’ shouted Rob. ‘Sorry, Matt, I can’t hear you, I’m at Ahmed’s birthday-do – are you gonna be turning up? He said he emailed you the invite?’
A wave of homesickness swept over Matt. He’d got Ahmed’s invite but with all that had gone on over the last few days he hadn’t got round to replying, the date had fallen out of the bottom of his inbox and he’d forgotten all about it.
‘Sorry, Rob, I can’t. I’m stuck up in London.’
‘EH? You what?! Hang on I’ll go outside …’ Rob broke off and then Matt could hear footsteps and a door being opened and closed. The music became muffled.
‘You still there?’ said Rob.
‘Yeah, yeah … still here, worst luck,’ said Matt biting his lip.
‘That’s better! I can hear you now. Sorry I haven’t called but I’ve been working on the poster for the big Children in Need gig – and you’ll be pleased to hear that your picture is very much centre stage …’
‘Ah. OK … cheers!’ said Matt feeling a pang of guilt. He didn’t have the heart to tell Rob that Dickie had pulled him from the gig.
‘So anyway, how’s it going? How’s life in the big city?’ Rob continued.
‘Er … it’s OK …’ said Matt. ‘You know, I’ve had some new suits made and photos done and that …’
‘You don’t sound too sure?’ said Rob. Matt couldn’t hide his true feelings from Rob – he knew him too well.
‘How’s it working out under the new management?’ said Rob.
‘Well, if I’m honest, it’s not really,’ sa
id Matt.
‘No? How come?’
‘That Dickie Hart bloke has only gone and booked me in to play Stand-up at the Apollo!’
‘That’s fantastic news, Matt! Wait till I tell Ahmed! Any chance of tickets? What’s the date? I could get my mum to drive us up …’
‘That’s just it, it’s tomorrow!’
‘Tomorrow? Jeez! You don’t hang about. Let me think. I’m supposed to be going to drama club but I can probably get out of it. Hang on, let me just check with Ahmed …’
‘NO!’ said Matt forcefully.
‘No? What …?’ said Rob, suddenly chastened.
‘I don’t want you to come,’ said Matt.
‘Why ever not? I’d love to …’
‘Because I’m gonna die,’ said Matt bleakly.
‘No you won’t! You’re Matt Millz, what are you talking about? Besides, you said that last time you played the Apollo and what happened? You ripped the roof off!’
‘It’s different this time,’ said Matt ruefully. ‘I was ready for it then, or as ready for it as I was ever gonna be. The fact is I haven’t done a good gig since then – I’m still stuck with the same material. Kitty was right, I’m just not ready. No, I’m gonna die and there’s nothing I can do about it.’
‘You’re exaggerating,’ said Rob trying to cheer him up. He seemed completely wrong-footed by his friend’s tone and was seriously starting to worry about him. ‘Do you want to talk to Kitty? She’s just in the other room, I could get her if you like?’
There was no one right now that Matt wanted to speak to more than Kitty Hope but he knew he mustn’t, that it just wasn’t fair after the way he’d treated her.
‘No, no, it’s OK. You’re right, Rob, I’m probably overdoing it, it’s just nerves. It’ll probably be fine.’
‘Yeah! Exactly, that’s more like it! Well, if you change your mind about us coming along …’
‘Maybe another time …’ said Matt.
‘Yeah, cool. Alex’s just walking by – do you want a word?’
Alex? Suddenly the image of those big blue eyes flashed into Matt’s mind.
‘Yeah OK,’ he said, clearing his throat and self-consciously adjusting his fringe with his free hand.
‘Hello?’ came a girl’s voice. ‘Matt?’
‘Alex?’ said Matt, feeling suddenly a little shy and awkward. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Hi, Matt! Yeah good, I think. We’ve got another go at the Sossinghurst gig, so hopefully it’ll go better than last time.’
‘We never had that writing session, did we?’ he said.
‘Ah well, you’re incredibly busy. How’s things your end? Rob said you were in London or something?’
‘Yes, I am. Pretty cool, but kind of boring too if I’m honest,’ said Matt.
‘I’m sure you’re being modest. I’m really pleased things are going well for you.’
‘Thanks, Alex. Anyway, I’ll be back in a couple of days – I have to be. I can’t miss any more school!’
‘Oh, you’re not missing much!’ she said. ‘While you’re away I’ve been helping Rob out with your school magazine joke page. It’s not as funny as when you do it, but I’ve enjoyed it.’
‘Oh,’ said Matt. The mention of the joke page brought all sorts of happy memories flooding back. Him and Rob had always had such fun making up jokes about the teachers and seeing what they could get away with. Matt could hear them starting to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in the background.
‘You’d better go …’ he said.
‘OK then. Looking forward to seeing you again though,’ she said.
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘She’s great, Matt!’ said Rob, coming back on the phone. ‘Anyway, when you back?’
‘Not really sure, Rob. Dickie hasn’t told me yet. I’m hoping at the weekend …’
‘Well, let me know and we’ll hang out. OK?’
‘Yeah, thanks, mate, you’ve cheered me up,’ said Matt forcing a smile as he stared out of the window at the dripping pipe.
‘Oh, hang on, I can see Ahmed’s mum and she’s got a cake and it looks like a big chocolate one, so I’ll catch you later. Good luck tomorrow!’
‘Thanks, Rob.’
‘Text me how it went!’
‘Will do,’ said Matt and he pressed the little red phone icon and the screen went dark.
Matt sighed and returned to his set list, which now just looked like a jumble of stray words, crossings out and arrows. It was no use – he threw his trusty black book on to the bed and decided he needed a bit of fresh air to clear his head.
He took the lift down to the lobby and lingered at the window. Looking along Piccadilly he could see a mass of bright lights. Then it dawned on him what lay at the end of Piccadilly – Leicester Square – and for the first time that day his face broke into a smile.
21
Comedy Central
It was about ten o’clock as Matt stepped out of the revolving door of the Jacobs Hotel and into the cool night air of Piccadilly. He turned right and headed up towards the bright lights he’d spotted from the lobby window. He was amazed at just how busy it was. It seemed that no one ever went to bed in this town! He walked up past Piccadilly Circus with its famous winged statue of Eros, the god of love with the bow and arrow. Matt had someone in mind that he’d like to fire an arrow at right now and his initials were DH.
He looked up to the left as he came to Leicester Square and could see a string of Chinese restaurants and a huge oriental arch which screamed ‘Welcome to Chinatown’. Matt’s interest, however, lay to the right, at the corner where Piccadilly petered out, just by the Prince Edward Theatre. A huge hoarding advertised the hit musical ‘I Can’t Sing!’ Ignoring this, he turned right down Oxenden Street and just a few yards on the right lay the object of his interest – The Comedy Store.
A burly minder stood outside looking … well … thoroughly burly. His hair in braids, his gaze fixed on the middle distance, he looked like he could pick Matt up with just one of his hands. Matt approached and looked up at him.
‘Ahem!’ he coughed clearing his throat. The minder didn’t move a muscle.
‘Er … hello?!’ said Matt hopefully.
The minder slowly lowered his gaze until he was looking directly into Matt’s eyes. Suddenly his frown broke into a huge smile that revealed several gold teeth.
‘Matt Millz!’ he said, sticking a hand out in welcome. ‘I’m Mark but everyone calls me Big Mark – dunno why! Welcome to The Comedy Store!’
Matt shook his hand. ‘Wow!’ he said. ‘You know who I am!’
‘Of course I do! I know just about every comic in Britain – and ninety-nine per cent of them have come through this door! Are you doing a spot?’
‘I wish,’ said Matt shaking his head.
‘Well, the first show’s almost done but you’re welcome to stand at the back,’ he said. ‘Follow me, I’ll get you in.’
He opened the door and Matt followed him down the stairs into the yellowy-orange light. At the bottom of the stairs were a pair of black double doors with porthole-like windows through which Matt caught his first glimpse of the stage. Framed as it was by the windows, it appeared to Matt like twin circular jewels.
‘Ah, good, we’re on a break …’ said Big Mark peering through one of the portholes.
‘There you go, Matt, enjoy the show!’ said the bouncer and Matt stepped through the doors and stood at the back of a huge horseshoe of tiered seating that reminded him from his history lessons of a Roman amphitheatre. At the centre was a relatively small – perhaps five metres wide – slightly raised stage. The entire room was painted black apart from the laughing-mouth logo of The Comedy Store that hung behind the stage.
On the wall were grainy black and white photos of past glories. Comedy Store alumni like Charlie Baker, Alexei Sayle, Arnold Brown, Lee Hurst, Eddie Izzard, Dominic Holland, Jo Brand – it struck Matt as rather old-fashioned that they were mainly men. The air was thick and fuggy from the ligh
ts and the crowd, it smelt of beer and sweat and ladies’ perfume and generally of people determined to have a good time.
‘Please take your seats, the show will start in five minutes,’ came a voice over the PA.
Some of the audience were still in their seats, but most were up at the bar or wandering back, clutching drinks. There were no seats free, so Matt found a piece of wall to lean against and waited for the show to commence.
Pretty soon the lights dimmed, the music started to get louder, building to a crescendo, and the audience started applauding and stamping their feet in anticipation. For Matt it was utterly thrilling. Then through a door at the back of the stage bounded the compere.
‘Welcome back to part two,’ he said grabbing the microphone. ‘Did you have a good break?’
‘Yeeaaaah!’ the audience replied as one. He’d been on for less than a minute and already had them eating out of his hand.
‘I’m glad you had a good break,’ said the compere, ‘because I’m afraid I had a bit of bad news …’
‘Ahhhh!’ said a handful from the crowd. The compere grinned wryly – they knew he didn’t really have any bad news, they knew that they were being pulled into a set-up for a gag but they were more than happy to go along for the ride.
‘Yes, thanks, I appreciate your sympathy. I went to the doctor’s today and complained that I’d been to three other doctors and none of them agreed with his diagnosis. My doctor said, “Wait till the post mortem – they’ll see I’m right!” That’s not good, right?’
The audience rocked back in laughter, then a man in a beer-stained suit appeared with a big tray of drinks and wandered down one of the rows to his seat, handing out foaming pints of beer to his friends as he went. The MC spotted him immediately. ‘Hey! Where’s mine?’ he said to a huge laugh. The guy with the drinks shrugged and tried to get to his seat that bit quicker.
‘Don’t just ignore me! Where’s my drink?’ said the compere. He was determined not to let him off the hook – Matt understood the psychology perfectly. He needed to establish who was in control of the room and deter anyone else from even thinking about wandering around while the other acts were doing their stuff. The guy shrugged again and looked at a loss as to what to say. The audience meanwhile were loving every moment of his embarrassment and were even more thrilled that none of it was directed at them.
