Look who it is!

by Alan Carr

  My first mistake was to say ‘I’ll do anything.’ She was working at a restaurant called Café 191, and they needed a ‘dishpig’ ASAP. Sarah informed me that a ‘dishpig’ was polite Australian slang for a washer-upper and that Café 191 was on Oxford Street – slap-bang in the middle of Australia’s gay scene. Oh, what with the excitement of finally earning some cash and the chance of maybe finding a possible holiday romance, I accepted and told her I’d meet her there at half seven.

  Café 191 was a very swish, modern, cosmopolitan establishment where the gay glitterati dropped in for cocktails and people-watched before swanning off to a club or a private members bar. Not that I saw any of this because I was round the back, sweating profusely while scrubbing at a wok with a scourer. The gay world has a hierarchy, and never was that more in evidence than at Café 191: lesbians and ugly gays out the back and pretty boys and muscle Marys at the front. I wouldn’t have minded, but some of these gays were retarded, mincing around taking the wrong orders, ignoring the ugly customers and serving the good-looking ones first. Huh, maybe if I’d had streaks in my hair I might have been able to fraternise with the customers, too. Instead, the only time I was spotted on the restaurant floor was when my pink marigolds would come through the serving hatch to collect the tray of dirty plates and dishes.

  Any mystique I’d conjure up with those marigolds would be destroyed at midnight when my true identity would be revealed as I took all the kitchen waste out the back and popped it in a giant tin bin, situated conveniently next to the entrance of Sydney’s premiere gay nightclub. Sarah was right, I was meeting lots of gay people; they were scowling in their minuscule muscle vests while I was standing with a binliner and half of Café 191’s menu down my pinny. Surely one of these men would slip their phone number down the front of my apron? Alas, no.

  Despite all this, Sarah and I had a right laugh, especially when the owner grabbed a pot from the top of the cupboard and a rat jumped down the front of his ruffled top. And you think I can scream! As always, it’s the grim occasions that bond people, and among the drama and stress of the kitchen the seeds of our friendship were sewn. I was introduced to her girlfriend, Cherry, who was working in a fish-and-chip shop under Sydney Harbour Bridge. She was just as lovely as Sarah, and we were relieved that we weren’t the only ones enduring a mundane job in the name of travel. I lasted a couple more months at Café 191, but then thankfully my CV finally bore fruit. I got a job at HIH Insurance in an administrative role. It seems those polyester shirts I bought were going to come in useful after all.

  HIH Insurance was one of the biggest insurance companies in Australia, and my role was to collect all the claims that came through by fax and accredit them to the right department. Yes, that was my job plain and simple, but at least I didn’t have the chance of getting Hepatitis B from emptying a bin. The form was simple: name, address, what is the injury? Where on your body is it? One form that still makes me laugh was from this farmer who worked driving a tractor in the Outback:

  What is the injury? Piles

  Where on the body is it? Where do you fucking think?

  The job was pretty tedious, but the people were great. I have such an affection for Australians; they just get our sense of humour, don’t they? Whether it’s the amount of sunshine or the sense of space that just makes them so optimistic and cheery, I don’t know, but my time there just seemed to be filled with laughing and getting pissed. I soon befriended one of the doctors there, Janet Hay. She was my partner in crime, and we would always go socialising together. Because she was high up at the firm, she would always get me into the staff dos and work lunches that humble temps like myself wouldn’t normally be invited to.

  I remember being so wrecked at a works do that I blacked out after being hit on the head with a chicken wing – don’t ask. I woke up under the table. Janet, just as pissed as I was, tried to hail me a cab, but no one would stop. And so I decided to go home on the City Circle, their underground system. I gave her a kiss and made my way back. Finally, I got home after a succession of people had looked discouragingly at this pissed-up Brit nodding off on the train. It was only when I looked in the mirror and saw that someone had drawn a swastika on my forehead that I realised they’d stitched me up good and proper. You can imagine the cheer I got when I turned up for work hung over the next morning. With a cheeky Nazi salute, I returned to my filing.

  The Backpacker Hostel was becoming a drag. It was becoming impossible to have a lie in due to the continual drone of the tannoy waking everyone up at eight o’clock with its offers of cheap manual labour. ‘Road sweeper needed, $10 an hour’ or ‘Bricklayer wanted’. I listened out for ‘Actor needed for Hollywood blockbuster. Must be camp and have buck teeth’, but it never came, so I just rolled over and went back to sleep.

  We decided to find a house of our own, somewhere new and fresh where the bathrooms weren’t communal and you weren’t continually being asked if you wanted pussy when you stepped out of the front door. We needed an upgrade. Besides, I was working in insurance – I had a reputation to uphold. Catherine and I had made friends with three Irish guys, and we all decided to move in together. The rent would be cheaper, plus we all got along – indeed, you might say that we got along too well. Catherine and Aaron are now married. In fact, it was me who brought them together – oh yes, I can be a right little cupid when I want to be. I should sort myself out sometime.

  Aaron had come into the kitchen that morning, and both Catherine and I had gone ‘Woof!’, our codename for any men that we fancied – subtle, I know. I was making breakfast and, unbeknownst to me, the tea-towel had caught fire on the ring heating up the beans. Suddenly the flames started burning my hand, and I began screaming and waving this tea-towel like an Olympic gymnast. I threw it on the floor, and one of the Irish lads stamped on it for me, saving me from being burnt to death. That broke the ice, and we invited them to join us for breakfast and over the smell of burning tea-towel our friendship began.

  We ended up taking a house in Darlinghurst, a pretty, lovely suburb that was a short walk to Rushcutters Bay and Paddington, the place to be seen. Paddington could be found at the other end of Oxford Street and it would be strange walking down there at night, passing by all the trendy wine bars and chi-chi boutiques. Then as you got to Oxford Street, you’d see dodgy-looking drag queens and doped-up rent boys standing in doorways, or what I saw one night, a drag queen hitting a policeman over the head with a baguette.

  We couldn’t have picked a better spot. At the end of the road there was a place called the Albery. They had Gay Bingo there, which was an absolute scream. ‘Two fat dykes – 88,’ squawked the drag queen, Clare De Lune. ‘One and eight – eighteen and never been fisted.’ You never got that at Mecca Bingo, but then again you weren’t playing for dildos and a set of love-eggs. I know this is blasphemous, but I got sick of the gay scene. It was too image-conscious at times. There didn’t seem to be anybody around like me – normal. They were either drag queens or these ripped, veiny, muscle-bound guys who resembled a Lion Bar that’s been left by a fire.

  One of the highlights of my life was seeing in the Millennium in Australia. We saw it in at Rose Bay, a really picturesque spot with its moored yachts and park. But its main appeal is the perfect panoramic view you get of Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. I always smile inwardly when someone says how their New Year or Millennium celebrations are always a letdown. Don’t get me wrong, mine usually are, but that Millennium year was a triumph. We had this spectacular view with the most amazing firework display that lasted for what seemed another millennium. Then we danced the night away with Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, who were together back then in the early 2000s. When I say ‘partied’, they did it on their yacht, which was rumoured to be floating about 100 metres away from us on the water, and we congaed on our bit of dry land.

  In the end, we gatecrashed a house party that was happening in the salubrious area of Potts Point. Free champagne and cocktails were the order of the d
ay, and it rounded off our celebrations nicely, if not a bit chaotically. At one point I saw Catherine emerge from a bush where she’d obviously passed out. I couldn’t help laughing because she had two footprints on her chest. Someone had obviously trodden on her as she lay on the floor, and she’d been so gone she hadn’t noticed. That’s my girl.

  After all the fun, it was hard to get back into the swing of it. I was getting bored. I felt like I was stagnating, not just in the house, but in Australia. Plus, after an expedition up the Gold Coast failed to materialise, Sarah and Cherry found themselves homeless and ended up living with us for a couple of weeks, bringing the total to one heterosexual girl, three heterosexual Irishmen, one homosexual man and two lesbians sharing a tiny two-bedroomed terraced house. As you can imagine, the atmosphere in that front room became as stifling as the Sydney air itself.

  While standing by the fax machine waiting for yet more people to complain about their injuries, I decided that it was time to move on before I started to resent Sydney. It had been a fabulous experience, but it was time to leave the party. The only problem was, I hadn’t saved any money for the rest of the trip. I was skint, broke, penniless, and I had the rest of my trip to do. Obviously, looking at my bank balance, there was no way I could continue around Australia as planned. I would have to cut straight to Malaysia and Thailand and hope that living there was as cheap as everyone was raving about.

  Catherine was lucky; she was able to cash in some bonds, so she could afford to do the rest of Australia and New Zealand. But I couldn’t ring my parents up and ask for money so I could go round New Zealand, they’d laugh in my face. Dreadful as it sounded, it looked as if we had to go our separate ways, which was heartbreaking. We’d started this fantastic journey together, and it felt only natural that we should end it together, but, alas, it wasn’t to be. So we made our tearful goodbyes, and I travelled alone off to Asia.

  * * *

  I had been in touch with Carolyn by email throughout my journey. Whereas I had had one of my best years, Carolyn had had possibly one of her worst, not only adapting to a life without sight, but enduring the painful treatments that came with it to try to save the little sight that remained. When I knew that my planned trip was being shortened, I asked if she wanted to join me in Singapore and work our way up through the islands for a month. She said yes, and I knew I wouldn’t be alone much longer.

  The backpacker trail up through Malaysia and Thailand is so well ploughed that it’s never too hard to make friends, so Carolyn and I weren’t on our own for too long. We stayed in Kuala Lumpur at a grubby youth hostel in Chinatown. Lying in the nylon sheets made my skin crawl. Carolyn and I made our way around the town. Apparently Kuala Lumpur was a haven for bargain-hunters. As I wandered along looking in the shop windows, I saw something that was so graphic it felt like a punch to the stomach. The image that winded me so was a beggar who was not only blind, but also had no eyeballs. It was as if the whole ball had been scooped out, leaving two empty craters.

  I felt sick and ran away, the image was too much. I’m ashamed to say, I left Carolyn there. Shielding my eyes so I couldn’t see his face, I tried to drag her away from the beggar. I could see her calling out ‘Alan!’ Alan!’ I was dreading that she would turn around to the beggar and say, ‘Have you seen my friend Alan?’ and he would reply in Kuala Lumpur-ese, ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  We drifted up through to the Thai islands of Koh Phangan and Koh Samui. The Leonardo DiCaprio film, The Beach, had just come out in the cinemas. We’d seen it, and it had fired up our imagination, and we couldn’t wait to experience it for ourselves. I loved the laid-back atmosphere on those beaches and have very fond memories of swinging in a hammock. I just hope the locals haven’t built up the area too much and replaced that wonderful serene ambiance with the stiffness of an all-inclusive resort.

  I could kick myself now but then, strange as it sounds, I realised you can get beached out. Honest to God, I can hear myself now complaining that I was getting sick of the beaches. Stupid, I know, but the continual landscape of white sand and turquoise seas can get – dare I say it? – monotonous. Months later, when I had my headset on and was tapping away at my data entry, these thoughts would come back to haunt me. What I wouldn’t give for a sip of a mojito in the afternoon sun!

  So I gradually made my way up through Thailand to my final destination, Bangkok. It was sweet with its floating markets and yes, more temples. I bought the obligatory knock-offs, the Diesel T-shirts and designer bags and wallets. I thought they were fantastic bargains, only to wear them and watch them fall apart piece by piece. The bag was the worst; first the buckle came off, then the lining came away, until I was left just walking around with a leather strap over my shoulder.

  Of course, I had to visit Patpong. This is the infamous district of Bangkok where a huddle of grubby bars put on the kind of entertainment you wouldn’t see at the Palladium. Basically, you can see women firing ping-pong balls without using their hands, if you see what I mean. We went along to the seedy bars and watched agog. I know it’s awful exploitation, but they did put on a good show. One woman had the hardest-working fanny in show business. She fired darts that popped balloons above my head, she blew candles out, smoked a cigarette and, her pièce de résistance, she played ‘Frère Jacques’ with a mouth organ. Believe me, Bangkok really has got talent. I couldn’t think of a better way to see off Bangkok, and the next day with these dirty images fresh in my head we decided to return to England.

  Believe it or not, I couldn’t wait to get home. The little plane that was on the screen hovering across the Urals could not hover quickly enough. I started imagining the joy at seeing my parents, finally earning good money, and the chance at last to get some kind of a career up and running. I could see England getting tantalisingly close, and to welcome us back the sun was beaming its little heart out. Then the plane dipped below the clouds and the sun’s rays evaporated, quickly replaced by thick slate-grey rain-clouds and the concrete vista that is Heathrow Airport. The terminals were grinning up at me like a row of rotten teeth. While I’d been away, someone had bled all the colour out of England. Even the green of the fields seemed strangely muted. It was like the rest of the world had kept all the colours for themselves. More to the point, nothing had changed. The only thing that had changed was Vanessa Feltz. When I left the previous June, she was fat, and now she was slim! Is that all that had happened?

  I got back to the house. It was strange not having Minstral run excitedly to the door and greet me. Minstral sadly hadn’t lived long enough to see my return. Before I left I had asked Mum specifically not to tell me if anything happened to the pets while I was away. She had agreed.

  ‘What could you do on the other side of the world?’ she had said. ‘It would only spoil your holiday, wouldn’t it?’

  So in Thailand, seeing an empty telephone booth, I’d rung her up, groggy with sun and beer.

  ‘Hello Mum. How are you?’

  ‘MINSTRAL’S DEAD! HE’S DEAD! MINSTRAL’S DEAD!’ wailed my mother like a banshee. ‘GONE FOREVER!’

  I’m not sure which part of ‘it would spoil my holiday’ she had failed to understand, but how could I be angry with a woman beside herself with canine grief? I started crying too, which wasn’t ideal as there was a string of hippy backpackers tapping their feet behind me and impatiently looking at their watches. This wasn’t the time or the place to have a breakdown. I put the phone down, walked across onto the beach and cried all the way back to my cabana.

  Anyway, once the various anecdotes had done the rounds and I’d shown off my tan, the real misery of my situation began to emerge. Just like before, I was still skint and living in Northampton. But this time I had the glorious sunny memories of the past year poking and prodding me, taunting my unfortunate situation. Please God, I couldn’t go back to work at Moulton Park Industrial Estate, could I? Not after my amazing adventure. Then someone threw me a lifeline.

  I got a phone call from Sarah and Cherry. Th
ey were back in England and were renting a house in Manchester. They had a spare room – would I like to take it?

  Well, what do you think I said?

  Chapter Eight

  CHANGING ENDS

  Manchester, oh Manchester! I didn’t realise this wonderful vibrant place, my home for the next seven years, would turn out to be so pivotal in my comedy career. Obviously, comedy was the last thing on my mind when I stepped off the National Express coach near Piccadilly Gardens. It was raining when I got off, and if my memory serves me well it never stopped raining for the next seven years. Anyway, to me, Manchester was just another destination on my round-the-world trip. Yes, there were no Buddhist temples or tropical beaches, but then again it wasn’t Moulton Park Industrial Estate. After a big group hug, Sarah and Cherry showed me my room at Rusholme Place in Rusholme, South Manchester, and I instantly felt at home. Typical, isn’t it? I go around the world trying to find myself, exploring my own personality, looking for the real me, and where do I go and ‘find me’? On the Curry Mile.

  It was great living there. The Sangam Indian Restaurant was at the end of the road, and every Friday night would be curry night. Town was in walking distance, and if you were really bored, visit the Whitworth Art Gallery across the road, which in my opinion had the sorriest collection of art you’ve ever seen. It looks like the kind of stuff you’d get on Tony Hart’s gallery. Life was great. The jobs were just as shit as in Northampton, but at least here I had the social life to counterbalance the tedium. Every weekend we would grab the Manchester clubbing scene by the scruff of the neck and not let go till Monday morning.