A Young Man's Passage

by Julian Clary

  It’s an interview

  But it’s a second take

  There’s a questioner

  But your mind’s at stake.

  Let’s break down the formula

  Let’s switch off the set

  . . . and be glad we finally met.

  Then at the end of the day we were thanked and returned to our own, mundane lives, pop stars no more.

  A few months later Jeannette called to say we were in the German and Canadian charts and were required to fly to Europe to do press and television appearances to promote ‘our’ album. I cleared a few days of cabaret shows out of the way, assumed my Leo Hurll persona and off we flew on a whistle-stop tour of Germany and Belgium. We sat on sofas to be interviewed on serious music programmes, reeled off the fibs from the fake biogs and took to the stage, ‘playing’ and pouting to excited girls who called out our names and threw soft toys at us. We were then bundled into a people carrier with blacked-out windows and whisked to the airport to fly off to the next city and repeat the proceedings all over again. If we had dinner in our posh hotel at the end of the day it was with a number of top management from the record company who had all swallowed our collective lie, and so the charade had to be kept up relentlessly. There was one tricky moment when a Belgian suit pointed to the piano in the corner of the restaurant and asked me to play something. I was so immersed in being Leo I almost agreed. ‘Shall I?’ I said. Rupert glared at me, Greg sniggered. After an awkward pause I decided on a pop-star-like response and said, ‘Nah. Fuck off,’ and everyone laughed nervously. ‘Girlfriend trouble . . .’ Rupert explained to the suit.

  We had three or four trips abroad like this. I loved having a secret other life. It was all so bizarre. No one really believed me when I said I was a German pop star called Leo Hurll. I had to produce press cuttings and photos to prove it. Thinkman produced a second album a year later, but by then I was on the verge of my own big break and had a manager who wasn’t inclined to let me go. Leo Hurll left the band under mysterious circumstances. A few German schoolgirls wept into their sauerkraut.

  ON THE CIRCUIT night by night you never knew who you would be working with, so you would check Time Out to see who it was going to be. The quality of your evening ahead depended on it. If it was Paul Merton, for example, you knew it would be a laugh. ‘Kissed any men lately?’ he’d ask in mock disgust. Paul was always very willing to help me write new jokes, despite the fact that my innuendoes and music-hall style of performance were a million miles removed from his own carefully honed act. He has a mind that can slide into any comic genre, and year after year he slipped me handfuls of gems that stood out as funnier and cleverer than any of my own offerings. If I wasn’t getting many laughs, I’d race ahead to a ‘Paul’ section, sure in the knowledge that a couple of his lines would get me back on track.

  Each year I lured him to my flat where for a couple of French fancies and a cup of tea he’d help me rewrite the audience participation spot. He made sure I laughed from the moment he arrived, delivering a line as I opened the door. Once he came in limping: ‘I tried being homosexual the other night and put me back out.’ On another occasion I opened the door and he said, ‘I’ve followed your career with a bucket and spade.’ We adopted roles with each other, his Hancock to my Grayson. For comedy purposes I was as dismissive of his hetero world as he was horrified by my homo existence. We even went on stage late one night at the Pleasance in the midst of a well-oiled Edinburgh Festival and told alternate lines of our acts, each delivering the other’s punchlines with withering disinterest. For example:

  Me: ‘Who does your hair for you?’

  Paul: ‘Is it the council?’

  Paul: ‘My father always said, “The only bombs you’ve got to worry about are the ones that have got your name on them.” That really upset the neighbours—’

  Me: ‘Mr and Mrs Doodle-Bug.’

  For one of my later tour programmes I asked Paul to write an account of our early days. He wrote:

  I first encountered Julian in 1983 when we were both performing in a small vegetarian restaurant off the Archway Road. Julian was halfway through his act when he suddenly spotted me as a potential victim.

  ‘And what do we have here?’ he said.

  ‘I’m the next act,’ I whispered.

  ‘Are you indeed?’ replied Julian. I could see that he was in somewhat of a predicament. Should he obey the ethics of professional courtesy and move on to someone else, or should he take the piss out of my jumper?

  He moved on. Inevitably we became lovers.

  Julian, along with Fanny the Wonder Dog, soon found cabaret work trickling in. Even in the early days Julian was fond of making a grand entrance. He was the only act on the circuit who played a music tape to announce his appearance on stage. For a while he used Beethoven’s 9th Symphony but as this was over an hour long the audience became understandably restless. Soon he settled on Tara’s theme from Gone With The Wind. Many’s the time I’ve heard that evocative tune flowing through some polytechnic’s battered old sound system as Julian emerged into the spotlight scattering confetti into the first three rows.

  Around this time Julian and I moved into a charming cottage and converted it into a railway station.

  Also from this period I remember Julian demonstrating just how far he would go for the sake of a joke. We were working in Guildford and Julian was walking amongst the audience when something in the distance suddenly caught his attention. He strode down the central aisle of the theatre trailing the microphone lead behind him before settling in front of a rather red-faced student with close-cropped hair.

  ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Simon,’ said Simon.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Simon spent an hour and a half combing his hair tonight.’ Pause. ‘And then he forgot to bring it with him.’ Julian then turned on his heel and walked the 30 yards to the stage.

  The Dynasty script had been a highlight of the act but was now past its sell-by date. One year we wrote a Doctor Who sketch. I was to be the doctor and a man and woman from the audience were to be hauled on stage to play my assistant Maureen and a Dalek.

  Maureen: Doctor, doctor, where are we?

  Doctor: Look out the window.

  Maureen: We’re in the middle of an alien landscape where there’s no sign of life as we know it.

  Doctor: We must be in Haslemere.

  Maureen: Haslemere?

  Doctor: Yes, Haslemere, Land of the Daleks.

  [Enter Dalek.]

  Dalek: You are all my prisoners. Will you come quietly or shall I turn the stereo up?

  Maureen: Has anyone told you you look just like Rod Stewart?

  Dalek: You have ten seconds before I shoot my load . . .

  . . . and so on. In 1987 Paul Merton and John Irwin wrote a series for Radio 4 called The Big Fun Show. I was invited to join the cast, which included Josie Lawrence, Neil Mullarkey and Tony Hawks. Paul recalled:

  The idea was that Julian would feature in a long sketch every week playing some kind of authoritative role, rather than a camp caricature as is so often the tradition in light entertainment. One particular exchange still brings a smile to my lips. The scene took place in a restaurant.

  Julian: Now, what shall I have to eat?

  Josie: The Chef’s Special?

  Julian: I know that, but I want my dinner first.

  For the Edinburgh Festival, acts who got along together would join forces to put on a show. In 1985 I played at the Comedy Boom, a pub-basement festival venue, with the cheery Jewish comic Ivor Dembina and the musical double act Skint Video. This was a success, and the following year, back at the same venue, I wanted to combine forces more and maybe attempt something along the lines of a traditional showbiz finale. Barb Jungr and Michael Parker were favourites of mine – a jazzy, folky duo who had been on the circuit almost as long as I had. Steve Edgar was a subversive comedian whom Time Out described as ‘an urban Puck, dedicated to disruption’. We called our show Fourplay
. Together we wrote a couple of songs. ‘Dream Home’ was a vision of ultimate tackiness.

  I live in a dream house, a modern-day home,

  I’ve got concealed lighting and a push-button phone.

  I’ve a plum flock lounge with an alcove in green,

  And a thick pile carpet in rich tangerine.

  I’ve a coal-effect clock and a ladyshave broom,

  A microwave telly and nonstick vacuum.

  I’ve tinted double-glazing which is twenty-four hour,

  And over my bath I’ve a teasmaid shower.

  I’ve got dolphin-head taps for my low-level sink,

  And a flamenco lady in rouched satin pink.

  I’ve got my dolls of all nations behind glass in the cove,

  And a coney-ette rug in deepest dark mauve.

  Hand-painted Tupperware with real marble effect,

  And Venetian glass rabbits which I like to collect.

  I’ve got pastel-shade cushions all scattered about,

  And foam-filled cavities inside and out.

  There’s bronze-tinted mirrors the length of the hall,

  And a hologram of Jesus on the porch entrance wall.

  I’ve basketweave fire tongs – they’re just for show,

  And Melvyn Bragg’s novels for those in the know.

  It really is a dream home . . .

  The lyrics were difficult to remember, unfortunately, and most of the time I lost the thread after a couple of lines and said, ‘Well, I’m sure you get the general idea.’

  On stage one night in Edinburgh my rubber shorts split and to cover my embarrassment I made a bit of comedy business out of it. After the show a scary-looking local punk with home-made anarchy tattoos on his arms (and, as it turned out, on his chest, too) offered to fix the shorts for me with a bicycle repair kit. His name was Michael Ferri and as I chatted to him it became apparent that he had lots of mad costume ideas. What was more, he was about to travel south to start a two-year course at the London School of Fashion. It was a fortuitous meeting: the sort of clothes I wanted I couldn’t find in any shop, and Michael was making clothes no one dared to put on. The first things he made for me were a helter-skelter dress, a red chiffon cape and a silver spacesuit. There would be no more Oxfam outfits. For the next few years my image was in the hands of Michael Ferri, an industrious shaven-headed anarchist from Scotland. He would expose my nipples to the world, and his imagination would not be stifled by any stuffy TV executives who threw their hands up in horror at what I was planning to parade myself in.

  BACK IN LONDON I was doing a show at Jongleurs in Battersea one night when word went round that Geoff Posner, director and producer of Saturday Night Live, was in, sniffing about for potential guests on the second series. The show, hosted by Ben Elton, was a live mixture of music and comedy and had been a big hit on Channel 4 the previous year, elevating several comics from the circuit to greater things. I knew they had seen me before and passed me by, so I assumed my act was too risqué to make it onto TV. But this time it was different. Jo Brand (then working as the Sea Monster) and I were just what they were looking for.

  I was booked for a slot on 7 February 1987. It was recorded at the LWT studios and we went along in the afternoon to rehearse. We were on the show with The Communards, Harry Enfield as Stavros, Phil Cornwell and Meatloaf. Fanny wasn’t too fazed by the cameras, which was a relief, since her behaviour was becoming increasingly neurotic. For about a year she had had a phobia of lamp-posts, unusual in a dog. When walking down the road she would flatten herself against the pavement every few yards whenever we passed one. In a car or bus, when the fearsome lamp-post situation could occur every few seconds, she recoiled and bobbed her head repeatedly. What brought this behaviour on I never knew, but luckily there were no lamp-posts in the studio.

  In the dressing room I piled on the make-up and squeezed into my rubber several hours early. I was in a state of terror and seriously considered slipping down the back stairs and running away. I felt sick and sweaty as a researcher led Fanny and me down a corridor to the studio. Just before I was on, Stephen Fry and Meatloaf were doing a sketch and as I waited my turn I seemed to go through the fear barrier, and a sudden feeling of calmness washed over me.

  ‘Hello, punters. There’s nothing I like more than a warm hand on my entrance.’ Because the studio audience were all standing by the stage it was not unlike any other gig, and I quickly spotted just the person to pick on: a thin, smiling boy called Colin. ‘Look at your horrible jumper! What a pity the shop didn’t have your size . . .’ We messed about for a while, Fanny caught her choc drops and did her impression of Fergie, then it was all over. I got the idea I’d gone down rather well when I got home to find 30-odd congratulatory messages on my answerphone. Then Geoff Posner asked me to go back on the show two weeks later. I got loads of bookings, agents offered their services, journalists wanted to speak to me, Fanny was recognised in the park. Those seven minutes on live television suddenly seemed to be having enormous consequences. For the first time I felt a little bit famous. So this is how it works, I thought.

  Addison Cresswell was a well-known figure on the cabaret circuit. As a promoter and manager he ran a company called Off The Kerb productions from the front room of a converted old bakery in Peckham. He presented himself as a Jack the Lad, not to be messed with, affecting a rough south London accent. In fact, he was the well-bred son of the dean of Goldsmiths College, where I had spent three years, and had honed his entrepreneurial skills as entertainment officer at Brighton Polytechnic, managing to turn the subsidised student union into a profitable set-up. A year younger than me, he had blonde hair and angular good looks. He swaggered around, prodded you in the chest with his pointed finger and had the habit of sometimes staring at your throat when talking to you, as if contemplating taking a bite out of your oesophagus if you didn’t agree with him. His eyes darted about the room, as if every conversation was a furtive drug deal. He was impressive, irritating and endearing in equal measure, his bluster and machismo clearly a beard for a sensitive, insecure soul who simply wanted to be loved.

  Everyone on the circuit had an Addison story, and his faux pas and malapropisms were legend, even then. ‘I’m like a bull at a china gate,’ he said of himself. ‘I’ve got the Mazda touch . . .’ I was familiar with his terrier-like personality because he ran the Comedy Boom at the Edinburgh Festival, where I had appeared for the last two years. As my career gathered momentum he also booked me for some better-paid, better-organised gigs on the circuit, such as the Albany Empire. He always amused me, discussing appearance fees as if he was a barrow boy selling you a cut-price pound of apples. A somewhat sleazy but reputable agent called me one day to say if I’d sign to him and take his advice to tone down my act, he could guarantee me lots of TV work. I asked Addison what he thought I should do. ‘Don’t touch him. I’ll manage you, if you like,’ he said. And so he did. For the next 15 years. The fateful meeting took place at a pub, the Sun Inn on Long Acre in Covent Garden, on Monday 13 April 1987. He rather thrilled me with his instructions.

  ‘You don’t do nothing from now on without my say-so. No gigs, no interviews, no nothing unless I give you the green light. All future enquiries you refer to me, get it? You don’t go to the dentist, you don’t even cross the road unless I tell you it’s OK. Understood?’

  It was a bit like having a very possessive boyfriend. He let me do the bookings on the circuit I’d already agreed to, but he stood in the wings glowering. ‘You’re too good for this place,’ he announced as I came off stage at one of the quainter venues. ‘It’s so quiet in here. You could hear a mouse drop.’

  He soon took me away from all that and by June I was playing three sell-out nights at the Hackney Empire, supported by Paul Merton, Harry Enfield and Randolph the Remarkable.

  Paul Merton:

  Not only were these shows a professional triumph for Julian, but I believe they also meant a great deal to him on a much deeper level. After years of working with inadeq
uate sound systems and poorly constructed stages, in the days when a box of confetti was a special effect, Julian had at last found an audience that shared his vision of another kind of world, a magical world of glitter, glamour and blemish concealer. One moment from those first Hackney Empire shows remains with me still. As we stood in line and took our final bows, I noticed Julian saying quietly to himself, amid the rapturous applause, ‘Thank you, thank you.’