I never made the school team at St. Hubert’s. As I moved into the top year, we all graduated from the netball court to the big boys’ pitch at the top of the playground, next to the school dinner hall. Balls would sometimes get stuck on the adjoining roof and we’d have to wait till the caretaker got them down at the end of term.
Twenty years later I went to a party at my mate Tim’s house. I’d been drinking cider all day and was arseholed by the time I got there. I then started drinking the Greek Pernod-like spirit, ouzo, mixed with Tim’s home-brewed bitter. I woke up in his spare room the next morning, with his wife screaming at me. She left the room and came back with a J-cloth and a bottle of Dettol, both of which she threw at me before she stormed out again. Yes, I’d pissed the bed, and being fully clothed, my jeans were a little juicy as well. I walked downstairs, leaving the bed un-disinfected. In the kitchen I strolled straight past a slightly startled Tim and his wife and headed for the fridge. I took out the bottle of ouzo and had what my old mate Shane used to call a ‘man-sized swig’. Tim and his wife watched in horror. To be fair to them, it was 8.30 in the morning. I fully intended to explain myself, but I just needed another couple of man-sized swigs to regulate my breathing. This done, I assured them that I had not pissed the bed but, rather, sweated heavily in the night as a result of having slept fully dressed. Tim’s wife laughed in what I felt was a scornful way. She said she could smell the piss on me. I took one more man-sized swig and left in a huff. I soon realised that I was on the street, whistle wetted, but the pubs didn’t open for three and a half hours, so I walked. By now, the man-sized swigs had topped up the previous day’s excesses and I was feeling fairly poetical.
Perhaps I should break off at this point to say something about the drinking element of this story. Some of you might think I sound like a man with a drink problem. Well, we’ll come to all that later. Suffice to say that I was no stranger to waking up with a dry mouth and a wet bed.
As I walked my drunken walk, I had the contented smile that one might expect from a man whose piss-soaked jeans are slowly drying off in the bright morning sunshine. Then, either by accident or design, I found myself confronted by the giant white cross of St. Hubert’s, so I thought I’d go and have a look at the old school. I stopped to lean on the railings, carefully surveying my surroundings the way sober people never do. From this vantage point I could see the dinner hall and Mrs McGee’s classroom where I spent my last year at the school. There was the top end of the playground where we played game after game of football, with ten-year-old me wondering when the late-blossoming talent that would take me through to the ranks of the professional players was going to finally emerge.
And then I saw the roof where all those footballs used to get stuck. I actually rubbed my eyes in disbelief. I’d remembered the wall as being about thirty feet high. In fact, I reckoned that, on tip-toes, I could reach the ball that lay there now.
A similar thing happened to me with an enormous statue of Lucifer I’d seen in the Birmingham Art Gallery. It stood in the entrance hall with its big cock and spread wings, towering above visitors like the Colossus of Rhodes, and gave me one quite unpleasant nightmare. The last time I went to the Birmingham Art Gallery, I met Lucifer again. He’s about five feet high and stands in the corner of the tea-room. If I’d been drinking I’d say that this was what life is like. Things that seem big and important and scary and insurmountable at one stage in your life can come to look small and trivial later on. But I haven’t been drinking, so I won’t.
The very life-changing game was a variation on one of the dangerous games. It was called British Bullsnog. It was basically the same rules as British Bulldog, except the teams were boys versus girls and, rather than wrestle them to the ground, the idea was that one of the assailants would snog the captured runner. If the African tribeswoman could have seen me playing British Bullsnog, I feel she would have said, with no visible signs of emotion, ‘My work here is done,’ and then walked off, tits out, pot on head, into the distance.
Despite having a big sister, I knew nothing of girls. One day, when I was nine, I was sitting in the classroom casually telling lies. Telling lies is a commonplace amongst children, even at a Catholic school. Don’t worry, I’ve grown out of it. I was saying that I’d been to a sex shop in London – remember I’m nine – and seen mugs that consisted of a big breast with a woman’s penis for the handle. Obviously, I didn’t say ‘penis’, I said ‘Peter Panda,’ but I don’t want to confuse you just for the hell of it. Either way, a kid called Brendan soon spotted the fatal flaw in my story and pointed out that he’d seen his little sister naked and she had no Peter Panda. ‘No Peter Panda?’ I said scornfully, looking round to confirm that everyone had heard Brendan’s ridiculous story. A little girl with greasy hair confirmed that Brendan speaketh sooth. I was shocked but, more than anything, embarrassed by my obvious lack of worldly-wise sophistication. If only I’d paid more attention when I was an upside-down shepherd. The greasy-haired girl could see I was crestfallen and clearly felt sorry for me. ‘Never mind,’ she whispered, ‘I’ll show you mine at playtime, if you like.’
Lucky old Edith Piaf, who could reach middle age and still, with seeming conviction, sing that she had no regrets. If I live to a hundred, I will always beat myself up for not taking up the greasy-haired girl’s offer. And it’s not as if I had a sudden burst of Catholic morality or became afraid of the unknown, or decided that football was more important. No, I just forgot. When I saw her again, after playtime, I remembered her kind words and went over to explain my scattiness but she cut me dead and flounced off in the opposite direction. I may not have seen my first vagina but I had had my first taste of playing a game that women of all ages love to play with men. More dangerous than British Bulldog and pile-ups put together, more disheartening than football and more life-changing than Bullsnogging. Yes, it’s ‘Guess why I’m upset’. Many’s the hour I’ve spent, at parties, on public transport, even in bed, playing that fucking game.
Looking back, I suppose the greasy-haired girl felt that I had snubbed her vagina, but why couldn’t I see it the following playtime? Did she only get it out on rare occasions so I’d have to wait till the next time, whenever that might be, like it was the Halley’s Comet of the vagina world? Either way, if Mr Hartley had been going past, I wouldn’t have been picked for the relationships team either. Come to think of it, over the years, I’ve probably proved to be better at football.
As far as the incredibly life-changing games were concerned, there were several, and they helped me to find, at last, a game I was good at, in fact, several games I was good at. You’ve guessed it. They were comedy games. Pointing at someone’s chest and then, when they look down to see what you’re pointing at, dragging your finger upward, so it goes in their face. Now, that is what I call a game. I probably played that thirty times a day. In fact, I still play it now. It makes me laugh. I even had my first experience of being in a double-act. This involved perhaps the funniest joke ever. If I could meet the man (sorry, but it just couldn’t be a woman) who wrote it, I’d like to shake his hand and thank him. It’s the joke when you talk to a kid and, meanwhile, your mate crouches down on hands and knees behind him and then you push the kid over. I’ve spent hours and hours writing and re-writing gags, but I’ve never come up with anything to equal that. I would still be using it but it gets dangerous with older people and I can’t find a willing accomplice. If Tony Bennett had been up for it, it would have been a great one to pull on Prince Charles during the Royal Variety line-up. But Tony would have been fretting about his wig coming off and the whole thing would have lacked the spontaneity of the playground version.
I just had a meeting about making a documentary about me for ITV. They heard about the autobiography and they thought a Frank Skinner bio-doc might be a goer. Of course, this would be a very good advert for the book so I thought I’d go for it and I made positive noises. Then I kind of forgot about it. ITV are also planning docs on Des O’Connor and
Des Lynam, both non-controversial mainstream icons, so I’m expecting a fairly straight ‘this happened and then this happened’ sort of approach. Then, today, we had a meeting about it.
In the meeting was Jon Thoday, Lee Tucker, the head of production at Avalon Television (he’s the fanatical Albion fan I bumped into at the Albion–Bolton game), and the potential director/producer of the documentary, Paul Wilmshurst. I’ve worked with Paul before on a documentary about Elvis Presley, and I think he’s really good. He’s got a quirky outlook, and has done documentaries on, among other things, a famous Mafia lawyer and the guy who wrote the cult novel The Dice Man. Paul’s in his thirties, clean and unshaven, and in his battered combat-trousers and leather jacket looks like the England cricketer Michael Atherton in reduced circumstances.
Jon started talking about ITV’s three-doc project with me and the Deses. (What is the plural of Des?) Apparently, ITV’s only house-style requirement is that the subject should talk to the camera about their lives. The rest is up to us.
I started talking about things the film might include. I could do a sort of Unplanned audience-thing in which people could ask me questions about my life. Paul could interview my family and some people from my past and cut in bits from these interviews at suitable points. I explain the ‘Our Nora’ problem. It’s one thing to have stuff like the piss-buckets revelation in a book, but if it was on national television, it really might kill her. Mind you, I did mention it to Tony Blair on BBC1, but I didn’t really relate it to me personally.
All this throws up a distinction which hadn’t occurred to me before the meeting. Even though I’m sticking a lot of private stuff in this book, it still seems, well, private. You need to buy the book and open the book and take time to read the book, in order to get right in there. You, the reader, make an investment, financial, intellectual and time-wise. The TV viewer just presses a button. I don’t like the idea of all that intimate me just up there. like wallpaper. I know a lot of my gags are totally true and, for example, Unplanned throws up all sorts of private stuff, but it’s a kind of comedy private life. I don’t have a problem with talking about wanking or shagging, or stuff a lot of people regard as private, but family and religion, that’s something else. This, however, seems to have answered a question I posed earlier in this book. I’ll bet porn stars do refer to their genitals as their ‘private parts’.
Someone wanted to write my biography a few years back. She was a good writer with a top magazine and I was very flattered. The contract was drawn up, but when the day came to sign, I changed my mind. I just looked at the headings: Family, Pornography, Alcohol, Catholicism, and I lost my nerve. The weird thing is that I’ve probably revealed more in this book than I would have in hers, but I feel better about telling you direct. Otherwise it has to go through a filter before it reaches you, a filter that might take some stuff out and might put other stuff in. That’s why there’s no ghost-writer on this book, even though it would have freed up my days somewhat.
I’ve watched translators on television. An interviewer asks a question that I understand. A translator says something to the subject that I don’t understand. I hear the subject give his answer, which I don’t understand. The translator gives an answer. I’m showing a fuck of a lot of faith in the translator here. How do I know what’s gone on in all the foreign bits? This is how it works with biographers, and documentary makers.
I asked Paul what he thought the documentary might be like. He said he thought it would be funny and sad. When I asked him why he thought it would be sad, he said, ‘Well, because anyone who’s spent any time with you knows that you’re . . . er . . . well . . . wistful.’ The room went a bit quiet. Wistful? What the fuck did he mean by that?
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s the first I’ve heard of it.’ As soon as I’d said it, I started to wonder whether the tone was, well, slightly wistful. No, no, I’d recognise this tone anywhere. It’s called irritated. Oh, dear. For some reason I’d really taken against wistful. But there’s a good example. If I was working as Paul’s interpreter, I would have translated ‘wistful’ as ‘inclined to be a tortured, self-doubt-ridden, insecure nut-case’ and this might not have been exactly what Paul meant. Anyway, I was like a dog with a bone. ‘Is that what people say, then? Frank Skinner? Is he the Jewish one or the wistful one?’ Laughter, but with a sense of unease.
Then I asked Paul to elaborate on his vision of the doc. He said it could be a bit like that Geri Halliwell doc that everyone was talking about. Of course, the reason everyone was talking about it was that Geri came out of it looking like a tragic cow. At one stage we see her going through the newspapers to see if there are any pictures of her. This got her a lot of scornful criticism. Now that’s a worry.
Whenever I pick up a tabloid, I always have a look to see if I’m in it. I even check those ‘100 Sexiest Guys’ things that appear every now and then, and I’ve never been in one of them, ever. I check the Rich List, Great TV Moments, Quotes of the Week, any old bollocks. I’ve scanned crossword magazines for my name in answers or clues, and I check those pictures of celebs in the middle of the puzzles in case it’s me. I’ll even have the occasional glance at the birthdays just in case they’ve got the date wrong. What’s the problem? A local press photographer told me that his editor instructed him to cram as many people as possible into photographs because they’ll all buy at least two copies of the paper that week. It’s human nature.
I laugh when I read about celebs moaning about the pressures of fame. They want to try forty hours in a drop-forgings factory. I have – fame’s better. Whenever a celeb tells you about how the tabloids have been hounding them, the subtext is always ‘That’s how famous I am’. I know. My ex-wife has slagged me off in the Sunday Mirror, the News of the World and the People, and I can honestly say I was genuinely hurt and upset on each occasion, but through the tears I was still thinking, ‘Two-page spread? That’s how famous I am.’
I don’t want to let the cat out of the bag but fame is actually very nice. When people ask me for an autograph, they are often very apologetic and say stuff like, ‘I know this must be a pain’ or ‘Sorry to be embarrassing’ and I say, ‘I’ll miss it when it Stops,’ and they laugh as if I’m joking. These people could be bothered to ask me to write my name on a bit of paper. They’ll probably go away and tell their friends they met me. Fucking hell, that’s brilliant, isn’t it? I meet the odd tosser, but nowhere near as many as I met before I got famous. A lot of people treated me like shit in the old days. Am I supposed to miss that?
Anyway, I tell you this but, obviously, if I said it on the telly, I’d sound a bit of a prat. If you’re a celebrity, the acceptable way to behave is to say fame is a nightmare and you’ve got no money really. So I’d best keep my trap shut.
I was listening to the radio the other day and they were talking about how footballers live an incredibly pampered life. Some woman was going on about the fact that they get driven around everywhere, someone organises their plane tickets and passports, all their meals are laid on in hotels that someone else has chosen and booked for them. I thought, ‘What’s your point?’
I’ve got a personal assistant called Jenny who organises the paying of my bills, books my holidays, handles my dry-cleaning, buys my cinema tickets, reminds me about birthdays, the lot. Well, obviously, she doesn’t do my washing and ironing. I’ve got a cleaner who does that. Incidentally, some people who have a cleaner say, ‘I’ve got a woman who does,’ but if I say that, everyone will just assume that I’m talking about anal sex.
The other day, I went for a quick lunch with Robyn, who produces my chat show and Unplanned. Afterwards, we walked up the road to get some fags from the newsagent. On the way, we met a friend of Robyn’s. They were going to look at a house somewhere. Robyn suddenly looked distressed that I was now going to the newsagent on my own. I assured her I could manage, they drove off, and I carried on up the road. I was wearing an Hawaiian shirt and bright purple trainers. I suddenly felt like an exotic
bird who had escaped from his cage and who would inevitably be torn to bits by the local sparrows, provoked by his colourful plumage. I made it, but when I got back in my office, I felt like I’d been on a bit of an adventure. Pampered? Like a prize poodle. But, again, I wouldn’t want to say so on the telly.
Anyway, I thought I’d better sound a bit more positive about the doc. In any meeting, power always goes to the negative person in the room, and I don’t know that that’s very helpful. I suggested that Paul could film my great-niece’s christening. I’m going to be her godfather. He seemed unkeen. He said he was more interested in things that were ‘uncomfortable’. My alarm bells were really ringing now.
‘Well, what do you want?’ I asked, just this side of politely.
‘Well, you know,’ he said, in a tone of calm-down-Frank. ‘I imagine there’d be stuff about drinking, women, football, about your work and your work-methods.’ It reminded me of the headings in the biography that never happened. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want it to be a puff-piece, Frank.’ A puff-piece, of course, is media-lingo for anything in the media which is there just to promote or praise someone. They avoid all touchy subjects and dark areas. He was right, of course, that would be crap.
Back in the sixties, British comic Tony Hancock appeared on Face to Face, a sort of early television version of In the Psychiatrist’s Chair. There were a lot of deep and meaningful questions and some people say that it made Hancock become very introspective and self-analytical. I haven’t read up on him but I think, basically, he hit the bottle and topped himself. That’s no good, is it? I don’t want to watch myself on a documentary and start thinking I’m all troubled and interesting.
I’ve met a few women over the years who have tried to hang the ‘broken-hearted down’ thing on me. ‘Oh,’ they say, ‘you’re funny, but I know, deep-down, you’re hurting.’
Frank Skinner Autobiography Page 13