by Harry Hill
‘What’s this?’ asked Matt in wonder.
‘Goujons of monkfish cooked in truffle oil, monsieur!’ said Maurice.
‘Er … right, and I think we ordered the fish and chips?’
‘Oui!’ sang Maurice. ‘Les frites!’ and plonked down a small flowerpot with about ten extremely thin french fries in it.
‘Bon appétit!’ he said, then clicked his heels and trotted off to attend to another customer before Matt could utter the words ‘tomato ketchup’.
There was the clink of a knife and fork from Dickie’s side of the table, a succession of snuffling noises, followed by a very loud burp and Dickie had finished his meal before Matt had so much as speared a single goujon.
‘Very passable that,’ he said leaning back in his chair and undoing the top button of his trousers. ‘Right! To business then!’ he said bending down to his manbag and producing a pile of printed papers about an inch thick and putting them on the table in front of Matt.
‘What’s that?’ said Ian with a chuckle. ‘The instruction manual for a Zanussi washing machine?’
‘It’s a contract, Ian. A five-year contract that I’d like you both to sign, just to formalise our relationship. It’s fairly standard, nothing unusual …’
‘Fair enough. I suppose I’d better have a little look through it though …’ said Ian reaching for the bundle of papers.
Dickie moved his hand away.
‘Like I say, there’s nothing unusual or out of the ordinary in it.’
‘Still,’ said Ian, ‘best I take a look …’
‘What’s up?’ sneered Dickie. ‘Don’t you trust me, Mr Woodwinch?’
‘Er … well, it’s not that exactly, and it’s Woodwood, but I mean five years is a long time – Matt’ll be nearly eighteen by the time he gets out of it!’
‘That’s just it, Ian, he won’t want to get out of it! You shouldn’t really look on it as a contract, more as our five-year commitment to you, Matt,’ said Dickie handing Matt a pen. ‘Here, son, just sign on the dotted and we can start planning our future together. I’ll put your name in lights!’ Dickie added – and suddenly the charm was back. it seemed to come and go like a viper’s tongue. Matt gingerly took the pen and his hand hovered over the contract.
‘What do you think, Ian?’ said Matt turning to his stepdad.
‘Um … well, it was a very nice lunch, what there was of it … and … I mean Mr Hart here is very successful …’ Dickie nodded a thank you. ‘Just one question, Mr Hart …’
‘Please, call me Dickie …’
‘Dickie, if for some reason things don’t work out between you and Matt …’
‘If that was the case, Ian, of course I wouldn’t want to hold a young lad like Matt to a contract that he wasn’t happy with. No, if Matt’s not happy then I’ll tear the whole thing up, you have my word!’
‘Well, that’s good enough for me,’ said Ian. ‘It sounds like a really good deal.’
Matt took a deep breath and carefully signed on the dotted line. He then handed the contract to Ian who followed suit.
‘Hello, Matt! What are you doing with this reprobate?’ Matt looked up to see T Factor judge Simon Bewell.
‘Hi, Simon!’ said Matt, jumping to his feet and shaking Simon’s hand.
‘All right, Simon?’ said Dickie Hart with a smug smile. ‘Have a glass of bubbly with us – we’re celebrating, aren’t we, Matt?’
Matt nodded awkwardly. ‘I guess …’ he said. He’d got what he’d wanted, he’d signed with the big London agent, so why was he feeling uneasy?
As Simon spied the contract his face fell.
‘I hope that’s not what I think it is.’
‘It is!’ said Dickie, beckoning to the waiter to bring him an extra glass. ‘Yes! Matt has made the very wise decision to join us at Excalibur Management!’ he said, carefully placing the signed contract into a large manilla envelope.
‘But I thought you had management, Matt?’ said Simon. ‘I thought your friend Kitty was looking after you?’
‘Er … she is … I mean she was …’ stuttered Matt. It reminded him that he hadn’t actually let Kitty know yet.
‘Just a schoolgirl, Simon. Completely out of her depth, I’m afraid. She was throwing Matt’s career down the toilet, so I felt it my duty to step in and chuck him a rubber ring,’ said Dickie, about to pour Simon a glass of champagne.
Simon put his hand over the glass. ‘Not for me thanks, Dickie,’ he said coolly.
‘Do I detect a little bit of jealousy, Simon? Too bad! You can’t win ’em all, can you?’ said Dickie with a laugh that made Matt feel a little bit sick. ‘Well, if you won’t toast our success, Simon … as nice as it is to see you, if you’ll excuse me I’ve got a spot of business.’ He licked a few residual breadcrumbs from his top lip and stood up.
‘Of course, you go ahead, but I wouldn’t mind a quick word with your client here. Er … with your permission of course,’ said Simon. Despite the politeness, their exchange seemed decidedly forced.
‘Not at all. Not at all. But remember, he’s mine now, so don’t go getting any ideas!’ Dickie raised his finger and wagged it at Simon in mock warning, then he tucked his chair under the table and waved to a grubby-looking man across the room. He’d only walked about ten paces towards him when he turned back. He grabbed the contract off the table and put it in his manbag.
‘Can’t be too careful!’ He grinned. ‘There are a surprising number of dishonest persons about. I’ll only be a couple of minutes, Matt, then we can get down to the nitty-gritty.’ Matt shrugged and Dickie loped off in the direction of the grubby man.
‘I’ve had dealings with Dickie Hart,’ said Simon, lowering his voice. ‘So just be careful, Matt, you’ve got my number if you need it.’
Matt nodded and thanked him for his advice.
‘That was weird,’ said Ian as they watched Simon meander back to his table. ‘Which reminds me, I must ask Dickie about the band. He said he’d listen to our demo tapes and maybe help us get a record deal.’
‘Hmm, has he actually heard any of the Dead Toys catalogue?’ said Matt sceptically.
Before long Dickie was back at their table, smelling strongly of alcohol and looking slightly the worse for wear.
‘Right, Matt, as it’s so late, I’ve booked you into the Jacobs Hotel two doors down.’
‘Great! I’ve heard of it – there was a documentary about it on Channel 4 last year. Some of the rooms cost upwards of two thousand pounds a night!’ said Ian rubbing his hands together at the prospect of a night in a top London hotel.
‘Not you, mate, just him,’ said Dickie pointing at Matt. ‘I think Matt really needs to do this on his own don’t you?’
‘Er, not necessarily …’ said Ian
‘Yeah, he does, so you’d best get home. Tomorrow Matt, I’ll get you to my tailor and measure you up for some new suits, then my stylist will see you and see if she can’t do something with your hair, then we really need to fix those teeth …’
Matt closed his mouth self-consciously. What was wrong with his teeth?
‘Oh! Right! Sorry, yes of course,’ said Ian, getting up to leave. ‘One thing before I go – where should I send the demo tracks?’
‘Eh?’
‘The songs me and the band have put together – Dead Toys? When you popped round the house you mentioned you might be able to help us get signed, remember?’
‘Did I?’ said Dickie. ‘Oh well. My advice is stick to what you know – estate agenting isn’t it?’
‘Er … yes … well. I mean it’s a stopgap. It’s music I really …’ said Ian looking crestfallen and suddenly vulnerable.
‘Yeah, stick to showing people round flats. I think you were going, Mr Windward, weren’t you?’
‘Er … yes, yes, if … you’re fine with that, Matt, are you?’
‘Er, I suppose so … if Mr Hart thinks that’s the right thing to do.’
‘Fine. Well your mum and me are just on the end of a
phone, so … right then. I’ll be off,’ stuttered Ian. He gave Matt a hug and headed for the cloakroom to redeem his coat. He was back a couple of minutes later.
‘Dickie? I think there’s some sort of mistake – the girl in the cloakroom wants five quid off me before she’ll give me back my coat!’
‘And …?’ said Dickie.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Ian. ‘Right, cheerio then,’ and off he went.
19
New Suits and Teeth
Matt sat in room number 101 of the Jacobs Hotel (one of the ‘Leading Hotels of the World’ according to the brochure that had been placed on his bed) and looked out of his window. The view was of a brick wall with a pipe sticking out of it that intermittently puffed out what looked like steam. The steam then condensed as it hit the cool outside air giving rise to a steady drip from the end of the pipe on to the flat roof below.
He turned from the window to survey his ‘five-star’ room.
Mounted on the wall was a Corby trouser press. Corby was a place wasn’t it? he wondered. He took out his phone and googled it – sure enough, it was a town in Northamptonshire. A town where presumably, thought Matt, the entire population walked around with perfectly pressed trousers. He was just about to reach for his little black book to jot the idea down when his mobile phone buzzed through a text. His heart sank. It was from Kitty asking him to meet her the next day at the DMC.
He selected her text message and pressed the little blue phone symbol. As he did so a photo came up on the screen of him and Kitty that he’d taken that first time they’d visited the Hammersmith Apollo together, the time they’d been unceremoniously booted out. In the background above their heads was the blue plaque that had been erected to honour her late grandfather, the impresario Bernie Hopestein. Matt took a deep breath as he heard her answer.
‘Kit, it’s Matt. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news …’ His voice tailed off.
‘I already know …’ she said, her voice shaking with emotion.
‘Eh? …?’
‘You’ve signed with Dickie Hart at Excalibur!’
‘But how …?’
‘It’s on the web – the news is everywhere!’
‘Ah,’ said Matt. He certainly hadn’t planned this. Dickie Hart must have planted the story as soon as they’d finished their lunch.
‘Oh, Matt, how could you?’
‘I’m sorry, Kit, I just think Excalibur can open doors for me …’ he protested.
‘Not that! If you want a different style of management that’s up to you. No, what’s upset me the most is having to find out the way I did. I just look like such a fool,’ She let out a sob then the line went quiet.
‘Kitty? Are you still there?’
After a few moments she came back on the line – she seemed to have regained her composure.
‘Anyway, I hope it all works out for you. I’ll see you around school so there’s no point in us falling out. I understand your reasons even if I don’t agree with them. I just hope you don’t live to regret it …’
‘Me too,’ said Matt. ‘I’ve signed up for five years, so …’
‘FIVE YEARS!’ exclaimed Kitty. ‘Whatever for? Most agents just operate on a handshake!’
‘Yeah well, not Excalibur! Five years is the minimum they’ll take me on for, so …’
‘When you say signed up, you didn’t … you didn’t sign a contract, Matt, did you?’
‘’Fraid so,’ said Matt, trying to make light of his situation.
‘Well, look, it’s none of my business now, but promise me you’ll be careful, and I’m always here if you need me.’
‘Thanks, Kitty, I really appreciate it, and I’m sorry …’ said Matt.
As he hung up he had only one thought – what on earth had he done?
20
New Beginnings
‘Hello, Matt, sit down. Sleep all right?’
Matt shrugged. He’d spent a day and a half being ferried from one appointment to the next. Today he’d gone first to a very upmarket tailors in Saville Row, then to a dentist in Harley Street who had painted some sort of bleach on his teeth to whiten them up, then to a hairdresser in Chelsea who’d spent an hour and a half fiddling with his hair until it looked like a bird’s nest – and it was still only lunch time. They were back at Dickie’s usual table at Austin’s.
‘Yeah, it’s not a bad little hotel that. Anyway, enough of the small talk, the meter’s running let’s get down to business. Your suit will be ready this afternoon …’
‘That was quick!’ said Matt tucking into an odd-looking stew and finding out what cassoulet meant.
‘Like I say, everything’s possible. You’re with the pros now. You’ll have your photos done in the new suit as soon it turns up. Any questions so far?’
Matt thought for a moment, but Dickie didn’t wait for an answer.
‘So, holiday’s over. We need to get you out there and working,’ said Dickie, as a waiter placed a cup of coffee and a large frankfurter and mashed potato in front of him. ‘You don’t mind if I eat while I’m talking, Matt, do you? It just saves time,’ said Dickie, taking a big bite out of the frankfurter.
‘No, no … That’s great news!’ said Matt sitting up.
‘What is?’ said Dickie spraying tiny lumps of sausage meat on to the tablecloth in front of him.
‘About you getting me working,’ said Matt. This was music to his ears. At last he was going to be doing what he’d been dreaming of for weeks – gigging.
‘Yeah, right …’ said Dickie looking slightly confused as to why anyone would look forward to work. ‘Now, first off, I’ve cancelled that poxy gig you had booked in at the school—’
‘The Children in Need gig?’ said Matt, concerned. ‘But that’s been in my diary for a while. The school are depending on me. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm – I mean, it’ll be a friendly crowd and it’s a great cause!’
‘Nah! Waste of time! You ain’t doin’ it,’ snapped Dickie. ‘Amateur hour. You’re with the pros now and I don’t care how good the cause is, no one gets you for free from now on. Hotel bills and new suits don’t pay for themselves!’
‘Hmm, about that …’ said Matt.
‘What?’ burped Dickie.
‘Who is paying for the suit and the hotel and …?’
‘Don’t worry about all that, Matt,’ said Dickie, waving his hands dismissively. ‘It’s being taken care of. You worry about coming up with the funnies and I’ll worry about the business. So I’m pulling the charity gig – actually I’ve already pulled it, agreed?’
‘I suppose so … but …’
‘No buts, just forget about it. Concentrate on payin’ gigs. I’ve had an offer from I’m A Celebrity Get Me Outta This Tree – interested?’
Matt knew of the show but wasn’t a fan – it was a reality show set in a forest. A number of celebrities had to live in trees for as long as they could, surviving off stuff that was either in the tree already – like nuts or fruit – or by completing tasks and winning supplies which usually meant eating bugs and generally humiliating themselves.
‘So far they’ve got Rylan Clark, one of the Sugababes and that bloke that won that show on the island, you know where they have to survive off bugs and that …?’
‘Er … that’s I’m A Celebrity Get Me Outta This Tree isn’t it?’ said Matt.
‘Er … it’s similar, only they don’t live in a tree, they live on an island …’
‘Well, to be honest it’s not the sort of thing …’
‘Anyway, I’ve said yes – just waiting on how much they’re gonna pay you. Great for your profile – an appearance on that alone will win you six months of paid work and if you win it, well, the sky’s the limit.’
‘Yeah but I’m a comedian …’
‘Whatever!’ said Dickie ticking it off his list. ‘We’ll talk about it later. Now, you’ll like this one – I’ve had a lot of interest for corporates—’
‘Corporates …?’ said Matt. ‘What
…?’
‘You know, office dos, that sorta thing. You turn up and mingle with the hoi polloi, then go on and do as long as you can before they lose interest.’
‘Well, hopefully they wouldn’t lose interest until I’d finished my set …’
‘Yeah, right and what’s that out the window? Oh, it’s a pig riding a unicycle and juggling with satsumas,’ said Dickie sarcastically. ‘No one ever goes down well at these dos. Most of the punters aren’t interested in listening to comedy – they’re just waiting for the disco so they can get off with Doris from accounts.’
‘So why would I want to do one then?’ said Matt, starting to get a little bit exasperated.
‘They’re good payers. The people booking them realise celebs don’t want to do them and so they have to pay them over the odds. Some of my clients, that’s all they do – corporates. Pays the bills, plus has the added attraction that no one knows you’re doing them.’
‘Again,’ said Matt with a frown, ‘if no one knows about them, how’s that going to further my career?’
‘Huh!’ said Dickie annoyed. ‘For someone who’s only ever done one gig you’ve got a lot to say! Now how’d you feel about adverts …?’
And so it went on.
Dickie outlined a whole series of moneymaking ventures that seemed to Matt to have nothing to do with comedy. There was a fly spray commercial for TV, a photo campaign for spot cream, a voice-over for a teen dating website … As the list went on Matt became more and more dispirited. It seemed Dickie had plenty of well-paid projects to keep Matt busy – it was just that not one of them seemed to involve stand-up comedy.
‘Er, sorry to stop you mid-flow, Dickie …’ interjected Matt.