How Did All This Happen?

by Bishop, John

  The next issue we faced was the boys. We knew that nothing was guaranteed. We could get back together and, after a month of living with each other, all the reasons why we were best apart could re-emerge, so we didn’t want to build up their hopes. Melanie was having some work done to her house, and it had already been arranged that the boys would be moving in with me full time for a few weeks. So we used that as the opportunity to have a trial period together.

  On the Saturday afternoon after the usual morning of kids’ clubs and shopping, I sat the boys on the couch. Melanie had arrived 30 minutes earlier, so I said to the boys we had something to ask them.

  At the ages of seven, five and three, you assume children just get on with life without their home environment being anything but wallpaper: they see it, but you imagine they never really consider that it should be anything different. I was to learn that is not the case. They absorb the world around them and know what they would like to make it a better place.

  ‘You know your mum is having some work done to her house, so you boys are coming to stay here full time for a while. I … we … wanted to know if you boys minded if your mum came too, and we all lived here as a family.’

  I don’t know what I expected – perhaps a shrug of the shoulders and a request to put the cartoons back on the telly. Instead, Joe threw his seven-year-old body off the couch and flew into my arms, Luke quickly followed, and Daniel, only being three and surely preferring to get the cartoons back on the telly, did what his brothers did (if hugging your dad gets the telly back on, then let’s all do it). I was on my knees, with the three most important people in my life in my arms and the most important person to all four of us looking on from the doorway with more tears in her eyes.

  In that moment, I knew it was going to be all right.

  CHAPTER 28

  ‘MUM, I’M ON TELLY!’

  My big TV break came in 2003 on a show called For One Night Only, which nobody watched. It was an attempt to bring back variety, and it was shown exclusively in the Granada region in the North West. They made three shows, I think. I say ‘I think’, because all trace of it seems to have disappeared. Nobody’s even bothered to put a clip up on YouTube, and since that is full of videos of people eating yoghurt, it shows you just how poor the show was.

  Although I was beginning to develop ambitions that comedy could be more than just doing nightly gigs for £127.50 (which was what I received after my agent’s cut), I still never allowed myself to believe I could earn the same as my day job and be able to do stand-up full time. But, as a side line, it had growing potential.

  My agent kept trying to bring me to ‘television meetings’ in London, but I was always too busy working and had very little aspiration to be the token Northerner on things, so I never felt I was missing out. I did get to do some spots as the warm-up for The Jonathan Ross Show, which did give me some insight into how good TV worked, but it was to be years before I appreciated the impact television could make on a comedian’s career and the rewards that could follow. At this stage, I felt I was winning anyway, as I had a great second income doing something I loved. I was to be further convinced that television was not for me after the disaster of my first appearance.

  My agent called me to say that a producer of For One Night Only had seen me in Liverpool and thought I would be perfect for the show. At this point, I had been doing comedy for a few years and, as nobody else was interested in me for TV, getting a shot on a programme transmitted at 10.35 on a Friday night in just the Granada region was the best option I had.

  The show was filmed in the Batley Carr social club in Batley, Yorkshire, which is a famous social club, having been part of the cabaret scene for decades. I was booked as a new face to offset the better-known acts. These included the host, Stu Francis (not the sharp Canadian one-liner exponent, Stewart Francis, but the Stu Francis of the ‘I could crush a grape’ catchphrase); pop sensations Smokie and Brotherhood of Man; a very good mainstream comedian called Sean Styles; a magician who looked like a Richard Clayderman tribute act (if you’re under 35, Google him); and Bernie Clifton, who is famous for doing his act whilst pretending to ride an ostrich.

  I was told to arrive at the club by two in the afternoon. I should have known things were not going to go well when nobody knew who I was when I arrived. The club itself looked like it could generate a good atmosphere: the tables were set out in a semi-circle around the stage and were slightly tiered the further back they went, so they formed a kind of amphitheatre. However, the fact that the backdrop on the stage was the kind of silvery curtain you only ever saw when Jim Bowen revealed the main prize on Bullseye meant there was no pretending you were anywhere else but a social club in Yorkshire.

  I eventually tracked down David, the producer who had booked me, and though he tried to look pleased to see me I did have the distinct impression he had forgotten I was coming. I was then introduced to the director of the show and asked if I wanted to do a run-through of my act.

  The venue was empty apart from a few people setting up cameras, and a lady hoovering. I had been doing well in all the comedy clubs, so I was confident in my ability to perform and I couldn’t think of anything worse than standing on a stage in front of an empty room trying to practise being funny. I said I was OK and didn’t think I needed a rehearsal. This was greeted with a surprised look from the producer, who was obviously concerned by my lack of professionalism.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the director asked. ‘Everyone has a run-through.’

  At that point, a man ran on stage wearing Bernie Clifton’s ostrich outfit: the orange legs, the false legs hanging over, the reins on the bird’s beak – the lot. He then proceeded to do Bernie Clifton’s act, including walking backwards and forwards, arguing with the bird as it turned to look at him and then struggling to control it when it wanted to chase the lady with the hoover and, by way of apology shouting after her, ‘Oh, he likes you!’

  The director and producer both looked on approvingly whilst all this was going on, occasionally flashing me a look that seemed to say, ‘See, now that’s a pro.’

  ‘Is that Bernie Clifton?’ I asked, thinking he may well just look different in real life than he did on telly. By ‘different’, I mean a few stone heavier, and at least a foot shorter.

  ‘No, that’s his driver. Bernie doesn’t do the run-through, he doesn’t have to now.’

  So I was watching a man pretending to be another man pretending to ride an ostrich. That is the level of professionalism they thought I should aspire to.

  Perhaps this was when I should have left, but, as it was to be my first television appearance, I wasn’t going to ruin it over a misunderstanding. ‘They’ll soon see when I get on stage,’ I thought.

  I shared a dressing room with Sean, who seemed surprised I had no change of clothes. I just had the jeans I was wearing, and a spare shirt. As I still had my day job, a suit meant work, whereas jeans meant comedy or just about anything else that was not work. Funnily enough, when I left the job and could wear jeans all day, I started to wear suits on stage. It just felt right that I should change to go to work, and that is what I have done ever since.

  So, on this night, the night of my first TV appearance, I wore faded jeans and a brown shirt. I looked like a dad trying to look like a student. Although when I saw the audience, I could have got away with pretending I was a student.

  The moment the audience sat down, I knew I was in for a rough time. I would say the average age was 65. One of the greatest compliments I receive today is when I am told that generations of the same family come to my shows – from grandparents to teenage children – so today I would feel comfortable faced with such a crowd. The problem was that in 2003 I didn’t have the same armoury of material that I could shape to fit an audience; I just had some stories that worked for student or circuit gigs in front of people in their twenties. And while 40 years can be a big difference for an audience, that night in Batley it felt like centuries.

  I was to go on af
ter Brotherhood of Man and before the magician. I waited in the wings and watched the show. I was more interested than nervous. Stu Francis did a great job as the host as he seemed to be able to get the audience on his side whenever he wanted. If he felt he was losing them, he would simply mention the grape catchphrase and they were back, and I found myself wishing I had a catchphrase or something to fall back on. But before I could think of one, I was introduced.

  I walked on to warm applause, but it was at this point I knew I didn’t belong. For starters, I was the only person in the building who was wearing jeans. I could actually see some of the audience bristle at my appearance, and I could detect murmurings of ‘Who is this scruffy bastard?’ in the air, but I decided to crack on with my opening line.

  ‘Hiya, my name’s John Bishop. So, who’s got kids then, and when I say “kids”, I mean little ones, not ones who have driven you here tonight?’

  Nothing.

  I mean nothing. Not a little huff, a grin, half a smile – nothing. It wasn’t a great opening line, I admit, but I thought a subtle reference to everyone being pensioners was a good way to defuse the fact that nobody knew who I was. But, as I could tell from the first 30 seconds, nobody cared.

  I ploughed on with my material, anyway, which involved a story where I re-enacted the awkwardness that comes when you are a single dad and you have to take young children with you when you need to use a public toilet. The punchline, which was delivered in a squat position pretending to have a dump – ‘I can’t leave you out there, kids, there could be nutters out there!’ – was greeted with silence.

  I can assure you that taking a dump in front of your kids was not something the audience at the Batley Carr social club thought very funny. There is nothing more humbling as a performer than to be squatting as if to take a dump to try to enhance a story that nobody wants to hear, whilst being filmed for television.

  And it was whilst in this position that I heard a response from the audience. It was a whoop. Not the laugh that this killer piece of material deserved, but a whoop. Which was then followed by some talking, more whoops and even a few claps. Before I could begin to think that they were for me, the floor manager walked on and told me to stop.

  I had known I was doing badly, but I had thought he would have at least let me finish.

  But as I rose from my squat position, I saw the magician dashing on flustered in a sequined shirt, blond hair flowing, chasing a runaway puppy. The audience was now enthralled by what was happening on the stage in a way they had not been moments earlier. After a minute or so, however, the puppy was caught and the audience was left with me alone on the stage again. The boredom returned to their faces when the floor manager said I should carry on.

  ‘Where from?’ I asked.

  He listened to someone on his headphones. ‘Just do that last bit from the start again.’

  My heart sank. I had to repeat the same section to the audience, having already endured the fact that they didn’t think any of it was funny the first time round.

  The only thing worse than being told a joke you don’t find funny is being told it twice, and the only thing worse than that is being the person who has to tell the joke. It’s at that moment that you really wish the magician was good at his job and could make you disappear. Even I lost enthusiasm, and my squat was barely a bended knee the second time around.

  I didn’t walk off to the sound of my own feet because Stu got the audience to applaud, they played a sequence of music and the dog barked. The audience must have thought the whole thing was falling apart because the magician came on straight after me, and his whole act built up to a finale where he produced the puppy from a hat. The audience’s reaction to this piece of magic was somewhat muted, as they had seen him moments earlier chasing the puppy that he now wanted us to believe he was conjuring out of thin air.

  It took Sean Styles to save the show and Smokie to sing about living next door to Alice to prevent a riot.

  When the show was edited and transmitted, I watched it through my fingers. If any of my mates watched, they never said.

  I knew I had not gone down well when I called in to my mum’s the weekend after it was aired.

  ‘We watched you last night,’ she said. ‘It’s a shame they didn’t give you very long. I said to your dad, they’ve cut out all his funny bits.’

  That’s what’s great about my mum. Even though I knew the patched-up remnants of the best bits had been shown on TV, I still left thinking she had a point and perhaps they had just edited it wrongly. The truth is, they had done their best to make me look good, but any editor can only work with what he has and, as a performer, you know that if the most interesting thing on the stage is a lost puppy you haven’t gone down very well.

  CHAPTER 29

  FESTIVAL OF BROKEN DREAMS

  With the family unit back together, I could consider going to the Edinburgh Festival for the first time. This was obviously impossible when you share child care, because it requires you giving up the whole of August to do gigs night after night.

  Everyone had suggested that I should go up to try it – it was the place where you could be seen by television executives, the kind of people who held the key to you potentially moving on to the next level. The reality for me was I was not sure what that ‘next level’ was, or even if I wanted it. But my agent advised me it was a good thing to do, and everyone who I had spoken to about the Festival said that no matter what happened, if you did an hour of stand-up every night for a month, you would get better, and that was reason enough for me to go. I loved stand-up, and I wanted to improve.

  I first went up in 2003 with a show called ‘Freefall’. You have to give a show a title even if it bears little relevance to the content, just so the audience can be assured you have given some thought to the hour that they will invest in watching you.

  The truth was that I had never been to an arts festival before I performed there; they had not figured highly during my childhood or my youth, so I turned up expecting to be able to do what I was doing in the clubs – ad-libbing, messing with the audience and saying a few funny things.

  I was in a venue called the Cellar, which was what it was: a cellar with about 40 seats. I was on at 9.40 p.m., which was a difficult time because it clashed with some of the bigger acts, however I was pleased because it was a good time, and I was in the courtyard where I had a chance to pick up passing trade.

  In the end, though, very few people came, a few shows were cancelled because nobody bought a ticket and what reviews I had made it abundantly clear my show was rubbish.

  Being a comedian is like being a stripper: you expose what you have to the world and hope it impresses it. When it doesn’t, you can’t just put your coat on and leave. You have to cavort around to try and get someone’s attention and it can be belittling in a way few other professions are. You alone receive the praise and you alone have to deal with the energy-sapping indifference of a world that doesn’t care if you get on stage that night or not. Unless you have lived that life, it’s hard to explain, but one of the things that makes you carry on when the world says you shouldn’t bother is that we see the moments when it does work; although in the middle of a long, hard Festival, looking for those moments can be like panning for gold.

  In order to spend a month in Edinburgh, I had to use two weeks of my annual leave. The other two weeks I worked from the flat I rented, or did field visits with the local sales rep. I would also fly to meetings in the London office on the 6.30 a.m. flight down, and return on the 6 p.m. flight back, before going to do a gig to whatever handful of people turned up to the Cellar. Of all the performers on the Fringe, I have no doubt I was probably only one of a few with a full-time job, and certainly the only one doing the Fringe whilst still engaging in discussions about the next five years’ marketing plan with our European head office.

  I just felt that I needed to try the Festival, to pit myself against the best around and to learn more about the craft of putting a show togethe
r. In order to do this, the support I needed from my company and from Melanie was a lot to ask. And when you consider that, at the end of the month, the only conclusion I could draw was that I wasn’t good enough, it was an even bigger commitment.

  Melanie and I had just moved into a larger home that was akin to the one we had lived in prior to the split, but this had stretched us financially. To return from the Festival with £8,500 of debt was not what I could dress up in any way as a success, and it was not what I had expected.

  Lessons I learnt about Edinburgh for all potential performers:

  1) You will lose money. This is because you have to pay for everything: venue rental, the venue staff, the flyers, the leaflets they give out, the posters, the PR person who tries to get reviewers to come and see you, your accommodation, your food, your beer (optional, but always more than you think – my advice is avoid where possible), the promoter – some of whom charge a fee rather than take a percentage of sales just in case they don’t sell enough. Apparently, you have to take a 150-seater venue and sell it out every night to break even, and I would say 75 per cent of venues are probably smaller than this.

  2) Your heart will be broken. If you get a bad review, and you will, you will feel as you walk around the streets that everybody in the world has read it. If you get a good review, it will be the day it rained and nobody bought a paper.

  3) Being good in clubs does not guarantee success in Edinburgh. My first show was not a show; it was me sticking jokes together. You have to do more than that if people are going to watch you in a dungeon.

  4) You will get better and by the end you will be brilliant. The only problem is, if you were rubbish in the first week, all the reviews and word of mouth will mean that you will be brilliant to an empty room.

  5) You will love it. Being a comedian is like being a Goth: it’s a lifestyle choice not many make, and it can be a very lonely one. Edinburgh allows you to be in the same place as others just like you, and standing in a bar in the wee hours of the morning and looking all around at ‘your people’ makes it worth being there.