Alanatomy

by Alan Carr

  Believe it or not that wasn’t the quickest exit I have made from a shoot. We were doing a pastiche of Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained, ours being called Tango Unchained, where we focused on the oppression of fake-tanned, orange people from Essex in 1880s Romford (unlike Django Unchained, our adaptation sadly got overlooked by the Academy). Never letting a good pun get in the way of dubious historical facts, we searched for a house that would conjure up that colonial feel of mid-1880s Texas – and anyone who knows the budget on a Specstacular will know there was no hope in hell that we could afford to visit ‘The Lone Star’ to get a more authentic feel, not unless it was on a Megabus route and sadly it isn’t. Much to everyone’s surprise the location manager excelled herself and found the ideal house on the outskirts of a sleepy village in Suffolk (obviously). It was just perfect. We filmed in the garden all day and were supposed to be out by 6.00 p.m. sharpish. We were running late because the weather had been against us so the director went to speak to the owner of the house and asked if we could we possibly extend the filming till 7.00 p.m. She agreed, but by 7.00 p.m. we still hadn’t finished. Cheekily we carried on till 8.00 p.m. She must have looked out of her window and seen we were still there because she came out of her porch. I thought, what’s that in her hand? Shit, it’s a gun! ‘Get off my fucking land!’ came the cry and she fired the gun into the sky – well, let’s just say we got the point. Every man, woman and child legged it to the van; using a runner as a human shield, I managed to clamber to safety behind a bush, where I waited for the gunshots to die down, and then raced from cover and threw myself into the back of the van. What I feel bad about is that (Equity, cover your ears) we left some of the supporting artists (extras to you and me) still shackled together in the field, and we had to watch them hobble over to us, desperate not to be shot.

  ‘Alan, why haven’t you broken America?’ asks no one – ever. Well, let me tell you why. Mainly down to the success of Russell Brand, Ricky Gervais and more recently James Corden, a new question has now materialized on the journalist’s notepad: ‘Would you ever go and find work in America?’ Of course, I would love to, and believe it or not I’ve had my moments. Whoopi Goldberg after coming on the chat show reached out to me for a potential show idea in America. My agent rang me up as I was about to go on stage in Ipswich at the Regent Theatre.

  ‘Whoopi Goldberg wants your email address – can I give it to her?’

  ‘Errr, yes!’

  To the people who came to see that Ipswich show in 2011 – apologies for being so giddy on stage that night; sitting in my dressing room with the rain pelting at the window, I had been touched by Hollywood – finally. I was a-buzz in the wings – what could it be? What could she want with little old me? Sister Act 3? Sister Act 4? I could look good in a habit – or maybe a monk … Anyway, my thoughts of tinsel town dissolved as I strode on the stage with purpose – ‘Hello, Ipswich!!!!!!’

  Once my giddiness had subsided, we swapped email contacts and before long we were chatting via email. After meeting me, she had come up with a possible TV idea. It sounded promising, with real potential, and she asked me to come over to see her in New York. Unfortunately I was in the middle of my Spexy Beast arena tour and a Chatty Man run, and finding two consecutive days off in the schedule for me to fly over let alone that would fit in with her jam-packed diary was nigh on impossible. Maybe we could have rearranged a Chatty Man recording day but you can’t start cancelling arena dates – you’re essentially pissing off 12,000 people who just happen to be your fans – I just wouldn’t do it. Reluctantly, I said I couldn’t see her until after December – and before long the communication fizzled out, which was gutting. She probably saw it as a snub but it wasn’t, I love her and I was so honoured that she came on Chatty Man, let alone got in touch afterwards.

  I’m not one for regrets, but sometimes if I’m on my way to some shithole to do my stand-up or preparing to speak to a guest on the show who isn’t particularly nice or inspiring, my mind does drift to ‘what might have been’. I dream of a different ‘me’, a me that is having a wheatgrass shot with my personal trainer whilst squatting in Central Park, my teeth whitened and straight, bald spot mysteriously AWOL … ahhh, ‘what if’, the two saddest words in the English language. When I go to America it’s usually for pleasure rather than business, which is significantly less stressful and ultimately more fun. I’m lucky to have made some wonderful friends in the good old US of A and we don’t see them as much as we’d like to but when we do it’s a hoot.

  We have two wonderfully talented friends, Claire and her husband Justin who, when not touring the world and playing guitar for Pink, live in LA. One summer they announced they were getting married at the family ranch in Virginia. This beautiful ranch was just perfect for a wedding, the weather knew it had to be on its best behaviour and glorious sunshine bathed the happy couple. There wasn’t a dry eye in the ranch as they got wed down on a jetty overlooking a beautiful lake that seemed to just twinkle – it was gorgeous. At least it was until someone introduced ‘moonshine’ into the proceedings. In the Bruno Mars song ‘Moonshine’, he equates drinking moonshine to kissing a woman and once intoxicated it takes him to a special place. Well, I don’t know what was in his moonshine, but the only special place I was going to was A&E. Boy, it was strong. Claire’s gran’s teeth fell out and we started looking for them in the grass. I found them and picked them up, then Pink took them from me, washed them in her rosé and gave them back to Claire’s gran, who shoved them back in her mouth and continued to dance – it was one of those nights. I was already a big fan of Pink but after seeing her do that I loved her even more.

  As is the wonderful nature of this job, you get to meet a lot of people and some of those people work or gravitate to the States so whenever I do go over to America, I always end up staying in Los Angeles and catching up with friends, staying at their beautiful Hollywood homes and going green with envy. One of the perks of going to America is that no one knows me and I can have a certain amount of anonymity over there, plus there’s always someone more famous in the vicinity and who’s going to give a shit about me when you’ve got Cher in the next aisle buying cotton buds.

  Recently, though, my American dream of anonymity has been threatened – unbeknownst to me an employee at Virgin may have passed on my personal details to the paparazzi in Los Angeles. They seemed to know the flight I was on and when I would be arriving but not, sadly, what I looked like. When you get off the plane and you are mildly famous you expect a bit of pushing and shoving, a scrum if you like of paps jostling to get that all-important photo. When I got off the plane, instead of ‘Alan! Alan!’ it was ‘Alan? Alan?’ One paparazzo – ONE?!! He kept holding up an A4 piece of paper with my face on it, looking at it then looking up again to check – ‘Alan? Alan?’ It was so embarrassing and of course I didn’t have a limo waiting, I had to stand in the queue for a taxi. The pap looked pissed off and to be fair I wasn’t really showering him with stardust. He walked off in a huff. I don’t know whether the employee got paid but I don’t think they’ll be getting any more money for my details.

  Don’t worry, though, my ego got a well-deserved massage later in the day. LA is very industrial city and whereas European cities have a heart, a hub that defines that city, be it a palazzo, a park or a palace, Los Angeles just lies there sprawled out like some kind of grey jellyfish. To be honest, it’s not my favourite place, especially for someone who loves a bit of history and having a wander. Americans, who drive everywhere, look at you in horror as you actually walk around; they assume you are homeless – why would you walk, you crazy dumb ass, they’re probably thinking as I mince along, spluttering. When you think about it, they are probably right. I decided to walk along Mulholland Drive, only because I knew a film was made about it so it must have some historical merit, but it’s basically a motorway. I was walking along a motorway, breathing in petrol fumes, slowly getting a shadow on my lung just because it felt vaguely famous. Can you imagine if you h
ad someone to stay at your house and they said, ‘I’m going for a walk up the M6, okay?’

  ‘Oh, enjoy – you’re just going to love the Wild Bean Cafe at Warwick Services.’

  Madness!

  So I was walking along Mulholland Drive, and I don’t know, maybe it was the constant coughing or the way my eyes were burning with the fumes, but I fancied a nice cold, refreshing beer. The only place I could find was this cowboy-themed bar. It actually looked quite fun: waxwork Apache Indians manned the saloon, and there were lots and lots of plastic cacti and waitresses in gingham bras, daisy dukes and cowboy boots greeting every customer with a mighty fine ‘Howdy, partner.’ Okay, it was fucking tacky – but I needed a beer, back off with your judgements. I grabbed a seat outside and a beer and watched the cars go by. Five or ten minutes must have passed when I heard a Scouse voice: ‘Is that who I think it is?’ My ears pricked up – no, it couldn’t be, I must be hallucinating with all the fumes, or maybe it was the rusty saloon door creaking on its hinges (sorry, Scousers). ‘It is, it is,’ came the Scouse voice again. I looked up. It was a whole busload of Brits on a Hollywood Homes tour.

  ‘It’s Alan Carr, look! Alan! Alan!’

  By now the whole group was not only waving but taking my photo. Even people who weren’t British who didn’t know who the hell I was started taking my photo just in case. There’s a certain kudos in having your photo taken in Beverley Hills if you are in your garden or on a balcony in your mansion, but not sitting by the side of a motorway next to a slowly deflating cactus – it’s embarrassing. But on the plus side, it was nice to be recognized and seeing the bus gave me a lift. Not literally, I carried on walking, but it was nice to get such a warm welcome so far away from home, a ray of sunshine pulsing through the smog.

  Whether I’ll ever make it in the US, I don’t know. If it happens, it happens, and if it doesn’t, it doesn’t – I guess I’m not really that driven. Mind you, I have flirted with film, albeit briefly. I’ve graced the silver screen twice in my illustrious career; admittedly one of those times was as an animated seagull but nevertheless it was the silver screen. I’ll save you the time of going on Wikipedia, it was The SpongeBob Movie: Sponge Out of Water, released in 2014 and grossing a mammoth $323.14 million at the box office – some people have called it the ‘Alan Carr effect’ but the film’s not about me and I digress.

  The first of my two films was Nativity!, written and directed by the lovely Debbie Isitt; it’s a really warm, charming Christmas film about two competitive schools putting on rival nativity plays and because it’s so unashamedly Christmassy it’s shown every year on the telly, yes, you guessed it, at Christmas. Just like the only two certainties in this life are death and taxes, for Christmas viewing it will for ever be Nativity! and Carry On Camping. It warms my heart every Christmas because I always get people coming up to me, maybe people who wouldn’t normally watch Chatty Man or my stand-up, saying how much they like it – it’s sweet and gives my Christmas an extra shot of good cheer.

  Like anyone who spent their Saturday afternoons going to the local cinema, I still get dazzled by the movies and the thought of actually being in one and being up there on the screen is so intoxicating that I tend to say ‘I’ll do it!’ before I’ve even read the script (which probably explains that low-budget animal porn flick I did in the late eighties that thankfully went straight to video). I got asked to meet up with Debbie to talk about Nativity! at the BAFTA headquarters in Piccadilly over a cup of tea where, after a smattering of polite chit-chat, they offered me the role of a bitchy gay theatre critic, Patrick Burns – I know, reader, a bit of a stretch (how long would I have to be in prosthetics, I wondered). I pretended to think about it – some of my best acting – and then after a minute I squealed, ‘Yes, I’ll do it!’

  You soon learn that the actual nuts and bolts of making a movie are so boring. Everything takes for ever. Yes, they call it the ‘art’ of film making and they genuinely treat it as an art. They say that a minute of every movie takes a day to film and they ain’t joking. I was blissfully unaware that filming would inch forward at a snail’s pace. Everything is meticulously analysed and examined and filmed over and over till it’s perfect. I had come from the spontaneous world of stand-up and the erratic fly-by-the-skin-of-your-teeth nature of light entertainment where there is literally no time for such blatant fannying about. I remember chuckling to myself as I spent hours with the wardrobe mistress, pondering over whether a theatre critic would wear a camel-coloured jacket or a more textured taupe hue – just the week before on telly I had been wrapped in a bin liner which was then staple-gunned to my body as a makeshift blouse and for the bottom half they’d cut two holes in a bag for life for my legs to fit through which was then labelled a ‘miniskirt’. My outfit, worn in front of millions of people, was worth £1.10 and here I was in this huge costume department fingering through literally hundreds of racks of jackets; it was like being in a very sombre TK Maxx. It was real luxury to actually have clothes that fitted me, not itching, not bunched up, the utter joy of having the security to move without hearing the ‘ping’ of a safety pin popping out – Shit! My trousers are slipping off – now – on telly – oh my God, I can feel the breeze on my thighs, I’m in my pants. Fantastic. Camera! Action!

  I will always be thankful for the whole Nativity! experience, not just for giving me the opportunity to appear in their film but also for giving me the chance to see what I would look like with a tache. I’ve never been able to actually grow a moustache due to my dangerously low levels of testosterone – seriously, if I do Movember I have to start in April – so for me to finally see what I would look like if I had one was alarming and quite frankly scary – I looked like a sex offender.

  As we filmed mainly on location in Coventry it meant I could stay over with my parents in Northampton, which was nice as it had been a while since I’d really spent any quality time with them due to my busy schedule. I spent the majority of the first night in their spare room tossing and turning. Anxious about what my first day ‘on set’ would entail, it didn’t help that the cast were all stalwarts of the British acting profession: Martin Freeman, Ashley Jenson, Pam Ferris, Jason Watkins and Ricky Tomlinson have probably acted in some of THE most popular programmes on television.

  Filming on location is fraught with problems: not only do you have the weather, which could turn at any moment, but a plane flying overhead, a car honking its horn or an overzealous member of the public who wants to upset the proceedings. During the heartbreaking moment whilst filming Who Do You Think You Are? when I was told my great-grandad had deserted his wife and six kids to escape conscription, a white van driver had pulled down his pants and pulled his arse cheeks apart at a T-junction in the background.

  There are two things that will draw the general public out of their houses and they are skips and film cameras. Lie in the street screaming, ‘Help, I’ve been mugged – get help!’ and not a sausage, but stick a skip outside your house and I promise you within five minutes you’ll have people milling around and staring in it, or if they are particularly brave, popping their hands under the tarpaulin like it’s some kind of industrial lucky dip. When renovating my house up in Holloway I popped a skip outside for all the rubble, plasterboard and junk that I had accumulated over the years and I had a better turn-out from my neighbours than when I’d held a coffee morning. I could see them, bold as brass, having a rummage, holding up chipped jugs and three-legged tables, making a comment and then popping them back. The same is true for film cameras. People see a film camera and will leave whatever they are doing and just stand there staring, zombie-like. Some people will have so little faith in the director that they will actually start filming the proceedings themselves on their iPhones just in case the director’s footage isn’t up to scratch. Some of my scenes had to be redone because after looking at the footage there were so many people staring from round corners and in between fence posts that it looked less like a film and more like an extended episode of
Dickinson’s Real Deal.

  It was when we filmed indoors that I really became aware of the painstaking lengths it took to film anything (I’d thought you just took the cap off the camera and pointed it). I hadn’t thought to bring a book, a laptop or anything. I would have looked out the window if there had been one. Also, I had assumed that we would have Winnebagos. I distinctly remember seeing a behind-the-scenes feature on E! News and I swear John Travolta had an indoor cinema and a hot tub. Well, I spent hours and hours sitting in a cabin – well, okay, a Portaloo with a desk – twiddling my thumbs. There was no script to learn as it was all improvised. I would have to come up with my own lines, which believe it or not is actually harder, for me anyway, than learning an actual script. I felt my stomach twist like a stopcock. I tried sleeping to pass the time but my Portakabin was next to the animal enclosure; for the finale, filmed within the bombed ruins of Coventry Cathedral, the nativity would include a whole menagerie of animals, donkeys, sheep and a camel, and they were in a pen next to my dressing room – testament to how far down I was in the acting pecking order. The animals were closer to make-up and the canteen than I was.

  I was surprised at how long the hours were – for the final scene, we didn’t finish filming till 2.00 in the morning. Listen, I’d never go up to a nurse or a miner and go ‘Phew, I’m pooped – I’ve been overacting for hours on end here,’ but I saw a different side to acting. Admittedly, the scene had overrun and I heard a poor researcher outside my dressing room having to do the unenviable task of ringing up all the parents, asking if their child could stay till the early hours of the morning to do some essential filming. I heard the researcher ask a parent ‘if Jemima could partake in one last nocturnal scene’ and at that moment a donkey started hee-hawing – the parent must have thought, ‘What the hell are they doing to my daughter?!’ I had a flashback to that film in the late eighties.