Matt Millz Stands Up!

by Harry Hill

  Matt dashed into the hall and opened the door. It was Kitty. ‘Ready for another round of questions?’ she said with a smile. ‘Great bit in the Mirror today!’ She handed Matt another copy of the paper. ‘Ahmed’s doing a really good job!’

  ‘Yeah! I’ve seen it,’ said Matt. ‘Hang on a sec and I’ll get my coat.’ He said his goodbyes, grabbed his coat and followed her down the front path, through the cold, crisp morning air to the waiting car.

  ‘Can I have a selfie, Matt, please?’ said the bloke in the anorak. He was about twenty-five Matt reckoned, had thinning sandy hair, a rather bad rash on his chin and looked a little bit like he needed a bath.

  ‘It’s Gary isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the man, holding his disposable camera up and pulling Matt in for a selfie. Matt caught a sharp whiff of rather pungent BO.

  ‘I’m your number one fan, Matt,’ said Gary with a grin.

  ‘Great!’ said Matt, forcing a smile for the camera.

  Then Matt and Kitty got in the Mercedes and pulled away from the crowd at the gate.

  ‘Do you watch Breakfast With Tubbs?’ asked Kitty as they headed down the M20 to London for the third time in three days.

  ‘Not really my cup of tea,’ said Matt. ‘My mum likes it though – not sure why.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean – it’s a bit dry isn’t it? Not like Sunday at Six. Tubbs won’t be as much fun as Amelia and Mark.’

  ‘Well, I went through my stuff last night and I’ve got a few funny answers sorted out, so hopefully I won’t end up looking like a complete lemon like yesterday,’ said Matt.

  ‘You didn’t look like a lemon,’ said Kitty with a mock frown.

  ‘Oh yes I did! I watched it back when I got home. I was just sitting there giving one word answers!’

  ‘Well, you looked like what you are – inexperienced,’ said Kitty

  ‘OK, I looked like an inexperienced lemon!’

  ‘That’s not how it looks in the Daily Mirror! I’m glad you watched it back though,’ said Kitty. ‘It’s the only way you’ll learn to improve how you come across.’

  The pre-rush-hour traffic was light and they made it to the BBC Studios in Portland Place in double-quick time. They were met by a production runner and led through a very similar routine to the day before – first they were shown to a dressing room, then to make-up, then mic’d up by a sound man, then shown to the green room where, instead of Wotsits and cans of Coke, there was a tea urn, a flask of coffee and a tray of croissants.

  Just as Matt was about to tuck in to his second breakfast of the day, the floor manager grabbed him and whisked him off to the studio. Before he knew it, he was sitting on the sofa opposite the great (-ish!) man himself.

  Quentin Tubbs was a portly man in his late fifties. He’d started his TV career reading the news then, realising he was a safe pair of hands on live TV, the bigwigs at the BBC moved him sideways to breakfast television. To say he wasn’t known for his sense of humour would be something of an understatement – in fact he wasn’t really known for any particular personality traits. He was just a very straightforward sort of character who played it very, very safe.

  To give you some idea of how straightforward he was, he owned one of Europe’s largest collections of historical cardigans. He’d been doing breakfast television for nearly twenty-five years and, if truth be known, he was very, very bored with his job. Every morning he had to be up at half past three to get the car to the studio, ready to start work at half past five.

  He was completely unflappable. Over the years he’d seen everything that could possibly go wrong in a TV studio and had interviewed virtually everybody who was anybody, plus a vast number of nobodies too. Sadly the early starts had taken their toll on his face. His eyes were permanently bloodshot and he had the air of someone who had just woken up. He looked, thought Matt, like he was dog-tired – and the dog in question was a bloodhound. He looked like a bloodhound in a wind tunnel that hadn’t slept for twenty-five years.

  ‘Now here’s Joanne with the news at eight thirty,’ droned Tubbs.

  As the newsreader started to read out the morning’s headlines, the floor manager introduced him to Matt.

  ‘Morning, Mr Tubbs!’ said Matt brightly.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mr Tubbs ponderously, not looking up from his printed schedule.

  Matt then shifted awkwardly on the sofa, not quite knowing what to do or where to look.

  ‘Right, nearly there,’ said Tubbs looking at his watch as the newsreader handed over to the weatherman. ‘Let’s get this over with, then we can all go home.’

  There was a short trailer after the weather advertising a new crime drama that was coming up later on BBC1. Then came the Breakfast With Tubbs ident and Matt and Tubbs were live on air.

  ‘My next guest may be familiar to some of you …’ intoned Tubbs, reading the autocue, his face a picture of indifference. ‘He is the youngest stand-up comedian to raise the roof at London’s prestigious Hammersmith Apollo. He is Matt Millz.’ Tubbs turned mechanically to look at Matt for the first time since he’d joined him on the sofa. ‘Welcome to Breakfast With Tubbs. Tell us a little bit about how that happened,’ he said robotically.

  ‘Thanks, it’s great to be here. My mum is such a fan of the show,’ said Matt trying to pick up the pace. ‘Yes, she’s not the smartest person – she went to a mind reader and he only charged her half price!’

  Tubbs looked at Matt as if he was completely mad.

  ‘Pardon?’ he said.

  ‘Um … I was just saying about my mum, that she’s not that clever. The other day she asked me to give her a hand with a jigsaw puzzle of a chicken – it was a box of cornflakes!’

  At this point there was a loud laugh from the three camera operators but the look on Tubbs’ face was one of complete and utter confusion. Matt suddenly realised what the nation had already worked out – that Quentin Tubbs had absolutely no sense of humour whatsoever.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Matt, changing the subject, ‘to answer your question, I was a contestant on The T Factor!’

  ‘Oh … er … um …’ said Tubbs. The look in his eye had changed to one of panic. Matt wasn’t quite sure why at first, then he looked across at Tubbs’ autocue and realised that it had gone blank. Somehow it had malfunctioned and without it the veteran presenter, having never encountered The T Factor or pretty much any show on rival channel ITV, had absolutely no idea what to say.

  ‘Er, The T Factor … um …? What’s that?’ spluttered Tubbs.

  ‘It’s a talent show on ITV?’ ventured Matt, watching as behind the camera, two men with screwdrivers were fiddling frantically trying to get the autocue to work. ‘… The winner gets to perform at the Royal Variety Show in front of the Queen. Yeah, it’s given the world such stars as Martin and his Performing Cats? Although that year the Queen brought along one of her corgis and when it saw the cats, it jumped out of the royal box and tried to attack them.’

  ‘Really,’ said Tubbs.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Matt with a chuckle. ‘I’m kidding! No, that would be a helluva jump for a corgi – they’ve only got short legs! It didn’t make it to the stage – it landed on the grand piano in the orchestra pit!’

  ‘Good heavens!’ said Tubbs with a look of amazement, suddenly engaged.

  ‘Yes, it was running up and down the keys for twenty minutes trying to avoid being caught. They grabbed it eventually but not before it had picked out Chopin’s Third Piano Concerto in D Minor with its little tiny feet!’

  ‘That’s amazing!’ said Tubbs.

  ‘Not really,’ said Matt. ‘It was a joke!’ This was weird. Here was a man who believed every word he told him because he didn’t understand what a joke was!

  ‘Would I be right in thinking that you’re not really a fan of jokes, Mr Tubbs?’ said Matt. He’d almost forgotten that the two of them were being beamed live into people’s homes.

  ‘Jokes?’ repeated Tubbs. ‘No, you’re right, I
’ve never been one for jokes. Even as a child I never really understood what people were laughing at.’

  ‘Is it right that you’re more interested in … cardigans?’ said Matt raising his eyebrows provocatively. Suddenly Quentin Tubbs sat up and for the first time that morning, and in fact for a very long time, looked truly awake.

  ‘Oh yes!’ he said his eyes losing their dull look in exchange for something approaching a sparkle. ‘I love cardigans! Red cardigans, blue cardigans, chunky cardigans, fine-knit, lambswool, cashmere. I’ve even got a cardigan knitted from the wool of a yak! Did you know that the cardigan was named after the seventh Earl of Cardigan who led the Charge of the Light Brigade at the Battle of Balaclava?’

  ‘Balaclava? You mean there was a battle between the cardigans and the balaclavas?’ said Matt. ‘Was that the Great Knitwear Wars of 1825?’

  Tubbs looked at Matt with a stunned look, then something very odd happened. He started to laugh. Just a little chuckle at first, which grew into a titter then became a full-blown guffaw. And once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. It was like fifty years of bottled-up laughter was finally being allowed to escape!

  ‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha ha! Hee Heee! He! Ho! Ha! Knitwear Wars! Ha ha!’ howled the hapless breakfast-TV presenter, tears running down his face. ‘Aho hoo hoo! Hee! Balaclava fighting a cardigan! Ha ha! That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!’

  There is something irresistible about another person laughing, so Matt really had no option – he started laughing too, as did the cameramen, the floor manager, the runner, the newsreader, the weatherman and, in the gallery, the entire production team. The cameras shook as Quentin Tubbs, convulsed with laughter, slipped off his famous sofa and rolled around on the floor clutching his cardigan-clad stomach. Anyone tuning in at that point would have thought that the whole world had gone completely mad. In the green room Kitty Hope’s face broke into a broad grin and she nodded to herself. This was dynamite!

  The production team had to cut to a taped item about a sewage farm to buy themselves a little time to regain their composure, but the presenter was still chuckling right until the credits rolled.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming on the show,’ said a newly invigorated Quentin Tubbs as they stopped filming. This had been an edition of Breakfast With Tubbs unlike any other.

  ‘Oh well,’ laughed Matt, his sides actually hurting from laughing. ‘I’m not really sure what happened there. It wasn’t really anything I did …’

  ‘Oh yes, you did!’ beamed Tubbs, putting a thankful arm round Matt’s shoulders. ‘You’ve helped me more than you can ever know!’

  ‘Holy cow, what a funny show!’ said the producer, joining them on the set. ‘What happened, Quentin? I’ve never seen you like that!’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever been like that before, but I’ve realised something today …’

  ‘Oh yes? What’s that?’ asked the producer, intrigued.

  ‘I’ve realised I’ve had enough of getting up at half past three in the morning,’ he said with a look of total joy on his face. ‘You’re going to have to come up with a new name for the show!’

  ‘Huh? Why’s that?’ asked the producer.

  ‘Because I’ve decided I’m not going to do it any more! Tomorrow morning I’m going to have a lie-in and when I finally do get out of bed I’m going to have some fun! Ha ha!’ And with that he skipped off the set and out of the studio for the very last time.

  *

  Matt and Kitty arrived back at Bathurst Street after the morning’s exertions at about half past three that afternoon. They’d gone on from Breakfast With Tubbs to Late Lunch With Phillip Scruffold and Haley Wallaby, which was a lot more like Matt’s experience at Sunday at Six. Phillip and Haley were fans of The T Factor and seemed genuinely interested to learn of his experience on the show, asking for all the backstage gossip, and it gave Matt a chance to trot out some of the slightly exaggerated anecdotes he’d rehearsed the night before. After a quick couple of selfies and autographs with fans at the studio door, he and Kitty had got another car home.

  Once again the gaggle of fans and photographers at the front gate surged around him as he got out of the car.

  ‘Is it true you got Quentin Tubbs the sack?’ asked a reporter shoving a microphone into his face.

  ‘No! NO! That’s not what happened!’ said Matt.

  ‘Matt needs to get some rest now,’ snapped Kitty, giving him a shove in the lower back to get him through the gate and down the path to the front door. ‘He’s had a very early start!’

  ‘Right,’ she said once they’d reached the safety of the kitchen, ‘I’ve still got a few details to sort out for the gigs I’ve got planned. Maybe we could catch up at the DMC in first break tomorrow?’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Matt, suddenly remembering that his little run as a TV celebrity was coming to an end and tomorrow he’d be back at school like any other twelve-year-old.

  ‘You did really well today,’ said Kitty. ‘Just be careful with the press though, they’ll be out to trip you up.’

  ‘That’s a bit of an odd thing to say,’ said Matt. So far all the press coverage he’d received had been really supportive.

  ‘Maybe, but they’re an odd bunch – they build people up but they can knock you back down if they choose to, so it’s as well to be wary. I’m sure you’ll be fine. See you tomorrow.’

  9

  No Ordinary Schoolboy

  ‘I’ve found your coat by the way,’ said Ian that evening after he got back from his stint at the estate agent’s.

  ‘No? Really? Where?’ asked Matt.

  ‘Here! Take a look at this …’ he said and turned his laptop to face Matt. It was logged on to eBay and there, for sale, listed under ‘Genuine Matt Millz Memorabilia’ was Matt’s coat.

  ‘Holy moly!’ exclaimed Matt. ‘That’s outrageous!’

  ‘Yeah, and look at the price,’ said Ian. ‘Sixty quid!’

  ‘That coat only cost twenty new!’ said his mum wandering in from the kitchen.

  ‘They’ll never sell it …!’ said Matt just as a bid went in for the asking price.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ said Matt. Ian nodded. They spent the next hour sorting through and photographing Matt’s old clothes and loading them up on to eBay. By eleven o’clock they’d uploaded over twenty items of clothing, including an old pair of his socks and a string vest.

  ‘How are the prices doing?’ said Matt as Ian logged in to check.

  ‘Hmm, not great,’ said Ian. ‘I think we might have flooded the market!’

  *

  ‘Good to see you, Matt!’ said the bus driver as Matt hauled his sports bag on to the bus. ‘I thought you was well funny the other night on The T Factor – although the wife didn’t care for it much, but then a sense of humour is a very personal thing. It’s probably why we haven’t seen eye to eye for fifteen years, but never mind – fight the good fight, eh?’

  Matt nodded, smiled and turned to head down the bus to find a seat.

  ‘I thought maybe you wouldn’t be on the bus from now on,’ continued the bus driver turning his head and calling after him, ‘on account of all the fame and fortune that’s come your way. I thought maybe you’d be travelling in a bit more style, you know a Roller or some such. To be honest I did wonder if you’d even be coming back to school. I said to the wife, if I was him I wouldn’t bother. I’d be well shot of it. I mean what’s the point of school when you’ve got all that celebrity and money sloshing about? No, if I had your dosh I’d be living it large, up the West End … How much they pay you for last night? Half a million? I hope you don’t mind me asking. I said probably more but the wife said she read in the Daily Mail that they were cutting back, anyway—’

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ said Matt, striding back to confront the bus driver and stopping him mid sentence. ‘I’ve been taking this bus for the last three years and this is the first time you’ve so much as spoken to me! You’ve never even said h
ello before!’

  ‘Well, you know, I’d been meaning to say hello all those years. I was just waiting for the right moment,’ replied the bus driver sheepishly.

  ‘And that just happened to coincide with my appearance on national TV did it?’ demanded Matt.

  ‘Alan,’ said the bus driver thrusting his hand out. ‘My name’s Alan, and I’m a bus driver and I’m very pleased to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘Get a move on!’ bellowed a voice from the back of the bus.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ said Alan. ‘Ignore ’em, all of ’em, flaming passengers! That’s what I do – it’s the only way I can get through the day!’

  ‘I’m Matt,’ said Matt sarcastically, shaking the bus driver’s hand, ‘and I’m a passenger.’

  Matt made his way up the bus to find a seat and as he went virtually everyone had something to say to him. Most of them pulled out their smartphones and snapped him as he walked past, others dived in for a selfie, and that was pretty much how it went for the rest of the day.

  People stopped him at the school gates, then they stopped him as he walked into the playground. Kids came running at him from all angles, shouting his name, pulling at him, grabbing photos. Then two girls from the year above got rather agitated.

  ‘Oi! I was here first!’ snapped one, pushing the other.

  ‘No you weren’t, I was!’ spat the other. Before Matt could intervene, a fight had broken out, fists and feet were flying, hair was being pulled and clothes were being ripped. Matt waded in to try and break it up but somehow managed to end up on his back on the floor.

  ‘That’s enough,’ came a voice from above and everyone froze. The crowd of kids parted and the familiar face of Mr Archer the PE teacher (and coincidentally Magda’s dad) loomed over their heads and into view.

  ‘She started it!’ said one of the girls.