Alanatomy

by Alan Carr

  People say to my mum, ‘Has he changed?’ by which they mean have I become more precious or queenie. But change can be a positive thing too and, do you know what, I hope I have changed. Looking back, I hope I have embraced it, gone with it, run with the ball that Fate has thankfully thrown my way. Inevitably you pick up friends and are put in situations a million miles away from your humble position but that’s okay, as long as you aren’t a dick about it. I once stayed in a hotel that had an honesty bar – an honesty bar, seriously. I said to the hotel manager, ‘So, you help yourself to the drinks and then you put in this box here the money you owe for all your drinks – right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.

  I had never heard of such things, I thought it was a wind-up.

  ‘Come off it, where’s the secret camera?’

  But it was true, apparently in some posh hotels you can help yourself to the drinks and pay what you owe without scrutiny – who knew? I had a vision of me at 4.00 a.m. in the morning, slumped in a chair covered in sick, with red-wine lips, muttering to the night manager, ‘I only had a Ribena.’

  You end up rubbing shoulders with people you would never ever have met on the industrial estates of Northampton. I once had a lunch appointment who cancelled, saying, ‘I can’t make lunch, darling, my friend’s just been assassinated.’ How the hell did I get a friend who knew someone powerful enough to be assassinated! Pre-celebrity lunch cancellations were rooted mainly in the ‘ooh I’ve got a hangover’ camp, or ‘my bus hasn’t turned up’.

  I remain a rock – I’m just good old Alan From The Block – but occasionally it’s important that my friends do realize I’ve changed. I remember meeting up with my nymphomaniac friend, who was making a flying visit to London. Having lunch with him is hilarious but there are three people in our relationship – me, him and Grindr. There it is on the table face up next to his napkin; if you didn’t know him you’d think he had a lazy eye because he will be looking at you with one eye while the other will be checking intermittently to see if there are any potential suitors in the area. God help you if there is – because mid-starter he will be off. Off! He will and does get sex anywhere. I’ve left him from an afternoon of drinks and he’ll ring me up later and say, ‘You won’t believe what happened. I was waiting at the bus stop and then a man in a convertible pulled up and winked at me and I got in the car and we ended up making love. I’ve just this minute arrived back from his penthouse. Fabulous, darling.’ Now that never happens to me – the only time I’ve ever been propositioned is when a tramp grabbed me from behind, pinched my cheek in Manchester’s Piccadilly Gardens and said, ‘Cheer up, Queenie – might never happen.’

  As I was saying, me and my nympho friend were in Balans having a boozy lunch, swigging mojitos and catching up on six months of gossip, when his eye arced down to the screen of his smartphone. His face lit up. ‘Look, there’s a man just off Oxford Street looking for a threesome – oh my God – we’ve got nothing to do after lunch – let’s go for it,’ he said, wolfing down his salad niçoise so fast that I ordered Rennies as an amuse-bouche.

  ‘No,’ I said loudly, ‘I can’t just meet up with strangers and have bloody threesomes – I’m on the telly.’

  He looked at me with genuine pity on his face. ‘Oh.’ And carried on chowing down on his tuna. Oh, and besides, I have a boyfriend, I remembered through the haze of the mojito – I couldn’t possibly.

  Most of the time being famous is a lot of fun – although some of the myths about being famous that I believed when I was growing up have sadly turned out to be just that, myths. Of course, maybe that’s because I’m not famous enough or the wrong type of famous. You don’t get any fashion designers fighting to dress up a chubby homosexual. Yes, I get freebies, but it’s nothing you would actually want and often the ‘gifts’ border on the offensive – teeth whitening, hair plugs, male Spanx, enough! I remember after I had made my television debut my dentist saying to me, ‘Now what are we going to do about these teeth of yours?’ Charming, I thought, what are we going to do about your Crocs and halitosis? But I kept my cakehole shut. My refusal of a free dental makeover may sound ungrateful but I quite like being a work in progress. Not that I’m averse to a freebie, so if you want to send me something free I do have a lovely size 10 foot that would fit in a complimentary Gucci loafer just splendidly, but I won’t hold my breath.

  Mind you, there are several times in the year when I do get freebies which always put a smile on my face. These sporadic gifts often come out of the blue, or should I say into the blue (a little clue there to the sender) and turn up at my house. They are from no other than Aussie poppet and singing-sensation Kylie Minogue. Over the years I have had signed CDs, duvet covers, candles, pillows, T-shirts, posters, calendars and DVDs from the very generous Ms Minogue. I remember the production manager at Chatty Man ringing me up, sounding bemused.

  ‘You’ve had a box of socks arrive.’

  ‘Socks? Who from?’

  There was a rummage and then a ‘Min?’

  ‘Oh, that’s Kylie.’

  ‘Why is Kylie sending you socks?’

  ‘She’s Kylie Minogue, she can do what she wants!’

  Some people have Argos for all their gift ideas – I have Kylie.

  The only time I can think of when I’ve been treated like a superstar is when I was in a gift shop in Aberdeen and the shop owner spotted me and said to just give her the nod if I wanted the shop closed so I could browse in peace, which I thought was really sweet, but when you’ve only popped in to buy a tin of shortbread for your nan, a comedy sporran and a Highland fridge magnet it seemed a lot of faff to deny other shoppers the chance to buy tat. In a way I think I’ve avoided a lot of hassle with the press and stuff by just getting on with it; keeping my head down and not jumping on any bandwagons has saved me a lot of grief. You’ll never find me telling you who to vote for, or march for, it’s none of my business – you do whatever you’ve got to do, my loves, as long as you’re not hurting anyone. I am fully aware that having a television show does not make you the oracle.

  Thinking about it, there was one time when I inadvertently strayed into the harsh media spotlight and actually got myself into a bit of trouble and that was when I dedicated my British Comedy Award to Karen Matthews. Who’s Karen Matthews, you ask, boy, she must be a really special lady for you to honour her with an award dedication on national television. Well, actually Karen Matthews faked her own daughter’s kidnapping, stuck her under her bed and sparked a nationwide search for her in the hope that the general public would donate money to her in pity and give her free shit. It was all very camp and I became a bit obsessed with her; even her toothless ‘Come home, princess’ that she ended her television plea with worked its way into my vernacular. A friend on a rubbish holiday, a family member at work with a hangover, anyone having an awful day, would be greeted with a toothless ‘Come home, princess’ when they rang me up.

  So, I find out that I’ve been nominated for Best Comedy Performance for The Sunday Night Project at the Comedy Awards. This is all very exciting and as it’s televised I go out and treat myself to some nice new clothes to wear. Why I bother getting a nice outfit for the Comedy Awards I will never know. I never learn – every time I go there I end up looking a state, mainly due to the never-ending flow of Pinot; I don’t when I leave the house, I look lovely as I step over my doormat, but it doesn’t last long.

  Everyone gets a bit sniffy about the Comedy Awards as they are so raucous; something outrageous always happens and the next day everyone’s up in arms about the debauched goings-on. They have become the enfant terrible of the award shows and some say rightfully so. No one sets out to be edgy or controversial, it’s just that someone needs to tell the organizers that three bottles of Blue Nun and a family pack of Haribo on each table do not a sit-down dinner make. Waiting for the show to start, you are herded to your table and left to your own devices. There is nothing to do but drink and that’s what everyone normally does. />
  Anyhow, I’m sitting there, Alec Baldwin comes out and opens the envelope and what do you know – he reads out ‘Alan Carr’. Well, I am in shock. I really did not believe I would ever win a Comedy Award and of course I didn’t have a speech prepared. I mumbled something drunkenly, can’t really remember what it was and Alec kindly guided me off the stage.

  Believe it or not, that’s not the worst speech I’ve ever done – check out the National Television Awards 2015. Oh boy, that is a humdinger and it’s not even as if I can blame the alcohol – I was sober as a judge. I genuinely thought Graham Norton or Jonathan Ross would win, but when Mel B opened the envelope it was my name she read out. Again, I had no speech prepared and as I walked up the stairs I couldn’t think of anything, nothing at all. Chatty Man was speechless. All I had in my head was that Mark Ronson ‘Uptown Funk’ tune, going round and round. At the podium, lost for words, I pointed at Dermot and heard the anticipation as the O2 waited for at least one witticism or reference to the night’s proceedings, but nothing came out. In complete fear I performed an excerpt from ‘Uptown Funk’, but it wasn’t ‘Uptown Funk’ at all – it had morphed into the advertising jingle for FunkyPigeon.com. What the hell was I thinking?! It was so embarrassing and I shuffled off.

  Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself – that was 2015, let’s get back to 2008. So I come off stage and then because I am a winner I have to do press. ‘Doing press’ is when you get led into a room full of journalists who ask you a whole load of questions about the night. One journalist says to me, ‘Alan, that speech was a bit rubbish. It’s the Comedy Awards, you’re meant to say something controversial!’

  ‘Oh no, I’m so not controversial.’

  ‘Say something – go on.’

  Hmm! What could I say? ‘Come home, princess’ swam through the Sauvignon Blanc and my eyes lit up. ‘I dedicate my award to Karen Matthews, she’s my inspiration. I would love to meet her one day. Karen, this award is for you.’ Everyone laughed – it was ridiculous, stupid, who in their right mind would dedicate their award to someone like that? I carried on working the room and answered all the questions as best I could and then staggered home, totally oblivious to the storm that was a-brewing.

  The next day I went to meet Justin in Camden and there waiting for me was a scrum of journalists. Now how did they know I would be there? It’s only after recent events involving Justin that this question has raised its ugly head. No one knew I was going to be there, at that place at that time except for me and Justin, but they were waiting for me – strange, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, this didn’t even cross my mind at the time, I just thought that after my win the previous night my star had risen so sharply that from now on I would have a constant swarm of paparazzi every step of the way.

  ‘Do you have anything to say?’ asked one journalist, thrusting a tape recorder into my face.

  ‘About what?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘About your dedication to Karen Matthews?’

  ‘Oh, it was a joke,’ I said. But they kept probing so I dashed into the toilet for some peace and it was only then that I checked my phone and saw numerous missed calls from my agent. He was furious.

  ‘Did you just dedicate your award to a woman who stuck her kid under a bed?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not what you think …’ Still, he wasn’t impressed.

  It all escalated very quickly – I was mentioned on BBC news and I even got a mention on that red stripy thing that travels across the bottom of the screen giving you the most-up-to-date stories. (I don’t know about you but I never seem to catch it at the beginning on those looping news reports – I always get the arse end of the sentence so I’m like ‘Who’s died at the age of 102?’ ‘Who’s resigned for taking part in a sex tape?’ and then I have to wait what seems like for ever for it to snake itself round again.)

  An apology was issued by someone, somewhere – it definitely wasn’t from me, as far as I was concerned I was innocent – but it all calmed down. Apparently an apology makes it all better. The apology even got on the news, I couldn’t believe it. I’d never been the centre of attention like that before, it was all too exhilarating – but as always with news, people naturally moved on to other stories and before you knew it I was chip paper. Still, that was enough for me, I’d had my fill. It was quite a change for me to be seen as edgy or a bit of a loose cannon – it wasn’t really me though, I like the quiet life. One positive that did come from it – and I suppose I must really thank the journalist who caused all the furore – was that the sales of my DVD and book, Look Who It Is, available at all good car boot sales, went through the roof. I guess that old adage is true: ‘All publicity is good publicity.’ I can see now why people like Madonna and Lady Gaga like to create this media storm – the benefits are endless. So there you have it, and if you see me in the coming months at an awards show dedicating an award to Rose West then you’ll know that the sales of this book haven’t been as impressive as one would have liked and someone’s looking for a cheeky boost.

  Being in the limelight, you can see why so many famous people are messed up, or to be more polite ‘have issues’. You spend a worrying amount of time in front of a mirror, in my case a dressing-room mirror. I swear over the years I have seen every wrinkle creep across my face – there are so many now that my face has started to resemble a jigsaw. When you’re not sitting there scrutinizing your reflection, you’re dressed up as someone else, and for someone who has body-image issues and who really – and I mean really – doesn’t like the way they look, the dressing up and being someone else can actually be a blessed relief. But sitting in front of a mirror, whether it’s before Chatty Man or a stand-up show, is an absolute hell for me. I’ve watched myself age before my very eyes and it hasn’t been pretty. So to sit in that make-up chair and become someone else is a real treat and, sad as it seems, I actually get excited about it, especially if they’ve thought about it and there’s a budget. Of course, sometimes there are photo shoots with no budget – I recall one in particular for New magazine where I was dressed as Tippi Hedren and then whipped repeatedly with crows on sticks for a whole afternoon in a Birds pastiche. Don’t ask me why, I have forgotten/blanked it out.

  Heat magazine do great photo shoots and even when my schedule is busy I always make time for them. They are a nice magazine with a heart. There’s none of the malice with them that you get with other magazines – they always put what you say and they don’t twist or manipulate things. They are fully aware that I say enough shit and have enough drunken rants on Twitter to get myself into trouble, thank you very much, without them having to make stuff up. Heat have always been really supportive of me, even when some of the shows I’ve done haven’t started so great; they knew I would get it right and gave me a chance and for that I am thankful. I started dressing up for them – God, I sound like a high-class hooker – with The Friday Night Project and since then I have been everyone; well, it feels like it anyway. I always make time for their Christmas edition where we recreate an iconic celebrity photo and over the years I have been Madonna, Anna Wintour, Paris Hilton, Lady Gaga, Kim Kardashian and let’s not forget Lauren Goodger – do you see that, NO men, and you wonder why I have body issues. Last Christmas I had to recreate Madonna’s fall at the Brits, where I’m sure you can recall she was yanked off the stage by her own heavy-handed minotaur. I spent the whole afternoon dressed as a matador being pulled down some stairs – unlike Madge I had a very comfy crash mat to land on, but still, what a way to spend an afternoon. Heat are so pernickety with the shot being an exact replica that every detail is painstakingly checked.

  ‘Oh, darling, I think her right ankle was just a smidge to the left – could we do it again?’

  ‘Of course,’ I mumbled as I slowly ascended the stairs to await being pulled off (thank you, thank you, get your mind out of the gutter).

  The Kim Kardashian photo shoot was a hoot. We were recreating the selfie of her (I know, that narrows it down), the one where she is wea
ring a very unforgiving white swimsuit showcasing her truly truly scrumptious derrière. This all seems so tame now because since then we have seen every part of Kim, tits, fanny and a very oily arse, but anyway, kids, I didn’t have a time machine so bear with. Anyway, there I was in my Chatty Man dressing room in this tiny swimsuit with a gusset like barbed wire going right up and splitting my difference. As you’d imagine, I felt very exposed and it didn’t help that the dressing-room door had to be held ajar due to the mass of equipment being used. Anyone walking down the corridor could see me and comment – and they did. ‘Disgusting. I’ve seen some sights in my time but that takes the biscuit,’ said Paul O’Grady, mock horrified, with the parting shot, ‘And I’ve worked in a brothel in Manila.’

  I was cross-dressing for Heat even as early as 2006, when they had suggested that me and Justin recreate Abba’s Greatest Hits album cover, the one where they are sitting on the bench, all autumnal, one couple looking pissed off and the others necking like two love-sick teenagers. Justin would be both Agnetha and Bjorn, and I would be Frida and Benny (of course) and we would recreate the scene. It was a lot of fun and after a few goes we found that we had achieved the perfect re-creation, it was spot on. We changed back into our ordinary clothes but just as we were about to step into our waiting taxi we heard the photographer calling us back: ‘Alan, Justin – wait!’ Something had slipped through the net; well, not the net as such, but the knickers. It seems Frida had opened her legs a bit too wide and her/my testicles had come out. Everyone hovered around the computer, giggling and pointing. I don’t know how they could have been seen – on the album cover she has her legs closed tightly and she’s wearing a long skirt, but maybe they do hang low. Anyway, it was all very embarrassing – we were in our own clothes now, our make-up had been taken off and we had another important engagement to go to – the pub probably – and we couldn’t possibly get re-dressed as Abba, so I had the humiliating fate of having my bollocks Photoshopped – don’t worry, reader, it’s not as painful as it sounds. That could have been my first and only full-frontal magazine spread – thank God for the eagle-eyed photographer.