by Matt Lucas
‘But the girls love you. They all think you’re hilarious.’
I wasn’t sure that was true. But I just wasn’t ready to give anyone the actual reason.
The next day we went to Wembley Market to hunt for bargains. In the car, in front of JJ’s mum, I was ridiculed, pushed about a bit, even. When we arrived, the others tried to give me the slip. We’d always mucked about, but this – this was different.
I got it. I got the hint. I’d given the hint often enough. I knew what was going on.
A week or two later and I got the tap on the shoulder.
‘Party at yours on Saturday.’
Usually I was one of the ones giving the order, now I was merely receiving it.
I didn’t want a party at my place. I knew full well what would happen to the house. I didn’t want to put my mum through that. I also knew that my next-door neighbours had an elderly family member who was lying there ill, and not going to get better. I’d gone out of my way not to play music too loudly, as I knew how the sound carried.
I arranged for us all to meet in Harrow town centre, a few miles from my home, in the hope that we might get distracted and find something else to do. Within an hour we were on the 340 back to Stanmore.
My prized copy of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was blaring out loudly when we got a phone call from the neighbours. They asked for the music to be turned down. I did so, and JJ turned it back up. I turned it down again. It got turned up again. A scuffle took place and I yanked the needle off the record, scratching it.
The mood couldn’t have been more sour. As one they departed, angry at me, embarrassed for me. Any hopes of redemption I might have had were dashed.
The following Sunday morning my mum and I awoke to a string of messages on our answerphone that had been left the previous night, during a party to which I had – of course – not been invited. The phone had been passed round, with many of the boys I was supposed to have gone interrailing with taking it in turns to tell me how happy they were that I would not now be joining them on their trip. That’s how I learned I wasn’t going, though it didn’t come as a surprise.
The last few months of my time at the school were spent with me just counting the days till I could get away. Lunchtimes were spent chatting with Ashley, the funny lad from the year below. My hell-raising days behind me, we spent Saturday evenings at his, talking about football, watching The Flintstones and making prank phone calls to the teachers.
With the summer approaching, I wondered how I might occupy myself during the long break, now that I was no longer welcome on my own trip around Europe. My closest friends from outside school were all going on a tour of Israel but, believing I would be interrailing instead, I had missed the deadline for that.
Then, finally, some good news! Following an audition a few months earlier, I learned that I had been accepted onto the National Youth Theatre’s junior course. That would have been a tough call – go interrailing with my friends or further my acting ambitions. As it was, the choice was made for me.
After five years, I left Habs with no fanfare. I walked almost unnoticed towards the school exit – not to the coach park where I normally went, but to the car park near the girls’ school, where – if I remember rightly – my brother came to collect me.
Those last few months were a real test of my resilience. I had been pretty unpleasant, it’s true, but, hidden in that large group, I had been blind to the harm I’d caused. Later, when I became the focal point of its aggression, I learned the hard way what it was like to be rejected.
But guess what?
If I hadn’t been excluded by the group, I probably wouldn’t have cultivated that friendship with Ashley. Years later, when David and I were struggling to interest TV producers, it was Ashley who believed in us and who invested his time in Little Britain, producing it for radio.
In fact, if I had still been part of that gang I might even have felt duty-bound to go interrailing instead of doing the National Youth Theatre course, in which case I might never have met David Walliams.
So if it wasn’t for them, I doubt you’d be reading this book.
And funnily enough, if it wasn’t for me they might not still be talking about Haberdashers’ unrivalled academic excellence either.
You see, my year went on to collectively score the highest A-level results of any school in the country.
And I like to think that, by selflessly opting to take my A levels elsewhere, I played my part in allowing that average mark to be as high as it was.
You may applaud.
I – Idiot
I’m genuinely thinking of setting up an organisation called Idiots Anonymous, where people like me – members of the unintelligentsia – can gather and share stories of poor judgement and general haplessness.
‘My name’s Matt and I’m an idiot. It’s been two hours since I last smothered my roast beef dinner in chicken gravy.’
I’m clumsy, muddled, neurotic, socially awkward and useless at everything other than being useless, something at which I rather uselessly excel.
And I’ve always been this way. I was born a berk. I probably even stubbed my toe on the way out.
I over-dress and babble away endlessly on first dates, causing even the most mild-mannered to run off screaming into the distance.
I buy expensive clothes which don’t fit in the hope that they’ll spur me on to get thinner, and then instantly go and get even fatter.
I’m always late apart from the very rare occasion when I’m about an hour and a half early, and then I just traipse around the shops buying more clothes.
And sometimes I run baths and just forget to get in them.
Trust me, I’m a twerp.
Don’t believe me? Here’s one for you.
We filmed parts of Come Fly with Me at Stansted Airport and stayed at the big hotel connected to it. After filming I had got into the habit of stopping at one of the kiosks at the airport and grabbing a burger or some snacks for myself, as room service usually took a while and we had to be up early for filming.
One night I returned to my room after we’d wrapped, showered, dried myself and looked for the bag of goodies I’d picked up the night before. I couldn’t find it anywhere. I searched and searched and reasoned that it had either been stolen or – more likely – accidentally put out with the rubbish by one of the chambermaids. I was incensed that I could leave something – anything – in a bag in my room and it could be thrown away so carelessly. Furious and exhausted, I called down to the front desk.
‘I’d like to speak to the manager, please. In fact, have him come up to my room immediately!’
‘Is there a problem, sir?’
‘Yes, there is a problem! One of my bags has gone missing!’
‘I see. I’ll send the manager up right away.’
‘Yes, I think you should. I don’t know what kind of hotel this is!’
Within a couple of minutes the manager appeared, to be greeted by the sight of the fat bald one from Little Britain, with just a towel around him.
‘I’m very sorry about this, Mr Lucas.’
‘So you should be! It’s a disgrace!’
‘I just need to fill out a report. What kind of bag was it?’
‘It was one of those cheap white plastic bags you get in Smith’s!’
‘Right. Can you tell me where you left it?’
‘Over there,’ I pointed. ‘Right next to the bin.’
‘I see. Yes, well, it does seem possible that one of the maids might accidentally have mistaken it for rubbish and thrown it away, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, that’s just not good enough, is it?’ I yelled. ‘I bought a whole load of food at the airport yesterday and was going to eat it tonight and now it’s gone!’
‘Right. Well, if you’ll tell me what was in the bag I’m sure I could send someone out and we could replace the contents.’
There was a pause, as I slowly recalled what had been in the bag.
‘Um … some Monster Munch. The yellow ones, not the pickled onion.’
‘Okay.’
He started to make a list.
‘But it was a grab bag. They were on special offer. A chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle. A Curly Wurly. Two Boosts. A Toblerone. A white chocolate Kinder. A croissant from Pret, but that probably would have been hard by now so don’t worry about that. A bottle of caffeine-free Diet Coke, a Ribena and a Chomp.’
‘… and a Chomp,’ he repeated to himself, as he finished writing it all down.
He apologised again and said that he’d be back shortly.
About an hour later, as I was nodding off, still with the towel around me, there was a knock at the door. The manager handed over a new cheap plastic bag. I thanked him, half-asleep.
I looked inside at the stack of chocolate and crisps. I told myself that I was going to put on about two stone if I started tucking into that, freaked out and promptly put it all in the bin.
See? Told you I was an idiot. In fact I’m at least eight idiots in that story alone.
Honestly, I could fill a volume with tales which confirm my general foolishness, but I’d only leave it in the taxi on the way to the publishers, so here’s one more – quite literally off the top of my head – to illustrate my point and then we’ll get on with the rest of the book.
Once or twice a year I like to go to New York City to catch up on some Broadway shows. I usually go on my own – because, like a lot of idiots, I’m single, and even my friends quite wisely give me a wide berth when it comes to things like being seen out with me in public.
Not long ago I was on one of my loner/theatre geek trips, where I’ll often pack in two shows a day. I’d been to a matinee and had a couple of hours to kill before the next show, so I sat in a nearby hotel lobby for a bit, sipping Sprite and writing my diary.
I then decided I would grab something to eat near the theatre. I asked for the bill and pulled a handful of notes out of my pocket, putting them temporarily into the crown of my upturned white Nike cap on the sofa next to me, as I switched off my laptop and packed it away.
I paid the bill and walked down past the theatre where Fun Home – the show I was about to see – was playing, and stopped in at the cheap’n’cheerful Cosmic Diner. As I ate my matzo ball soup (of course), I noticed the stares of some of the other diners.
This sort of thing isn’t entirely unusual. I frequently get recognised in the US, mostly for my brief appearance in Bridesmaids. Sometimes people look at me quizzically, while they try to figure out why I’m so familiar to them, and then the penny drops and they smile and nod.
And I smile back, because I’m a really great guy.
And that’s what was happening a fair bit in the Cosmic Diner while I was busy souping. (I’ve just invented that term right now. I like it. I’m going to use it.)
Soon it was time to head to the theatre. I collected my ticket at the box office and headed up some stairs towards the auditorium, when a lady tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Hey, you’re gonna lose that money in a minute.’
I put my hand in my pocket but there wasn’t anything in there.
She then tapped my cap (which was on my head) and I put my hand to my head. There – in the hole in the back of the cap – was a large bundle of notes, sticking out like a ponytail. I realised in that moment that when I had put my cap back on earlier, as I left the hotel, I had absent-mindedly forgotten to remove the notes first.
‘Oh,’ I stuttered. ‘Yes, um, oh, um, that’s funny! Yes! Someone played a practical joke on me.’
Which I thought was at least a vaguely less embarrassing thing to say than ‘Thank you. I have been walking round with dollar bills hanging out of the back of my cap because I am mental.’
The lady looked at me blankly.
I continued. ‘Yes, yes. Very funny joke. We often do it to each other. Plant money on each other. Yes. But the joke is on him because I am of course now richer than I was, ha ha! Because it was his money. This money. And now it is mine. Ha!’
‘Well, somebody would have snatched it, I’m sure, especially given who you are.’
Great, I thought. Not only does she think I’m mad, but she recognises me too. Brilliant.
I settled down to watch the show, which was an engrossing, profoundly beautiful piece about sexuality and bereavement. It had been running for at least half an hour when I noticed that I was getting quite hot. I took off my cap, only for another sweaty five-dollar bill to fall from my head slowly into my lap.
See? Idiot. Told you.
Right, let’s crack on. I’ve already taken up too much of your time as it is.
The bar mitzvah boy, April 1987
J – Jewish
I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know I was Jewish.
When I say ‘Jewish’, I should mention there are several different types of Jew in Britain. These are the main ones …
1. There are the people who are Jewish by birth but don’t even know it, or who know it but are not observant in any way.
2. There are Liberal Jews, sometimes called Progressive, for whom much of the service might take place in English and there’s often an informality about the whole thing. You might even have a woman rabbi or people in jeans playing guitars. Oh, and many people would agree you can break the rules that decree you can’t ‘work’ on the Sabbath and will therefore drive to synagogue.
3. There are Reform Jews, whose services may be half in English, and in which men and women are allowed to sit together. They might drive to synagogue – which strictly speaking they oughtn’t to do, because it’s the Sabbath and driving could be interpreted as ‘working’ – but to make themselves feel less guilty, they’ll spend half the journey at least talking about the fact that they shouldn’t really be driving.
4. There are Orthodox Jews, who belong to an Orthodox or United synagogue, where most of the service is in Hebrew and lasts for ages. Men and women sit separately. They’d never have a female rabbi. One or two might drive to synagogue, but park around the corner and walk the last bit so that no one sees.
5. And there are the Really Orthodox Jews – not their official name but I’m not sure what else to call them. They’re the ones you see with the black hats, coats, curly sideburns and long beards. The women wear wigs and when they go to synagogue they sit upstairs or even behind a curtain, so as not to distract the men from prayer. Really Orthodox Jews definitely don’t drive to synagogue on a Saturday. They can’t even turn on the TV to find out the football scores because that too would violate rules in the Torah, even though the Premiership wasn’t formed until 1992.
There are also some other types, but those are the main ones.
My dad was brought up in a traditional Orthodox synagogue. My mum’s family were members of Belsize Square, a synagogue set up in 1939 by refugees, mainly (like my maternal grandma) from Germany. While three of my grandparents were born in the UK, either their parents or grandparents came from further afield. I’m as British as you like, but all of my blood is Eastern European – from Poland and the Ukraine. The family name on my father’s side was Solotsky, until it was anglicised to Lucas at the turn of the twentieth century by a border official.
Both my mum and dad’s families were observant and kept kosher homes. When my parents married, they decided to join a Reform synagogue, so my brother and I were brought up as Reform Jews.
By the way, neither of my parents – and definitely not their parents – would have dreamt of marrying someone who wasn’t Jewish. We lived among other Jews and I went to a Jewish kindergarten. Then, when I was a little older, much of my life revolved around the synagogue.
We would often go to the Shabbat service on a Saturday morning; I would go to Hebrew classes on a Sunday morning, youth group on a Sunday afternoon; more Hebrew classes on a Tuesday after school and even cub scouts at the synagogue on a Thursday evening.
Saturday morning services seemed to go on forever, and involved lots of standin
g up and then sitting back down again on hard wooden benches. My brother and I would pass the time browsing the back of the siddur – the prayer book – and chuckling at the funny names of the ancient rabbis whose lessons were quoted. At the end of the service we’d go to the hall next door for the Kiddush blessing, willing it to be over with quickly so we could stuff our faces with dry cookies and challah bread and sip weak orange squash.
At youth club on a Sunday afternoon we would play games and sing songs in Hebrew. We’d also go on trips with the synagogue – to Amsterdam and to Paris, where I saw a ghost – but usually to Manor House in Finchley, the home of RSY – Reform Synagogue Youth.
Much of what we learned through RSY was about the idyllic land of Israel. We were taught much about the historic persecution of the Jews and the need for a homeland, but never of the complexities and issues involved with the formation of the state. There was no nuance, no understanding of the concerns of the other side, because we didn’t even know there was another side.
I’ve only been to Israel once – in 1980 – when I was six. Dad said that the Western Wall was the holiest place I’d ever visit and so I quietly kicked it, daring God to do his worst. I loved the sights, sounds and smells of the souk and enjoyed riding a camel, but found the endless sightseeing a bit much, preferring to stay in with my grandma’s friend Auntie Chava. We also spent a week on a kibbutz, and I cried because of the number of flies in the hot, humid dining room. I constantly got lost trying to get back to the little box house we were staying in, because there were so many little box houses and they all looked exactly the same.
From the age of about seven, I started taking Hebrew classes on a Sunday morning. These were split into two one-hour lessons – Hebrew and History. The latter was more engaging; the former was just a grind.
We were taught in the Barnet Hall, a decaying prefabricated building next to the main synagogue, which was temporarily separated into a dozen classrooms by corrugated dividers, through which we could still hear everyone else. We were taught in large groups, so we didn’t get to know or respect the teachers in the same way we did at school. There were no detentions, no real way of punishing us other than a rebuke. When that happened – and there was always someone being shouted at – we just rolled our eyes or sniggered.