by Alan Carr
Eventually he was pulled off me and the producer said we should all take a break. I retired to one side of the studio, well away from him. He went to the other side, out of breath after his ‘performance’. I didn’t trust him any more. We then got another mood, this time insular, and he became so withdrawn that we couldn’t get any performance out of him – the day was truly turning out to be a roller-coaster ride on every level. We decided to adapt the show to make it more Barrymore-friendly. Due to the mysterious death five years earlier of Stuart Lubbock in Michael Barrymore’s swimming pool, the popular item ‘Ask Me Anything’ where the audience had free rein to literally ask the guest host anything, had to be renamed ‘Ask Me “Almost” Anything’ – we couldn’t take any chances and the audience were asked to censor the questions a little bit for sensitive reasons. I dreaded to think what he would do if an audience member upset him; he tried to kill me and all I did was dress up as Nancy Dell’Olio.
To be fair, he was great on the show – he loved being the guest host and it must have been nice for him to be the centre of attention again, lapping up the applause and bathing in the genuine warmth people had for him. He had got his sparkle back and it was lovely to see. I, however, was on a knife edge – I couldn’t really relax. We got to part four and I thought, thank God, we are out of the woods – where’s the bar? Part four always had a game show vibe going on where a lucky member of the audience could win a big cash prize. As homage to Barrymore we had recreated the Strike It Lucky set – but instead of a ‘Hot Spot’ (‘What’s a hot spot not? A good spot.’ Apologies to anyone under thirty who will have no idea what I’m wittering on about!), one of the Cheeky Girls would pop her head through. (We ended up working with Monica and Gabriela Cheeky loads – whenever The Friday Night Project needed a celebrity and fast, we would give the Cheeky Girls a call and they would do it for fifty quid and a hot meal. Sorted.) So, to recap, when the contestant got a question wrong, the Cheeky Girl would pop her head through with a cry of ‘Cheeky, cheeky!’ So far, so good. Anyhow, the contestant was upbeat and we were close to getting them a large sum of money to go home with – the crowd was buzzing and no one had been attacked or assaulted. Everything was going swimmingly – until Michael had one of his funny turns. The contestant got the question wrong and one of the Cheeky Girls stuck her head through the hole in the wall and cried, on cue, ‘Cheeky, cheeky’ – well, Michael just glazed over, walked up to her, put his hands round her head and tried to pull her through the hole! Proper yanking!! She was croaking ‘Help!’ and he yanked harder. I was screaming, ‘Help, help – he’s trying to murder a Cheeky Girl!’ The Cheeky Girls are tiny, but even they couldn’t fit through a hole the size of a cat flap. Thankfully, the floor manager came over and subtly took Michael away by the elbow; I think poor Monica got an extra fiver for her trouble.
Love. Oh, love. Whilst living in Manchester, I had actually given up on finding love and bizarrely I’d been looking forward to my single future. I had it all planned. When The Friday Night Project came to an end I would up sticks and travel the world doing my main job, stand-up comedy, living the single life, doing what I wanted to do, being one of those confident people you see sitting alone in the window of restaurants, on their laptop or reading a travel guide, shamelessly content in their solitude. That would be me. Maybe I’d grow some dreads, who knows, but I would travel the world defiantly alone.
Love had evaded me. I’d been mistakenly told that fame is an aphrodisiac and that people, albeit shallow ones, would basically throw themselves at you and sleep with you just to say that they had slept with someone off the telly – I couldn’t wait. Well, I had to wait, and wait and wait. I’d had my moments – look, I’d been living in Manchester, a twenty-minute stagger from Canal Street, and even the Elephant Man could get a quick shag on Canal Street – but there comes a time when you want something more. I was bored of doing the walk of shame, all those mornings trying to find my way out of the students’ hall of residence, pushing open endless fire doors, a curling ‘shag tag’ dangling off my tit. I’d even started having an on-off relationship (mainly ‘off’) with a bloke in the army, a rear gunner no less (I know, I know). I tried to make it work but you know when you’re forcing something so badly it just doesn’t click and then you start changing yourself, which never bodes well. Looking back, I could kick myself for compromising myself so badly. I was such a doormat I might as well have had WELCOME branded on my forehead.
I wondered whether London would bring me love and, as it happened, it did. I had been at Antony Cotton’s birthday party on Canal Street and had made friends with the actor Scott Neal and his partner Philip. We’d hit it off and soon became and still are firm friends. Well, now it was Scott’s birthday and he was throwing a party at a private members’ bar, Century. I nearly didn’t go, I was in such a foul mood. Scott and Phil always look the business, so well-groomed, whereas me, I’m happy mooching around in a slanket and a headscarf, and if I can finish off this little ensemble with a carrier bag then BOOM! I am ready to rock and roll. But in preparation for the party I treated myself – got some suitably overpriced slacks, loafers and a dark blue Prada V-neck and shirt – and when I looked in the mirror I couldn’t help thinking that I looked presentable, yeah, just presentable. I saw I had a couple of minutes for a cuppa so that’s what I did, I made myself a refreshing brew, but then – disaster – I spilt it right down my crotch. I screamed and ripped my trousers off and my underpants. My genitals were on fire! I ran to the bathroom and basically limbo-ed under the cold tap. Due to my scalding I was now late, so in a dash I put on some new trousers, replaced my soggy loafers and walked out of the door, scowling at the kettle. It was only when I was coming out of the Tube and caught my reflection in one of those giant mirrors they have on the stairs – you know, the ones that look like a Cyclops’ contact lens – I saw that my complete outfit was the exact same as a Tesco uniform. It was the spitting image – the blue V-neck, the shirt, even the slate trousers I’d thrown on, right down to my sensible black pumps. All I needed was an ‘Alan Carr – Here to Help’ badge and I could have slipped into a Tesco Metro and masqueraded as an employee without anyone blinking an eye. Why Tesco? At least if it had been Sainsbury’s I would have had a bit of orange, which would have been ideal – warmer hues were in that summer of 2009.
Anyway, I digress. I was naturally disheartened and felt like going home, but I resisted turning round and carried on to the party instead. And I’m glad I did, it was a great party only slightly spoilt by someone asking me if I could give them a hand packing, but nevertheless a good time was had by all.
The party got even better when I saw this tall, dark and handsome man walk in. For me it was love at first sight, and I’ve never had that feeling before. There was a twinge in my pants, but then again it might have been the PG Tips still smarting. Scott introduced him to me. His name was Paul and he was dressed in the strangest of attire but then I suppose I couldn’t really start dishing out fashion advice when I looked like I worked in a supermarket. I’m used to Paul’s fashion sense now but at the beginning it was a huge eye-opener. How can I put this nicely? He would give Su Pollard a run for her money but strangely it works – I think because of his height and good looks he can sort of carry it off, whereas if I start wearing garish clothes, glitter, tassels and heavy prints I look like a three-piece suite.
Anyway, I left the party with a spring in my step and I couldn’t stop thinking about him – I actually had butterflies. Normally ‘self-loathing’, my one and true constant friend, would rear its ugly head and mutter in my ear ‘as if anyone is going to be interested in you’ or start sucking its teeth with an ‘oh pleeeeeaaassee’. But it didn’t. It felt different and I know now, seven years down the line, that it was different.
I got Scott and Philip to organize a dinner and then to casually invite Paul along too. They went for the Wolseley, next door to the Ritz in Mayfair. Now this restaurant is old school and very, very classy; elderly ladies wi
th trilbies on their heads and fox furs round their necks go there – you get the gist. It’s also great for celeb spotting, but just the spotting; try to shove a selfie stick up Sir Michael Caine’s trouser leg and you’ll be out. We had a delicious meal, conversation was sparkling and the wine just right – so how the hell did we end up in Vauxhall’s Fire nightclub at three in the morning?
In case you’re not familiar with Fire, let me fill you in. If you were to drive through Vauxhall on a Monday morning you could be forgiven for thinking they were filming a remake of The Plague of the Zombies – they’re not, that’s just chucking-out time at Fire. I had to drive in early one Monday to do a sketch for my New Year’s Specstacular at London Studios and I kid you not, as I drove through Vauxhall I put the security lock on my car because there were so many people stumbling and mumbling and falling over. Some were in a K hole, others were in a sinkhole. I genuinely thought it was a Zombie Apocalypse.
Fire is Sodom and Gomorrah with a disco ball, and it’s a lot of fun. It’s a huge mega club, with nooks and crannies everywhere. It’s very cruisey, and I don’t mean people are playing quoits, if you see what I mean. In most nightclubs if you lose your friends you cast your eye over the dance floor; in Fire you’re peeping through glory holes – ‘Morris, are you in there? Coo-ee, Morris.’ (Names have been changed to protect the innocent.)
I can’t tell you what happened in the club the night I went with Paul, not because it’s too debauched or racy and I don’t want to spoil my family entertainer persona, it’s just that I can’t remember. I couldn’t have made too much of a tit of myself because we are still together, but what a place to end up after such a sophisticated start to an evening. I had been there before – ‘Oh, here we go,’ you cry, ‘one minute you’re gasping about how cruisey it is and now you admit you’ve got a loyalty card! Ha!’ No, I’d been there once before with my nymphomaniac friend from up north who comes down every six months to see me – hang on, who am I trying to kid, he comes down to shag fresh meat, and maybe see me for a cuppa and then disappear up north again. He’d rung me up and said he wanted to go on a night out but as I don’t go out I was flummoxed – where did gays go out these days? I approached some of the homosexuals in the office, picking their brains on where to go. I helpfully suggested Heaven but they looked at me as if I had suggested Nigel Farage’s house.
‘Oh no, honey, all the gays go to Vauxhall.’ They actually pronounced it VOHO – great, I’m so out of touch I don’t even know how to say words any more. So I told my mate the plan and we went to Vauxhall, and after a right old laugh and few bevvies in the Vauxhall Tavern we went to Fire. The laughter soon stopped when I was barred from entering.
‘It’s Scally Night,’ I got told by the doorman. ‘Scallylads’ – I’d heard of ‘scally’ on the streets of Stretford when I lived up there and its definition was definitely a grey area; you would be given very mixed messages about what it actually meant – one minute you’d be told it meant cheeky chappy, like ‘scallywag’, and the next it was a derogatory name for a homosexual. I couldn’t keep up. Anyway, that night in Vauxhall it meant a homosexual scallywag.
‘Why aren’t I allowed in?’ I protested. I had some lovely brogues on and a nice Diesel shirt, and this blazer weren’t cheap either.
‘It’s council house chic tonight – only scallies allowed,’ said the doorman as a skinhead with a facial tattoo in a white shell suit got whisked past me like Angelina Jolie at the UN. My friend looked crestfallen but thankfully someone in the cloakroom recognized me and we were begrudgingly allowed to enter. I tried to fit in and harness my inner scally, so like Madonna I reinvented myself. I ditched the blazer in the cloakroom, dirtied up my brogues and accessorized with an Aldi bag – voila! One scally to order. Once in I noticed to my dismay that the bar prices certainly weren’t council house prices – fifteen quid for a gin and tonic! How much?! I baulked so much my rollie nearly fell out of my mouth. I felt like shouting at the barman, ‘Where’s your council house – Monte Carlo?!!’ but I didn’t. I bit my tongue and we grabbed our drinks and headed to the dance floor, which was so full of people in Kappa shell suits that you could hardly hear the music over the rustle. What can I say, it’s council house chic, darlings!
Anyway, enough of the ins and outs of Vauxhall gay hot spots and back to the ins and outs of my heart. Aww bless, the initial date had been a success and I was hoping and praying that ‘date’ would become ‘dates’. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait too long. The Wolseley was a treat and an excuse to get dressed up and be a bit frivolous, but for the second date it was back to normal – a Thai meal on the Harrow Road and a bottle of cheap booze, then a stagger home, you know, what life would REALLY be like if we did get together. What I found a bit of a struggle was the fact that he wanted to stay in the morning – actually wanted to stay. I had always rolled my eyes at those rom-coms where the morning after the night before the lovesick heroine has rolled over to find the other side of the bed empty and the shag from the night before making eggs in the kitchen, kettle brewing – ‘Did you sleep well, honey?’ Well, that romantic bullshit was Hollywood, while I was in the very real Holloway and that kind of thing did not happen to me. More often than not I’d be woken up by my date from the night before yelling at a taxi company, ‘Can’t you get here any quicker?!’ or, worse, they’d be in the bathroom jet-washing their crotch. Paul, on the other hand, wanted to stay – he even suggested going to a pub for a Sunday lunch. I tried not to look shocked. Yeah, that would be nice. Look at me having a normal life, doing what normal people do.
However, the normality of dating didn’t last long, oh no. On our third date we went to Vegas, baby. Look, I know it sounds decadent and fabulous (and yes it was!), but let me explain. Me and Justin Lee Collins always used to go on holiday together – always. As soon as a series of The Friday Night Project was finished, the very next morning, often still drinking from the previous night’s wrap party (I know, naughty boys), we would go off on holiday. We tentatively started with a cheeky weekend break in Blackpool, thinking that just because we got along on-screen didn’t mean that chemistry would overlap into our free time, and my free time is precious. So we decided to test out our showbiz friendship within the British Isles, thank you very much. As it happens we had nothing to worry about, we got on just as well riding the Big One together as sitting on the sofa. With complete relief we left our TV cares behind us and took in all the sights.
My personal Blackpool highlight was seeing a magic show at the Winter Gardens where an escapologist was slowly being lowered towards a water tank. We watched with bated breath as he was lowered down, hands and feet tied together with rope. At first I thought the struggling was part of the act, but when I saw a stain like the outline of Turkey appear on his crotch and the trickle of urine down his leg I realized that actually it was going wrong. My suspicions were confirmed when the lights came up and a smattering of stagehands came to his assistance. With an embarrassed look on his face and a swish of his cape he shuffled off – only in Blackpool could you see an escapologist piss themselves live on stage.
After our holiday trial period, our breaks away became more far-flung and soon Justin and I were flying together to New York and Miami and, for a complete change, a tiny island off Italy called Ischia. Ischia is authentically Italian – tavernas, churches, old humpbacked women dressed in black and repeat. That’s basically the beauty of Ischia, so as you might expect its outlook borders on the conservative. I tried to tone down my demeanour, tamed my mincing leg and brought my voice down an octave or two – well, until I saw a lizard, but hey, I tried. Justin, however, is the most tactile person you could ever meet, and his touching is not gender specific either; he will pinch my arse, hold my hand, get me in a headlock – I was actually worried at one point that he was going to be gay-bashed.
Anyhow, eager to organize our next holiday together, we had settled on Vegas. The tickets had been booked, the dollars were waiting at the bureau de change, and the
inflight magazine was ready for us to paw as the plane took off. But, alas, it wasn’t to be Viva Las Vegas for poor old Justin, who as well as doing The Friday Night Project was also taking part in Channel 4’s TV show The Games.
The Games was a sports reality game show where down-on-their-luck celebrities participated in a series of sporting tasks like weightlifting, diving and shit – just picture the Priory having a sports day. Sorry if I’m vague but I don’t watch any sport-themed shows on telly; in fact to sit through one I’d have to be the one taking the performance-enhancing drugs. Anyway, that’s what Justin was doing. God knows how he got roped into it because he’s hardly the sportiest person himself, but anyway, that’s between him and his agent. Justin ended up puncturing his ear drum after diving off a diving board into the pool, which still perplexes me because he was hosting the bloody show not participating in it! At first, it just seemed like an unfortunate accident but we soon realized that he wouldn’t be able to fly. A punctured ear drum is painful enough but a sudden change of cabin pressure on an aircraft could make it unbearable. Poor sod, he was gutted. I felt really bad for him. We’d really looked forward to getting away and because of this it looked as if I would be heading to Las Vegas by myself, like a complete saddo.
I was determined I wasn’t going to go there alone, so I umm-ed and ahh-ed about whether or not to ask Paul. Would it look weird? Would it look like I was trying too hard? We weren’t actually together, together – we’d only had two dates. Well, after a deep breath I asked him and he accepted in a flash (of course, knowing Paul as I do now, there is no way he would turn down a free holiday – even if Hannibal Lecter had invited him along; if it was free, he’d go). So, this might sound harsh but while Justin lost his hearing, I gained a boyfriend (okay, I admit that does sound harsh).
