Alanatomy

by Alan Carr

  We finally got a bed, in between a drunk handcuffed to a gurney who was threatening violence and an elderly man with a bloody bandage wrapped tightly round his head. The nurse was asking him questions like ‘What day is it?’ ‘Do you know where you are?’ It was frustrating for me because I knew all the answers and wanted to shout them out – I do love a quiz – but I felt it would have been unhelpful to the nurse and the poor gentleman. The nurse recognized me but could see I was upset so left me alone, which I was thankful for; a few years back I was staying with a friend who had to be suddenly rushed into hospital (who am I, the angel of death?!) with meningitis, and the nurse there recognized me and took me around the ward to meet people like Diana used to do. I didn’t know what to say to the patients – some of them really didn’t want to see me, not because they were in a lot of pain but because they just really didn’t want to see me – so I shook some hands and did some head-tilting. What could I possibly do for them?

  ‘My back’s broken.’

  ‘Here, have an anecdote.’

  I was about as much use there as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking competition.

  They did a number of tests on Paul and asked him lots of questions: ‘When did the symptoms start? Point on your body where it hurts. Do you have a headache?’

  ‘He hasn’t,’ I said, ‘but I do!’ – eyeballing a janitor who had at that moment decided to wash around our curtained-off area with a mop and a bucket of neat bleach.

  Paul was looked after handsomely and the staff were an absolute godsend. When I went on stage that night I threw myself into it more than ever, enjoying the release and just thanking my lucky stars for my health – slightly undermined by my phantom waterworks but nevertheless my distracted mind and lethargy soon vanished when I stood on that stage and it was just what I needed.

  Once the panic was over we went back to London, relieved that the clot hadn’t reached his lungs and thankful that no permanent damage had been done – we were out of the woods at least for now. Unbeknownst to me, however, a series of events had been put in place right in front of my very eyes and I was too blind to see it.

  There is a common thread running through this book and no, it’s not loitering around Accident and Emergency wards – it’s alcohol. As you’ve probably already realized, the demon drink has played a part in most of my life adventures; it has enhanced some really boring evenings and totally ruined some perfectly wonderful ones and to say I enjoy a drink is hardly noteworthy, but it was in 2015 – that year – that I got a genuine taste of the real effects of alcohol, a lesson that even the worst hangover could never have taught me.

  Paul and I had always drunk and we could easily match each other drink for drink, but after his cross-dressing-induced back injury, his DVT and embolism he had been drinking that little bit more. I didn’t pay much attention to it, I just thought, well, if I’d been through what you’ve been through – you go for it. Being away on tour, I couldn’t keep an eye on him. He sounded a bit slurred some nights and there were other nights when I couldn’t reach him, which I didn’t think much of. When I did come back to the house I saw how many bottles had been consumed. I wasn’t particularly worried about the wine, it was the empty bottles of spirits, gin and vodka, which I found alarming. I started to worry – it was getting to the point where I would have to decant some of the empties from the recycling bins to leave a manageable (read ‘socially acceptable’) amount and take the surplus to the recycling centre to avoid malicious gossip from the neighbours and severe back pain for the dustman who would have to lift the bloody thing. I soon found out he had been drinking in the mornings. I took a sip of his ‘water’ from his side table and my body instantly repulsed as the recognizably harsh taste of vodka kissed my lips.

  All of a sudden he started asking me to drive, which was strange in itself because he can’t stand my driving, and he’s right, I’m not the best driver. I’m all right with certain manoeuvres, that’s fine, it’s just that my brain connects anger with speed. Does anyone else get that? Basically, when I’m angry or have angry thoughts I lose myself and the anger shoots down my leg, causing my foot to press harder on the accelerator. It’s the weirdest thing. I remember when Isis were beginning their destruction in Syria I was so fuming that I jumped a red light and nearly ploughed into a Debenhams window display. It’s my nerves, I am always thinking the worst. You know those signs that you get in the countryside, ‘Concealed Entrance’, they fill me with fear – I start looking everywhere, sometimes even the sky, terrified that a vehicle will appear from out of the blue. Why do people have to conceal their entrances – what’s wrong with a bit of bunting and neon? Oh and roundabouts, I will never understand them. I never know who you give way to and when – what if they are already at the junction? What if you arrive at the roundabout at the same time – who let’s who out? It’s etiquette hell. To avoid any embarrassment or unnecessary tooting I just wave my hand and whisk everyone across the roundabout, whether it’s right or wrong: ‘You first, kind sir, please, after you; no, madam, after you.’ I’m like some Walter Raleigh of the Roundabouts, with elderly people mouthing through the windscreen, ‘What a lovely young man.’ Little do they know, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Don’t you feel safe that there are people like me on the road, dear readers?

  Anyhow, as you can imagine, I instantly saw through the ‘Why don’t you drive, honey?’ bullshit. I could smell a rat and I could smell whisky, which was worrying as I could also hear the opening bars to Lorraine wafting out from the lounge. He was pissed – again.

  We set off on holiday to Barbados with me hoping that a few chilled evenings with friends accompanied by a couple of socially acceptable pina coladas as the sun set could induce in me a feeling of peace and serenity, both mentally and spiritually. However, this wasn’t to be as I could see that Paul’s drinking had got out of control. It culminated in him drunkenly pulling a monkey’s tail and trying to steal its banana in an animal sanctuary. The monkey went crazy as you can imagine, and we left Paul to his own devices. I really wish we hadn’t because five minutes later we saw him picking up a turtle out of its pen and kissing it. The turtle, thinking ‘What the fuck?’ then shat itself all over Paul’s top. Well, there were angry looks at lunch that day – mainly due to his behaviour and also the pong that was rising from his shirt.

  While we were in Barbados we were invited to have dinner with Sir Cliff Richard, but I couldn’t bring Paul, not in his current state. The last thing anyone needed was Paul breaking into a rendition of ‘Millennium Prayer’ in a fish restaurant. I said to Sir Cliff he was ill – which, if truth be told, he was.

  I don’t understand alcoholism even though there have been times when I’ve thought I actually was an alcoholic. I know now that I’m not and, seeing it first-hand, I realize I was nowhere near to becoming one. You start to understand that alcoholism isn’t really about drinking, it’s about control, habit, self-worth, depression, escape, a whole myriad of trigger points that can be set off at any moment. Alcoholism is like jet lag – you never really have much sympathy for it if you haven’t got it yourself. I was hugely inconsiderate with Paul at the beginning. I thought he was being self-indulgent – ‘You CAN stop, you’ve just got NO will power.’ I foolishly used to be the same with eating disorders – ‘Oh, shut up and have a cake.’ And depression – ‘Cheer up, go and see Cats. Let your hair down.’ Boy, has that changed now. The guilty pangs of when I was dressed as Amy Winehouse came back to haunt me again – God, what must she have been going through?

  The trouble was, Paul was a functioning alcoholic and I don’t know if that was better or worse for the whole situation. You see, one of the side effects of his drinking was that he would dress up and wander about and do things. There were times when I thought, why can’t he be one of those drunks who sits in the corner of the pub boring people to death, or just lying in the park enjoying the sunshine, feeling sorry for himself? But no, he couldn’t stay in, he’d have things to do and
he would often get dressed up. I remember the neighbour saying, ‘I’ve just seen your Paul dressed as a geisha,’ and there he would be, staggering along in wooden shoes, off to do the weekly shop.

  Paul ended up in rehab a couple of times. The first time, I put him in there, though I felt bad doing it – it seemed like a betrayal, but what could I do? Without being overly melodramatic, he was killing himself before my eyes – his skin was grey and he was incoherent most of the day, staggering, talking in tongues. The second time in rehab was different, he actually asked to put himself in there, which I knew took real guts. He was walking around the garden with one shoe on, crying and visibly disorientated. I came out of the back door, our eyes met and he said, ‘I need help.’ It was heartbreaking to see but I was so proud of him – this brave first step could only lead to a better place. Something needed to be done because our relationship was breaking down – I used to only kiss him so I could tell if there was alcohol on his lips.

  We sat down in the kitchen and I went online to look for a place to send him. It was grim and the only light relief came from Bev. As Paul was crying, I saw out of the corner of my eye her paw slowly pull his plate across the table and his mackerel omelette slide effortlessly down her gullet. Yes, even at our lowest ebb, be it man, woman or beast, someone will always be there to take the piss.

  I carried on with the tour and the chat show, I had no choice. The clinic didn’t allow him visitors, which was tough on both of us, and there was no point in me just sitting at home fretting. Believe me, the irony of me pouring those disgusting drinks from my globe, forcing my guests to drink them whilst my other half was locked away for alcohol abuse was not lost at me. I thought, if he’s sitting watching this, this is not helping! Another irony that I became aware of was that my alcohol intake was going through the roof; the stress of the whole situation was nudging me towards the bottle rather than propelling me away from it. I would find myself on the way to the office popping into a pub: ‘Glass of Pinot, please – large!’ Taking the dogs for a walk, I’d nip into my local: ‘Give us a pint, Craig.’ I would actively seek out drink when I needed relief, and fast.

  I remember the final Chatty Man of the series – well, I don’t actually remember, this next part has been compiled from eyewitness accounts, police reports, CCTV footage and folklore. The last thing I do remember is them wheeling in a vodka luge. After the year I’d had, it was a lethal combination. We ran out of vodka to pour down the luge and so we moved on to the contents of the globe. I’m gagging as I write this but apparently I was loving it at the time; my mouth was so tightly clamped to the ice that my lips had inflated and looked like Kylie Jenner’s.

  I woke up on the floor in my dressing room; I must have passed out. Oh God, I thought, I’d better get home. I grabbed my bag and coat and went to ask Antonia in the office to book me a car home. ‘Antonia, Antonia!’ The office was empty and the lights off. I looked at the clock – 3.25 a.m. – everyone had gone home. I was locked in London Studios, and I tell you, nothing sobers you up quicker than the realization that you are locked inside a building alone and no one knows you’re in there.

  I wandered the labyrinthine corridors where a few years back they used to have photos of TV legends on the walls and you’d always find the exit by turning right at Michael Parkinson. These had been taken down and replaced with random, colourful depictions of London landmarks. I was staring up at this turquoise outline of St Paul’s Cathedral, not knowing where the hell I was. I stumbled along the corridors in a daze, like those people in pyjamas in the Poseidon Adventure who are walking aimlessly and refuse to go with Shelley Winters and Ernest Borgnine. I had access to all the studios and in my drunken haze I thought, ooh, I could have my own show – and then it dawned on me, I did, and that’s what had got me into this mess. Eventually I found the entrance and the kind security guard dialled me a taxi. I thought that my kip on the dressing-room carpet would prevent a hangover, because I was already having it, wasn’t I? I’d had my sleep and this was the hangover so the next time I slept would be a normal sleep and when I woke up – no hangover – right? Wrong!

  I woke up stinking. I didn’t know which were puffier, my eyes or my lips, which were frozen with chilblains after getting off with an ice sculpture for half the evening. I quickly rang up Jon in the office, who was busy doing the edit for the upcoming show. Gingerly, I posed the question, ‘Did everyone have a good time last night?’ my finger poised to press ‘end call’ if there was any hint that the conversation was about turn to my drunken indiscretions, but no indiscretions came. Jon was fine, nonchalant even, I’d just got leathered. I was out of the woods. Then …

  ‘You must be buzzing after meeting your hero last night!’

  ‘Pardon, what hero?’

  ‘C’mon, you remember, Harrison Ford.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Harrison Ford, he was filming with Jonathan Ross in the next studio.’

  I could not remember a thing, goddamn, and I love Harrison Ford.

  ‘Was I all right?’ I asked, fear only slightly creeping into my voice.

  ‘I’ll send you the video, one of the cameramen filmed it.’

  Shit – there was video evidence. Oh my God, I was having palpitations now.

  The video came over and it took me thirty or forty minutes to press play – I was terrified. When I used to dream about meeting Harrison Ford, it was not like this.

  I pressed play. There I was round the back of London Studios, copious amounts of empty and some quite full bottles of wine on the table, singing the Indiana Jones theme tune to a bemused Harrison Ford. I go up to him and fling my arms round him, telling him ‘I love you,’ and he says, ‘Boy, I need to have a few to catch up with you.’ Fair play to Harrison, he could have had me tasered. I imagine a drunken me rolling towards him must be slightly less scary than that boulder in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

  Well, as I was considering maybe popping into rehab myself, my lovely Paul has come out and he’s a different person, a better person. With alcohol you are never yourself – there was party Paul, hysterical Paul, upset Paul, morose Paul, exuberant Paul. Nowadays I get just Paul and I like it like that.

  The Yap Yap Yap tour was slowly coming to a close and I felt quite emotional that this show I had been touring for well over eighteen months would finally be no more. The tour went swimmingly on stage but, as you have read, it was the off-stage dramas that had taken their toll on me. Panic attacks and alcoholism, surely that was enough to be getting on with as well as the hours and hours of motorway loneliness – but apparently there was more to come.

  We’d had an amazing run of gigs up in Liverpool, they really are some of the best audiences ever – they get me and they get it, so much so that I wanted to celebrate. It was a Saturday night and I didn’t have a show the next night. I thought that if I couldn’t have a good time in Liverpool, I might as well throw myself in the Mersey, so I headed out. I found a lovely little tapas place near the city centre and had some delicious small plates and half a bottle of Malbec with my tour manager, Elliott, what a lovely evening. My belly full and my head woozy with mild intoxication, I turned left out of the tapas place and stumbled back to my hotel. Why then was I sitting in A&E at 6.00 a.m. the next morning with a tour manager covered in blood with a broken leg? Because I turned right, didn’t I! Yep, I turned right instead of going left like a good boy, the infamous second wind blew down Wood Street and took me with it and I spent the night drinking and cavorting with random Scousers at various nightspots around Liverpool. At 4.00 a.m. I got hungry and queued up for a Maccy D’s with my tour manager – well, the next thing I know, a fight is breaking out between my tour manager and the bouncer at McDonald’s. Of course, in hindsight, if a fast-food restaurant has to have a ‘doorman’ then it’s probably not the best place to drop in and have a drama-free bite. Elliott was dragged outside and his leg stamped on so brutally it broke. He was white as a sheet and obviously in distress as he lay there on the ground, though t
his didn’t stop me from trying to pop a chicken McNugget in his mouth – I had queued up for them #justsaying. Before I knew it, he was being put on a stretcher and we were both put into an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital. I tried to be as helpful as someone as pissed as me could be. I stayed until he was sedated, took some selfies with the nurses – they asked to, not me – then went back to the hotel, thinking all the time, ‘Did that just happen?’

  Severely hungover, I took the dogs out and texted Elliott to see how he was, feeling guilty for not being more help. Then a police officer very kindly came to the hotel to check that I was okay and to verify my statement. Statement? I’d made a statement last night? I couldn’t really remember saying anything. She opened up a black folder, pulled out an A4 piece of paper and started reading: ‘It was 4 o’clock in the morning. I was in McDonald’s in Liverpool City Centre with my tour manager waiting for some food. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my tour manager was being dragged out by the neck and being repeatedly punched in the face – I didn’t go to help him as I was starving and my chicken McNuggets were nearly ready—’

  ‘Whoa whoa whoa!’ I interjected, my hangover suddenly dissipating. ‘Excuse me, Juliet Bravo, you can’t put that down, I sound like an idiot, a selfish, mean, greedy pig!’ Admittedly, it was the truth, and yes, I was starving, but I’d look a right arsehole in court. I could see the jurors shaking their heads and tutting, ‘Dropping a friend for a Big Mac meal, and he looks so nice on the telly;’ I could see my Pride of Britain Award disappearing into the distance before my eyes. I felt awful but what could I do? It was the truth – am I an awful human being, reader? Please say no.