Here Comes the Clown

by Dom Joly

  I had to fly to Israel to film the aforementioned online poker ad, as this was where the company was based. This was an added bonus for me as I’d never visited the place and really wanted to have a look around. Unfortunately, the feeling wasn’t mutual. At the airport, my passport caught the attention of a very aggressive and suspicious Shin Bet officer. First he spotted that I was born in Lebanon, then he saw my visas to Iran and North Korea . . . the final straw, he was strangely perturbed by the fact that one of my middle names was Romulus.

  ‘Where is this name from?’ he shouted at me in the little room into which I’d been taken.

  ‘It’s from Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome. I was conceived there, room 13, Hotel D’Inghilterra, if you really want to know . . .’

  This was pretty specific detail.

  ‘Is not Arab name?’ shouted the Shin Bet officer.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of . . .’ I said, rapidly losing my cool.

  The officer went through my passport again and stopped on the Iranian visa.

  ‘Why you go to Iran?’ he yelled.

  This was an exact replay of when I’d tried to enter the States and a dim immigration official had become obsessed with this question. Just as in the States, the tone of the question annoyed me so much that I gave them the answer I knew would not help matters.

  ‘I went skiing there . . .’ I said.

  The Shin Bet officer looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.

  ‘Skiing! Skiing! There is no skiing in Iran. You are lying.’

  I took my laptop out and opened my iPhoto. I scrolled down to the section where I went to Iran and started showing the official photos of me skiing in Iran. He pretended not to be interested but I could see that he was utterly fascinated by these holiday photos from the country that so regularly threatened to drive his own into the sea. The Shin Bet man calmed down a little and we started to scroll through my photos as though I was showing them to a relative. When I’d finished he appeared to be content that I had gone to Iran to ski as opposed to undergo intensive training in how to drive Israelis into salt water. He was still not happy about my coming into the country, however. I gave him a fax I’d received from the ad company. It was in Hebrew so I didn’t know what it said, but it was surely proof that I was there for work? It did the job. His attitude totally changed and I was soon allowed in. When I had the thing translated I found out why. The fax informed whomsoever it concerned that I was an international film star of great repute and much acclaimed for my work. I was coming to Israel to do some of this acclaimed work that would only reflect well on the country. There was no mention of the fact that I was going to be dressed in a bathing suit, advertising online poker while being slowly buried up to my neck in a shower of gold coins . . . but I guess that’s advertising for you.

  Filming started on the second series of Fool Britannia, and I decided to concentrate on a single strand and just turn up on autopilot for the rest of the show. In the first series, we’d done something called Half-Time Entertainment, in which I’d come onto the Twickenham pitch at half-time and be introduced as someone who’d won the chance to sing to the crowd. The joke was that I kept missing my cue and having to restart the song while getting more and more irritated. It worked brilliantly. Half the crowd had their heads in their hands while the other half hurled abuse. I loved it because it had scale. We decided that we would make this a regular strand in the second series. I also decided to get rid of all the old characters apart from the vicar and start afresh. I think I knew the second series was going to be a turkey and I’d already subconsciously started to distance myself from it.

  On one of the Half-Time Entertainments we got access to film at the Rose Bowl, home of Hampshire cricket. I was introduced between innings with Slipper, my performing dog. The crew set up an assault course and I ran on in a silver spangly suit with Slipper on a lead. I looked like a cross between Liberace and Desperate Dan, and made an impassioned speech to the crowd about how I’d found Slipper on the streets of Paris and how, over the last five years, we had developed a show together that pushed the boundaries of communication between man and beast. The music started and I let Slipper off the lead, at which point, as arranged, he legged it straight out of the stadium, leaving me to have to mime and act out what he would have done, had he been there . . . The crowd winced in embarrassment for me. I could actually feel their discomfort in the air, it was very curious.

  The Manchester Opera House let me come on before a production of Ghost: The Musical, where I was introduced as ‘The World’s Best Mind Reader’. I did a spiel about how I was going to ‘burgle’ the audience’s minds but that they should not worry, as I would be careful and put everything back . . . I then asked for a volunteer to stand up – a girl in the fifth row did so. I told her to think about where she was born and I would then tell the audience. I proceeded to reel off a never-ending list of places, from Kampala and Ulan Bator to Chipping Sodbury and Kettering, that the poor girl had to shake her head to, one by one. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman in the front row nearly dying of embarrassment . . . for me. I really wanted to let her know that it was OK.

  These moments – plus some great prosthetics from Millennium FX for a strand called Where’s Joly, in which I was turned into a watermelon and a doner kebab (among others) – were fun. For the doner, I was a kebab in a kebab stall. All that was visible of me within the kebab were my eyes when I opened them. I’d watch kids walking past holding their parents’ hands and then suddenly spotting the kebab looking at them. I’d quickly shut my eyes and try not to laugh as they would scream at their parents, ‘Mum, Dad, the kebab was looking at me . . .’ It was funny, but not as good as it should have been. I wanted to do it in some dodgy kebab bar and target drunken midnight customers. This was considered ‘not very ITV’ and so we ended up doing it, rather incongruously, in the middle of the afternoon in a shopping centre in South London.

  The rest of the show was careering towards a brick wall at a hundred miles an hour. They’d even started filming scenes without me actually being there – never a good sign on your own show.

  A series of seriously ill-thought-through and unfunny ‘big’ scenarios had been set up. They were nothing more than bad Beadle pastiches, but without either the budget or the imagination. The lowest moment for me was driving three hours to somewhere in Kent to don a uniform and a false beard and turn up at the end of a terrible hit on some builders and a dog in cement to ‘reveal’ that it was all a big joke. There were about thirty people involved in this thing, from actors to builders, dog handlers to production crew. How had I gone from doing a great show with five people to making a crap one with fifty?

  It reminded me of the great Tom Green talking about the move from his anarchic Canadian low-fi TV show to MTV. He was used to just wandering the streets of Ottawa with one cameraman. Then, when he filmed his first thing for MTV, he described a moment when he looked behind him and saw about forty people following him with clipboards and headphones and all the other pointless paraphernalia of TV overkill. Bigger is not always better. I loved Tom Green – he, Dennis Pennis and Andy Kaufman are my all-time comedy heroes.

  Back in Fool Britannia land, the crap rolled on. I was suddenly in another big set-up in Nottingham involving some girl setting up her sister, who was getting married. A Sacha Baron Cohen wannabe played the part of a wedding planner with an obsession for gay innuendo and smut. I not only had to interview the sister and ask her how she felt, but the only thing I did on the joke was walk in at the end and remove my fake moustache to ‘reveal’ it was me. If there had been a handgun available, I’d have used it.

  The shoot picked up a little towards the end when we filmed at my local festival, Cornbury. This is the sort of family music festival that die-hards would hate. It had cashpoints, fine cuisine, and David Cameron goes every year. It was a perfect place to film. We filmed some stuff with the ASBO vicar. He pretty much wandered around the festival being rude about ev
erything. We did a sketch where a stooge jumped the line at a Portaloo and the vicar knocked him over in an apoplectic fit of rage while others in the line watched in astonishment. The problem was that loads of people were recognising the vicar so, by the third take, we had about fifty people seated opposite the Portaloo, munching on sandwiches and drinking wine as though an audience at a show. Flattering as this was, it really didn’t help with secret filming, especially when they all decided to applaud after every tipping of the Portaloo.

  The highlight of Cornbury was a failed attempt on the prime minister, my old mate ’Dave’ Cameron. As I was walking towards our next location, I spotted the PM entering a tent selling silly hippy hats, with one of his kids. I gestured to the cameraman that I was going in. I tapped Cameron on the shoulder and he turned round . . . Just as I was about to launch into some patter, I was grabbed from behind and hurled out of the tent by his impressively vigilant security team. It appeared that Fool Britannia was on the viewing schedule in Number 10, as they recognised the vicar much earlier than most members of the public who watched in confusion as the PM’s bodyguards roughed up a vicar. It would have been a great publicity coup for the show, but it was not to be. Later that evening I was disguised as a new character, after two hours of prosthetics – that of a dodgy-looking roadie. The organisers had given us permission to wander on stage before the band Keane’s set and start reading out terrible poetry on the main mike. At the allocated time, I approached the stairs leading up to behind the main stage while being followed by a camera crew when David Cameron’s security team once again grabbed me. He was about to introduce Keane and nobody had told them about my appearance. Cameron had to wait in the wings while I did my shtick . . . which was nice . . . I don’t think we’re destined ever to be good buddies.

  With filming coming to an end, I pretty much left ITV to do with the show whatever it was that they felt it needed. I had given up, thrown in the towel, waved the white flag. Fittingly, I flew to France and holed myself up in an old manor house in the Ardèche. All I could do was wait . . . and fight the curious French law about having to wear Speedos in public pools. The first news was encouraging. ITV had decided to drop the canned laughter. Maybe the fact that long-dead people would no longer be laughing at inappropriate and oddly jarring moments might save the series? But then it was decreed that there would still be a voice-over and that, despite my mass audience-alienating posh voice, I was to do it. I knew things were on the slide. When I finally got back after a blissful month off with my family, it was time to watch the off-line cuts. It was a mishmash of ideas, styles and jokes. It sort of had something for everyone, but nothing for me. It was comedy by committee . . . Exactly what comedy should never be.

  I had a little screening party for the first show of the second series at home in the Cotswolds. There were about twenty-five people crammed into my TV room. As the show went out, I knew it was doomed. The kids laughed at the visual jokes, but the chatty stuff left them cold, while the adults tried not to be rude about the sub-Beadle elements that the kids neither understood nor much cared about. I stopped watching the series by the third show, something I’d only ever done with the horrific US version of Trigger Happy TV. I may have made politically bad decisions at the BBC but at least I’d liked the shows I was making, and that, I’ve come to learn, is pretty much all you can hope for in the roller-coaster ride that is television.

  Three weeks later I got a call from a couple of young Americans. They were interested in optioning a new series of Trigger Happy TV in the States. ‘We all loved that show, man. We love it and we really want to make some new shows out here. Are you interested?’ I was interested. I started jotting down ideas and they began to pour out uncontrollably. I soon had pages and pages, and they made me laugh – really laugh. I got excited. Then we started talking business and I remembered why America was a nightmare. They sent their ‘deal’ through. I didn’t get much past the paragraph that said I’d have to pay for my own flights and accommodation. This was taking the piss, and I sent them packing. It was time to take control and head off to do my own thing – right or wrong.

  So that’s what I’m off to do next. I’m going to have a crack at cracking America. I’m off in search of my second act . . . or is it my third . . . or fourth? I have no idea. I’ve lost count. But whatever, it’s in the USA, it’s television and I’m in control – what could possibly go wrong?

  Epilogue

  Oh God, an epilogue. Who reads epilogues? You should read this one, though – it’s full of lots of bitty things that I couldn’t fit into the rough timeline of this book. Seriously, stick with it.

  Here’s my Top Five Most Embarrassing Moments in Showbiz . . . so far.

  1. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. I was watching a Danny Boyle movie called Millions the other night. There is a scene in the film in which Jimmy Nesbitt is watching Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and getting all the answers right. His character’s kids tell him that he should go onto the show, as he would win a million quid. A cold shiver rocketed down my spine. I’d always quite fancied myself on this show. At home I would also sit and answer all the questions while pooh-poohing thick contestants getting the obvious answers wrong. In 2014, I was asked whether I’d like to take part in a celebrity charity episode? I agreed and suggested that I take part with Jimmy Nesbitt, a friend and a smart man to boot. It was only when we turned up on the night in question that we realised that this was to be the last ever show with Chris Tarrant and that subsequently there would be more than a little extra scrutiny of the show. Jimmy was nervous but I was feeling quietly confident, which always comes before a fall. We’d struggled for ages to find three good, varied Phone-a-Friends and had only confirmed the third about half an hour before recording. We tried to josh about with the other contestants – Sir Chris Hoy (seriously nice man) and Kevin Bridges, one of the Hairy Bikers and Rachel Riley, but everyone was too busy worrying. Finally, we were taken onto the set and Jimmy and I did a run-through in which we did very well. I came off feeling much happier but Jimmy was still nervous. Then we found out that we were to be the first pair on and things started to get serious. Twenty minutes later and we were introduced to the audience and came on to sit on the slightly awkward stools in that very familiar studio. The moment the music started, everything went weird. It was like the first time I’d done Have I Got News for You – everything suddenly became way too real. Instantly, you had zero confidence in your answers and paranoia set in, with you starting to see a trap in every answer. I can’t remember the first couple of questions, but they were the type that were so easy you went blank for a moment. Nevertheless, we managed to get through to the first barrier – the grand – and I answered a question about what county Bishop’s Stortford was in. I knew it was Hertfordshire, as it was near my old school, but started having ridiculous doubts. It was crazy how your mind started playing tricks on you. We began to settle down and even had a Chris Tarrant chat, in which he asked how Jimmy and I knew each other. He then asked us what our weak areas might be. I said that mine was sport but that Jimmy was excellent in that area. I was looking forward to mentioning to Tarrant that I’d tried to teach his ex-wife to snort vodka through a straw but decided to save this nugget until later. We cracked on and answered two more questions correctly. We were now doing OK and concentrating on getting to the fifty-grand mark which meant that, whatever happened, you went home with that. We hadn’t used any of our lifelines. Things were looking good. Then up came the sport question. It was about who had held an Olympic record for the longest. I didn’t have a clue, but was drawn to Steve Cram. Before I could say anything, Jimmy whispered that he felt it was Steve Cram. This was a good sign and we started to think about going for it. Suddenly Jimmy got cautious. ‘Shall we go fifty–fifty?’ he said. For some reason I said, ‘No, let’s go for it.’ Greed is not good in this situation. Jimmy went, ‘Steve Cram. Final answer,’ and suddenly everything changed. The lights in the studio dimmed, lasers pointed accusingly and Chri
s Tarrant was going, ‘I’m sorry, but it’s the wrong answer . . . It’s Jonathan Edwards . . .’ and we were being ushered out, walking the long walk of shame, unable to believe that we’d screwed it up without even using a lifeline. Jimmy and I could barely look at each other. Even worse, we now had to sit on a sofa and watch the other contestants and pretend to be supportive. Every time the cameras were not on us we would whisper to each other, ‘I can’t believe it.’ Jimmy looked like he was catatonic. On the screen in front of us, Sir Chris Hoy was doing really well and we had to pretend to clap and look happy. Then, at the fifty-grand question, Hoy and Bridges screwed up and went back down to a grand with us. Jimmy and I both pretended to look really heartbroken for them but the moment the cameras were off us, Jimmy whispered, ‘That’s got us off the hook . . .’ It was so wrong but that’s exactly how we felt. Thankfully for us, but not for charity, the Hairy Biker and Rachel Riley also crashed and burned. A terrible night for worthy causes but slightly less embarrassing for us, so that was OK then . . .

  2. Let’s Dance for Comic Relief. I’m friends with a lovely girl called Georgie Hurford-Jones, who worked for Simon Cowell in LA. Georgie had two sisters, who were both in telly back in the UK. One day, one of the sisters asked for a meeting. We met up, only for me to find out that she was trying to persuade me to take part in Let’s Dance for Comic Relief, a show that she was producing. I immediately said no. I was an ex-Goth, and dancing was pretty much my least favourite thing to do in the world. Then they pulled out the trump card: ‘We thought you might like to do “U Can’t Touch This” by MC Hammer.’ I stopped protesting for a second. I could see a way out of this. I remembered the video in which ‘Hammer’ wore the most ludicrous baggy trousers. If I could get the costume woman to make me baggy trousers so big that I couldn’t actually dance in them, then it would not only be funny but would solve my non-dancing problem. So, after a little more prompting, I agreed and I started getting a guy from the show coming down to my house three times a week to teach me the moves. I went through the motions of learning but a) I can’t dance and b) I knew that I had my humungous-trousers-get-out-of-jail-free card. I’d rung the costume lady and told her my requirements and she seemed absolutely down with it – all was in hand. Three weeks later and the big day came. I was going to be dancing live on national TV. I should have been crapping my pants, but I hadn’t put them on yet. We were filming at Ealing Studios and I got there late afternoon, had a look round, listened to the run-through and then set off to find the wardrobe lady. When I got there she was in good spirits. ‘I’ve had so much fun making these, they’re so funny . . .’ She brought them out and there was total silence. The trousers were silky and shiny and slightly less baggy than the ones that MC Hammer had used. They were very danceable in, and not even that ludicrous. I was screwed. It was too late to do anything. I was dancing live in front of the nation in two hours’ time. Now, normally in these kinds of showbiz stories, one pulls oneself together and pulls it out of the fire at the last second. Not me. I can vividly remember an out-of-body experience when I was standing behind the screen with my backing dancers as Claudia Winkleman announced, ‘. . . And now, dancing live before the nation, Dom Joly as . . . MC Hammer . . .’ The screen went up and I half-jogged on and desperately tried to remember how the dance was supposed to go. The audience was stony silent – it was as though they were watching an execution. I jumped around in the manner of a man being electrocuted and longed for the track to end. I was sweating, I was dying live on air . . . When it was finally over, there was hardly a sound from the audience, the judges were embarrassed, I was embarrassed, MC Hammer was probably embarrassed. When the public votes came in, I was first out. This was actually a relief to me, as the idea of having to do it again was unthinkable. I was aware, however, that normally the comedy act goes through whatever. This was Comic Relief after all – just dress as a woman and you’re through. Not me . . . The public had wisely seen no redeeming feature. I still sometimes wake up at night and hear the words ‘Stop . . . Hammer Time . . .’