by Alan Carr
The end of the course was simply a matter of weeks away, and desperation mixed with panic is a lethal cocktail – especially when you are about to make important life decisions. Whilst we had been drinking, mucking around, joking and winding people up for three years, some of the more proactive students had sensibly earned their Equity cards, put on shows, travelled Europe and joined theatre companies.
I hadn’t done any of this. I was just assuming something would happen, I don’t know what exactly, but something. All of a sudden, it was like being back at The Farm. One minute everyone is dancing with you to ‘Baggy Trousers’, the next it changes to a slow dance, you’re on your own, and all around you people are waltzing off with careers, smirking at you, a knowing look in their eye, mouthing ‘ha ha’.
I was obviously worried because I approached one of my tutors, David Owen-Bell, about the future. He sat me down, and we talked about the best way to find acting work. He advised me to get my photos done professionally and create a CV to send to the casting agents illustrating my height, weight, accents, dialects and additional skills.
‘Skills?’ I said.
‘You know, horse-riding, swimming, fencing,’ he replied.
‘I don’t really have any of those skills.’
‘OK. What about accents? Dialects, maybe?’
‘I can do Scouse.’
‘Marvellous. Pop it down. Any others?’
‘Brummie.’
‘Wonderful. You see.’
‘Scottish as well.’
‘Brilliant. Now here’s a list of addresses of some of my theatrical connections. Print out your CV, send a photo and don’t forget to mention my name.’
I left his office much happier and more positive. At least my CV looked like I hadn’t drifted aimlessly through the last three years in a haze of alco-pops and had acquired some form of a thespian education.
But the feeling of enlightenment and hope faded as my conscience began to awaken. Yes, I could do a Scouse accent, but only if the line was, ‘Grrrrrreeeet, I’m ’avin’ an ’Arvey Brrrrrrriiistol Crrrrrreeeeeaaaaamm.’ As for my Birmingham and Scottish accents, they were ‘Alright Bab’ and ‘There’s bin a muurrrrrrder’, respectively. If the part required any more lines, then I would be exposed as a fraud, and if my character was anything more than a one-dimensional stereotype I would be for the high jump. Nevertheless, I sent the CV off (I’d added horse-riding and tap and jazz for my dancing disciplines – you never know, it might open some doors) with my photo and hoped that I would never ever get an audition and have to admit that I was a charlatan.
Needless to say, rejection followed rejection. Apparently, the acting world had no need for a horse-riding Scouser. It wasn’t just the acting community that had turned its back on me. David Owen-Bell had put a modelling agency down as one of his contacts by mistake and I had the complete discomfort of having the rejection letter drop on my doormat two days later. I was horrified. The rejection letter was sweet, saying at that moment they weren’t taking on any more models, but I really do dread to think what they made out of my flimsy curriculum vitae and accompanying black and white photo of me looking moody/constipated.
As my time at Ivy House entered its swansong, my situation became desperate. This wasn’t it, surely? With menial work and hard labour seeming the only option, my life stretched ahead of me like a plate of dry toast.
Did I start to audition? Did I look into post-grad courses? Did I brush up on my accents?
No, I went to Camden Market to have my palm read by a gypsy fortune-teller.
At the time, it seemed like the only sensible thing to do. I went on 14 June 1997, my 21st birthday, as a birthday treat. My friend Kieran, whose birthday is the day after, came too. As it happens, we had two very different experiences. I went in first and, disappointingly, the gypsy woman wasn’t what I expected – no scarf around her head, no misty crystal ball to peer into. In fact, she looked like one of Mum’s friends. I thought, ‘Here we go, what a waste of money.’
‘Hello’, I said.
‘You’re very theatrical,’ she replied, ‘and you are doing something dramatic, yes?’
Look, love, even David Blunkett could tell I wasn’t on a welding course. I bit my tongue.
The gypsy carried on with her gay stereotypes. ‘You’re close to your mother, you don’t like sports, you’re the first on the dance floor, you like quiche.’
Strangely enough, as the session continued, she began to say things that were spookily accurate. She mentioned my dog by name – ‘Minstral’ – and said he was half Jack Russell. True. She said I was seeing someone American. True. Then she said something strange; she said that after today I wouldn’t see him again. That was actually true; the bastard went back to America the day after my birthday without telling me, and I didn’t see him again until this year when just by chance I bumped into him in Times Square in New York. Surprisingly, Chad didn’t try to drag me into the doorway of Radio City Hall and shag me, so I’ve either got ropier-looking or he’d been neutered.
These little half-truths and educated guesswork gushed out of the gypsy’s mouth, some spot on, some way off-course. In the middle of such predictions as ‘You’ll find love with someone beginning with S just before your 30th birthday’ and ‘Steer clear of anyone called Tony,’ she told me that my future was in stand-up, and that I would make my money writing and performing comedy.
I remember shaking my head. I physically could not go through the stress of performing night in, night out, shitting my life away in pub toilets and swallowing sick. However, she was adamant.
I was unconvinced, and said, ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Seeing my horror at the thought of it, she insisted, ‘You will!’ but added enigmatically, ‘But it won’t be as you, you’ll play a character.’
That, I suppose, is open to interpretation, but anyway I didn’t take much notice of it because there was no way I would be doing stand-up anyway, was there?
I looked at my watch and saw the half hour had flown by. I waited outside while Kieran went in and had her palms read. Then we reconvened in a coffee shop and talked about our respective futures. I was disappointed. She hadn’t mentioned an acting career or winning a BAFTA, and waiting till 30 to find love seemed ludicrous and impossibly old – I’m now 32 and still waiting.
Kieran came out from her session downcast. It seems my predictions were fabulous compared to hers. The fortune-teller had told her people would come from far and wide to hear her sing. You don’t know Kieran, but her singing voice is worse than mine, and that is saying something. To top it off, she had been told that in the not too distant future she would be taking a journey in a white vehicle. Lovely. An ambulance!
So we headed off for a few birthday drinks, with me confused and Kieran a little downhearted. There’s nothing like a prediction that you are about to be hospitalised to really get the party started.
* * *
I ended up with a 2.1 from Middlesex University. The graduation ceremony was at Wembley Conference Centre, and we all turned up with our mortarboards and gowns. But just like the course, the graduation ceremony seemed to drift aimlessly. No one took it seriously and no one saw it as an amazing end to an era. There was still no hope of a job, but then again I hadn’t even tried to look for one. The lucky break that I had hoped would come and save the day hadn’t materialised and I was stuck.
After having three hazy, slumbersome years at my disposal, I found now that I didn’t even have a minute to decide what path to choose. All I knew was that, as soon as the ink on my last essay was dry, I had to find work, and quick. I couldn’t be arsed with even more rejection letters and living in London was (and is) so expensive. So I moved back to Northampton and, thanks to Dad’s amazing Northamptonian work connections, I got a job in a paint-spraying factory, wiping the grease off gearboxes before they were sprayed.
I guess I chickened out. I didn’t really give this acting lark a go, to be honest. As always with me, that mixtur
e of apathy and outright pessimism made me falter at the first hurdle. I wanted a great acting job, I wanted acclaim, I wanted my own trailer, I wanted a Lifetime Achievement BAFTA, and I wanted it all now. Not because I thought I was great, but because I couldn’t be bothered to wait for them. I’m not one of those artistic creatures who will persevere for years, sleeping on people’s floors, wiping down tables in a run-down caff, just to get that one amazing role. Oh no, I’d been poor for three years and it wasn’t really me; I just wanted to get some money, pay off my debts and live a normal life. Unlike most of my peers, I couldn’t wait to shed my student skin. I wasn’t scared of moving on.
Interestingly enough, I bumped into one of the old Ivy House students at Heathrow Airport only this year. I instantly recognised her from her dreads and tie-dye. There is something tragic about seeing white people the wrong side of 30 with dreads.
‘Hello, love. Where are you off to?’
‘India. Stilt-walking in a festival,’ came the reply.
I remember thinking, ‘Of course you are. What else would you be doing? Not changing any stereotypes, that’s for sure.’ And so she headed off all bubbly, probably to have a chickpea curry, or realign her chakras near the baggage reclaim. You just know she’s ten years away from a breakdown.
Ironically, I couldn’t stay for the whole ceremony at Wembley Conference Centre because I’d only got the morning off from my job, and those gearboxes weren’t going to degrease themselves. My dirty fingernails and the faint whiff of turps – the only things betraying my grotty day job. As I had to dash off, I missed out on having a drink with my friends. But after spending three years with them intensively on a course that at most occupied us for a day a week, we got the gist. We were ready for the next phase, whatever that was going to be. One thing I knew was that it was going to be grim.
Therefore, the words of our tutors as they stood on the podium talking about how we were the future – ‘Watch out, future employers, Middlesex students are coming to get ya!’ – felt hollow to my ears. I anxiously kept looking at my watch – not in a ‘C’mon, world, let me at ’em’ way, but more in a ‘C’mon, my foreman is going to be furious if I’m not there to cover that afternoon shift’ way. Anyway, that ideological ‘we can make a difference’ shit seems to be more relevant to a middle-class upbringing. It’s only the privileged that have got the time and resources to make that change. When you’re skint, you’re too busy keeping the boat afloat to try to rock it.
So after a photoshoot of us all throwing our mortarboards in the air next to a giant roundabout, me and my parents made our excuses and headed back to Northampton. I could not wait to earn my first post-university wage. At least the money I earned didn’t have to be spent on extortionate rent, photocopying or books that you wouldn’t use as a coaster, let alone read.
* * *
I don’t know whether it was an omen, but my Mini’s engine burst into flames on the way to work in the first week. I don’t know whether it was the thought of returning to an industrial estate or something automotive-related, but my beautiful yellow Mini ‘Agnetha’ just couldn’t go on and gave up.
I stood with her as she was consumed by flames on the side of the A14. I felt guilty because I had promised her a new life, a car parking space at a posh city centre office-block or a studio flat, not another factory forecourt. It was the last I saw of Agnetha before she was taken away by a scrap merchant. She had been my first car, and we had shared some wonderful experiences together. It had taken me ages to pass my test and Agnetha had been a £500 treat to myself for my perseverance.
There is only one other man that I know who has taken just as long to pass their test as me, and that man is Justin Lee Collins. Four times – and that was before they brought in the ridiculously simple theory part. Not only did it take four times, it took three instructors. Driving instructors and I don’t mix. I don’t know whether it’s their humourless stare or their pernickety attention to details, but they rub me up the wrong way. I didn’t want anyone to bend the rules for me, just cut me some slack. The first instructor was horrid and we didn’t last long. He used to talk to me as if I was a piece of dirt on his shoe. I don’t care how badly you drive there’s no excuse for calling someone a c***.
I moved on to Lance, and he didn’t last long either, this time, not because of me, but because he was leaving the country, which was a shame as he was one of the good guys. His honesty was enchanting, especially when he rang up to tell me that he couldn’t make the lesson that day as he had an attack of the shits, something that I never failed to forget as I sat in the driving seat of his Renault.
The last one, Len, was the worst, but ironically it was with him that I passed. I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw this spitting image of Charlie from On the Buses sitting in the driving seat, scowling and smoking a Berkley Menthol. Why couldn’t I have a good-looking one? Carolyn’s driving instructor had taken her on drives to restaurants and paid for her to have dinner with him, but this one looked a right arsehole. Let’s get one thing straight – I could drive, that had been established in the first few weeks. It was just the damn parallel parking and reversing around corners that threw the spanner in the works and dragged out what should have lasted a couple of months into the best part of a year.
I couldn’t get it. The image in the rear-view mirror just didn’t correlate with my hand that was white and gripping the steering wheel. It didn’t help that Len had such a short fuse. On the dashboard, he would show me by using his fag packet as the car and reversing it around a cassette box, but by the time his explanation had finished, the fag packet would be in tatters and I would be close to tears. To be fair to me, it didn’t help that they took you to drive around some of the roughest council estates in Northampton to learn the rules of the road. Apart from the usual hazards, you would have to be on the lookout for overturned trolleys, broken bottles and Staffordshire cross terriers running out in front of you.
You would think that spending so much time with Len a friendship would blossom, but that wasn’t the case. We only had contempt for each other, he for my driving, and I for his sad little existence. On the day of my test I came out of the house wearing my contact lenses. I was certain that my glasses were the root of my driving trouble; the feeble excuse that they were causing an unnecessary blind spot prompted me to act.
‘Where are your specs?’ he said.
‘I’m wearing my contact lenses,’ I replied.
He tutted and muttered under his breath, ‘Vanity, vanity, vanity.’
I cast one eye over his beige slip-ons and his teeth that looked like a brown Stonehenge and put the key in the ignition. I was going to make sure that this was going to be our final drive together, Len.
When I arrived back at the test centre, Len was chain-smoking. I got out and deliberately looked sad. He tutted, and then I screeched, ‘I’ve passed!’ Months of contempt and abuse fizzled out in front of our eyes and we hugged. Neither of us could believe it. I had been a little bit out on the reverse parking, but not enough to get me failed. I had been a bit more focused this time; the erratic driving had been replaced by carefully controlled movement. It had killed me at points. A low-flying pigeon had dipped in front of the windscreen, and where previously I would have screamed and driven the car into a shop window to avoid killing it, this time I applied the brake and took control.
It was the happiest day of my life. No more expensive lessons, no more reversing, and no more Len.
‘Things are looking up,’ I told Len.
‘Yes Alan, they definitely are,’ he said, as he pressed his beige slip-on to the pedal and we drove back to Overstone.
* * *
With Agnetha gone, and daily 6.30 a.m. pick-ups in the temps’ minibus becoming a permanent fixture, I started to resign myself to this existence. Even as the minibus snaked its way around Northampton’s various council estates collecting more and more miserable temps, for some strange reason it didn’t dawn on me that my life was spira
lling out of control. Nor did I understand that the longer I did these jobs, the more they were having potentially devastating effects on my CV.
Don’t get me wrong, gearbox degreasing was an integral part in the well-oiled machine that was paint-spraying. I had to wipe the grease off carefully with a cloth that I would soak in a massive vat of methylated spirits. Once the metal part was clean of any grease, the sprayers would coat it with paint. Then I would hang it up in a kiln, so it would dry and set. Take it off four hours later and – voilà! – a nice new painted piece of metal. Don’t ask me what they were for – I didn’t know and I didn’t care. All I knew was that they were something to do with cars.
The novelty of earning money and living with my parents was beginning to wear off, and ‘professional Alan’ was starting to reminisce about ‘student Alan’. The temps’ minibus was picking ‘professional Alan’ up at the same time as ‘student Alan’ would normally be stumbling through the door from a hard night’s clubbing. The only positive thing about the job was that you were your own boss, you went at your own speed and didn’t have to talk to anyone. It was only when the bell went that you’d have a cup of tea with the sprayers, and have a chat about, more often that not, spraying.
Working all day with an open vat of meths without a mask was having strange effects on me, I realised. Like most of Britain’s workforce, I would turn up bored and tired at the beginning of the day, but by the end I was happy. No, not just happy, hysterical, and not just because home time was nearing. I would start giggling at the most mundane things and dancing at all the tunes that boomed out of the stereo, filling the cobwebbed corners of the factory. The Pet Shop Boys’ ‘Go West’ was the anthem of the summer and was never off Northants 96.6 and, believe me, that song wasn’t lost in my little outlet. I would be laughing hysterically, dancing away, pointing west and singing along with all my heart, while my brain was being reduced to mush, ravaged by the toxic fumes. Everyone left the factory shattered, but I always seemed to leave the place buzzing, only to endure the worst comedown with Mum and Dad over tea hours later wondering why I had a splitting headache and had lost the will to live.
