by Alan Carr
Carol is now a qualified pilot, and a very good one she is too. I know this first-hand because I have actually flown with her in a tiny plane. During my Yap Yap Yap tour I was performing near an air show that she happened to be flying to so I cadged a lift – well, why not, it beats being in a traffic jam, doesn’t it? I’m not going to lie, I was dubious about Carol’s flying ability – she said she was a pilot but then so had Deirdre Rachid’s boyfriend and he only worked in Tie Rack. Luckily, she wasn’t a fantasist and was in fact a brilliant pilot. I hadn’t really got ‘it’ before, but being up there, if this makes sense, was both exhilarating and surprisingly serene. Sadly, there was no in-flight meal – not even complimentary nuts – but the gorgeous views of the English countryside took my mind off my belly. Carol is hoping to fly solo around the world and I wish her all the best, as long as she is back for Christmas with me, Paul, Paul O’Grady, Sally, Steve and Gok – our dinner wouldn’t be the same without our own little Christmas Carol.
Browsing at the Weston Favell Shopping Centre one day with my family in Northampton, doing the sort of unadulterated mooching you can only do in a shopping centre, I got a phone call from the production office: The Friday Night Project had been recommissioned for a second series I got told in a jubilant voice. I could hear that everyone in the office was cock-a-hoop, and even I gave a little squeal outside Superdrug. Things were looking up – a smattering of other job offers were clogging up my inbox and I was what you could call ‘in demand’. For the first time in my life I had security, albeit a tentative one, and with this new-found security came confidence. And guess what, don’t tell Manchester but I was getting to love Holloway – I really was. I’d only just realized that if you went up the hill instead of down the hill you came to Highgate, and a further stroll onwards would bring you to Kenwood, and then there in front of you in all its green finery you had the delights of Hampstead Heath at your disposal.
My Tooth Fairy DVD had sold over half a million copies, more than I had ever expected. Bizarrely, it had even been sold to a Thai airline as part of their inflight entertainment package, plus – maybe more bizarrely – it had been nominated for a South Bank Show Award.
The South Bank Show Awards ceremony is a black-tie event that reads like a Who’s Who of the arts, so as you can imagine I had no sodding idea who anyone was. All I remember thinking is I bet there’ll be a lot of people in berets. I was so nervous about going, but anyway, I took a deep breath and walked into the art-deco fabulousness that is the Savoy Hotel on the Strand. I was dreading being cornered by some avant-garde sculptor who made statues out of dog poo or that bald husband and wife couple who used to be on that programme Eurotrash, do you remember? But the dread dissipated when I heard behind me, ‘Oi-oi, Saveloy!’ It was only Amy Winehouse, who came over and gave me a hug, bless her – well, that made me feel a bit more at home. I lost out to James Corden for Gavin and Stacy in the end but I still had a right laugh dancing the night away with such an arty crowd, who were surprisingly good at letting their hair down. I ended up doing shots with a ballerina and doing the lambada with an internationally renowned cellist.
I didn’t let not winning a South Bank Show Award get me down. I was still buzzing about the recommission and the accompanying financial security was a revelation. Money was coming in steadily and for once in my life I got a tantalizing taste of having savings and withdrawing money from the cashpoint without looking at the balance first, a whole new experience. And I was one of those people who was outraged when the banks stopped cashpoints issuing fivers! For the first time I could splash out on some nice furniture or objets d’art. I had always bought Ikea stuff – it looked good and, more importantly, it was cheap – but as we all know, the downside of Ikea is that it’s so flimsy if you leave a window open by accident, one gust of wind and you’ve got a Billy Bookcase samba-ing around the living room – you at one end of the room, Billy Bookcase at the other, squaring up like two prize fighters in a boxing ring. So I started going upmarket and getting some bits from Habitat and on really, really special occasions from Heals, but then the ensuing days would be filled with shopper’s guilt and I would end up sending it back. ‘My chaise longue has Ribena on it – yes, it was like that when I bought it.’
Viewers actually got the opportunity to see my house for themselves on The Friday Night Project when we had Girls Aloud co-hosting. I threw a faux Christmas dinner at my house and the girls came round with Justin to celebrate Christmas with me. It was the best Christmas ever – the production company, Princess, decorated the house, erected the Christmas tree, bought all the food and did the washing-up. I know, just perfect. Filming started with all the girls arriving and we had to prepare the dinner. Me and the girls brought out the turkey and they filmed us putting it in the oven, then we did the usual television trick of getting the turkey out and replacing it with a pre-cooked one. Cheryl disapproved. ‘This is so deceiving for the viewers,’ she protested sullenly. I said, ‘Well, if you want to sit here, love, watching a turkey brown for eight hours then be my guest but I’m off down the pub.’ I didn’t say that obviously, but I thought it. Bless her, I do get her point though – television is deceiving and we were all new to the game. It can be genuinely heartbreaking to find out that there is considerably less ‘magic’ involved than you think. That turkey being cooked was as authentic as Cheryl’s ‘judge’s house’ in Papua New Guinea or wherever it was last X-Factor series.
I remember once getting a real insight when we went to film with Barbara Windsor in Albert Square for an Eastenders sketch. The obscene graffiti written on the back of the flats that make up the Queen Vic wouldn’t look out of place on the tiles of a public toilet in a working men’s club. It even made me blush and I am filth. Well, some parts of the Eastenders set are like an Escher painting; the landing of the Queen Vic is on the same level as the downstairs, so the upstairs is next door to the downstairs, and the launderette isn’t where you think the launderette is. Boy, as Danny Dyer would say, it really does your nut in. I couldn’t have been more bamboozled if they’d told me Dr Legg wasn’t an actual proper doctor – what?! But it was a real eye-opener for me and it’s testament to how good the actors are on these soaps that they can act and put themselves in these situations with such brain-frazzling surroundings and obscene graffiti.
Anyway, back to Christmas dinner with Girls Aloud at my humble abode. It was going swimmingly and we just knew it was going to make a great VT for the show. The day was filled with laughter. To me, and hopefully to them, it didn’t feel like work, but towards the end I wasn’t feeling too great. I could feel a tightness in my head and I was finding it hard keeping my turkey down. I know me and Justin had had maybe a few too many wines but he didn’t seem to be turning green and shivery and none of the girls did either. What could it have been? The Brussel sprouts? That sneaky mince pie I’d popped in my mouth when no one was looking? Or when me and Nadine pulled that cracker and the cheap toy plastic pair of lips that flew out had inadvertently gone down my throat? Then it suddenly came to me. When me and Sarah Harding had prepared the turkey she had told me to massage the flesh to make it more juicy – apparently it draws the flavours out. Inside I was thinking, who d’you think you are – Bernard Matthews? Now I had never heard of this – really, massaging a turkey? I’d heard of choking the chicken but that was something totally different. I gave in and allowed her to do what I thought was basically witchcraft and together we massaged the bird. As we were being filmed we started throwing in some orgasmic oohs and ahhs for the more discerning pervert. I’m sure if the turkey was alive he’d have been loving it. Once filming had stopped Sarah went to wash her hands and told me, ‘Turkeys can carry salmonella so wash your hands good and proper.’ I thought, here she goes again with more turkey talk bollocks, so out of spite I licked my fingers suggestively. That would show her – ha! Turkeys carry salmonella? Really? Whatever next! I tell you what next – the shits, vomiting and a headache so bad it felt like I was wearing a concrete
sweatband. Oh my God, Sarah, I will never ignore your turkey advice again – you were so right. As soon as the last of the Girls Aloud left the house I went straight to bed with a bucket, less ‘Something Kinda Ooooh’ more ‘Something Kinda Bluergh’.
The next day was a photo shoot that I couldn’t get out of and it wasn’t one of those nice photo shoots that other celebrities get – you know, subtle lighting, a rail of designer clothes to choose from, champagne on demand – no, I was re-enacting Britney Spears’s breakdown for Star magazine, where she shaved her hair off and attacked that car with an umbrella. It was a freezing-cold day and the sky was the same colour as my skin – grey. Even if there had been a beautiful sunny cloudless sky I wouldn’t have seen it as I was in an underground NCP car park in Blackfriars. The bald cap was pulled tightly over my already throbbing head, but I still don’t know what was squeezing hardest, the bald cap or my buttocks. As I recreated Britney’s attack, with every swing of the umbrella I was worrying about something getting dislodged. I had very little bum trust, you see, and let’s face it – diarrhoea is unpleasant enough in trousers let alone a miniskirt. It was a very long day but as always with these things I survived it and after a good night’s sleep recuperating I felt like myself again – or not Britney at least. So if any of you are planning to cook Christmas dinner this year, please – if you’ve learnt anything from this book – please do it with a member of Girls Aloud.
We often did hidden camera wind-ups on The Friday Night Project with varying results – one of my favourites, ironically, was the one that never ever got seen. It involved Pamela Anderson and when you read on you’ll realize why the punter involved didn’t want this particular wind-up aired. The punter, who was a plumber, had been told by a mate (in on the joke) that a lady needed her pipes lagged or something – could he go round and sort it out? No problem, he said, oblivious to the wind-up. Only when he arrived at the flat did he realize it was Pamela Anderson. Pamela was being outrageously flirty, with lots of biting on lips and playing with her platinum locks as he opened up his tool box. The comedy raison d’être of the sketch was to watch the plumber squirm and blush as this highly sexed screen goddess came on to him as only Pamela Anderson could. However, this didn’t go according to plan because not only did the plumber start enjoying it, he whipped his wedding ring off and made a move on her! It was a fantastic TV moment, just not for the punter. His face was a picture when Pamela announced that he’d been wound up for The Friday Night Project and pointed jubilantly at the huge array of hidden cameras around her flat – he went ballistic! He did not (understandably) see the funny side whatsoever. When Pamela went to reveal something he was assuming it was her tuppence, not a handful of producers and a camera crew in a wardrobe. He was very angry and refused there and then to sign the release form, obviously once he’d slipped his wedding ring back on. We offered him a bottle of champagne – no; flowers – no; money – no. The money kept going up but still he would not yield, he point-blank refused – and there you have it, the best hidden camera prank never shown on television.
I hadn’t realized it when I first moved in but there were a lot of celebrities in Crouch End and even though I worked in that business I still got a buzz from seeing a celebrity. Sometimes going in that Budgens in Crouch End was like flicking through OK magazine. There was always an All Saints in there and a smattering of Eastenders cast; sometimes I’d see Simon Pegg and I was told quite ominously by the local gossip that David Tennant lived ‘up the hill’, as they pointed ‘up the hill’ like it was the Bates Motel. I never went ‘up the hill’ to see David but I did work with him and I can vouch for the fact that he is one of the loveliest men you’ll ever meet. I remember I’d done a bit at the BBC Centre for Children In Need and I was on my way to get to the car when I passed David and Catherine Tate in the corridor – ‘Alan,’ he said, ‘we need some more people for this sketch – will you help us out?’ Of course, I said, twirling on my already tired feet, and followed them. I went with them backstage and had to go through this hole in the backdrop that would bring you out on to the stage. David and Catherine went through and got a cheer from the excited Children In Need audience, followed by a Cyberman and other people who were vaguely Doctor Who related, and then the penny dropped and I saw we were entering through a Tardis! It was a homage to Doctor Who – shit! I haven’t ever been in Doctor Who. I don’t even like Doctor Who! I realized this as I came through the Tardis door – I got a cheer and then a bemused ‘uhh?’ from the audience. I shouldn’t have been there and I knew it so I shuffled behind a large green thing – I don’t know who the character was, I just needed to be out of shot.
We all know fame can be a fickle mistress but it doesn’t necessarily stop you from making life-long friends. The curtains in my street were well and truly twitching when I filmed Gok’s Fashion Fix – the man himself, Gok Wan, and his camera crew descended on Holloway to give my wardrobe a good old seeing-to. I do like Gok, we have the kind of celebrity friendship that you need in this business – a genuine one. I was naive about celebrity – when someone off the telly tells you, ‘We must go to dinner, dahling, call me,’ I just assume that they want me to go for dinner with them and that I must call them. Oh no. In Celebrity-ville it means something different and sometimes the complete opposite. Lady Gaga said to me in one of the Chatty Man ad breaks, ‘Let’s hang out, I’d love that.’ My heart leapt, but you soon realize it’s a minefield. Did she mean it? Should I ask for her number? If I did, say, just turn up at her house would she recognize me or, worse, would I get tasered? ‘You said turn up!!’ I’d scream as my body jolted, my skin being scorched with electricity. And then you don’t want to appear rude, do you? The thought of her alone in a restaurant looking down at her phone every two minutes, eating breadsticks – ‘Alan Carr said he’d phone – hope nothing’s happened to him.’
Anyway, back to Gok. We first hit it off on The Friday Night Project where we all dressed up as him: he was Gok Wan, I was Gok Two and Justin was Gok Three – silly … a little bit racist, but still silly. After getting on fabulously (just so you know, this always happens when I mention or socialize with Gok, my language gets flowery and I start pontificating like a specky Anna Wintour – after a few G and Ts you can often hear me in bars talking nonsense like ‘hems are coming down, darling’ and ‘ankles are the new black’), I decided to do Fashion Fix a) because I liked Gok and b) because if there was anyone’s wardrobe that needed urgent attention it was mine. My clothing didn’t need rejuvenating, it needed resuscitating; it was less autumn to winter, more wardrobe to bin bag. The show’s premise was that Gok came round and sorted out all your fashion woes, which was a big step for me as I absolutely hate clothes! No, I’m not going to admit I’m a naturist so you can stop swallowing sick. Is it naturist or naturalist? I always get those two mixed up – which one is David Bellamy? I always get dressage and frottage mixed up too but that’s a different story for a different time.
If I’m honest, my lack of interest in clothes is probably down to the dislike I have of my body. I wear my self-confidence like some people wear a snood – it just hangs there over my head. It seeps out of my pores and clings to my clothes like a depressing sweat. At times it’s like the clothes don’t even want to be there – they either hang off me limply or cling to parts of me you really don’t want them to cling to. At the most inopportune moments my trousers slip over my non-existent arse and climb down the back of my thighs as if they want to do a runner. But I knew I was in safe hands with Gok. If there is ever a person you need to have around you to boost your confidence, it’s Gok. That thoughtfulness and kindness and overall positivity that you experience when you watch him on screen is the same feeling you get from him away from the cameras.
It’s so funny on a night out with him – he has this effect on women like I have never seen before. I bet even David Gandy doesn’t get the reaction Gok gets. He is like catnip to the ladies, Messiah-like. Women will leave whatever they are doing and approach
him with girdles, support tights, push-up bras, crying, ‘Heal me! Cure us!’ We were both working really hard in our televisual careers and one day, in one of those weird synchronicities, we both said to each other over a brew, ‘Do you fancy a cheeky weekend break away?’ Next thing you know we’re in Venice, gliding majestically down the Grand Canal in a gondola swigging rosé wine (not very majestically), and women were STILL asking for advice from the canal-side – ‘Gok, do these shoes go!?’ We whizzed past so fast we didn’t have time to ask ‘With what?’
I remember one time, we were having a meal in Soho and a woman came up to the table and whipped up her top, revealing breasts wedged unforgivingly into an undersized bra. ‘What do you think of this, Gok?’ she asked, putting me right off my melon balls, I must say. He probably sees more breasts per day than most heterosexual men have in their whole entire lives. I did mischievously suspect in the early days that he wasn’t gay in the slightest, and that he didn’t really care about women’s self-confidence at all, it was just one big ruse to get to see women’s tits.
Needless to say, on Fashion Fix he worked his magic on me, picking things out of my wardrobe that had hung there unworn for years (admittedly stopping to take the piss out of a pony-motifed blouson – well I liked it), and with a scarf here and a safety pin there transforming it into something that was bloody gorgeous and filled me with confidence – what a gift that man has!
In May that year I got a confidence boost of another kind. We got our first BAFTA nomination for The Friday Night Project. It was in the Best Entertainment Show category and it was a complete shock, but a wonderful shock nevertheless. As it happened, that year was a watershed for the show: all the hard work was starting to pay off, we were getting noticed and it seemed appreciated. When we were also nominated for a Royal Television Society Award for Best Entertainment Show and won it, it slowly dawned on us that maybe the BAFTA nomination wasn’t a fluke after all. Winning one was nice for a whole array of reasons. We had been nominated for a Royal Television Society Award the previous year and turned up only to be beaten by Simon Amstell for Never Mind the Buzzcocks. In his speech he sneered, ‘Who actually voted for The Friday Night Project?’ Deciding not to take the moral high ground, I shouted ‘Fuck off!’ and Justin threw a bread roll at him, which sadly missed Simon’s face and hit an elderly woman in a shrug. Yes, Simon was being predictably catty but to be fair to him he was only echoing what some admittedly snooty people thought about the show. I think it was unfair: yes, the show was silly, there was a lot of dressing up and it worshipped at the altar of celebrity, but it was warm and its heart was in the right place and what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with silly? What’s wrong with being throwaway? I remember Henrietta, the head of Princess, the production company that made The Friday Night Project, coming into the studio whilst we were filming, saying that she’d had a call from another production company that was doing a programme called TV Shows We Love to Hate and could we send over a clip! Cheeky bastards – I wouldn’t even send them a fart in an envelope. Quite rightly, she didn’t send them a clip but it was a pretty good example of the sniffy attitude towards us at the time.