by Alan Carr
I so enjoy touring and travelling around the country doing my stand-up comedy but it’s times like these that frustrate you when you are away, out of the loop and out on a limb – I should really have been there protecting my home and my partner and my bitches (the dogs not some ladies). Only in a moral support kind of way, I hasten to add; I am in no way insinuating that I would have gone outside as a vigilante Batman kind of person and fought them all with nunchakus, I know my limits – my get up and go got up and went a long time ago. I just felt a bit useless and I suppose helpless.
Well, I stayed on the phone as long as I could and just hoped that the gang would move on to terrorize another street. Paul had phoned the police and they hadn’t picked up – obviously overstretched – so he went upstairs. It was only when he was in the relative safety of the living room that he heard the kitchen window downstairs slide open. He relayed this back to me over a cuppa when I got home and even hearing it second-hand made me shiver and the hairs on the back of my neck shoot up. He had clamped his hand over the dogs’ mouths to stop them barking (totally going against the whole point of having dogs – but I would have done the same!). He could hear them rummaging through the downstairs, opening drawers and tipping things over, but thankfully they never came up the stairs and after what felt like for ever they finally slipped out the window and away. Paul said they had slowly pulled the window down as they left as if to give the impression we had not been burgled – bless.
After very little sleep, the dawn came and, like a lot of people living in London, Paul woke up to find scenes of chaos and destruction on the street. As it happened, we had only had a laptop and a camera stolen; sadly, some had lost their livelihoods and/or homes, so we counted our blessings. Communities all over London came together to sweep up and try to restore their streets and I suppose in a way their sense of community. It was only when I got back and wanted to go for a drive that I realized something else was missing: I couldn’t find my car key. Then it dawned on me – ‘Someone has stolen my car key!’ – followed by the inevitable – ‘Someone has stolen my car!’ Cheeky bastards – in all the drama and the sweeping up we hadn’t noticed it was missing.
The police found it a week later on an industrial estate – it had been used in a ram raid on a Carphone Warehouse! Why they would use a Mini Clubman to ram-raid I will never know – maybe it was the shape of it, they are quite elongated, I suppose. I remember waiting at a pedestrian crossing once on a sunny day with the window down and I overheard someone say, ‘Look, a dwarf’s hearse.’ Rude, mean and politically incorrect. I drove on.
I didn’t want the car after that – memories of me pootling along with the dogs in the back had been sullied and I wanted rid. Thankfully there had been nothing personal in the car apart from a spare pair of glasses in the glovebox and for a split second I had the fear that they might have popped them on and driven through the shop window pretending to be me, screeching ‘Look, it’s me, Chatty Man,’ and that once the old bill had scoured the CCTV they would knock on my door and arrest me – I had seen Making a Murderer and wanted no part of it. I just hoped and prayed that the burglar hadn’t been camp.
Once the car had been interviewed and put in a police line-up – this didn’t really happen – we cleaned it and tried to sell it, uploading it on various websites. Eventually someone bought it, but not before I saw on said website written in bold underneath the photo of my mini ‘PREVIOUS OWNER ALAN CARR!!!’ Really, does everyone have to take the piss?!
Once the rioting drama had subsided we could get on with our lives and find a new house – but first I had to get the slight inconvenience of a thirty-two-date arena tour out of the way, which was looming ominously in the autumn. The tour was going to take me around the country, performing in some of the biggest auditoriums on offer. As soon as I started the shows I quickly realized that arenas weren’t for me – tellingly, it was the first time I had ignored my gut feeling and said yes to doing an arena tour. Every comedian worth his salt was doing them and so the logic went that I should do one too but that’s not really how you should make those kind of decisions. You and your stand-up tour are like a marriage – you are going to spend a hell of a lot of time together so you better make sure you get along. We did and I was incredibly proud of the Spexy Beast tour but I soon found to my dismay that these cavernous venues were not really cut out for my whimsical and sometimes quite frankly silly witterings. It felt hamstrung; any personal or private comment seemed inappropriate in such a large venue and it felt like my jokes were getting lost.
Personally, I do prefer the older theatres. Call me a stage-door Jeremy but when you’re performing in these older buildings that have been there for centuries, you get a sense of inheritance, of being a part of something that has gone before, that you are a kind of conduit. Up there treading the same boards as Laurel and Hardy, Harry Houdini, Abbott and Costello makes the performance feel a little bit magical for me. Whilst I was waiting to go on stage at St George’s Hall in Bradford, the door lady spotted my Charles Dickens biography poking out of my bag and told me to come with her. I went to her office and with a yank she pulled down a battered dusty tome from a shelf. She opened it up and showed me that on 28 December 1854 Charles Dickens had performed for the first time a reading of A Christmas Carol on that very stage. How wonderful is that?
Arenas are fine and all that, but you just don’t get the same sense of history following ‘Tweenies On Ice’. And it soon dawned on me that any audience interaction would be impossible due to the actual size of the room – what Bob does for a living in Row A, Block 1 is going to mean jack shit to Rita out of earshot in Row Z Block 999. Sometimes the weekend shows would go cray-cray, and I would have to leave my act behind and do a bit of crowd control; an arena full of drunk people can easily slip from audience to mob and you’ve got to remember it’s just me with a microphone – if people start kicking off at a Beyoncé gig she can whip out ‘All the Single Ladies’ to snatch their attention back.
Having said that, when it worked, it really worked, and the dates at Cardiff, Manchester, Dublin and the final shows at the O2 in Greenwich were real corkers. I was buzzing, I got a glimpse of what being a rock star felt like and I loved it. Standing there getting the applause from 12,000 people (at some of the gigs I even got a standing ovation too), I had these extreme feelings of elation, my shuffle turned into a swagger and I felt ‘king of the world’; I was so high on confidence and bravado that if someone had said to me ‘Let’s invade North Korea,’ I would have said ‘Let’s go for it!’ The downside is you can’t get to sleep till three in the morning; my blood would turn to Sunny D and be literally fizzing in my veins. It was only the fear of having to do the show again the next night that finally calmed me and brought me back down to earth with a bump.
It was not only on stage in these huge arenas that I was feeling giddy; my personal life had me in a spin too. I had become an uncle. My brother, Gary, and his wife, Carly, had had a son, Max, in early September so finally my parents had been delivered of a grandchild (apparently my two red setters Bev and Joyce stood for nothing) and there was much excitement in the Carr household. This was swiftly followed by a little sister for Max – Isla. Two grandkids – I thought my parents were going to spontaneously combust with love, which was great news for Gary and his wife, but not so much for my dogs. The relationship between my dogs and my parents has deteriorated so much since then that they have been reduced to ‘Bev and Joyce who?’ I have stepped up to the challenge of unclehood and you wouldn’t recognize me now, honestly, I’ve turned into Nanny McPhee – and don’t say I’ve already got the teeth. I keep my swearing to a bare minimum, and keep my anecdotes ‘U’-rated rather than ‘18’, more Hungry Caterpiller than Human Centipede.
My brother tells me that people come up to him asking him if he’s jealous of my success. Of course, what they are actually revealing is about themselves, that they would feel pangs of jealousy, but Gary isn’t jealous and I can say that hand on h
eart. We are an incredibly supportive family and my dad is the first to shout ‘Twat!’ if there is a nasty review or comment in the papers. If anything, I’m jealous of Gary’s family life, the kids, the wife, the stability; their two gorgeous children have completed their family and it’s so nice to see. I know these days gays and lesbians can become parents so the option is there, but it’s not for me. I wish it was, but it’s not. Being gay is like being in the world’s biggest girl group – in front of the curtains we are all-singing, all-dancing, backslapping and all smiles, but behind the curtains, it’s cat fighting, bitching and backstabbing. It’s a pity because it doesn’t really have to be like that. Whilst I watch with envy other minorities closing ranks and pulling together when under fire, the gay community can’t or won’t do that. Ironically, the most homophobia I get is from the gay community, and I understand why – it’s the campness, the effeminacy, that winds people up. You’re made to feel that you’ve let the side down. Half the time people think I put it on, but I ask you – do you think I want to talk like this? Do you think I want to squawk? Admittedly, it has given me my biggest Hollywood role to date (don’t get too excited, I’m playing a seagull, but more on that later) but do you think I want to be so obvious? Hands on hip is my default pose, my arms flap like I’m swatting non-existent gnats and I mince down the street like my pelvis is made of cheesy string – believe me, I’m not fucking happy about it either!! Sometimes I get annoyed with myself and have a word, and then before you know it I look down and there it is, my hand on my hip, looking like an angry teapot – irritating or what? Campness has always been the grit in the eye of the gay community, to be straight-acting is the key, the ideal factory setting. If you don’t act gay then you’ve hit the jackpot. It hasn’t dawned on anyone that being told NOT to act gay is THE most homophobic thing ever, and if it came from the mouth of a right-wing leader or a preacher then everyone would be up in arms.
When soldiers and rugby players come out they are branded ‘brave’ and all the gays rejoice, and yes, I agree they are, but so are the effeminate gay kids, the butch lesbian kids and transgender kids who go to school every day and face bullying, beatings and abuse the minute they step into the playground – I know it’s not a rugby pitch or a battlefield but it might as well be for them. Let’s cheer on their bravery, not just your muscle-bound squaddies or your sporty jocks because let’s remember that the gay community’s motto has always been ‘I am what I am’ and not ‘You aren’t who we want you to be.’
Since becoming an uncle I’ve realized that bringing up children, although rewarding, can be incredibly tough too. A lot of my friends, especially the ones who are new to the parenting lark, do look like shit. I will meet up with them for a coffee in the high street and I can see the blatant ecstasy in their eyes at the fact they are actually spending time with someone not under the age of three. I’ll say to them ‘You do know you’ve got sick on your shoulder?’ ‘Is that Cow and Gate on your shoe?’ or ‘You know that balaclava is on back to front?’ but as long as I’m not Peppa Pig and they’re not in the Night Garden they don’t care – is it too early for a wine?
I always seem to put my foot in it with parents. When they tell me that little Joey said his first word today or Emma took her first steps, I always start going, ‘Well, my Bev ate a whole bag of Wotsits that I hadn’t put in the cupboard properly’ and then I see their face change and I’m like, shit! Alan, having dogs is not the same as having children.
With children, just like with certain strains of TB, as you get older your body gets less resistant to them. Before you know it, you’re smiling at them in post offices, simpering over their outfits in supermarket queues and offering them an Opal Fruit in a service station (I know they’re called Starburst but I refuse to comply. Cif will always be Jif in my house and while we’re at it I still call Iceland Bejam, but that’s me for you). However, my new-found love for children was pushed to breaking point earlier this year when I filmed a celebrity version of Child Genius for Stand Up To Cancer. I have been involved with Stand Up To Cancer from the outset, since the launch of it with Gwyneth Paltrow back in 2012, and whenever I can do anything to help publicize it or raise money for it, I’m there.
A few years back I did Deal Or No Deal for Stand Up To Cancer where I basically spent the whole show crying. I always enjoy going on other people’s shows: firstly, it’s nice to see how the other half live, and secondly, the pressure is off, they are the host, they have to read the script, and all you have to do is rock up and be a contestant. Alan Carr National Treasure becomes ‘Alan Carr is pushing forty, likes reading and Zumba and is a TV personality from Northampton.’
Come to think of it, I used to love it when Channel 4 did those TV mash-ups, where Channel 4 ‘talent’ would get the opportunity to host another show on Channel 4 for a day. People on Countryfile would call it cross-pollination. Initially, I wanted to host Embarrassing Bodies but apparently that show was off limits as it was a serious medical programme focused on finding solutions to people’s discreet medical problems. Channel 4 were basically saying I didn’t have enough gravitas – well, that is charming! However, I did get to wrestle Million Pound Drop out of Davina’s hands and to be host for a celebrity special, where whatever money the celebrities won went to their chosen charity. The celebrities were the Loose Women versus Pointless’s Alexander Armstrong and Richard Bacon. You would think for a charity special that the atmosphere would be all puppies and butterflies, but not in the least – contempt was so thick in the air, I felt like popping waders on just to walk through the green room. The day hadn’t started off well, when the producer had whispered in my ear that the actual Million Pound Drop set was so flimsy that we could only allow one Loose Woman on at a time, maximum two – basically I had to treat the Loose Women like naughty schoolgirls in an inner-city newsagent. Well, there’s never a good way to say to a lady ‘Sorry, love, you’re so fat that if you step on our set it will implode and you could kill us all.’ For the record I think it was only the design of the set that prevented multiple Loose Women – it wasn’t anything personal I’m sure, and besides, I’m hardly pencil thin and I wasn’t warned. The atmosphere got worse when one of the Loose Women got a question wrong – it was quite an easy question but anyone who has taken part in a pub quiz knows that a question is only easy if you know it. Not only did they get a question wrong but Alexander Armstrong exchanged ‘a look’ with Richard Bacon, basically implying that they were thick; one of the two Loose Women separated in the green room spotted the look on camera and kicked off whilst the other one got emotional and started crying. Ooh, you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife, and me, of course, spotting a contretemps brewing, went into emergency St John Ambulance mode, grabbed my first-aid kit and waded in – separating the rival teams, handing out hankies and barley sugars, calming the guests down.
My next mash-up was thankfully less dramatic and went a tad more smoothly. It was with TV presenter, estate agent and professional skip rummager Kirstie Allsopp and I replaced Phil Spencer to co-host Location, Location, Location. I love that show, I even watch those repeats on More4 where all the pricings are wrong. A central Manchester terraced house for two and six? I’ll pop that in my basket, thank you very much. We had the unenviable task of finding a young professional woman a pied-à-terre in central London for £250,000 – well, I spent the first five minutes wiping my cappuccino off her face where I’d spat it out after she’d told me her budget. £250,000? In central London? And she wanted a second bedroom – I thought, love, with that budget you’ll be lucky to get a window. I know that people who don’t live in London will be thinking ‘A quarter of a million and you can’t get a flat in London? Really?’ Yes, really. We had our work cut out traipsing all over London looking for something I thought didn’t even exist but Kirstie did her magic, rang round a few estate agents and, what do you know, we found that girl a two-bedroom flat in Maida Vale. Admittedly, the second bedroom was so small you would have to put air holes
into the wall so you didn’t suffocate to death, and basically the lounge served as the hall, kitchen, reception room and wet room too, and was so small that if you opened the microwave door everyone would have to duck.
Anyway, I digress. As I was saying, this year for Stand Up To Cancer I got the chance to do a celebrity version of Child Genius. For those who don’t know, Child Genius is a Channel 4 TV show hosted by Richard Osman where the nation’s most super-smart children go head to head through a series of quiz rounds to see who is the cleverest of them all and who will ultimately be crowned ‘Child Genius’. I turned up to the Royal Institution, a very grand and solemn pillared building in Mayfair that apparently is the ‘home of science’ and went in, the butterflies in my stomach beginning to awaken. We were taken into this musty book-lined room to meet the children that we would be quizzed against. Like I said, now I was an uncle and had acquired copious amounts of godchildren, I’d got better at being around them. I’m not so awkward any more, I don’t patronize and I talk to them like I would like to be talked to.
Not so long ago I would have been clueless. I cringe sometimes when I remember having Miley Cyrus on Chatty Man for the first time. With her being so young I thought we might get some sweets, or ‘candy’ as Americans like to call it, in the globe for her to nibble on or maybe some fizzy pop to ease her gently into the show – obviously I didn’t realize there was the brain of a forty-year-old businesswoman inside a sixteen-year-old girl’s body. She was so confident, so driven, so focused – lovely and all that, but watching her sitting on the couch, full of self-belief, I couldn’t help thinking we could be staring at a future female president of the United States of America.
When Miley returned to Chatty Man two years later she was older, obviously, but this time more relaxed, and I felt that this was the real her – she seemed more comfortable in her skin, even if the new her was openly courting controversy. Her stage performances had become more and more outrageous and this had come to a head at the MTV Awards when she had rubbed up against Robin Thicke sexually and touched herself with a sponge finger (like the ones you used to see in the audience on Gladiators in the 1990s, not the Mr Kipling cakes). Her notoriety was set to continue on Chatty Man when she announced she would perform her new single ‘We Can’t Stop’ with a dwarf band. The record company and Channel 4 were concerned about this: was it exploitation, was it politically incorrect – who was to know? While everyone was waiting around to see if it would go ahead, the dwarf guitarist asked where the canteen was. I said, ‘Come with me,’ and the entire dwarf band followed me along the corridor – if a couple of bluebirds had flown along with some cups and plopped some sugars in the tea it would have been just like Snow White. Well, panic over, the performance went ahead and the wait was worth it – it was an amazing performance from Miley and the band. One of the dwarves stole the show with her twerking. Miley told me that she was a huge supporter of the ‘dwarf community’ back in LA and hoped to integrate them more into pop music in a dignified way, which I thought was really noble of her – although as a lot of the instruments they were playing weren’t ‘plugged in’ and were from Fisher-Price I thought there was still a long way to go.