Putting tours to one side for a moment, I also perform new stand-up at the beginning of each Frank Skinner Show, and I use the same method to build that material. But because it’s a topical television chat show, trying out the stand-up in circuit clubs gets even trickier. Firstly, the material is all based on that week’s news. If ever you try topical news stuff in a comedy club, you soon realise that no one actually knows any news at all. Well, maybe the really big stories, but that’s it. Then, on top of that, it’s only worth trying material I can get away with on telly. So, for the first time in my career, I’m the clean act on the bill, and sometimes my written-for-telly stuff sounds pretty tame when the previous act has been shouting ‘Cunt!’ for the last twenty minutes. I mean as part of his act, not as part of my introduction. Now how in the world am I supposed to compete with them and their easy laughs?
Either way, the main thing about this perform-and-then-prune process is that it’s the audience who make almost all of the decisions. I show them what I’ve managed to come up with that week, and they identify the good stuff. When I was preparing for my ’97 tour, my regular try-out places were The Spot Club in Covent Garden on Tuesday nights, and the Oranje Boom Boom in Soho, on Wednesdays.
One Tuesday at The Spot I died on my arse. I kind of hid the fact with some ad-libbing mainly about the fact that I was going badly: ‘You know that when the Titanic sank, there was an orchestra in the main ballroom, who kept playing as the ship was going down. This is what it would have been like if there’d been a comedian on instead.’ When this got laughs I stuck with it, making it up as I went along. I asked them to imagine the Titanic comic, trying to save his act like I was now trying to save mine. ‘Are there any fish in tonight? (PAUSE.) Well, give it five minutes.’ It enabled me to leave on a laugh, but I knew it was only cosmetic. I didn’t sleep much that night. Comedy is like a little bird on your shoulder. One day, for no reason, it could just decide to fly away.
The next morning, I went to Budgen’s to get some milk and a newspaper. At the checkout, an old lady recognised me and said, ‘Oh, you’re that comedian, aren’t you?’ I had to stop myself from saying, ‘Well, actually, I’m not sure that I am. I used to be a comedian. I used to make people laugh and all that, but now, I can’t actually do it anymore so no, I am not that comedian. I used to be, but now I’m not.’
Had I said this, I think the old lady might have been slightly alarmed, and it wouldn’t really have helped me much either. So, instead, I smiled and chatted, paid for my things, and then went home and re-worked and re-worked the previous night’s shit material. This was totally against my usual practice. Stuff that has gone that badly would normally have been straight out, but I had a point to prove. When I went on stage at Oranje Boom Boom that night, none of the sixty or so people in the audience had any idea how significant the gig was to me. In my head, it was more important than Battersea Power Station. And I fuckin’ stormed it, with a re-vamped version of the previous night’s rejected goods. I was back. I suppose it looked like just another day at the office.
Anyway, eventually, the ‘In’ drawer fills to the top, and then I go on tour.
For each town on the tour, again learning from my 4-X days, I add a bit of local stuff, produced by scanning the local papers, reading guide books, and, on the day of the gig, checking out the town centre and any local landmarks. I also keep an eye on the national news so I can add topical stuff to the mix. On the ’97 tour, I was able to cover the Louise Woodward verdict and the Gary Glitter scandal, hours, or, in Woodward’s case, minutes, after the stories broke.
But news can cause you problems. I was due to start that ’97 tour in Jersey, on a Wednesday. On the previous Sunday, Princess Diana died. Ticket sales just stopped. It’s easy to be cynical now, but at the time, it really felt like the whole nation was in shock. I had a sold-out gig in Southend on the following Saturday. Now it was to be the night of Diana’s funeral.
The manager at Southend asked if I wanted to pull the gig. I asked if it was definitely sold out. He said yes. I said no. Besides, if I could do a gig on the night of my dad’s funeral, I wasn’t going to let this stop me. I watched the grim ceremony on telly in my Southend hotel room. There were tears in my eyes. Diana had been around for a long time, in the papers, on the telly; I’d got absolutely arseholed on the day-off-work I got for her wedding, she was part of my life. I know this all sounds a bit over-the-top, but they were strange times. Imagine, in five years’ time, telling someone how worked up you got about Big Brother.
That night, I walked on stage at Cliff’s Pavilion, Southend-on-Sea. You could feel the tension in the air. It was like following Sean Hughes at the 4-X multiplied by about twenty. I had made my decision. It was, I felt, possible to do jokes about what had happened, without making fun of her actual death. I went for it:
‘In case you’re wondering, I did watch the funeral, and, I’ll be honest with you, I cried. I really cried. I kept thinking about that flower-shop I sold, three months ago. I wouldn’t mind, but I invested the money in a land-mines factory. Elton John, he was good. I’m really glad he did that ‘Candle in the Wind’ song, really glad. I kept thinking he might completely misjudge things and do ‘I’m Still Standing’.
They laughed, the mood changed, and we were off.
So, that’s touring. Well, except for one crucial topic that I feel an obligation to cover. Sometimes, I find myself on tour when I’m single. In these circumstances, I feel duty-bound to, how can I put this, fuck anything that moves. I’m not saying that this is a good thing, and I’m not saying that it’s something that I’m proud of, but then I’m not exactly proud of the fact that I imagine, in quite a lot of detail, whilst on the toilet, that I am generally acknowledged as the greatest footballer in the world. But I still told you about it.
I’m not a good-looking person. I’ve struggled to get girls for most of my life, and then, suddenly, I win the casual-sex lottery by getting famous. Imagine how that feels. Becoming a celebrity is like suddenly becoming handsome. It’s alright for Robbie Williams or Brad Pitt. They were always used to women paying them attention, with little or no effort required on their part, but for me, it’s like I suddenly found a magic after-shave that draws women towards me. I really want to use it up before it evaporates. Obviously, it doesn’t work on all women, but then I haven’t got the time to shag ALL women.
Suddenly, the ugly duckling has turned into a swan. OK, not the best-looking swan you’ve ever seen. In fact more like just a bigger duckling, but still with the long neck and some of the stateliness and that. And it is in the context of touring that I am truly able to flap my wings. Imagine how it feels, for a man who had to kill himself to get so much as a slow-dance in a Birmingham nightclub, when a beautiful young woman not only agrees, at once, to spend the night in his hotel room, but, gesturing towards the dressing room fruit-bowl says, ‘And why don’t you bring along a couple of those bananas?’
And, better still, they were both for her.
I think I need to make a point here. This is not payback time. I’m not suddenly getting revenge for years of rejection. I mean, let’s be philosophical. I think I appreciate my job more because of the shit jobs I had in the past, and I appreciate my Guinness Book of Records certificate more because I’ve got my Edinburgh Return Form, and so I appreciate an upturn in my popularity because pulling girls used to be like pulling teeth. And, joking aside, the improvement is not as dramatic as I’d hoped, but it is an improvement and, just occasionally, it’s like being ‘cute in a stupid-ass way’. Besides, they get a good story to tell their mates, and I don’t begrudge them that. I went out with a TV presenter a few years back, and, whilst watching her on a particularly jolly, all-round-family-entertainment game-show, I still recall the very special pleasure I got from nudging a mate and saying, ‘I’ve fucked her up the arse.’ I imagine James Hewitt makes similar remarks every time he passes a souvenir-mug stall.
I met one woman, nineteen years old and dressed from head t
o toe in black PVC, in a club quite near my hotel. Within fifteen minutes we were in bed. She had so many piercings, so many metal rings and rivets, that we had to shag next to the window so that I could keep an eye out for lightning. She was beautiful, and it was a fantastic night. At one point, she said, ‘I’m often attracted towards older men.’
‘Yeah, and magnets,’ I replied. I don’t think she got it. It seems to me that most people become quite serious when they’re having sex. I don’t. And, yes, I have wondered if that’s what I’m doing wrong.
But, anyway, too much metal. Her vagina, as it clanked open, looked like one of those wallets people use to keep their keys in. I must admit, it put me off a bit. I approached cunnilingus the way, as a child, I approached a Christmas pudding that I knew had got silver threepenny bits in it. She was a very likeable person, though. As I get older, I find a woman’s personality becomes more and more important.
I have tried the odd threesome. This is really not all it’s cracked up to be. On one occasion, the women involved both swooped in for oral sex at the same moment, and there was quite a nasty clash of heads. One of them was actually too shaken to go on. Also women, especially when they’ve been drinking, are inclined to squabble, even if one of them is having intercourse at the time. I can remember two women I was with in a hotel room suddenly marching off into the bathroom to have a big row. Well, who needs it? And whispering and sniggering is another turn-off in this situation. It always makes me think I’ve got something on my bum.
When I was still with the BBC, I wrote a sitcom pilot called Heavy Revie, about a heavy-metal star, played by me. It never went to series. As I’ve said before, even Homer nods. I made the main character, Frank ‘Heavy’ Revie, a slightly tragic, still-single Brummie in his early forties. Ergo, I was able to take lines that I’d used when chatting with my tour manager or support act during a hotel breakfast, and give them to him. Here he is, talking to his brother, Dennis, after it’s been discovered that Frank has had a threesome with two eighteen-year-olds:
DENNIS: It’s the morality of it. You’re forty-one. And there were two of them at the same time.
FRANK: Well, I don’t think an eighteen-year-old girl should be alone with a man of my age.
DENNIS: My point is, it might be legal but it’s still a scandal.
FRANK: But there’s no logic to that. If I’d had sex with a thirty-six-year-old, no one would have minded. Surely it’s only the difference between a pint and two halves. Anyway, if you’re going to take a woman back to your hotel room, I think it’s nice if she’s got somebody to talk to.
There was a woman who used to write to me on a regular basis, very obscene letters suggesting all the disgusting things we could do if we ever got together. Some of her plans for us even made me blanch, but I wrote her off as a nutter and thought no more about it. Then, after a tour-gig one night, there was a message from a fan asking to meet me backstage. This woman, small, blonde and curvy, came in, I’d guess she was in her early twenties, and started chatting in a very normal, friendly way. Then she said a couple of things which reminded me of the letters, not crude or sexual things, just a couple of turns of phrase. I sensed that this was deliberate. I got slightly edgy. Steve, my regular tour-manager, was still on stage telling people how to roll up wires, or whatever it is that he does, and I felt slightly exposed. I reckoned this was the sort of woman who could pull a bread-knife if she didn’t get her own way. Anyway, I got brave and confronted her about the letters. She admitted she’d written them, but said it was just a silly phase that she was going through, and she wouldn’t be doing it anymore. Then she asked if she could spend the night with me. I actually laughed. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I don’t mean to be unfriendly, but you are a nutter. I don’t trust you, and there is no way in the world that you are going to spend the night with me.’ She seemed slightly hurt by this and said that she wasn’t a nutter and that she would never do anything to harm me and that if I’d just spend one night with her, she’d tell nobody, and I’d never hear from her again.
I was amazed at her perseverance. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘for the last time, there is no way in the world that I am going to spend the night with you.’ At this point, she lifted up her t-shirt and showed me her tits. I said, ‘And I definitely wouldn’t hear from you again, you say?’ She nodded. And then I took her back and shagged the shit out of her.
Now, to talk of these things may well prove to be unwise. It could be, now that evidence of my sleazy past is exposed, I’ll never get another girlfriend as long as I live. But this previous behaviour was just a silly phase I was going through, and I won’t be doing it anymore.
It’s weird. When I was asked to write this book, I spoke to Caroline about it, and told her that, if I wrote it, I felt I should be really honest. I explained that this might mean the book would include things about me which she might well find upsetting. She said that I should write what I want to write, that I should tell the truth, and she would handle it as best she could.
I chose these particular incidents because I think they give a reasonable flavour of life on the road for the single man. I admit that, although they’re true stories, I’ve highlighted the humorous aspects in order to make them seem slightly less sordid. Whether I’ve succeeded in that, I don’t know. Still, I kept my promise to myself and told the truth. But, I’ll be straight with you, I don’t know if I’d have put these stories in the book if Caroline and me were still together. Oh well, every cloud . . .
I was at a party once, bending some bloke’s ear about touring, not the sexual side of it but the thrill of playing two-thousand-seater halls and staying in flashy hotels. I realised I’d gone on a bit, so I thought I’d better ask him – his name was Nick – about his job. He looked, to me, like a bank clerk. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I’m in a band.’
‘Really,’ I said. ‘Will I have heard of them?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘They’re called Pink Floyd.’
Since then, I’ve been a bit wary about telling people about what touring is like. Will any pop stars who read this section please forgive me if I sounded like a know-all? I know I’m pretty small-time compared to some.
And, if any woman reads it, and thinks I sound like a sad, dirty old pig, who has abused his celebrity by using it to seduce beautiful young women, I give the defence’s summing-up speech to Frank ‘Heavy’ Revie.
FRANK: I mean, I’m no oil painting, I’m aware of that, but I’m famous, and that gets me in. If it wasn’t for famous people, all the beautiful people in the world would only shag each other. They’d form some fabulously attractive élite and people like me would be nowhere. We’d be stuck with all the other ugly people, rutting in our own filth like pigs. Banging out one ugly kid after the next, while the beautiful people stroke each other’s unblemished skin, and close the window to stop the smell coming in. No, Dennis, it’s my duty to stop that segregation happening, and, by glory, I’ll infiltrate as many of those bastards as I can. Yes, two at a time, if I have to. Shag the beautiful, Dennis. So few of us ever get the chance.
Of course, he’s just a fictional character.
In 1993 I got my first taste of hosting a chat show, or, at least, co-hosting one. Late Night With Wogan got me on a few times to co-host with Terry; they even sent me on trips to Euro-Disney, and also Los Angeles to interview Robin Williams. I never got on a plane till I was thirty-four, for a belated honeymoon in Italy, and now, at thirty-six, I was virtually jet-set.
It was great working with Terry. Younger readers might not realise it, but Terry Wogan was, for about eight or nine years, probably the biggest name in television, and now I was sitting at his side as we interviewed the likes of Jeff Goldblum and Quentin Tarantino.
Terry would call me into his personalised dressing room at Television Centre, with the wooden carving of him playing golf in the corner, give me little cigars and tell me stuff about telly being ‘chewing gum for the eyes’ and how I shouldn’t worry too much about what I said, because
viewers hardly ever listen. I was never sure whether Terry really believed this incredibly dismissive view of television, or if he just pretended that he didn’t care as a way of coping with criticism. Maybe he was just being kind and thought that playing down the importance of the show would put me more at ease. Or maybe he was just bored. He’d already interviewed most of the guests two or three times before on his early evening chat show, and he’d lost a bit of interest. However, when Terry spoke about radio, his face lit up, and all the cynicism disappeared. Clearly that was his first love.
I wonder if Terry talks about me like this, but with the word ‘radio’ replaced by the phrase ‘anal sex’? How expertly this book combines the poetic and the crass! Maybe I should have called it Blank Verse and Bell-Ends: the autobiography of Frank Skinner.
Either way, I was incredibly wide-eyed and enthusiastic, and I really gave the Wogan show my best shot, ploughing through all the clippings and trying to find questions that the guests might not have heard before. This, however, led to an incident that left me feeling slightly more cynical about the world of television.
One night, the guests were George Best, Cliff Richard and Sister Wendy Beckett, the nun who did those art-appreciation programmes. Sister Wendy had been in a closed order for years so had had little or no contact with the outside world. I don’t think she really knew who any of us were. Anyway, I had read in a magazine interview with Cliff that he disapproved of women priests. It was just one line and I think it had slipped past virtually unnoticed, but it was right up my alley. Half-way through the interview, I asked him about it. He looked edgy, but admitted that he did not believe women should be priests because there was no biblical precedent; all the disciples were male. Sister Wendy was outraged. She said all the disciples were Jewish, so where does that leave biblical precedent? She went on to say that she hoped a time would come when people would be no more shocked by a woman priest than they would by a woman doctor or a woman teacher. The audience applauded. I thought this was great television. The Catholic nun in her seventies, more broad-minded and forward-looking than the pop-star.
Frank Skinner Autobiography Page 35