by Alan Carr
Before long I was trolleyed, and Lee and I decided to call it a night, in separate rooms, I might add. An older guy joined us in the lift and, seeing us both swaying and giggling, said, ‘You like parties?’
Well I never, it was Peter Fonda. Before we knew it, Lee and I were sitting around at Peter’s feet in his suite, singing protest songs while he accompanied us on guitar. I would usually avoid this situation like the plague, but it was one of the Fondas, for God’s sake. The only way I could trump this drunken anecdote would be if I did a cardiovascular workout paralytic with his sister Jane. Maybe you had to be there, but it was very funny, especially when Lee sat Peter down and said, ‘I know you must get this all the time, what with Easy Rider and everything, but – what’s your favourite pie?’
Peter stared at us over his guitar but we were in bits. Anyway, the party fizzled out, and we retired graciously, after Lee distracted Peter and I took all the drinks out of his minibar.
Obviously, as I was staying in Melbourne for just three days – with one and a half of them filming and rehearsing, and the other one and a half falling asleep in restaurants – I didn’t get to see much of the place. But the bits I did see were charming, although no one told me about the wind from the Antarctic. The bright Melbourne sun would shine cheerfully through my hotel window, slyly luring me out of my room, only for me to step outside and get instant botox from the wind as it bit my face. I’d be glad to get back to Manchester where at least you knew what you were getting when you stepped outside your house – rain.
Back in England, all eyes were on Edinburgh. Everyone, including myself, was putting the final touches to their shows. After the miserable time I’d had last time in Edinburgh, I decided to throw myself into the whole Festival thing this time and share with another comedian – then at least I wouldn’t get lonely and could feel more a part of it. My agent said, ‘Why don’t you share with another Off the Kerb act?’
I thought ‘Why not?’ The only other act who was looking for a flatmate was Brendon Burns. Now anyone who’s seen Brendon will know that we are chalk and cheese. He is a loud, brash, bandana-wearing political firecracker, while I am – well, you know what I am. But even though the alarm bells were ringing so loud I thought I had tinnitus, I said ‘Yes’, thinking that macho bravado was all an act. It wasn’t. Soon word got round that I was sharing with Brendon and overnight the nicknames ‘Poofy’ and ‘Shouty’ were born.
Brendon was great and considerate and always did his washing up, but his entourage was the problem. It would get bigger by the day, with more and more women joining the fold. During one riotous party, I came out of my bedroom in my dressing gown to tell them to turn it down, and I was instantly surrounded by scantily clad women – I must have looked like Hugh Hefner at the Playboy mansion.
Every morning I would be saying ‘Hello’ to another strange woman whilst eating my Coco Pops. One morning I was sitting opposite a woman who had given me a shit review two years ago. I gave her a sharp smile and took my bowl of chocolately goodness to my room. To be fair, that was just me being a party pooper – why shouldn’t everyone go a bit crazy? It’s a festival, for God’s sake.
We were there for a month, and everyone was saying, ‘Let your hair down!’ But I just couldn’t, and I never can – there always seems to be something to worry about. If I ever did trash a hotel room, I’d be throwing the television out the window with one hand and giving the sideboard the once over with a damp cloth with the other.
My show, simply called ‘Alan Carr’, was selling out every night and getting rave reviews. Typical, the only year I could not be arsed to come up with a title and I was getting some of the best reviews of my life. The Scotsman – five stars, Independent – five stars, Three Weeks – five stars. The good reviews kept coming into the press office, and they were put straight on my posters. This time I didn’t have to steal them from Jimmy Carr. Because the show was doing so well, other comedians came to see it. I had some of Dad’s footballing mates in the audience, including the manager Gordon Strachan. Unknown to me, Channel 4’s head of entertainment, Andrew Newman, who would play such an integral part in my progression at Channel 4, also came to the show.
* * *
As the Fringe lurches towards its denouement, talk of Perrier rears its ugly head. Perrier, or whatever it’s called nowadays, is an award a panel of judges give out every year to the comedian they think has the best show. In the Eighties they bestowed it on Steve Coogan, Lee Evans and Frank Skinner. Sadly in the Nineties it became the kiss of death, and whoever won it was never heard of again. As you can imagine, I didn’t want anything to do with it and, besides, the two previous years I hadn’t even got on the long list, let alone the shortlist. Why would they bother with me this year? However, my agent started getting himself in a tizz about this damn Perrier and, against my wishes, must have asked the main judge, Nica Burns, to come along and see the show.
I really wish he hadn’t because, five minutes in, she’d fallen asleep in the front row. It was quite off-putting, I must say, to see that bulbous head resting on her chest with her legs wide open. At least with a heckle you can use a witty putdown, but to have this lethargic lump directly in my eyeline was proving a real distraction. Nevertheless, the rest of the audience had a great time, and I got a wonderful cheer at the end, which warmed my cockles but woke Nica from her slumbers, disorientated. I knew at that moment I had absolutely no chance of winning that Perrier. As it happens, the fact that Andrew Newman was in the audience proved more useful to my career than any award, and later that week he invited my agent and me to dinner in Leith.
‘Have you heard of The Friday Night Project?’ Andrew asked.
‘No,’ I replied. I stopped myself from saying, ‘It’s on a Friday night, isn’t it?’
‘Well, we at Channel 4 would like you to co-host the show with Justin Lee Collins.’
‘But I hate that big hairy Bristolian!’
Obviously, I didn’t say that – I love him. I dithered instead and said, ‘Can I have a think about it?’
You’ve got to understand that I’d never seen the show. I knew the first series had been hosted by Jimmy Carr and Rob Rouse. But I’d been jet-setting all over the globe to Melbourne and Montreal, darling, so I’d never had the chance to see it and didn’t have a clue what the show was about. It could have been a programme about celebrity badger baiting, for all I knew. I don’t mind going on a satellite channel at one o’clock in the morning, but if I’m certain someone might actually be watching, then I don’t want to be saddled with a turkey.
I said I’d think it over once I’d returned to Stretford. Ahh! Beautiful Stretford. I didn’t think I’d miss it like I did. I only had to last a few more days and I would be leaving Edinburgh for home.
When the final day arrived, my heart sank. Brendon and I would have to clean the flat, as it had stated in the lease: ‘Leave it as you find it.’ Looking around, I hoped and prayed that we’d found it graffiti-ed, trashed, cigarette-burned and with a dislodged toilet seat, but it was a long shot. However, before I could slip on my Marigolds and drop to my knees, Brendon, in that wonderful rasping Australian voice of his, said, ‘Leave it to us lot, mate. We made the mess, so we’ll clean up the mess.’
I can’t remember what I said next. All I remember is running out of the flat with my suitcase, slamming the door, shouting, ‘Thanks, Brendon,’ out of the sunroof, and putting my foot to the pedal.
The Friday Night Project played on my mind. What did Channel 4 want? Could I deliver what they wanted? Stand-up comedy is one thing, but reading from an autocue and interviewing someone famous and trying to look interested is another. And there’s that thing in your ear where you can hear the director talking in the gallery. I wasn’t sure I would cope with that interference, but little did I know I would be putting these skills to use sooner than I thought.
I was sitting at home in my flat when I got a phone call out of the blue.
‘Do you live near the Trafford
Centre?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
It was the producer of Richard and Judy asking if I would like to do an outside broadcast at the Trafford Centre – ‘Live!’
‘When do you want me?’
‘Five o’clock today.’
‘What? Live? You must be joking!’
That was two hours away. I didn’t even have time to feel sick at the thought.
I drove down to the Trafford Centre and found out what I had to do. I had to run up to shoppers, drag them back to a podium and in the studio. Trinny and Susannah would dish out fashion advice to them all – live.
I have never even seen the footage of that day because I dread to see how terrified I looked. Just before they counted me down I had this awful fear that Tourette’s would take over my body and I’d just shout out ‘Hello, motherfuckers’ instead of ‘Hello, Richard and Judy.’
It really was a baptism of fire – I had the director talking in my ear, I had Richard and Judy talking to me in the studio and I had to interact with the shoppers, and pretend to give a shit about their outfits. Listening to the cacophony of voices whizzing through my head was making me dizzy – I don’t know how Derek Acorah does it.
But I survived, and when I was back at my flat having a very large glass of wine Richard Madeley rang up and left a message on my mobile.
‘You did a really good job there, Alan,’ he said, which was lovely of him. He didn’t have to do that and it really meant a lot to me. It stayed in my voicemail for ages. Richard must have meant what he said because soon after I started getting offers of more work to do outside broadcasts for Richard and Judy, this time, thankfully, not live. They were fun to start off with but then they started getting more and more surreal. I don’t know who was coming up with the ideas but I think they must have been on drugs.
I was asked to dress up as a potato for National Chip Week, and also to have dinner at a man’s house who made meals out of roadkill. Seriously. Mercifully I couldn’t find a window in my busy schedule, so I missed out on those delights, but some I did do were delivering a giant birthday card to Buckingham Palace for Prince Harry and finding someone with a third nipple in Liverpool City Centre. That was fun to begin with but there’s only so many times you can be told to ‘Fuck off!’ and put on a brave face. When I told them that it was for Richard and Judy some scouse wit would end up shouting out, ‘Nick us a bottle of wine, Richard!’ which wasn’t just tedious but totally untopical and we’d have to stop filming and try and find another three-nippled scouse shopper to interrogate.
* * *
It seems that it wasn’t just Channel 4 aficionados and Gordon Strachan in the audience at Edinburgh. I had received an invitation to perform at the Royal Variety Performance. It had come through the post, but I couldn’t believe it. How had Liz found out where I lived? I rang up my agent, and apparently it was true. Well I never! I double-checked the invite to see that it was in fact Her Majesty Elizabeth II attending and not someone shit like Princess Michael of Kent or that bloody Edward. If I’m performing, I want the real deal, I want A-list royalty, I want ermine, I want crown, I want orbs. I mean, Dame Shirley Bassey was headlining – Liz had a lot to live up to when it came to making an entrance.
The venue wasn’t the Palladium, which was probably the only disappointment, but it was at Cardiff’s Millennium Centre. I would be performing alongside Sir Cliff Richard, Dame Shirley Bassey, Charlotte Church and Will Young, so not camp at all then really … The only way it could have been gayer would have been if Dale Winton, Lulu and Christopher Biggins joined the Village People for YMCA as the finale. Thinking about it, wasn’t that the year before?
By that time, I was still warming up the Jonathan Ross chat show and had mentioned – well, came screaming into the Green Room waving my invitation in the air – that I would be performing at the Royal Variety Performance. Everyone was so pleased for me, and Jonathan said I could have one of his suits to perform in. I graciously accepted, and the wardrobe mistress took them up for me. It was a very generous offer, but looking at the footage you can see my stubby frame inside a suit for a lanky six foot two person and it looks very unforgiving. The jacket hung down so low I nearly tripped myself up by putting my foot in one of the pockets, but it was a lovely gesture and I am forever thankful.
When the day came, understandably I was nervous. Rubbing shoulders with all these legends at sound check, I realised I was almost the only one who hadn’t had extensive reconstructive plastic surgery. I was 28, and I looked the oldest there. Also the Royal Variety Performance is renowned for having a tough crowd. Hen parties, stag dos, yes, I can deal with them; but the prospect of a whole room of snooty Welsh people and the reigning monarch slow-hand-clapping terrified me. At least if Sir Cliff Richard dies on his arse, he can wheel out ‘Devil Woman’.
As it happened, I was sharing a dressing-room with McFly. They are lovely boys, but in their skinny-fit jeans and spiky hair they made me feel very old. My hair was beginning to recede around that time in November 2005 – I noticed it in the reflection of Sir Cliff’s veneers. It had started slipping back down my head like a rug on a highly polished floor, but thankfully with a bit of hair wax I could still fool people into thinking I had a fringe. Just as I was feeling really old, watching McFly coolly strum their guitars without a care, their manager came in and told the boys off for eating too many jellybeans.
‘If you have too many E numbers, you’ll be bouncing off the walls.’
Who says rock ’n’ roll is dead?
There wasn’t much camaraderie that night. All the big stars stayed in their rooms. Charlotte Church was lovely to me, as she always is. I passed Cliff on the stairs and said, ‘Good luck!’
He replied sharply, ‘I’ve already been on,’ which was a bit embarrassing, but to be fair, I’d had the runs and had locked myself in a toilet. I can’t be everywhere.
There were rumours Dame Shirley had demanded more sequins for her dress, so they had sent it back to India to have more sewn on and it was in the process of being flown back first class to Heathrow just in time for the show. Oh the drama! Can you imagine getting them to fly a dress from another continent just for you?
I wouldn’t mind, but they looked pissed off when I asked them to get me a cheese baguette and can of Tango, and that was only downstairs.
Before long, it was show time, and it was a huge success. All my worries were for nothing, I never fluffed my lines, I never fell off the stage. More importantly, I never mentioned Diana. I’d had the worst anxiety dream where I’d ended my set that night with the words, ‘You’ve been lovely, I’ve been Diana the Princess of Wales.’
The Royal Variety crowd are notoriously difficult, and looking out at the OAP crowd with their furs and opera glasses, I couldn’t really see what we’d have in common. I had deliberately picked my most universal material and hoped they would get it, and thankfully they did. Not only that, but on the televised programme there is footage of Her Majesty laughing at my Tesco Clubcard joke. How does she know about Tesco Clubcard points? I don’t care; I’m just glad she laughed in the right places.
The night was a triumph, and little did I know that it would open so many doors for me. My performance wasn’t finished there, however. I had to return with the rest of the performers who had graced the stage that night to wave arms aloft as Shirley Bassey brought the show to a fitting climax. In rehearsals, the plan was that Dame Shirley would emerge from below the stage via a trapdoor. It had gone smoothly in rehearsal, but standing there on the night waving, Catherine Tate and I noticed that the trapdoor had jammed. We could clearly see Dame Shirley shouting to the stage hand, ‘Get this fuc–’
‘Music is my first love,’ she bellowed, as the trapdoor propelled her up mid-rant. Of course, Dame Shirley was amazing and sang beautifully, and by the end she had the whole of the Cardiff audience on their feet. Tearfully, she cried, ‘It’s great to be home,’ before striding off stage to get in a private jet to take her to Monte Carlo.
The only person who could possibly upstage the Dame was the Queen, and I finally met her at the end for the curtain call. Although I’m not the biggest royalist, there is something about her. I bowed when she shook my hand and said, ‘Hello Ma’am.’ That’s what Will Young had done, and he’s posh, so I followed suit.
Then she said, ‘You were very entertaining!’
Oh my God, can I have that on my posters for my next tour? By Royal Approval, I am entertaining. Somebody pinch me.
Then, I heard her say it to Il Divo, then to McFly, then to Charlotte Church, then to Ozzy Osbourne, then to these two acrobatic dwarves from Croatia whose act was to spin half-naked on what looked like a silver wheelie bin. Christ, if she thinks they’re entertaining, she needs her head testing. When she started saying it to the woman who sold the ice creams, I realised I’d been duped. She says it to everyone; it’s a line she dishes out to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Damn it!
Anyway, for that tiny moment I felt very special indeed. I felt proud and warm inside, and I wasn’t going to let Her Majesty’s cheeky white lies spoil one of the highlights of 2005. I received a lovely photo of when I met the Queen. The only problem is that one of the members of Il Divo, who was standing next to me, had such an orange face that your eyes are drawn away from me and onto him. His tangerine-hued face looked like a sun setting behind my head, and it totally upstaged my first encounter with our sovereign.
Like everyone in Britain, I had grown up with the Royal Variety Performance and to be on it was a dream come true. But it was also a personal highlight because it was the first piece of comedy that my parents had seen me do. I’d always kept my comedy world secret from them because I didn’t want them to be disappointed or not to get the jokes. Plus, half the stuff was about them anyway, and I didn’t want to be sued or get my head kicked in. The night it was on the telly, I was working (of course), doing stand-up in Liverpool. I came off stage and saw I had missed a call from my parents. I hesitantly phoned home. Mum picked up.
