by Bishop, John
I went home with my tail between my legs, but decided to give it another go the year after with a show called ‘Peddling Stories’, based on my bicycle ride back from Australia. I just knew that if I wanted to get better as a stand-up comedian I had to keep trying.
By now I had won North West Comedian of the Year, which gave me a boost to my confidence, and also came with a degree of kudos because of previous winners like Peter Kay. It also meant more reviewers came to see the show than the previous year.
They quickly came to the same conclusion as their fellow scribes from 2003: I was rubbish. I wasn’t completely rubbish; it was just the show was meant to be about the bike ride from Australia but my ad-libbing style meant that I’d digress from the story and would rarely get past Brisbane, so people felt short-changed.
I was beginning to feel that Edinburgh was not right for me. I gave up a lot to be there and would arrive full of anticipation, but audiences remained low.
Melanie brought the boys up to go to the children’s shows and to enjoy the magic of the Festival. On one of these days, I left them in our rented flat to go and do my set, only to be greeted by Helena, the show manager, who told me that I had only five people in the audience.
The venue was a converted shipping container called The Hut. It had a capacity of 50 – which I never managed to achieve during the run. This was the third week, and that is what is so hard about the Edinburgh Festival. You commit to be there for a month, in the same place at the same time every day. However, by the end of the first week it is obvious if it has been worthwhile coming. Audiences and reviewers have already decided if you’re any good, and if the answer is ‘no’, then you still have to keep turning up and trying to impress anyone who bothers to come, who are generally people who can’t get into better shows which are on at the same time. But it is these nights that make you a better comedian, as you learn the ability to put on a show in which neither you nor the audience are convinced there is much point.
The thought of doing an hour of comedy to five people who were probably not that interested anyway, whilst the family, whom I hadn’t seen for the best part of a month, sat in a flat 15 minutes’ bike ride away, seemed pointless to me.
‘Can’t we give them their money back?’ I asked. ‘It doesn’t seem worth it for five people.’
‘No, we can’t – only two have paid.’
The logic of not being able to refund people because they had not bought their tickets in the first place brought it all home to me: it wasn’t even possible to give my tickets away.
So, I did the gig. Firstly, I dispensed with the microphone, which seemed at best a little unnecessary when you have an audience you can fit in a taxi. I also bought everyone a drink as a thank-you for coming, and we shared a pleasant hour together.
It was not the last time I would buy a drink for everyone in the audience to apologise for the low attendance and to thank them for being there. The last time was at the Leicester Comedy Festival in 2009, when 17 people came to see me, and two weeks before television changed my life for ever.
• • •
After the failure of the 2004 show, I decided that I could never go to Edinburgh again until I was free from the constraints of a full-time job. Although the company had been as flexible as they could, I was still running a sales team in a very specialised field, and despite using part of my annual leave to attend, it was not a sustainable situation.
I was also beginning to see people I had been on the circuit with, like the brother and sister team of Alan and Jimmy Carr, move to the next level. I was outgrowing the circuit, but I had nowhere to go.
There comes a point for a circuit comedian where you are being booked to close all the best clubs in the country and, within the dressing rooms, nobody questions that you are at the top of your game. But the reality is that when you reach that point you have to capitalise on it, because sooner or later you will not be regarded as special: someone else will come along who is just as good and the light will shine on them.
I had begun to consider leaving the day job but it was such a big decision. My then agent Danny introduced me to Addison Cresswell, who owned Off the Kerb and is known within television and comedy circles as having the unique ability to be a prick and a genius within the same second. Danny had told Addison that I was unable to commit to the things that would improve my comedy career prospects because of my 9–5 job. I had even had to give up doing The Jonathan Ross Show warm-ups because it was clashing with sales meetings.
Addison came into the room at such speed that it was clear this was a busy man who was not going to waste time. In his Cockney lilt, he declared, ‘Danny says you’re not sure you should leave your job. Leave your job. I’ll make sure you get enough work.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Of course it is. What are you on? Twenty-five grand?’
‘No, more.’
‘Thirty.’
‘No.’
‘Forty.’
‘No.’
‘Fifty.’
‘No.’
‘Keep your fucking job.’
With that, he walked out and hardly spoke to me again before I left the agency. Yet he was to play a vital role in changing my life, years later.
I was now facing the option of taking a huge gamble in leaving my job, or forever being the bloke who headlined all the comedy clubs and earned a few quid for the odd after-dinner speech, but who would progress no further than that. I loved the comedy and was excited about the prospect of making it more than just a hobby but, ultimately, I had a good job and a family to look after. The most sensible thing to do was to stay where I was, and keep doing gigs as a second income to help chip away at our big mortgage.
Then Luis García scored in the semi-final of the Champions League against Chelsea at Anfield, and started a chain of events that resulted in Liverpool winning the Champions League, and in me questioning everything.
CHAPTER 30
WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!
I can’t completely blame Luis García – the rest of the team also played a part, while the capitulation of AC Milan after leading 3–0 at half time, the penalty saves from Jerzy Dudek, the goals from Steven Gerrard, Vladimir Šmicer and Xabi Alonso also contributed. The talismanic performances of Jamie Carragher and Dietmar Hamann also had a role, as did the fact that someone had decided that the American Transplant Congress should be in Seattle on the same date.
It was 2005 and Liverpool had defied the odds by getting through to the Champions League final. I was sitting in the Kop with my mates, Duff, Quinny and Foz, when Luis García poked the ball towards the goal. We all breathed in to try and help it across the line. If it did or didn’t make it is now irrelevant because the referee blew, and we exploded in ecstasy.
We had been to all the home games, and the lads had been to many of the away legs, so there was no question we would qualify for tickets and would all be going to Istanbul for the final. Then I saw the date, 25 May: the date of the American Transplant Congress in Seattle. My heart sank.
This was the biggest transplant meeting every year, and it was taken as a matter of course that, as the head of the UK transplant team, I would be attending. After a brief conversation with my boss, it was apparent non-attendance was not an option. They were flexible with me over everything and turned a bit of a blind eye to the comedy, but not attending the biggest meeting of the year to go to a football match would not wash.
I informed my mates, who all suggested I tell them to stick the job up their arse. But ultimately they knew that wasn’t going to happen. We were all entering our late thirties and all to a greater or lesser extent were learning to toe the line. That is what happens in life when you reach an age of responsibility.
My ticket went to one of the other lads, Sam, and I instead went to the congress. Only to find that some of the meetings which would have kept me there on the 25th had been brought forward, so that I was now able to leave on 24 May.
Had th
e congress been anywhere else in America, there was a chance that I could have made it to Istanbul. But the travel agent looked at all the options, including flying the opposite way around the world, and the best he could do was to get me home for the kick-off, although even that would involve 19 hours of travelling and a tight connection in London. I took the flight, thinking it would be better to be at home to watch the match rather than in some Irish pub in Seattle at four in the morning.
I made the connection and walked into my house to find it full of children: Quinny had gone to Istanbul, so had sent his wife and kids to my house. The game kicked off with me perched on the edge of the couch whilst our wives chatted and little girls did cartwheels in front of the telly. My only other option was to watch it alone in the pub, but since I was still living in Manchester I didn’t really think that was a good idea.
By half time, the depression was only made worse by the fact that Liverpool was losing 3–0. You’d think this would’ve softened the blow of me not being able to watch the game in Istanbul, but instead it made me more depressed, because I had killed myself to get home and watch it on TV, and Liverpool was getting battered. Had I made the effort and been at the ground, I could have shared my disappointment with my mates, I could have joined in the chorus of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, I could have been part of it. Instead, I was sharing plates of sandwiches and cakes with the kids.
The second half I hardly watched as each goal Liverpool clawed back made me walk into the garden to keep my head. After the extra time and the penalty win, I was both ecstatic and deflated. The best game of football ever and Liverpool had won; the best game of football ever and I had not gone because I had toed the line.
That night, I walked the streets till 4 a.m as the jet-lag kicked in, and I spent the time speaking to my mates on their mobiles as they waited at the airport in Istanbul.
I am, however, now glad I didn’t attend what was arguably the greatest football match ever because, had I done so, I may not have ever reached the conclusion that I did.
In that moment, I knew that I had to leave the day job to try comedy full time. I couldn’t conform any more, and I couldn’t keep blaming my situation on circumstance. Yes, I was married with a mortgage; yes, I had a responsibility to the boys and Melanie; yes, I had a good job. But I knew if I didn’t try it, then in years to come I would be in my fifties and bitter because the boys would have left and I would be thinking I could have had a shot at show business but didn’t try because of them.
There is no greater coward than one who hides behind his own children. I concluded it was better they see me try to make a go of it but fail, than have me place responsibility on their shoulders in later life. I also knew I had to give it a go for me. As my dad had said when I wanted to do the A-levels all those years ago: ‘You have to try it. If you don’t, you will spend the rest of your life wondering what would have happened.’
I did try it, and a lot happened.
CHAPTER 31
ON TOUR
Melanie knew how much it meant to me to give the comedy a go, and she never once suggested I shouldn’t do it. Prior to our marriage split, the option would never have been considered; we were both too conservative for that. Now we knew that for the benefit of the relationship we had to try new things, although, to be fair, leaving a well-paid job to be a comedian is a bit more than trying ‘a new thing’. It is a leap of faith, and we jumped at it together.
When I left the office for the final time, I was doing so with the support of everyone I left behind. Nobody said, ‘Are you mental?’ which you would have perhaps expected; instead, people patted me on the back and wished me luck as if they would have liked to do it themselves. Having said that, people do the same to boxers on the way to the ring, but that doesn’t mean you are ready to get punched in the face.
The truth was, I was leaving a salary of nearly £70,000 a year to go and do gigs, which paid £200 a slot. If I got it wrong, being punched in the face would be the least of my problems.
The first thing I had to work out was how much money I needed to earn to try and reduce the impact on our family. I figured that if I had one sportsman’s dinner a month, for which I charged around £750, and I worked every weekend with a couple of mid-week gigs, we could cover our bills. That was my target – to meet the existing bills. Anything above that would be a bonus, but anything below it would be a problem.
It was September 2006, two months before my fortieth birthday, and I was now solely dependent on my ability to make people laugh to earn a living.
There is nothing more likely to sharpen the senses than to realise this, and so I sat down with Danny to draw up a plan. I suggested that since I was not getting any TV work, perhaps I should do a small tour, possibly of arts centres around the North West, where I had a small following.
This was greeted with less than lukewarm enthusiasm. As my agent quite rightly pointed out, there was no reason for anyone to buy a ticket to see me, so I would probably lose money. Not a situation I could afford to be in. Instead, he suggested I should just carry on working on the circuit till something came up.
I realised then that the agency no longer saw me as a person of potential. They had signed Alan Carr and Michael McIntyre, both of whom had more exciting prospects than me. The message was loud and clear, and so with no hard feelings I decided I should leave and try things on my own.
So, within a short space of time, I had left my job and my agent. Most mid-life crises result in people getting a sports car, a tattoo or a new young girlfriend; mine resulted in me leaving my job and leaving the only person who had got me any work in my new profession. I was well and truly in with both feet now, and I had to make it work.
I put a little tour together called the ‘Going to Work’ tour. It began on 4 March 2007 at the Brindley Arts Centre in Runcorn and was due to finish on 26 April at the famous Leeds City Varieties. I managed to get 15 venues to agree to take me, which was encouraging, as they would only do so if they thought people might come to watch. In the end, I only did 13 dates as two, one in Bradford and one in Rochdale, cancelled as nobody had bought a ticket.
Overall, the tour did well because of reasonably sized audiences in Liverpool and Manchester. The biggest crowd was at the Royal Court in Liverpool, where 745 people came along – not bad for someone nobody had heard of. It was nights like those that made me feel I might have had an audience out there somewhere. Yet five of the 13 venues sold less than 100 tickets. It was hard to justify the effort.
The final date was to be a celebration. Leeds City Varieties has a great reputation as a venue to perform in. Virtually every comedian of note from as far back as Charlie Chaplin has played there, and I really wanted to finish my first ever tour with a bang.
The problem was, it’s very hard to generate ‘a bang’ when you have only sold 15 per cent of the tickets.
Faced with doing a gig for 55 people in a 563-seater venue, my heart sank. The box office assured me there would be some walk-ins, but unless something dramatic happened – like every television in Leeds breaking, thereby forcing people to go out to be entertained – there was never going to be enough spontaneous custom to fill the place.
I sat in the kitchen totally dejected. The tour was supposed to have been the launch pad that was going to generate interest in me beyond being a good club comedian; it was supposed to have got industry people excited and add fuel to my career, endorsing my decision to leave the day job.
The reality was that it was not going to be the tour that changed things for me. And it also had to pay, as I had to at least make the same as I would performing in the clubs. My commitment to Melanie had been that I would manage to cover the bills; now I had to end the tour in a venue where the majority of the seats would be empty. There is no greater indication of failure in show business than empty seats, and my triumphant finale to the tour was to be played out in front of a sea of them.
Melanie came in and saw me sitting, deflated, drinking a cup
of tea that I had been staring at so long it had gone cold. That only served to enhance the misery of the situation. Tea is what we give people in England to make things better or to make them feel welcome. Cold tea is what you drink when life feels so shit you can’t even be bothered to put the kettle on.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re drinking cold tea – you’re depressed or mad, so what’s wrong?’
‘Hardly anyone is coming tonight.’
‘How many?’
‘Hardly any.’
‘How many?’
‘Fifty-five now, maybe a few extra.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’
‘It would be if there weren’t four hundred and fifty more empty seats looking back at me. Over eighty-five per cent of the seats will be empty.’
‘Well, don’t tell the empty seats any jokes. You chose this job, so you have to make sure you’re good at it. Go and make the people who have come laugh, and they will tell people they know to come next time. Walk on there with a face like the one you’ve got on at the moment, and nobody will come back. Hurry up, you’re going to be late.’
That was it. A straightforward, Northern wife’s view of the situation. There was no pandering to creative sensitivities; this was my job and, just like a plumber who didn’t want to unblock a drain, my feelings were secondary. It was my job and I had to get on with it.
I got in my car and drove to Leeds.
CHAPTER 32
IT’S ALWAYS BETTER WHEN IT’S FULL
I would love to say that the gig was fantastic and that I was carried out of the venue shoulder high, but that would be a lie. It did go well, apart from a heckler who kept interrupting. When you are performing in an empty venue, it is hard enough to generate an atmosphere, but when someone keeps butting into the show it makes it even harder.