“It can wait. This will be even better. ”
“Why will it?”
“Did you see Five Easy Pieces, Jack Nicholson?”
“Yes, it was excellent.”
“You remember the grief the waitress gave him in the diner?”
Kristin fixed me with a look of reproof. “You’re not going to start arguing with the waitress are you?”
I crossed my heart. “Promise.”
“What are you going to do then?”
“You’ll see.”
The following morning we went back in Friendly’s. Same welcoming smile from the waitress. Same teeth show. Kristin ordered blueberry pancakes. I ordered bacon and eggs again.
“And how would you like your eggs this morning, sir, sunny side up or over easy?” said the waitress.
“Over hard.”
“Eggs over hard?” She frowned. “Ain’t never heard of that one before.”
Kristin put a hand to her mouth, suppressing a giggle.
I feigned helpfulness. “I think its eggs over easy but you let them fry a bit longer.”
“You have eggs over hard in the Yookay?”
“All over the Yookay. Our transport cafes can’t do them any other way.”
“Noo one on me. I’ll have a word with Chuck the griddle chef, see what he can rustle up.”
She headed for the kitchen, shaking her head, muttering, “Eggs over hard?”
Kristin elbowed me in the ribs. “You are awful, Norman.”
I flashed her a grin. “Good though, wasn’t it.”
“Hilarious.”
Something struck me. “Hey I wonder if there’s a chain of diners called Unfriendly’s? You wait for over an hour to get served and when you eventually get to give the waitress your order she tells you to fuck off?”
This made Kristin laugh out loud. “You really are a very funny guy, Norman.”
“Well I can be.”
“No, you have me in stitches sometimes, you really do. You should have been a comedian.”
I paused reflectively for a moment, dragging back the past, before saying, “I thought about it once.”
“Really? So what’s stopping you? After all you don’t do anything else.” Immediately the words were out she looked apologetic. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I wasn’t implying that you’re the idle rich.”
“That’s all right.” (When Kristin had asked me what I did for a living, soon after we met, she’d caught me unawares. The National Lotto had rescued me. A triple roll-over. Eleven and a half million. How an unemployed wages clerk or even a soon-to-be-employed plumber could have enjoyed my lifestyle would have taken a bit of explaining.)
“It would give you an interest,” Kristin went on. “A purpose. A person needs a purpose in life.”
I was reminded that The Archangel Phil had said exactly the same thing. Man’s need of a job. The next day I gave it some thought. Maybe they were right. My time in heaven had been and still was wonderful but there was no doubt about it that each week it was getting just that little bit less wonderful than it had been the week before, despite my taking the precaution of having a bad day about once a fortnight. But if I were to have a purpose it would have to be something other than being a stand-up comedian. Once bitten and that. I would no more be able to bear an audience not laughing at my jokes in heaven than I had on earth. Then it dawned on me. That wasn’t the case anymore. The audience would laugh. If I wanted them to.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Good luck, Darling.” In the wings of the Manchester Evening News Arena Kristin squeezed my hand.
I just about managed a smile. “Thanks.”
She frowned. “You’re sweating.”
“Nerves.”
“Don’t be silly; what on earth have you to be nervous about?”
“They might not like me.”
She took out a handkerchief and dabbed my temple. “Nonsense, they’ll love you. You’ve wowed them every night, why should tonight be any different?”
I couldn’t tell her.
It was the last night of a seven-night engagement I was playing at the MEN. The first six nights I’d gone down like a storm. As good as any stand-up comedian who had ever appeared there. As good as Peter Kay had the couple of times I’d seen him at the MEN when I’d been on earth.
*
The previous six nights had been marvellous. Everything had gone just as how I imagined it would. Half-a-dozen No Piss performances. Although I wouldn’t mind betting a few in the audience had wet themselves laughing. Wave upon wave of laughter flowing over me. Twenty thousand punters in the palm of my hands, hanging on to my every word, their sides aching from laughing out loud. And at the end of the show stamping their feet and shouting ‘More’ until I allowed myself to be persuaded by their pleas, bounced back onto the stage and gave them more. And then more laughter, more cheers.
After, there’d been crowds outside, hanging around to catch a closer glimpse of me, to cheer me on my way, to touch me, shake my hand, slap my back, ask me for my autograph. “Sign this for me would you please, Norman? Put ‘To Michelle’ would you?”
“How do you spell that?”
“M....I....C....”
“No, ‘to’, how do you spell ‘to’? ”
This brought more laughs. “Did you hear that? What’s he like?”
“He just never let’s up, does he.”
“He’s as good as Peter Kay any day of the week.”
“Better.”
“He’s shit hot is Norman, shit hot.”
*
And I had been shit hot. But tonight it all might be different. It would be different, it was different. For tonight I wouldn’t be ‘wanting’ the audience to like me. Tonight I would be letting them make up their own minds whether or not I was funny.
It was something I had to do. After all I had nothing to lose; if it all started to go pear-shaped, if the audience didn’t laugh, I could always revert to wanting them to laugh, and they would laugh. But I wanted them to laugh because they wanted to laugh, not because I wanted them to laugh.
Six weeks had passed since the idea came to me.
*
The day after Kristin and I got back from America I’d wasted no time in checking out Manchester’s comedy club scene. Apart from The Frog and Bucket, the pub in which I’d made an abortive attempt to try out at when I was on earth, there were four others, plus another at nearby Bury. All had occasional open-mike nights, nights where anyone could go along and try their hand at stand-up comedy. Over the next three weeks I tried my hand at all of them, some of them twice, nine performances in all.
For the first five shows I wanted the audiences to like me, which of course they did. On the sixth I let them make up their own minds. Swelled with the confidence my handful of performances had given me it had gone quite well. Not as good as when I’d wanted the audience to like me, but appreciably better than anyone else who’d been trying out that night. So good in fact that at one of the venues the manager offered me a booking. I didn’t take it; I had bigger fish to fry.
On my next appearance, when I again allowed the punters to make up their own mind, it was different.
It was a slow night, there were less than forty people in the audience at the hundred-seater venue and ten of those were fellow would-be comedians awaiting their turn to put their necks on the block. At least two of them were drunk - not would-be comedians I hasten to add - and had given the previous occupant of the stage a hard time. I was no more than a minute into my routine when one of them shouted out “I’ve heard it before.” His mate followed this up with “So have I; tell us one we haven’t heard you sad bastard.”
They hadn’t heard the joke before, I was sure of that, it was my own material. Unless they’d heard it at one of the other venues I’d appeared at over the last week or two, and if that was the case what did they expect? Even so it threw me. I managed to carry on but it wasn’t the same; the audience was smaller and less responsive than on my last appearan
ce there, which didn’t help. At one point, towards the end, nobody laughed at one of my jokes. Not a soul. Total silence. I felt like walking off the stage. I almost did. Instead, I wanted them to like me, and of course they did, even the drunks. The following night it was back to normal, I let the audience make up its own mind again and I went down well again. The same the following night, my last night of trying out at the comedy clubs. I then judged that I was ready and the following day booked the Manchester Evening News Arena for a week.
*
“And now will you please give a very warm welcome to....Norrrrrrrrrman Smith!”
“That’s you,” smiled Kristin. She gave me a quick hug and pushed me gently towards the stage. “Break a leg.”
I felt more like breaking into a gallop. But not towards the stage, towards the exit and right out of the arena. However I somehow manage to get a grip of myself and walked slowly towards the centre of the stage. The applause from the audience as I stepped into the spotlight was deafening. The Manchester Evening News review of my opening night had been lavish in its praise, many of them would have read it, those who hadn’t had maybe been told about it, about me; all of them were expecting something special.
I looked out into the sea of faces. Peter Kay was sat in the front row. I’d wanted him to be. I picked up the hand mike, tapped it in the time-honoured manner to check it was functioning properly, looked out into the audience, steeled myself, and went into my routine:
Are there any Muslims in the audience tonight?
I shielded my eyes with my hand, scanned the audience and pretended to home in on someone.
Yes, you sir. Is that your wife with you? What do you mean you’ve no idea, she’s wearing a burka?
The audience roared with laughter. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Same opening gag as on the previous six nights, same audience reaction. One gag down, two hundred to go. Would the others go down as well? I’d find out soon enough. I took a deep breath.
And talking about women who wear burkas how about the one who was up in court for making herself into a human bomb? Her parents said they were going to stand by her. But not too close.
Another gale force of audience laughter hit me. It was going well. It was going to be all right.
The judge let her off. She went BOOM!
The audience went wild. Peter Kay was laughing as much as anyone. I got into my stride.
But wearing a burka? I mean what’s that all about?
“I believe you’ve got a new girlfriend, Sarfraz?”
“Right.”
“What's she like?”
“She's got lovely eyes.”
“What's the rest of her face like?”
“I don't know, I’ve never seen it, she always wears a burka”.
“Has she got nice tits?”
“Who knows?”
“I won’t ask if she’s got a fanny.”
Well how would he know, all the clothes they wear? When they have one of these arranged marriages many a time the groom never sets eyes on the bride until the wedding day. Even if it's not an arranged marriage all he’s seen of her before is her eyes. He could always ask her what she looks like I suppose. Oh yes? I mean she's going to tell him she's got a face like the back of a bus, isn’t she?
“What do you look like, love?”
“Shite”.
I don't think so. She could tell him she looked like Catherine Zeta Jones with a body like Rachel Hunter but she could look like Andrew Lloyd Webber with a body like Keyhole Kate for all he knows. Imagine the first night of the honeymoon. She removes her burka....
“You’ve got a moustache!”
“Hasn’t that Smooth Appeal Wax got rid of it all?”
“It would take a lawnmower to get rid of that lot. And I hope that tattoo will come off.”
“It’s not a tattoo it's a birthmark.”
“Birthmark?”
“My mother was frightened by a dog.”
“She wasn't frightened love she was bloody terrified. Have you seen the size of it!”
“My dad says it’s shaped like Pakistan.”
“It’s a big as bloody Pakistan.”
Then she takes her clothes off.
“I thought you said you had nice legs?”
“What's wrong with them?”
“What's wrong with them? You've only got one. The other one's artificial.”
“You can't see it normally.”
“I can see it now. And why is it pink? You’ve got one brown leg and one pink one.”
“They only do pink ones on the National Health.”
“I'm not too keen on that hump either.”
No, give me an English girl anytime; she might not be perfect but at least you can see what you're getting. Mind you she doesn’t stop like that for long....
Two hours later I left the stage to tumultuous applause. A star was born.
*
March 23rd. The NEC, Birmingham.
Why do dogs always smell each other’s bums whenever they meet? I’ve heard of sniffer dogs but a dog’s not going to find much in the way of drugs up another dog’s bottom is it?
March 24th. The Hammersmith Odeon.
I mean all it will be able to smell after spending all day smelling other dogs’ bums is shit. Give one a flower to sniff at. ‘What’s that Fido?’ ‘Shit’. Or an orange. ‘Shit again.’
March 25th The Kelvin Hall, Glasgow.
Or a Big Mac. ‘That’s shit too’. Mind you it could be right there....”
The swiftly-arranged countrywide one-hundred night tour started the following day. It couldn’t have gone better. I had the time of my life after death. There was only one bad night, Liverpool Empire, and even then it had only been bad because I’d wanted it to be bad, because I didn’t want any scousers enjoying themselves. It was my bad day, and a bad day for them too, so hard luck.
The revues were marvellous. ‘Brilliant new stand-up’ - Manchester Evening News. ‘Never laughed so much in my life’ - Daily Mirror. ‘Loved the gag about big tits’ - The Sun.
I was over the moon. In addition to having my heaven just as I wanted it I now had a purpose. I would be in ‘heaven’ and heaven forever. There was not even the remotest chance of me going back to earth. It was all just wonderful. There was only one way in which it could be more wonderful.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Robert de Niro suddenly turned sideways on, cocked an imaginary hand gun and pointed it at me. “Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me? Well who the hell else do you think you’re talking to? Well I’m the only one here....you talking to me? Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
It was all I could do to keep from giving my hero a round of applause. Instead I offered an apology. “I didn’t really like asking,” I said. “I mean people must ask you to do it all the time.”
He nodded. “They do. And I usually tell them to go fuck themselves. But hey, it’s your wedding day, Norman. If a man can’t be indulged on his wedding day when can he be indulged?”
“Are you talking to me?” I replied, in a fair impression of de Niro’s Travis Bickle character. “Are you talking to me? Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
De Niro fell about.
Bobby was to be best man at my wedding. The usher is Jack Nicholson - I’d already had Jack smash through the bathroom door with an axe, leer at me with crazed eyes and say ‘Heeeeere’s Johnny’. The groomsmen are Al Pacino, Ben Kingsley and James Gandolfini. I had toyed with the idea of having them appear in character, Pacino as Scarface, Kingsley as Don Logan in ‘Sexy Beast’ and Gandolfini as Tony Soprano but shelved it in case they frightened the wedding guests.
Helena Bonham Carter is matron of honour. Seven of the eight bridesmaids are English Roses. The eighth, for a laugh, is Sue from Stockport. I just saw her arrive. She has a broken nose now.
Four hundred guests will be attending the wedding ceremony, to be held at Westminster Abbey. Elton Jo
hn will sing ‘Norman’s English Rose’, with specially written lyrics to the tune of ‘Candle in the Wind’.
Norman’s English Rose
Though she’d never heard of him at all
He wanted her
And now they’re one
He’d loved her from afar
But now his time for really wanting her has gone
Or I’m not Elton John....
(When I’d approached Bernie Taupin to write the lyrics he’d been indisposed so Elton had been forced to write the lyrics himself.)
A reception will follow at the Savoy Hotel. The catering is in the very capable hands of Raymond Blanc, assisted by Michel Roux and Gordon Ramsey. (As part of the entertainment, for me at least, wedding guest Graham Norton - allowed back for one night only - will ask for a bottle of Heinz tomato ketchup to shake onto Ramsey’s langoustine and spinach terrine and the scatological chef will emerge from the kitchen, call Norton a stupid little Irish twat and crack him one over the head with a soup ladle.)
The music will be provided by The Beatles. Paul McCartney has promised not to play anything he’s written since The Beatles split up, especially The Frog Chorus and Mull of Kintyre. (A few weeks after The Beatles had got back together again they’d played at my fifty- third birthday party. The Fab Four had all seemed completely at ease with each other again, although Lennon, mischievous as ever, had almost spoiled it all by suggesting that Paul McCartney’s marriage to Heather Mills had broken down because he’d composed a song in her honour entitled I Want to Hold Your Leg.)
Chris Tarrant will compere the cabaret. Ten seconds after he’s kicked off the evening illusionist David Copperfield will make him disappear, my having unaccountably failed to get rid of him during my original purges. Two seconds later Derren Brown will make David Copperfield disappear, for the same reason, and take over the compering duties.
Comedy will be in the capable hands of Peter Kay. He will be very, very funny, but not as funny as me. Support will be Victoria Wood singing Let’s Do It and John Cleese and Michael Palin performing The Parrot Sketch, joined immediately afterwards by the rest of the Python’s for a rousing rendition of The Lumberjack Song.
I'm in Heaven Page 12
