Alanatomy
Page 26
Don’t worry, I am not going to stop you gossiping, it’s just that I want you to all gossip responsibly. I think gossip should be labelled, like food. Seriously, ask yourself when you’re chatting with your girlfriends at your weekly coffee morning, where has this juicy titbit come from? Apply the same thought process that we do with food. Oh, this chicken was corn-fed in a beautiful farm with all its friends in the Cotswolds – oh boy, do I feel good about myself, yum! This gossip is lie-fed and was obtained by doorstepping a pensioner and lying about a serious car accident. Oh, I don’t think I want this gossip now – I’ll pass. This meat came from a puppy farm in Korea – no thank you. This gossip about a pop singer who was involved in a lesbian orgy actually comes from the singer herself because her album isn’t selling very well and it needs a boost. Lovely – very tasty. You get the gist.
Although I can be quite curmudgeonly about social media, I can’t be too down on it; the ability to view snippets of comedy routines or shows on the World Wide Web, and not only to like them but to share them far and wide has given me the opportunity to perform my stand-up all over the world. To be able to travel not only to Europe but to the Middle East and to such far-flung destinations as Australia and New Zealand and for people to know you and to ‘get’ your comedy still to this day blows my mind.
I gigged for the first time in Scandinavia this year, once in Oslo and once in Tromsø in the Arctic Circle, and as the taxi driver collected me from Tromsø airport he asked if I would be doing the TripAdvisor joke. There was me a bag of nerves on the plane, wondering if they would even understand me, and here they were making requests, whatever next. As it happened I had nothing to worry about, the gigs went so well I even got a standing ovation in Oslo. I was soon offered more gigs in such places as Amsterdam, Stockholm, Denmark and Iceland (the country, not Bejam), which made my day.
Travelling is one of my favourite things ever and yet bizarrely I have never been offered a travelogue *cough* sort it out Channel 4. You will often see me whizzing round the hotel’s revolving door at some ungodly hour, anoraked up, compass out, ready to take on whatever a city has to offer. Whilst in Tromsø, seeing the northern lights was right at the top of my to-do list, so after the gig a lovely Norwegian man drove me for an hour even deeper into the Arctic Circle to catch a glimpse of the Aurora Borealis. Frustratingly, we waited nearly an hour in the roadside car park, looking up to the heavens with some other hopeful tourists, but alas the northern lights failed to materialize, not even a little green twinkle from the skies. The temperature dropped to minus ten and regretfully we decided to call it a day, hopped in the car and drove back south. I can’t even take comfort in the photographs, me standing there anxiously in an anorak, cold and uncomfortable in the headlights of a Cortina – it looks like I’m dogging.
The next morning was very weird for me, walking around the city of Tromsø; it’s so small and compact that I soon realized everyone had been to see my gig the night before, not because I am so hugely famous up there, probably more due to the fact that there is nothing really to do once the skis have been popped away for the evening. ‘Hello, Alan’ floated from every car window that passed. People waved at me from across the street. I went into a coffee shop for a much-needed brew and a croissant and I swear the whole shop turned and said, ‘Hello, Alan.’ The waitress behind the counter said, ‘We loved the gig so much and we were all hoping you would come into our coffee shop.’ I thanked her and told her mournfully that after the gig I had waited an hour to see the northern lights but that sadly I hadn’t seen them.
‘It’s only green in the sky,’ she said with a wink, ‘get over it,’ and with that she plopped my croissant down and served the next customer.
Bloody forty, eh? Wait there, I was born in 1976 and this year is … 2016 – yep, I’m forty, goddamn it. Where has the time gone? What have I achieved? Who’s this old bloke in the mirror? Even worse, on the gay scene I have transitioned from ‘twink’ to ‘bear’ in the blink of a jockstrap. But, you know, when you start thinking about how depressingly sad 2016 has been, I just have to thank my lucky stars that I’ve been able to reach forty in the first place. I had always poured scorn on all those people who cried, panicked and froze in fear at reaching forty; get over yourselves, I thought, rolling my eyes as maxims like ‘Life begins at forty’ and ‘Forty is the new twenty’ fell from their mouths. Foolishly, I thought I was immune until my Paul came in one evening the day before my fortieth birthday and found me literally sobbing on the settee, cuddling my dogs and, inexplicably, my neighbour’s dog, Morris, who had somehow got through the fence. A half-empty bottle of gin stood on the table. Yes, the gin had been my tipping point but obviously the fear had been lying dormant – why else would I be sobbing ‘I don’t want to die!’ my face all red and swollen, Morris acting all cool yet still trying to lick off one of my snot bubbles. Paul thankfully sedated me and put me to bed, but do you know what? My fortieth birthday came, hung around for a day and then went – I didn’t die, nothing fell off, nothing prolapsed. In fact, I had a bloody amazing party down in Brighton to celebrate. The theme was ‘Life is a Carrbaret’ (get it?). Think 1920s decadence, Berlin, art deco, The Beautiful and the Damned. Everyone, and I mean everyone, dressed up. It was such a fun night, I even came down the stairs and performed in a bowler hat and suspenders as Sally Bowles to a thrilled/appalled audience – it’s my party and I’ll make people vomit if I want to. Some wit said I was more ‘Silly Bowels’ – but I had them thrown out.
I sort of understand now why people say ‘Life begins at forty’; of course your life doesn’t begin but you MAKE your life begin at forty, you kick-start it. You say, ‘Look, you’re lucky to be here, you’re halfway through – make the rest count,’ and that’s what I’ve been doing. People on social media had been asking me to take my stand-up tour to New Zealand and Australia for the past year and I had been non-committal but now I said to my agent, ‘Book it in – Yap Yap Yap’s going down under, baby.’ I wanted to give something back, so I became the proud patron of Neuroblastoma.org.uk, a children’s cancer charity that is just so brilliant at what it does and it’s my goal to raise its profile and hopefully thousands of pounds to help these poor kids and their families. But hey, don’t worry, I’m not getting all Mother Teresa on your ass, I had some personal ambitions of my own. Glastonbury, arguably the biggest festival in the world, was an itch I had wanted to scratch for ages, and this year let’s just say I scratched at it so much I needed a skin graft – to this day I still don’t think I’m over it. What a weekend. I had done festivals before but only appearing at the Comedy Tent – being ferried there on a milk float, collected after the performance and then driven home – but this time I was to camp over for THREE nights in a tent, with just a groundsheet between me and the mud. Now before Bear Grylls reads this and thinks he’s out of a job, I have a confession: I helicoptered in. Yes, I know, I know, I was a helicopter wanker. My lovely partner had bought the flight for me as a birthday treat. Judge away, call me a wanker if you must, but as I hovered over the miles and miles of traffic jams I was a smug wanker. I tell you, though, the smug look soon left my face as we started our descent. I don’t know about you but I just assumed the helicopter pilot has to hand a whole smorgasbord of knobs and buttons, longitude and latitude statistics, state-of-the-art technology to guide him in, but just as our helicopter began its descent, the pilot squinted, leant forward and said, ‘Keep your eyes open for a windsock.’ What? All you’re looking for is a windsock? Shit! We could land at a car boot sale!
Thankfully it was the right windsock and we landed majestically in a beautiful green field in Somerset. Little did I know it was the last time I would see green that weekend. Everything was brown from then on in. Brown, brown, muddy brown, brown inside the tent, brown outside the tent, everything was brown. As it turned out, it was the wettest, muddiest Glastonbury ever – of course it was, I was going. Did I really expect it to be glorious sunshine? I still had an absolute ball, though of c
ourse, sod’s law, when you are in a state you keep bumping into people you know. One hundred and seventy-five thousand people over 1,100 acres and I run into an electrician who bodged up my wiring three years ago, but anyway, it wasn’t the time or the place. In fact, I saw so many people I knew – Grimmy, James Corden, Niall from 1D – that for me it was like a really muddy works do.
I also met one of the nicest people in showbiz, Dermot O’Leary, who looked the business as always. ‘How are you, buddy?’ he said as he glided over the mud wearing Ray-Bans, a tight T-shirt, beige chinos and miraculously clean Hunter wellies. Beige? Chinos? At a festival? Without a single splatter of mud on them? If I wore them, I’d be caked, I’d look like a skid mark. I’m always envious of Dermot, he is so effortlessly cool – how does he do it? My friend Julie had knocked a pint of cider over my crotch and someone else had accidently tipped a glass of red wine over my obligatory hat, doing nothing to quell the rumours that I was three sheets to the wind. What with the dustman’s jacket and red leggings, people were pointing and screaming at me, thinking one of Mr Eavis’s scarecrows had come to life. Even though me and my three mates and fellow campers, Ross, Elliott and Julie, only saw sunshine the whole weekend between 4.32 p.m. and 4.36 p.m. on the Friday afternoon we had a blast – what an experience. Would I do it again? Never in a million years!
So, it’s time to put the scalpel down, wash your hands clean and replace the sheet over my body. The autopsy is drawing to a close and you’ve pried and poked and inspected my whole body from top to toe as I’ve laid myself out on the slab. I know parts of me like my hips and hairline might not be what they were a few years back but I hope my body hasn’t let you down like it has me – hey, bladder!? This one’s been easier to write in some ways than my first book, Look Who It Is. The memories are fresher so they are easier to remember, and yet writing about television, the hall of mirrors that is celebrity and the whole absurd business that is fame is much trickier. Everyone has their own opinion of these things so it’s hard to pin down, to find a truth that everyone agrees with. My first book was all about my childhood and growing up and it felt secure and solid – it was there, crystallized in Northampton, and all I had to do was chip away and the fond and not so fond memories would ooze out and I could dip my nib in and write away to my heart’s content. This one was a different beast because I’ve been writing in what is in effect ‘real time’. Of the people I started writing about at the beginning of the book, some have died, some have changed from hero to monster, some have gone up (or down) in my estimation and some have disappeared off the face of the earth so it’s hard to know where to anchor yourself. It’s all about perceptions, I guess, and I’m sure in the future I’ll look back at this book and my perceptions will have changed yet again.
And what of the future, as I begin to wade through my forties? As I mentioned, I’ve got a tour of Australia and New Zealand to look forward to and brand-new shows coming out on Channel 4. On top of all that, I’ve just received my American work visa for an exciting new show I’m doing over there – it’s nerve-racking but I feel like I’m at the beginning of an adventure and I wouldn’t want it any other way. So many questions. Will I break America? Will I have a mid-life crisis? Will I write another book? Who knows? Who can we look to who has all these answers?
Wait a minute – I know someone. Get that rumpologist back – tell her to warm up her fingers, I want her to have another go on my arse.
Illustrations
1. Mariah Carey bringing us to our knees
2. Gatwick please, Carol
3. Bubbles get everywhere
4. Taking in the sights of Hanoi
5. Cute! And the puppy’s not bad either
6. No one EVER looks good in a helmet
7. Alan as Jeremy
8. Don’t cluck with me, fellas
9. Lowe limbering up for a Friday Night Project sketch
10. Kim Carrcrashion
11. Bloody minotaurs!
12. JLC and Kanye with me dressed up as a toffee penny
13. AC and JLC
14. Shamone
15. Get your hands Hoff me
16. Lost for words for the first time
17. Hawaii 2014
18. Bev channelling Joan Collins
19. Yes, we wear matching pyjamas – do you have a problem with that?
20. JT and some very unimpressed Irish Setters
21. Our dressing-up box is to die for
22. Our dressing-up box is to die for
23. Paul’s back injury
24. Yap Yap Yap …
25. … at the Hammersmith Apollo
26. My first ever Chatty Man promo as Little Alan
27. Getting my Specstacular started
28. Brucie showing me how it’s done
29. Clay You, Clay Me
30. Taylor Swift blatantly using me to boost her Instagram followers
31. Helping Gaga with her ra-ra
32. Bradley Cooper flirting outrageously with me
33. UnBelieberable
34. Carly looking gorgeous – me and my brother looking like we work at the deli in Morrisons.
35. Silly Bowles
36. Celebrating my 40th with friends
Acknowledgements
Firstly my family: Paul, Mum, Dad, Gary, Carly, Bev, Joyce, Barbara and Ron Drayton.
Everyone at Off The Kerb, especially long-suffering Danny, who has been throughout the writing of this book not only my agent but my wingman, my shrink, my cheerleader, my conscience.
Rowland White, Karen Whitlock and everyone at Penguin.
And of course the people who allow me to keep having these wonderful moments – you!
Pictures Permissions
Alan Carr, Justin Lee Collins and Mariah Carey /EMPICS Entertainment
Alan Carr, Justin Lee Collins and Steven Segal / Ian West / Press Association Images
Alan Carr, Justin Lee Collins and Rob Lowe / Ian West / Press Association Images
Alan Carr as Kim Kardashian / Nicky Johnston / Heat Magazine
Alan Carr as Madonna / Simon Webb / Heat Magazine
Alan Carr, Justin Lee Collins and Kanye West / EMPICS Entertainment
Alan Carr and David Gest / EMPICS Entertainment
Alan Carr and David Hasselhoff / EMPICS Entertainment
Alan Carr collecting his BAFTA / BAFTA / Stephen Butler
Alan Carr and his partner Paul ‘in bed’ / Lorenzo Agius
Alan Carr’s New Year Specstacular 2011 / Open Mike Productions Ltd.
Alan Carr and Bruce Forsyth / Open Mike Productions Ltd.
Alan Carr and Lionel Richie / Open Mike Productions Ltd.
Alan Carr and Bradley Cooper / Open Mike Productions Ltd.
Alan Carr and Justin Bieber / Open Mike Productions Ltd.
Alan Carr and Taylor Swift / Open Mike Productions Ltd.
Alan Carr and Lady Gaga / Open Mike Productions Ltd.
Image Credits
Alan, Justin Lee Collins (JLC) and Mariah Carey: Picture by: EMPICS Entertainment
Alan and Carol Vorderman in a plane: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan’s partner Paul: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan and Paul in Vietnam: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan and his dog Joyce as a puppy: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan and Paul zip-wiring: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan as Jeremy Clarkson: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan, JLC and Steven Segal on the FNP: Picture by: Ian West/Press Association Images
Alan, JLC and Rob Lowe – FNP football sketch: Picture by: Ian West/Press Association Images
Alan as Kim Kardashian © Heat Magazine
Alan as Madonna © Heat Magazine
Alan, JLC and Kanye West on the FNP: Picture by: EMPICS Entertainment
Alan and JLC on the FNP: Picture by: Ian West/Press Association Images
Alan and David Gest – FNP: Picture by: EMPICS Entertainment
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nbsp; Alan and David Hasselhoff: Picture by: EMPICS Entertainment
Alan collecting his BAFTA © BAFTA / Stephen Butler
Alan in Hawaii: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan and his dog on holiday: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan and Paul in bed © Lorenzo Agius
Justin Timberlake and Alan’s dogs: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan and Paul in a photobooth: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan and Paul dressed up: Alan’s personal photographs
Paul’s damaged vertebrae: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan on stage at Yap Yap Yap tour: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan on stage at YYY tour, arms spread: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan as Little Alan on Chatty Man: Alan’s personal photographs
Alan on Specstacular leading a dance routine: Alan’s personal photographs