Dear Fatty

by Dawn French

  The day Paul Mayhew-Archer brought his teenage son to work on ‘go to work with your dad’ day. How much Paul wanted to impress his son, so he leaned back on his chair with his arms behind his head at the read-through table, in an effort to appear cool and thoughtful and writerly. Of course, he leaned too far and toppled right over backwards. His son was consumed with embarrassment (as was Paul) and informed his father on the journey home that he was a total ‘fuckwit’. Henceforward Paul carried that nickname. He is, needless to say, nothing of the sort.

  Jon Plowman’s famous warm-ups and introductions of the cast before every show in front of the live audience. His dedication to and support of good comedy programmes being so impressive but his decision to refer to our lovely audience as ‘silly cunts’ on one particularly memorable occasion with my mother in the audience, not so very good.

  You, Dick, running in after every take, sometimes with a cushion strapped to your aching injured back, always nervously twanging an elastic band between your fingers and grinding your teeth, with some inspired new thought or suggestion to try.

  Giggling helplessly with James Fleet.

  Seeing Trevor Peacock’s willy, when he did his Full Monty routine.

  Listening to Roger Lloyd-Pack trying valiantly, but failing, to master the tuning of ‘Oh Happy Day’.

  Delicious gossiping with Emma Chambers.

  Listening to John Bluthal’s old stories about Spike Milligan.

  Sly conspiratorial glances with Gary Waldhorn.

  Liz Smith’s utter inability to pronounce the word ‘taramasalata’ in front of the audience.

  Getting plastered in thick gooey chocolate custard from the chocolate fountain episode, which had to be the last shot of the day. Getting in the shower to clean up and realising when I got out that everyone had gone home and I was locked in at Pinewood.

  Being stuck in a strange Dibley amber, age-wise. You not allowing my character to grow older while my genuine increasing decrepitude was patently obvious to all and sundry. E.g. I celebrated my 40th birthday as Geraldine when I was in fact 47, and you even suggested, for a brief deluded moment, that I should have a baby with my new ‘husband’ when in grown-up real world I was 49. Ta for the compliment but I’m a broad who welcomes age and all its creaky, dry and hairy wonders.

  Having the following shouted at me more often than I can cope with:

  ‘More tea, Vicar?!’

  ‘Hey, Vicar, where’s Alice?!’

  ‘Let’s see your knickers, Vicar!’

  ‘Hey, Vicar of Dimbleby!’

  ‘Hey, Vicar of Doubleday!’

  ‘Hey, Vicar of Dribbley!’

  ‘Hey, Vicar of Drimbly!’

  ‘Hey, Vicar of Dumbledore!’

  ‘Hey, Vicar of Dublin!’

  Having a secret wee in the water of the huge puddle I had to jump into. Twice. Two jumps. Two wees. It’s not secret now.

  Upsetting Hughie Green by having a reference to how some bus line hadn’t run since he’d died when he hadn’t died yet. Ooops.

  Filming in beautiful Turville, under the shadow of the windmill high up on the hill. Finding out the windmill was the one in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Doing a little jumping dance of excitement about that.

  Finding out a Sun photographer lived in a cottage on the green and constantly took photos of punchline moments and gave them away.

  Noticing all our kids growing up as they regularly visited the set over the years.

  Hearing my then 4-year-old daughter explain to one of the extras that her ‘mummy is a vicar’ and her ‘daddy is a chef’.

  Witnessing the nightmare of Emma, who is allergic to animals, having to be in the tiny church with 27 different varieties of them during the pet service.

  Me getting an actual crush on Peter Capaldi. Then me getting an actual crush on Clive Mantle. Then me getting an actual crush on Richard Armitage. Then me getting an actual crush on Johnny Depp. Me realising I am an actual dirty harlot.

  Having fab directors like Ed Bye and Gareth Carrivick and Dewi Humphreys who returned again and again.

  The beauty of seeing your own breath in the hushed churchyard in Turville at 3am on a dewy night shoot.

  The undeniable holiness we all felt when we shot the Christmas episode where the Christmas story was told in a farmyard, ending up with Alice giving birth in a stable. There had been lots of jokes all day, all evening, then suddenly, at midnight, when the little newborn was handed to Emma for that final shot, we were silenced by how sacred it all was.

  You, Dick, being unable to speak in the presence of the divine Miss Kylie Minogue when she came to do a guest appearance. You reverted back to being a stuttering 11-year-old with a tent pole in your trousers.

  Receiving written requests to perform actual christenings, weddings and exorcisms for actual people in their actual lives!

  Sitting quietly in Turville church and giving thanks for such a splendid job.

  Witnessing the regular 4pm doughnut and cake tray turn up on the set, and by 4.02pm every crumb would be inside a Turville resident rather than the intended crew or cast member.

  Not being able to continue filming for some time when Trevor Peacock as Jim Trott spoke his astonishing lines about wanting to have sex with a poodle. Neither the cast nor the audience could continue until we had a little break to compose ourselves.

  Great parties. So much dancing. So much vodka. So much errant misbehaviour. I remember doing some extremely overenthusiastic dancing to Shakira’s ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ during which I actually dislocated my hip and had to walk with a stick for four weeks. So thanks, Shakira – the bald fact is your hips do lie, madam.

  I very much remember at the wrap party, after the final episodes, saying a tearful thank-you and last goodbye to everyone. Then, as I was leaving, the producer came up to me and said, ‘Just so you know, Richard’s asked us to store the set …’ So, Dick … what was I saying about those female bishops …?

  Bless you.

  Dear Madonna,

  THE NEWS IS just comin’ into my ears and eyes from reliable sauces like the mag what is In Heat that you might be doin’ the divorcin’ of the posh gangsta-style Ritchie boy. What a cryin’ shame if that be true. I know doin’ marriage is tough and hard to pull off for a long time, but from what I has been led to believe, you two was doin’ it quite goodly. As goodly as a huntin’ shootin’ fishin’ filmin’ drinkin’ Englishy can do with a gyratin’ pumpin’ singin’ lookin’ wearin’ Yankee-doodle icon. It was seemin’ to be good together. I thought he might be doin’ the tellin’ of the truth to you, who may only have some very few people not paid to do, so they might have to be lickin’ of the icon bum to keep a job. But I could be wrong there, it could of been something entirely else, like he might have had bad habits which drove you round the crazy. Is he a comin’-in-too-late-after-the-pub sort of chump, not tellin’ you of his whereabeens therefore leadin’ you to suspects? Or maybe he just forgot to keep doin’ the romance? Like no more special heart love notes or flowers for the lovely lady, or puttin’ down of the cloak for you to not step in a puddle right up to your middle and frighten Miss Madge away? Or, of course, you could have been fancied by another while Guy of Gisborne was lookin’ the other way. You is much highly regarded as top totty by many, so it wouldn’t be the biggest surprise all year. I is amazed you would find the time for naughty secret hotstuff, with all the busy keepin’ up with the younger musics, the home kiddie crèche from all rainbow colours, the strict maintainin’ of the pecs, the constant lookin’ at new dresses for image-reinventin’ purposes, the endless meetins about important stuff, let alone the attendin’ at the Kasbahlahlah. Phew! How do you do it all?! You is a mighty wind, that’s for sure!

  Look, the point is none of us on the outsides knows what is goin’ on on the insides of you. So, if you is needin’ to have a big hissy fit chuckin’ down the weddin’ band ring and shoutin’, ‘I’m goin’, Guy Fawkes, and I ain’t never comin’ back!’ then you do so. Better out than i
n. One word in advice though, don’t let him take all your old Dionne Warwick or Earth, Wind and Fire LPs pretendin’ they’re his. They are not. They are yours, you bought them yourself with your first Desperately Seeking Something wage cheque. Along with all your Kylies and your J-Los. Hands off, Ritchie Rich!

  I hope it’s just a big silly ding-dong over who’s got the biggest willy or something, so you can get over it quick and do the lovely make friends, make friends, never never break friends, and then have a quick cuddle and say sorry, no I’m sorry, no I’m sorry, before you have to rush off to do another rude dance with Justin Timberland Boots. If you do manage to do the rescuin’, might I put forward one other tiny good advice? This might be lies all scurrilous lies, all is false, but if it is true – please don’t be takin’ the raspberry and blackcurrant machine to bed with you both any more. It is a phone cum day-to-day personal organiser and interweb surfer and has no right place in the bedroom where the incomin’ beeps would be disturbin’ all the good good lovin’.

  Just thinking ahead, that’s all.

  Dear Alfred,

  I THINK I would have missed out on my foray into the world of opera if it hadn’t been for you. When the call came through in the autumn of 2006, from the Royal Opera House, I thought it was some kind of elaborate joke. Please would I consider being in the Donizetti opera La Fille du Régiment? Me? Just for one tiny deluded, pathetic second, I found myself feeling flattered that perhaps, just maybe, someone had overheard me singing and realised that my voice was an undiscovered jewel, a hidden treasure, raw, naive and beautiful. So soaringly, supremely magnificent that I needed to be centre stage at the Royal Opera House immediately, with no training whatsoever, so that as many people as possible could witness the wonder. The world deserved to know. Who could have guessed that I possessed such a latent, undeveloped well of brilliant virtuoso talent? Nobody could have guessed. Nobody did guess. Because, of course, in reality my voice is remarkably average. Below average really. Average to poor. Pants, in fact. My voice is pants.

  Did I ever tell you about the day this was proven to me in the most humiliating and painful way? The producer and the director of Mamma Mia! asked if I would consider being the funny fat one in the film version. I hadn’t even seen the stage show at this point so I hurried along to take a look. Never before have I felt like such a pooper at a party. The audience were lovin’ it and, apart from the great Abba music, that’s a given, I couldn’t connect with it at all. I didn’t get why the broad humour was so appealing, and I didn’t feel remotely emotional about the story. Yet the entire rest of the audience most certainly did. There’s no doubt it has a magic, the show. Maybe only some people can feel it? Fortunately for all those involved, it’s MOST people in the world since it is such a massive hit EVERYWHERE! Anyway, they told me that Meryl Streep was on board to play the main role. Wow – Meryl Streep! Big heroine of mine. She’s got great taste, maybe I was wrong about the show, maybe it’s utterly brilliant and I’m the only person in the world who doesn’t get it? God knows, that’s a familiar enough situation. I had to admit I was a bit excited by the thought of meeting Meryl and forcing her to become a new close friend. Oh, the stories we’d trade about our Hollywood careers. Well, the stories I’d hear, anyway … So, drunk with the idea of working with her, and also just a little bit actually drunk, I agreed to take the next step, which was a voice test. I was quick to explain that I am NOT a singer, that all the singing Fatty and I do in our shows is written by us and arranged by our trusted musical-director chum Simon Brint (ex Raw Sex band leader and all-round genius) and that he goes to great pains to fix everything so’s it’s in the right key for us and so on. In other words, he makes the music fit our very limited ability. It comes to us, so to speak. With the Abba music, I would have to go to it. Everyone knows and loves this music. It would be awful to sing it badly. I voiced all of these concerns and they reassured me that with Björn in charge of the music, everything would be fixable, taken slowly and carefully honed. They explained that even if I bellowed like a cow in labour, they would be able to cope, but they encouraged me to have a safe little plinky-plonky no-strings friendly singalong with their musical director just to check I had the merest whiff of ability to hold down the most rudimentary of tunes. I agreed to this, with the proviso that we do it somewhere ultra private. Singing is so embarrassing if you don’t do it much, and I knew I would clam up if there were spectators. ‘Of course,’ they reassured me. So, I pootled along to HMV and bought an Abba’s Greatest Hits and punished the air in my car with some pretty confident renditions for a week or so. I hate it when you’re caught singing your head off by other drivers on the motorway, as I often am on the M4, and you have to pretend your gaping jaw action is all down to dreadful toothache and start looking at your mouth in the vanity mirror, don’t you? Oh, don’t you? It’s just me then.

  Anyway, the day came to meet the music guy. The audition was arranged in a ‘quiet’ room at the very top of the Palace Theatre in Cambridge Circus. The lift was broken so we walked up the 8,462 floors to the top. A small, pert man, he bounced up the stairs ahead of me. A big, fat, lumbering woman, I hauled myself up behind him, puffing all the way. By the time I reached the top I knew I would need to sit down and recover with a KitKat and a cuppa for about three weeks, without moving, never mind singing. He introduced me to a bevy of bright-eyed chaps working in the office next door to the room we were to be ‘private’ in. A couple of the dandies made comments like ‘Ooh, we’re so excited’, ‘Can’t wait to hear you warble’ and ‘This’ll be our lunchtime concert, we’re not going out today, we’ve brought packed specially’ and suchlike. Oh God. I asked Mr Music if we really would be ‘private’ as requested. Yes, of course, he assured me. We went into the small room, which had a sofa and a keyboard. Oh double God, the keyboard. There it was, taunting me. I sat on the sofa and started wall-to-wall nervous fast gossiping so as to delay the awful moment. I noticed that I could hear the guys next door quite clearly and deduced that the reverse must also be true. Oh triple God. I thought we might start with some gentle scales, a little warm-up perhaps, but no, he sat at the keyboard, invited me to share the piano stool, and off he went pounding away at the keys with the fervour of Bobby Crush on acid, and before I had time to draw breath, we were away, singing like mad, one song after another, ‘Dancing Queen’, ‘Take a Chance on Me’, ‘Chiccyteeta’ or ‘Chicken Tikka’ or whatever that one’s called. It was fast and loud and furious. Each one was worse than the last, and the first was appalling. For some reason I don’t understand, not only did I sing dreadfully, but I sang worse than I ever have before. I kept saying, ‘Hang on there, fella, something’s wrong, let me get my breath and have another crack at that,’ and off we’d go again, ten to the dozen, and it would be dire. Worse than dire. An entirely tuneless, croaky, wailing, drony caterwaul of a noise. Inhuman really. The noise the dead might yawl as they roast and screech in hell’s inferno. A caw unburdened by tone or key. Horrible, horrible, horrible. All credit to Mr Music, he was tenacious, he was trying to remain optimistic, but very quickly I sensed he was beaten. After half an hour or so of this excruciating slaughter, the punishment was over and Mr Music bade me farewell with tears of pain in his eyes reflecting the damage to his ears. I rushed out, offering a hasty ‘Bye!’ to the poor witnesses next door, most of whose hair was standing on end and all of whom couldn’t look me in the eye for shame. My shame.

  As I beat a speedy retreat, I turned my phone back on to see if there had been any calls, and it was ringing with my agent’s name, ‘MAUREEN-OFFICE’, flashing on the tiny screen. ‘Love, it’s not going to work out.’ ‘But, Maureen, I’ve only just left –’ ‘It’s just not going to work out, love –’ ‘But they said you’d have to sing worse than the noise a cow makes in labour …’ Silence the other end. ‘Maureen …?’ ‘It’s not going to work out, love …’ So that was that. I can’t sing. At all. Fatty was very supportive when I told her about the horror of it all, and in defiance, and
an effort to reclaim some self-esteem, we decided to sing ‘Thank You for the Music’ at the end of our show on tour every night. We sang it loud and proud and I was gradually, nightly, clawing my way back out of the pit of zero confidence voice-wise and was really enjoying performing it with gusto until someone told me there was a reference to the song in a review which said we were ‘hilariously out of tune’. I surrender to the gods of music, to Pan, to Apollo, to Björn, Benny, Agnetha and Frieda. I am not your servant or your handmaiden or your daughter. I am your jester. That much is clear.

  Anyway, sorry, Alfred, back to the opera. Of course they didn’t want me to sing. They had wisely decided to go with the odd professional for that. No, they wanted me to take a speaking part, a comic cameo normally played by an older soprano like Montserrat Caballé. Well, I had no reference for such a proposal so I called you toot sweet. You are, after all, not only my beloved buddy but also my oracle, my encyclopedia of all things opera. Anything, and it is a teeny amount, but nevertheless, anything I know about opera, I know because of you. I love our ritual. You call up, you have tickets, it’s vital to see this particular production because of this singer, that director, this conductor, that composer, etc., etc. I come to your flat in Fulham, we eat scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, we listen to a recording of said opera, you educate me about the story, the background, former productions and, my most favourite part, the gossip. Which diva is shagging which divo. Who is so fat they take up three plane seats. Who was booed off at La Scala and had a hissy fit, all that stuff. You are not only the font of all high information, you are the deliciously dirty dealer of the low. You are the Heat magazine of opera. Hurrah. That’s what makes it all the more intriguing for me. I can then watch the opera appreciating not only the soprano’s excellent coloratura, but also her bravura bosoms, knowing which dirty divo has had his mitts on ’em!