The gig was unremarkable, and for only a handful of Liverpudlians; however, Adrian subsequently asked me if I wanted to host his Twickenham club. He thought I was good at talking to the audience and could jovially move the show along. I enjoyed hosting – there was less pressure on me to be funny. I could relax and get useful stage time between acts. I jumped at the chance. This meant that every Saturday night I was the compere.
I had developed about ten minutes of material that was working at the Laughing Club week in, week out. My year-long wait for my open spot at Jongleurs Camden was now nearly over, and I was well prepared. When I had played the Comedy Store the previous year with such mixed fortunes, I was so raw, I had no idea what I was doing. Now I had an act. I had jokes that I had performed every week for months, and they worked. I felt confident this time. I called them to confirm my booking, on my Dial-a-Mobile Nokia 3310 off-peak using my free minutes, and to my horror they told me they had given my spot to someone else.
‘Why?’ I asked frantically, having waited a year.
‘We didn’t have your number,’ the lady from Jongleurs said.
‘That’s because I’ve changed phone. Unfortunately I couldn’t keep my old number with my new Nokia 3310, but I did get free weekend calls, 400 free minutes per month and a free in-car charger. I need this open spot – I’ve been waiting a year for it.’
‘We tried for ages to get hold of you,’ she said nicely, ‘but nobody knows who you are. Nobody has ever heard of you. We presumed you weren’t doing stand-up any more. I’ll see what I can do.’
She was lovely and squeezed me back on to the bill. The incident made me more determined. I had no standing in the industry whatsoever. Over a year had passed since my first gig, and nobody knew who I was.
It was Saturday night, the best night of the week for comedy. Friday nights can be a bit rowdy, the audience have been working all week and tend to drink too much. But on a Saturday night people are relaxed and in a good mood. I was too. I had been getting laughs with my jokes from an audience of about fifty people in my Twickenham club. Now I had an audience of five times that, so I figured I should get five times the number of laughs. This was simple mathematics, a welcome change from working out how much petrol I had in the car.
I was due on in the second half, so I settled back and watched the acts in the first half. These were well-known circuit comics who made a decent living from stand-up. Watching them gave me more confidence. They were getting a terrific response, but I felt that my jokes were just as good.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Michael McIntyre.’ I strode purposefully on to the stage hell-bent on making sure that in ten minutes’ time Jongleurs wouldn’t have to phone around to find out who I was.
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t want any trouble here tonight, I’m not hard, I don’t have the accent for it. When I try to sound threatening it sounds more humiliating, I said, hamming up my posh accent. ‘Come on then, if you think you’re hard enough.’ It sounds more like a homosexual invitation.‘You, me, outside now … it’s a lovely evening, let’s take this alfresco on the veranda. Do you want some? Do you want some? … Nibbles, they’re divine.’
Comedians have traditionally made jokes about the Irish, saying they’re stupid, and I would like to say that I totally disagree with this. I’ve been to Ireland, I’ve met a lot of Irish people, I found them charming and wise. Although you can’t ignore all the evidence. The fact is they live on an island and called it Island and then spelled it wrong.
I had an amazing gig, much better than at the Comedy Store, by far the best gig I’d had so far. It was exhilarating; the audience erupted when I left the stage. I was walking on air when I returned to the tiny, quite grubby dressing room. Before I could catch my breath, the door burst open and a confident, stocky man with a hint of a Welsh accent cornered me. ‘You were good, you were really good, I think you could be the best there is. The very best, that’s how good I thought you were. Do you understand what I’m saying? You could be outstanding, unbelievably good.’
He thrust a card in my direction. It read: ‘Paul Duddridge, Artist Management’. He was an agent. This was beyond my wildest dreams for that night. I just wanted to get re-booked at Jongleurs.
‘Call me!’ he said.
I couldn’t believe it. This was momentous. I chatted to the other comedians, who all endorsed him as a top comedy agent. He wanted to be my agent. Me! I sold mobiles for a living and hosted a weekly comedy night in Twickenham for fifty people. I’m moving into the big time.
I raced home in my Austin Metro and into Kitty’s arms, clutching the now sweaty business card.
‘It went so well, it was amazing, the best night ever, and this agent gave me his card. I think I got an agent, he said I could be the best. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.’
I showed Kitty the business card. I loved the words ‘Artist Management’. I was an artist now. I knew it.
Kitty and I sat on the sofa in the living room (although after thirty seconds, it was a bed), talking late into the night. She told me how she never doubted me and how proud she was. Although it had seemed like a tough year, it had only been one year, that’s nothing. Watch out Jimmy Carr and Daniel Kitson, I’m coming! Hannah Chambers made a mistake turning me down, because I’m an artist, an artist with management.
I’m not a Marks & Spencer pullover, I am a Marks & Spencer smoked salmon parcel.
Within days I had a meeting with Duddridge at his offices in Barons Court. He was an amazingly impressive character with strong philosophies on the comedy business. I couldn’t really take them all in, but they all sounded wonderful. He said that if I did everything he said, I would be successful. He was like a comedy guru, a life coach, focusing on the mental side of things. He used a lot of proverbs such as ‘You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink’, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’, ‘Act like a king to be treated like a king’, ‘Lie down with dogs and wake up with fleas’.
I couldn’t follow everything, but there was no doubt he was an inspirational orator. I felt uplifted and ready to rule the world.
‘Don’t make a decision now,’ he said ushering me out, ‘have a think about it, then call me.’
Driving home, my head was buzzing with his voice. When I got home to Kitty, I tried to remember some of the stuff he had said.
‘How did it go, Michael? Tell me everything!’ she asked, as I came through the door.
‘Well, he said lots of stuff. He’s an amazing character; he was like a motivational speaker.’
‘But can you remember anything he said?’ she pressed.
‘Err, something about a king being taken to water … and lying down with your enemies’ dogs … I don’t remember exactly.’
‘What are you talking about, Michael?’
‘He said I need to wake up and drink fleas.’
‘What?’
‘You had to be there. You’re going to love him. He’s a successful agent, he really believes in me. I’ve got to go for it, right?’
Early the next day I called him, and he became my first agent. I waited until 6 p.m., off-peak, and used my free minutes to phone in my resignation to Dial-a-Mobile, and went out for a celebratory dinner. This was the beginning. I knew it. Within days things started to change for the better. The best news of all was that I was being fast-tracked by the mighty Jongleurs empire. A combination of my successful open spot at Camden and the clout of Duddridge meant that I immediately had a whole string of gigs booked at their clubs around the country. Within months I became a jobbing comedian, performing twenty-minute sets at Jongleurs clubs in Oxford, Birmingham, Leeds, Southampton, Portsmouth, Cardiff, Nottingham – in fact, just think of a major city and there was a Jongleurs.
Jongleurs was open on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. So each week I would be in a different city and pulling in around £500 a week. Each bill consisted of three comedians and a compere. The first act woul
d be the most inexperienced, followed by a stronger act and then an interval before the headline act. I was on first. This was to be expected as I was new and inexperienced. I had to work my way up the bill. Being first actually suited me as I liked to drive home whenever possible, even though it meant covering hundreds of miles a day. I would drive home to be with Kitty.
Since Kitty had told me she loved me in Villa Bianca, we had not spent a night apart. When we first got together, she said to me, ‘This is it, you know, I’ll be with you for ever, you’re the one.’ As happy as I was, I couldn’t really believe her. But she was true to her word; she loved me like I loved her and after a couple of years of living together, I withdrew the last of my savings and found myself browsing rings in Tiffany. I knew she wanted to get married. You know what girls are like – she would drop occasional hints, like whenever I bought her flowers, she would throw them over her head.
My proposal formed the basis of my first big comedy routine. So before I tell you the story, here’s me opening the show at Jongleurs Leeds, Cardiff, Bristol, Oxford, Portsmouth, Southampton, Glasgow, Nottingham, Birmingham or Manchester, week in, week out:
I’m engaged, ladies and gentlemen. I bought her a beautiful diamond ring that cost me a fortune. But you’ll like this, I had it engraved … with the price.
I got her a Tiffany ring, and I think she was more excited about that than us spending the rest of our lives together. She was like, ‘I can’t believe it! It’s Tiffany! Is it really? Is it really a Tiffany ring?’
‘Of course it is,’ I said. ‘Look, it’s a Tiffany box, it’s a Tiffany ring,’ I replied.
‘Yes, but you could have just got a Tiffany box and put a shit ring in it’ and I was like … ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
Girls get hypnotized by diamonds – it’s like they turn into Gollum from The Lord of the Rings: ‘Precious. Master, give me precious. Precious is mine.’ You look outside any jeweller’s and you’ll see single girls staring in the window saying, ‘Soon, precious will be mine.’
I took her to a lovely Italian restaurant to propose. I was so nervous; this is a major moment. I got the ring out and said, as if in slow motion, ‘Will … you … marry … me?’
And she was like, ‘Michael, start again.’
‘What do you mean, start again?’ I said.
‘Start again and do it right, you have to get down on one knee,’ she said.
‘Hang on a minute, you’re not directing this scene, I’m proposing, this is how I’m doing it.’
‘Michael, stop, I have been waiting my whole life for this moment, it’s romantic, it’s traditional, you have to get down on one knee.’
‘Now listen,’ I said, ‘I have just spent the equivalent of a small car on this diamond ring, why don’t you get down on YOUR knee?’
That was more or less my joke, and it always got a big laugh. It’s not what happened of course. I’m not that rude. The only truth was that I did buy her a Tiffany ring. I suppose the shock of the price inspired the routine. I did also take her to an Italian restaurant, Villa Bianca, her favourite, where she finally succumbed to my two-year harassment. I envisaged this to be the perfect romantic setting to pop the question. If Kitty suspected anything, she didn’t let on. We were just going out for dinner. I was naturally tense, I wanted to get it right, for it to be perfect. I booked the same table that we sat at before. I thought I would ‘pop’ the question at the end of dinner. I had a whole speech planned in my mind that I was going to launch into after dessert. But after we ordered, I was struggling to make normal conversation as my mind was preoccupied with the proposal and constantly checking that the most expensive thing I had ever bought was still in my back pocket.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Kitty said, sternly.
‘Nothing,’ I said, defensively.
‘You’re acting really weird, really rude. You’re not really listening to me.’
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ I said, fidgeting with my pocket again.
‘You’re not even listening to me now are you?’ she snapped.
‘What?’ I said, with a blank expression.
‘Why don’t we go home, Michael? What’s the point in going out to dinner, if you’re not going to talk to me or listen to me?’
We were in danger of having a row. This wasn’t the plan. I realized I had to change the plan, I had to propose now before we fell out. She seemed really pissed off. We were in danger of splitting up!
‘Darling, I’ve got something to say,’ I began, taking her hand.
‘What?’ she said softly. I was off the hook. She knew what was coming.
‘Well, we’ve been together for nearly two years and I don’t know how it’s possible, but I love you more every single –’
‘MR WILSON!’ shouted the maître d’. It was so loud the whole restaurant, including us, turned to see who had just walked in.
Walking into the restaurant was Richard Wilson, the star of One Foot in the Grave. Suddenly the whole restaurant was focused on Richard Wilson.
‘That’s what’s-his-name?’ said Kitty.
‘Richard Wilson. I’m trying to propose here,’ I said.
‘Sorry, Michael, carry on,’ Kitty said. I composed myself and continued.
‘Darling, what I was saying was that –’
‘I DON’T BELIEVE IT!’ shouted an Italian waiter, badly impersonating Richard Wilson’s catchphrase, much to the enjoyment of the other waiters, as Richard Wilson and his dinner guest were seated directly next to us.
‘MR WILSON, WHAT CAN I GET YOU?’ The celebrity diner seemed to be making the normally quite prickly Italian waiters very loud and animated. ‘LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THE SPECIALS …’
I had no choice but to pronounce my everlasting love to Kitty and ask for her hand in marriage while an Italian waiter shouted about the specials to Richard Wilson from One Foot in the Grave at the next table.
‘I have always loved you, I can’t imagine the world without you in it … WE HAVE A RISOTTO MARINARA, MR WILSON, VERY NIIICE … from the moment I met you in the Steeles pub wearing my massive coat … WE HAVE A LOBSTER SPAGHETTI TONIGHT, CHEF’S SPECIALITY, MAGNIFICO … you became the only girl in the world to me, I loved you more than I knew it was possible to love someone … WE ALSO HAVE A VEAL ESCALOPE, MR WILSON, THIS IS MY FAVOURITE … I dreamt for so long that we could be together and how it would be if we were together and our love has exceeded … AND FINALLY WE HAVE A PENNE ARRABIATTA AL DENTE … anything I could have imagined. Kitty, I love, I will love you for ever …’
I took out the ring from my back pocket and opened the case.
‘Will you marry me?’ I said.
‘I’ll just have the lasagne,’ said Richard Wilson.
‘I DON’T BELIEVE IT,’ said the waiter.
‘Yes,’ said Kitty.
21
Kitty and I then entered a wonderful magical time of announcements and wedding planning. I was to marry the love of my life, and although I didn’t get a chance to express it to her fully in Villa Bianca, the point I wanted to make was that I didn’t really know her when I was infatuated by her, but she had surprised me with just how perfect she was, and just how perfect we were together.
Everybody was thrilled for us. Kitty was glowing with happiness, I had never seen her like that, she couldn’t stop smiling. The only person who I wished could share in our joy was my grandmother. But it had now been years since we last spoke; she had no interest in me whatsoever. Our relationship was over. I had come to terms with it, but deep down I clung on to the hope that we would see each other again, that she would be at my wedding. It was so brutal for her to love me so wholly and unconditionally and then turn her back on me so completely, so quickly. But it wasn’t to be; she died in her sleep a few months after I became engaged. All the memories of our happy times came flooding back and I was devastated, but soon I remembered everything else, all the pain she had caused. The truth was she had gone years before; this just eliminated any
chance of reconciliation, but there was probably none anyway.
My engagement routine kept getting laughs at Jongleurs. Kitty not only found it funny, but loved that I was immediately telling an audience containing single girls that I was engaged to someone else. It always made me laugh that she could be jealous, that she could think I might cheat on her. I could never have an affair. Look at my track record with women – it would take me two years of stalking, harassing and hiding in bushes to get another girl to sleep with me.
However, the gloss of earning an income from stand-up was starting to wear thin. Jongleurs was not a traditional comedy club; it was a chain, like McDonald’s. The club offered an evening’s entertainment for weekend revellers, mainly large singlesex parties on stag nights, hen nights, birthdays or a work night out. The audiences were drunk and rowdy and had short attention spans. Fast, bite-size and usually crude jokes were most effective. The strapline under the Jongleurs logo read: ‘Eat, Drink, Laugh, Dance’. ‘Laugh’ was third on the agenda. I needed to become a better comedian and Jongleurs was not a conducive environment for that.
As an aspiring comedian, you need to play the full variety of gigs up and down the land. Jongleurs should be included in the mix, certainly. The ability to make a few hundred pissed punters laugh is an indication that you’ve got a bulletproof act, but to develop and improve as a comedian you need more, much more. I played other clubs, but usually only one weekend a month.
Not only was I trapped in Jongleurs, but I was also making no progress within it. I was always going on first, deemed the weakest on the bill, and the other comedians in some cases were astonishingly poor. Many of the comedians who played Jongleurs were old hacks. They never made it, leaving them bitter and cynical. They had lost their ambition and being around them was making me lose mine.
Just remembering the dressing rooms at Jongleurs sends chills down my spine. A typical Jongleurs dressing room had a couple of old smelly sofas, maybe a TV that didn’t work, an iron and ironing board, untouched fruit and an A4 print-out of the line-up on the wall. It was depressing enough before you add a few jaded and bitchy comedians. If you met some of these comics, you’d be amazed that they were in the entertainment industry.
Life and Laughing: My Story Page 22
