Life and Laughing: My Story

by Michael McIntyre

  Off The Kerb hired an experienced PR girl who got some journalists to see my show in its first week. I got several four-star reviews, and my show subsequently sold out every night. The change was unbelievable.

  But the most important gig of the Festival was for Addison Cresswell. I had been with his agency for almost a year and this would be the first time he saw me perform. I spoke to Danny on the day Addison was due to watch me. ‘What if Addison doesn’t like me?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s OK, you’ll still have me fighting your cause, and Joe. But put it this way, mate … it’s better if he does … a lot better.’

  The pressure of the gig suddenly got to me and I struggled. Sometimes when you chat to the audience as much as I was, you end up going down too many blind alleys, the audience lose confidence and the gig never ignites. It was one of those nights. Addison didn’t even stay behind to meet me.

  ‘I blew it,’ I said to Danny on the phone the following day.

  ‘Blew what?’ said Danny in his usual relentlessly positive way.

  ‘Last night’s gig. The Addison gig.’

  ‘Addison wasn’t at your gig last night. Change of plan. He’s like that, you never quite know where he’s going to be. He says he’s coming tonight, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

  That night I had the kind of gig I was typically having, lots of banter with the audience, lots of big laughs. Before and after the show, I would hide behind the curtain of the tiny venue as there was no dressing room. When I came out at the end there he was, Addison Cresswell, all on his own, waiting behind. He was puffing on a law-breaking cigar and had a huge grin on his face.

  ‘You are a revelation,’ he said in his distinctive deep voice, walking over to shake my hand.

  I was thrilled and relieved, but I was also tired. I had been struggling in comedy for years, my family were in another country, I was still in massive debt. Surely this was the moment everything changed for me.

  ‘Are you going to make me famous, Addison?’ I said boldly to Lee Evans’s agent.

  ‘A couple of years, I’d say,’ he replied.

  It would be months.

  24

  My Edinburgh Festival again ended with the disappointment of not receiving a Perrier nomination, but this time it didn’t matter. After Addison had seen me, he went into overdrive, practically physically pushing TV execs to see my show. The result was that two days after the Festival ended, I was booked by Channel 4 to appear on the first ever Charlotte Church Show.

  It was extraordinary. I was picked up from home in a gleaming silver Mercedes and taken to the BBC, where the show was recorded. I was on cloud nine. I kept Kitty updated throughout the day. Here is a selection of my phone calls to her:

  ‘I’ve got my own dressing room, it’s got my name on the door. I’ve got my own shower and a fridge. There’s also a box of Celebrations, I can’t stop eating them.’

  ‘A man from Channel 4 just came to my dressing room. I think he’s really powerful. He says he loved my Edinburgh show and can’t wait to work with me in the future.’

  ‘Shit, darling, I think I left my cufflinks … Oh no, false alarm, I found them … Love you, bye.’

  ‘I just met Denise Van Outen, she’s also on the show. I told her it was my first time on TV and she was so lovely to me.’

  ‘We just had a rehearsal. Charlotte Church is gorgeous … No … No, I don’t … I was just saying … Why are you being like that? … Darling … Please … I do not fancy Charlotte Church … She’s in a relationship with a rugby player and I’m married to you, I was just saying that in the flesh … I’m not making things worse … I know we’ve got a baby … calm down … I’m not obsessed with Charlotte Church’s flesh … I’ll call you after the show.’

  ‘I think it went really well. Everybody said I was really funny. Danny’s over the moon. I’m so happy. I’m just going to have a quick drink and then come home … I don’t know … I think she’s gone home … I don’t fancy her.’

  1 September 2006 saw my proper television debut. The show got over 2 million viewers. Channel 4 were pleased with my performance and I naively expected to be catapulted into the mainstream, but I soon returned to playing the clubs and Jongleurs. I was hungry for success. Every time my mobile phone rang, I hoped it would be Addison. However, he is an extraordinarily busy man, managing the careers of Jonathan Ross, Lee Evans, Jack Dee, Sean Lock, Dara Ó Briain, Alan Carr, it’s a who’s who of British comedy. As the weeks passed, my ‘Addison calls’ were becoming less frequent. I was far from out of the woods.

  My next big show was the gala at the Brighton Comedy Festival. Alan Carr was hosting, and I only had to do ten minutes. The gig was my biggest audience to date. The Brighton Dome holds about 1,800 people. The fact that I only had to do ten minutes meant that I could string together all my best jokes. I was looking forward to this night for weeks. I’ve always felt ‘the more the merrier’ with comedy audiences. What I didn’t know was that Addison was in the audience. He comes from Brighton; he has a second home and family there. So when I had a sensational ten-minute gig in such a big theatre, I showed Addison my true potential. He had only seen me with an audience of eighty. I came alive on the big stage. I love to move around, to express my jokes physically.

  I could tell afterwards that I had gone up another notch in Addison’s eyes. He was chattier with me, fussing over me and getting me drinks. The next day, I went off for another gig somewhere, continuing to gig almost every night, and Addison had an idea. He had seen me on a big stage, and he thought maybe he could get me on the biggest stage of them all. In a few weeks, the Royal Variety Performance was to be hosted by his client Jonathan Ross. He thought that if I could reproduce my Brighton performance in front of Royalty and on BBC1, I could be fast-tracked to success.

  The major problem with Addison’s theory was that I wasn’t booked for, or wanted on, the show. The comedians had already been selected. Lee Mack, Omid Djalili and Ken Dodd were due to perform, along with Jason Byrne, who was taking the spot of unknown new comic. There was no room for me. Addison sent my Comedy Store Special to Peter Fincham, the controller of BBC1, and implored him to give me a chance.

  In late November of 2006, I was in the Jongleurs Nottingham dressing room when Addison called me on my mobile. My heart leapt with excitement when I saw his name on the caller display.

  ‘Michael, it’s Addison. Are you sitting down?’

  I worried for a moment he was telling me I had to do my A-Levels again at Woodhouse College.

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  ‘Now, I think I’ve got you a very big gig. I think you’re up to it. If it goes well, it’s massive. I thought you were fantastic in Brighton. You just need to do that again. Do you think you can do that again?’

  ‘Of course, I do that every night. What is it?’ I asked with a bit of trepidation.

  ‘The Royal Variety Performance. They’re going to add you to the bill if you want to do it. They’ll make an announcement tomorrow. I’ve stuck my neck out for you, but I’ve got a good feeling about this. Do you want to do it? I need to know now, ’cos I’ve got to move fast on this.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I said feeling faint, clinging to the ironing board for stability.

  ‘Fantastic. You need seven minutes. It’s in two weeks. You better start practising what you’re going to say,’ Addison instructed, before hanging up.

  I wanted to share my news and spun around to the other comedians in the dressing room. It was a familiar depressing sight of deadbeat bitter comics ironing, bitching and ignoring the fruit. I felt a rush of joy wash over me. I didn’t say anything. They weren’t interested in me, or my good news. I’m getting out of this place.

  Finally, that was my last night at Jongleurs.

  For the next two weeks, I was out every night rehearsing my seven minutes, not that I needed to, I knew my jokes. I was ready. The only unknown was whether I could handle the extra pressure of such a massive occasion. Danny saw me s
torm the Canary Wharf gig, Addison knew I could do it in Brighton, but could I hold my nerve with the stakes so high? I kept telling myself to treat the Royal Variety like it was just another gig. Let me tell you some of the other names appearing that night: Jonathan Ross was hosting, John Barrowman, Take That, Rod Stewart, Paul O’Grady, Graham Norton, Meatloaf. I was scheduled to perform in the second half, before Barry Manilow. It wasn’t just another gig.

  Just the year before I was ‘spare’ at Jongleurs and now I was waking up on the day I was to appear at the Royal Variety Performance. I was determined, focused and, thankfully, healthy. After the peculiar ailments that affected me during my pressure-filled Edinburgh Festivals, I feared I would be struck down with some career-threatening disease, but I was fine. I was picked up from home early in the afternoon. A chauffeur-driven BMW pulled up outside my flat. This is it. I looked out of my living room window and smiled at the driver, who nodded towards me with a look of deep disappointment. He was obviously hoping for Rod Stewart, Manilow or Barlow and ended up with me. I kissed Kitty and my baby Lucas goodbye clutching my newly dry-cleaned borrowed suit.

  I wasn’t used to such luxury transport. I normally used my amazingly cheap local mini-cab firm. The price was reflected in the condition of their cars. One car I took had no rearview mirror; the driver had his own vanity mirror that he would hold up to see behind him. I sat in the back and waved at Kitty waving Lucas’s hand at the window. As we neared central London I got more and more nervous with every passing mile. By the time we arrived at the Coliseum theatre I was dizzy with anxiety. The area was swarming with activity; there were television trucks and police roadblocks and barriers with autograph hunters wedged behind them.

  I checked in at the stage door and picked up my ‘Artist Pass’ and proudly hung it around my neck. Backstage, as you can imagine, is wild. In addition to the comedians, singers and bands were stage shows like The Sound of Music, Wicked and Spamalot. Everyone was rushing around in a frenzy in various states of undress. Proper showbiz, I loved it. The show was being rehearsed throughout the day. I waited in the wings watching Rod Stewart before it was my turn.

  ‘It’s a heartache, nothing but a heartache …’

  I should have been marvelling at watching a legend at such close proximity, but I was in a trance, I had a job to do, I had to justify having this artist’s pass around my neck.

  When Rod left the stage, there was on offstage announcement: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Britain’s hottest comedy star … Michael McIntyre.’

  I walked out as a few of the crew members applauded. If you’re thinking my ‘Britain’s hottest comedy star’ introduction was a bit generous given that I had achieved nothing to date other than my few minutes on the Charlotte Church Show, allow me to clear that up for you: I wrote it.

  There was an enormous orchestra pit directly in front of the stage filled with musicians. I started bantering with them. I said to a man holding a trumpet. ‘Hello, sir? What do you do for a living? I’m guessing something in the musical field?’ There were chuckles from the crew. I was supposed to go through my set, but there was no way I was going to tell my jokes to an empty room. I wanted to save them. I just messed about and practised my bow to the Royal Box and then exited stage left. I got a feel for the stage and visualized my gig.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said an unfamiliar voice from behind me. I turned to see that it was Jason Orange from Take That.

  ‘You were really funny, mate,’ said a quarter of Take That.

  ‘But I didn’t do any of my jokes,’ I confessed.

  ‘Yeah, but you were funny. Good luck.’

  This moment from Jason Orange really served to relax me. Addison had tried to calm me down, Danny had a go, I was speaking to Kitty on the phone every ten minutes, but ultimately it was Jason Orange who made me feel good about myself. Who would have thought it?

  Before the show, I went outside for some fresh air. I went around the front of the theatre and saw Prince Charles and Camilla arrive in his armour-plated black Jaguar. The Queen and Prince Charles alternate their attendance and it was his turn. I hadn’t really thought about the royal aspect of the occasion, I had just focused on this being my big break. A chill came over me. This is huge.

  I watched the opening of the show on a monitor backstage with Danny. I had seen Addison earlier, but he now had priorities with Jonathan Ross. I could sense that Addison and Danny were worried. Addison’s head was on the chopping block; he had insisted to the BBC that I could handle it and now it was time to find out. Danny had huge belief in me, but who knew what would happen?

  As the time approached, I went and paced up and down the corridor outside my dressing room, going through my set over and over again. I was debating whether to start with a physical routine I did about different types of walks. I impersonated the walk you do when you try on shoes, the walk you do when you’re crossing the road and the walk you do through the metal detecting arch in the airport. I paced up and down, doing the walk you do when you’re incredibly nervous. Danny stood in silence letting me focus. This pacing ritual is common among performers. I don’t know what you gain from walking up and down like a caged lion, but I wasn’t the only one. Soon I was joined by the three Sugababes. The four of us, three Sugababes and I, pacing up and down the narrow corridor, occasionally bumping into each other. A stagehand came to fetch me. It was time. I took a deep breath and left Danny with his fingers crossed.

  A few hours earlier I had stood in the same place watching Rod Stewart, feeling nervous but focused on seizing my moment to make a name for myself. Now I panicked. I caught a glimpse of the Royal Box and the audience. Prince Charles and Camilla were seated overlooking the stage in a box decorated with fresh flowers. My mouth went dry, totally dry, my heart pounded. This was not Brighton, Edinburgh or Jongleurs. I tried to remember the jokes that I had been mentally rehearsing for nearly two weeks, but nothing came to me. Relax. Take a deep breath. Calm down.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Britain’s hottest comedy star, Michael McIntyre.’

  This was it. Thirty years after I had got my first laugh, peeing on the doctor when I was born. Seven years since I had taken my first steps on to the stage at the Comedy Café. Seven years of driving around the country trying to work out how to be a comedian. Seven years of failure and frustration and financial stress.

  I had been on a journey from having weak material to finding my voice improvising onstage, then harnessing these moments of inspiration and turning them into strong material. Now I was armed with my best seven minutes; seven years had come down to the next seven minutes to change my life, in front of his Highness, his loyal subjects and 10 million people watching at home.

  Could I do it?

  Could I do it for Addison who had gambled on me? Could I do it for Kitty waiting for me at home, a bundle of nerves, loving and believing in me? Could I do it for my baby son Lucas whose future depended on me? Could I ‘go get ’em’ for my dad who never lived to see the day? Could I do it for Jason Orange from Take That? Could I do it for me?

  I strode on to the stage. The view of the audience was unexpected. They were very well lit so that the television cameras could catch their reaction. In Brighton there were 1,800 people, but with the bright spotlight on me, I couldn’t see any of them. I could just hear the lovely sound of their united laughter. Now I could see every member of the audience. They were all dolled-up in dinner jackets, party frocks, their jewels glistening in the over-lit auditorium. They all shared the same expression: ‘Who is that?’ I glanced up at Prince Charles, who was sporting exactly the same look.

  Whatever Prince Charles said, it can’t have been THAT funny.

  I launched into my walks routine and got no reaction whatsoever. The opening of the joke isn’t particularly funny, but you would expect some support from an audience of 2,000. I quickly changed my plan and turned to my best short jokes, including the one about buying Kitty’s pregnancy tests. I didn’t panic. I inheren
tly knew that my jokes were funny. I just had to perform them well and with a smile on my face and trust that people watching at home would find them as funny as everybody else outside of this stuffy occasion. However, as my act went on, the laughter built, and I started to receive rounds of applause. I ended with the walks routine and the audience were in the palm of my hand.

  I was just as good as in Brighton; the audience were tougher, but I had done what I set out to do. I bowed to the Royal Box and the smiling Charles and Camilla and left the stage. I was buzzing with excitement. I passed crew members, other performers and Barry Manilow doing breathing exercises. I half expected them to congratulate me but realized that nobody had seen my gig. Nothing had changed backstage, but everything had changed for me.

  I climbed the stairs to return to the pacing corridor I had left not fifteen minutes earlier. I was desperate for someone to confirm it had gone well. The corridor was now empty but for two people, Addison and Danny. As soon as they saw me they ran towards me and into my arms like I had just scored the winning penalty in the World Cup final. We jumped up and down hugging and celebrating.

  I did it.

  25

  That was three years ago. The Royal Variety was my big break. From then on, I did all the things that you may have seen me do. Panel shows like Mock the Week and Have I Got News for You. Chat shows like Friday Night with Jonathan Ross. Stand-up shows like Live at the Apollo and the Royal Variety again. My own show, Michael McIntyre’s Comedy Roadshow. And I released my DVDs, Live and Laughing and Hello Wembley.

  In action on my Comedy Roadshow in my favourite city of them all.

  I tried to write the last three years for you in detail, but it was so boring to read. It turns out that writing about success is actually very dull, so I deleted it, for your sakes. It was like a long-winded arrogant CV (the previous paragraph is a clue). I discussed it with Kitty and my mother and Addison and my publishers, and everyone agreed. In fact, only my 27-inch iMac questioned my decision: ‘Are you sure you want to delete?’ it asked.