by Alan Carr
Factory life is strange, and petty things take on huge significance. People cling to inanimate objects. I remember being scolded for using Sue’s tape gun, the gun you use to gaffer-tape the box into which you put the videos. I had picked it up without realising that written on the reverse in black marker was ‘SUE’S. HANDS OFF!’
One of the temps who joined after me made the mistake of sitting in the wrong chair during the break.
‘I wouldn’t sit there if I was you,’ said Colin, not taking his eyes off the porn. ‘That’s Ken’s seat.’
The temp sheepishly collected his coat and moved to another seat. Everyone smirked and shook their head knowingly, as the temp tried to find a seat that Ken didn’t treasure so highly.
It isn’t just the tools you work with that you develop an attachment to. While I was in the factory, I started developing crushes on my workmates. These people, who outside of the factory I wouldn’t even look at twice, were in those grey dreary shifts my knights in shining armour. The way their paunches hung over their loosely fitting dungarees seemed enchanting, while the cheap earrings dangling from their cauliflower ears were utterly spellbinding and just added to the whole, irresistible package. It was as if my heart was creating this lust to divert me from the world-weariness that was slowly seeping through the rest of my body. It was trying to stoke some passion in a colourless world.
It was only when I said ‘Phwoar!’ at a fat French pony-tailed lorry driver as he lifted a pallet off the lorry that I realised I had to stop these flights of fancy, and soon. The man looked like Captain Hook, for Christ’s sake.
* * *
When I returned to Middlesex after these stints, I felt like a lifer who had been released from gaol. A sense of redemption came over me every time I clocked out for the last time. I promised myself that I would use my time at university wisely and read all the plays and be more enthusiastic about Ibsen and Steinberg.
As soon as I returned to the halls of residence in Cricklewood, Matthew, Ben, Jo, Melissa and Catherine and I went straight to the pub to catch up on all the gossip, each one desperate to get their stories of degrading jobs out first.
Melissa even beat me to it for the worst temping job. She had been working at a catalogue returns factory in her home town of Peterborough. Her job was to take out the cardboard gusset from the returned swimwear and replace it with a new one for the next unsuspecting customer. Believe me, that isn’t the kind of job where you say to your foreman, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll work through my lunch.’
Naively, I thought that these totally dreary jobs were confined to when you were a student. I honestly thought that with a BA Hons in Theatre Studies I would be made for life. Businessmen would go, ‘Oh my God, this Alan Carr guy, he can do political theatre and operate a gib. He’s hired!’ My timing was impeccable. I was becoming part of the generation where everybody has a degree, and their value, particularly in Drama and Theatre Studies, was not even worth the paper it was written on. Everyone had a bloody degree. It was like they were giving them away free with the Sunday papers.
The really bright young things were the ones who studied a trade like plumbing and joinery. They would be the ones in the fancy cars and the homes with the electric gates, not me. I’m not saying I made the wrong choice. Plumbing and joinery didn’t even flicker on my occupational radar – oh God, no, joiner was up there with bomb disposal unit and WWF wrestler. I just didn’t know what I wanted. I still don’t think I do. My stints at the factory were a wake-up call – this dreary existence could be your life, if you don’t pull your finger out. What are you going to do? I started to panic. The three years had flown by, and I had no idea what I was going to do, or what in fact I wanted to do. I was staring into the future, jobless, skill-less and useless.
I needed a miracle – or a sugar daddy?
My options were few and things were getting desperate. Hence the thought that I might even be able to toy with the idea of befriending a lonely old heir who would finance my acting ambitions in exchange for a kiss and a cuddle – no sex, that’s extra. Sex, now that you mention it, proved as disappointing as the job prospects. University hadn’t turned into this sexual wonderland that everyone had promised. In fact, it was one of my more barren periods sexually. Mum had told me not to get any girls pregnant. That might seem laughable, but to be honest, there was more chance of that than of me finding a gentleman caller.
The first year was wasted for me, as I pretended to everyone that I wasn’t gay – yes, I know! I strenuously denied it because I didn’t want to be so easily read. I wanted to be complex. It went hand in hand with my wish to be an actor and, I guess, to be deep and more than that hideously camp, gurning gargoyle I’d seen on the video. The decision to lie about my sexuality still makes me cringe, and my only explanation can be that, deep down, I thought the new start at university could be a chance to reboot and literally become a changed man. Isn’t that typical of me, though? Most people choose university to reveal their true colours and showcase the person they had always kept hidden deep down inside of them, but were denied at school. I, on the other hand, chose to become someone light years away from the real me and steal the identity of a streetwise, fanny-loving heterosexual with a passing interest in theatre – well, you couldn’t say I wasn’t complex. As you can imagine, it was like telling the tide to go back.
By the spring of 1997, I was living in Hendon with two fellow Drama students in a little flat above Captain Fish on the Hendon Way. It was convenient for its proximity to Brent Cross Shopping Centre, but really dire for airing your washing. If you hung it out the back, it came in stinking of haddock. If you hung it out the front, it would come in smelling of exhaust pipe. So we would have to resort to having the clothes drip around us in the flat, praying that we didn’t get a shadow on our lungs from each other’s panties.
There was a lot of excitement at the college, as an exchange student programme was offered. We could swap with Drama students in American cities such as New York and Miami. Although I was living above a chip shop, I decided to stay put. But a few of our students went over there and immersed themselves in the American way of life – one girl, Sally, a bit too much. She came back with a new nose. Later that year, we had to honour our side of the bargain, and a whole batch of American students, Patty, Paige, Carol Ann, Mary Beth, etc., came over here. They were lovely, and their enthusiasm was catching. This sudden rush of new blood into our tired social scene also did us the world of good. We had new people to talk to and, more importantly, to take the piss out of.
As it happened, two of the students developed a crush on me, Anne and Chad. Now, I never believe anyone fancies me, basically because they don’t. So when both of them started to make eyes at me, I thought it was a bet. Why would they be interested in me? I couldn’t work it out. All I knew was that it was starting to get embarrassing. They really, really fancied me. No one had ever done that before. It was as if they had been hypnotised; when they heard the magic words ‘Hello, I’m Alan’, they would turn into lustful, horny nymphomaniacs, intent on removing my clothes.
One night, after having a few too many glasses of wine, Anne straddled me in the Horse and Jockey, demanding that I fuck her. I refused, and she started to ride me like a bucking bronco. I’d never seen the like before. I didn’t know where to look. I was so embarrassed, especially since the landlord had only just relented and lifted the ban after ‘Anna Pavlova-gate’, where I had danced like Salome with a net curtain over my head, knocking over a table of drinks. But that’s another story.
The even stranger thing was that Anne and Chad were both actually attractive. This was a first for me, good-looking people showing an interest. If all the mingers came forward and sold their stories, it would look like I’d had a gangbang in a circus. If I had ever pulled someone nice, it was usually after a very big drunken session, and the morning after they often wouldn’t hold back their contempt for the bespectacled, buck-toothed person lying next to them.
Obvious
ly, the camp voice resounding from under the covers – ‘Oooh, love, you wouldn’t mind popping on the kettle?’ – would destroy what little passion still lingered. Usually, I wouldn’t get my cup of tea. I’d just get told to put my clothes on and be escorted out of the flat with a blanket on my head, like a paedophile heading off to Crown Court. You wouldn’t even sully the occasion by asking if they’d like to see you again. You’d get the gist. If the tea isn’t forthcoming and they’ve phoned a taxi before you’ve even woken up, then the chance of a civil ceremony can seem very distant.
Chad was a thick-set, Jewish American who had a heart of gold, but an insatiable lust for me. I’m not much of a sexual person. Sex is a bit like ‘Cash in the Attic’ – I can take it or leave it – but he was like a crazed nymphomaniac. He had a soft romantic side, too. He was staying in a hostel with all the other Americans, and I remember once that, except for Chad, they had all gone on a two-day trip to some northern theatre. He had the dormitory to himself. So he put all the mattresses on the floor and set up rows and rows of candles and flowers all over this huge cavernous room. It was so romantic, and such a wonderful surprise as I walked through the hostel door. I couldn’t believe it. We had a lovely night – well, once I’d stopped worrying about the obvious fire hazard and memorised my escape route in case a mattress did go up like a Christmas tree.
But then for every romantic interlude, there would be a sex-crazed session. He was insatiable and sometimes he would try to drag me into bushes for sex. He’d also follow me into a toilet and try to pull me into a cubicle. The man was an animal. I’m not into all that, but the more I resisted, the more lustful he became. He probably thought I was playing mind games, whipping him into a frenzy, then letting him have his way with me at the last moment. But I wasn’t. I genuinely did want to finish my crossword – and, no, I will not count to ten and follow you into that portaloo. My life became a nightmare.
Don’t get me wrong, some people would love to have that kind of dynamism in a relationship they would relish the fact that you don’t know when and where you’ll be having sex. But my nerves are shot at the best of times, so the last thing I need is the equivalent of Cato on Viagra, jumping out of a wardrobe with a raging hard-on. Yes, I loved having a boyfriend, but there were three people in that relationship: me, him and his penis.
* * *
In the final year at Middlesex I chose the Stand-up Comedy module. That was not because I liked comedy or wanted to be a comedian, but because all my friends had chosen it, and we got to go away on a long weekend to Tenby for a comedy bonding session. It sounded like a lot of fun, and the end of the course was looming. I think in the back of our minds we knew that this would probably be the last time we would all be together. Excitedly, we all bundled into the minibus and left Ivy House for Tenby.
Tenby is a really picturesque part of South Wales, its pretty houses and dramatic coastline framed by the hills. When we visited, it was so quaint and unspoilt. We stayed on a lovely farm which belonged to the comedy tutor, Huw Thomas, who ran the comedy night, ‘Downstairs at the King’s Head’, in Crouch End, where we would be performing these comedy routines the following week. With its two barns, one for the girls and one for the boys, and its surrounding land which ran down to the seashore, the farm encouraged the liberating feeling of getting back to nature. We let that sense of freedom wash over us and the grime of North London soon became a distant memory.
We made a fire on the beach out of some branches that we found. We bought some beers and sat around reminiscing and telling stories. Huw would gently nudge each of us to tell a funny story, and in turn everyone would nervously tell an anecdote. The alcohol loosened us up, and the warmth of the fire seemed to draw us out of ourselves. Before long, the stories and jokes came gushing out. Huw had cunningly showed us what we needed to recreate next week at the busy pub in London: intimacy, confidence, empathy, and, of course, the capacity to be fucking hilarious.
It was a lovely evening, and I remember having a wonderful sense of fulfilment as I made my way back to the boys’ barn. I lay in bed and thought about the next week. What would happen? Would I get booed off? Would I bring the house down? These thoughts were thrust right out of my mind when a hand was clamped over my mouth and another hand went down my pants. Terrified, I tried to scream. It was only when I heard Chad say, ‘Get in my sleeping bag,’ that I at least started to breathe.
‘Get off me,’ I hissed. ‘How long have you been waiting here?’
‘Thirty minutes,’ came the reply.
As it happens, Chad had slunk across the room whilst the others had been asleep and clung to the bottom of my bunk bed, like Robert De Niro gripping the axle of that car in Cape Fear, and waited. I told him to get back into his bed, and he sulked off. This was getting too much.
The next day we honed our stand-up skills. Instead of the cosy warmth of the fire on the shore, the venue was a third barn, which had been made up like a comedy club. There were tables and a microphone on the stage. We still had beers to take the edge off it. We all tried our newly prepared jokes and hoped that people laughed. As you can imagine, it was a mixed bag. Some went down well, some died a death. But overall, we were all gunning for each other.
All I knew from those two nights was that this comedy lark was terrifying. The fear that takes over your body and turns your stomach inside out was unbearable. Through the years of doing comedy gigs up and down the country, I have learnt to control it and harness the nerves. Now I use it to get excited and focused, a positive energy, you might say. Thankfully, nowadays it is very rare for me to get those knee-trembling nerves and heart palpitations. But when it comes, it comes, and it’s an acute reminder of those early comedy gigs when you couldn’t eat all day, even the smell of food turning your stomach. The fear seized you as you were standing in the wings, making a silent prayer to God and saying, ‘I would rather do anything than go out on that stage tonight. Screw this comedy lark. Why do I want to be a comedian, anyway? Why don’t I just go and get myself a boring shit job instead?’ Then I’d stop myself and go, ‘Oh, I have! I’m packing shampoo bottles tomorrow at eight.’
The next week at ‘Downstairs at the King’s Head’ we were all set to perform our comedy routines. That morning I’d woken myself up at 7.30, after having the worst anxiety dream ever. In the dream, I’d gone on stage and no words came out of my mouth. They just stuck in my throat. I had lost my voice and the crowd had started booing. People had started to walk out. Hoping that it was not a premonition, I made myself a cup of tea and a couple of slices of comedy and sat down on the comedy and watched a bit of comedy on the comedy. Please stop thinking about this fucking comedy routine, I pleaded to my already overcharged brain. The whole day just froze. It would stay frozen until I went on stage and said the magic words:
‘Hello, I’m Alan Carr.’
When we finally arrived at the Kings Head at six, we were led ‘Downstairs’, and the nerves went up a notch. I thought, ‘So this is where I’m going to die.’
‘Downstairs at the King’s Head’ has all been done up now, but back then in 1997 it was dark and gloomy, almost bunker-like. It wasn’t conducive to comedy at all, in my opinion. We went through the running order. I was in the second half – oh great, more time to fret. By this time the nerves that had tormented my stomach all day had travelled up my windpipe and were persecuting my throat. I would have gagged if I’d had anything to eat all day. So it was more of a dry heave as we were shown our dressing room and the toilet, which, looking back, was handy really.
I can’t remember how I bided my time before my performance that night – oh yes I can, I shat myself. Not literally, you understand, but I might as well have with the wind I was producing – oh goodness, it’s an affliction that haunts me to this day. Royal Variety Performance, Friday Night Project, Hammersmith Apollo, my wind has no discrimination when it comes to the classy venues; it just pops out and lingers, a bit like the Grey Lady at the Royal in Northampton.
&nbs
p; As it progressed, the night became too much for my nerves; every step of the comedy night sent my anxieties up to the next gut-wrenching level. When Huw shouted, ‘The doors are open,’ that would crank my nerves up. Then hearing the voices of the punters – another crank up. The opening of the second half, gulp, and then finally, ‘Ladies and gentleman, Alan Carr’ – I passed out.
Well, I didn’t pass out, but I couldn’t tell you what I said, what I did, if they laughed. I went into tunnel vision. All I know is that after the ending of every joke, the knot in my stomach loosened. After what seemed like a couple of seconds, I heard myself through the dream saying, ‘I’ve been Alan Carr, goodnight,’ and then, thankfully, applause stirred me from this strange half-slumber I’d been living in. Apparently, I’d brought the house down. People were patting me on the back, allegedly I’d had everyone in stitches. A huge wave of relief washed all the nerves away, and I just slumped in the corner feeling the last spark of nervous energy leave my tingling body. I remember thinking I never wanted to do that again.
But I did.
Chapter Six
MISSING CHANCES
The next day at Ivy House, people were saying that I should do comedy professionally and that I was a natural at it.
‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ I politely replied.
Yes, the adulation and all the positive comments were lovely – ask any comedian, you cannot beat the euphoria you get when you’ve stormed a comedy gig, it is the most exhilarating feeling in the world. However, the nerves that had ravaged my body were too much. I simply couldn’t muster up that energy to perform every night. When would I eat? When would I sleep? I vowed I would never go through the strain of performing comedy again, and I stuck to my word for four years. ‘Besides,’ I would tell my fellow students, ‘I’d rather continue with my acting. I enjoy that.’ They would nod sympathetically, remembering my Len and the baby-stoning incident.
