Can't Stand Up for Sitting Down

by Jo Brand

  At one rally in which I was navigating we drove off the start ramp and as I hadn’t really been concentrating on the cars that went before us, I said to turn left — whereas they had all apparently turned right. We found ourselves down a cul de sac after five minutes and had to go back to the start so I could follow the map again.

  Our final rally before commencing the Rally of Great Britain was in Wales, and the start was very high up, nearly in the mountains. The run-up to the start was absolutely terrifying and ran alongside a sheer drop of hundreds of feet. Although we were only doing about three miles an hour I experienced something approaching a panic attack — not terribly impressive before the race had even begun!

  Things went from bad to worse … we nearly crashed on a hairpin bend above a huge drop, and by the time we got to the end of the stage I staggered out of the car and vowed that I would never get in a rally car again. This somewhat messed up the whole point of our documentary, but we carried on with John agreeing to drive it, and taking on a new navigator; I, meanwhile, in a girly way, waited at the end of stages, interviewing spectators and drivers.

  In fact, I interviewed the very talented driver, Richard Burns who sadly died far too young of a brain tumour. He informed me that women were rubbish rally drivers because they had no bollocks. In my case, he was absolutely correct — physically and metaphorically.

  Rather bizarrely in 2008 I was asked whether I would like to perform in the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, The Pirates of Penzance, in a West End theatre.

  Gilbert and Sullivan are quite old-fashioned in the sense that people who like them tend to be about 140 years old. But one of those people is my dad, who used to play quite a lot of the stuff when I was a child so I had many of the tunes in my head. Also, I thought it might give him an opportunity to actually come to something he might enjoy rather than pretending to.

  The company who wanted to put the show on were called Carl Rosa; they perform exclusively Gilbert and Sullivan operettas and they thought that if they bunged a few so-called celebs into the mix, it might open G&S up to a whole new audience.

  The Pirates of Penzance is a reasonably straightforward tale of love and intrigue. I was asked to play the part of the Police Sergeant, which had never been played by a woman before. The role suited me as my voice is quite low and I am elderly so I would hardly be in line to play the heroine Mabel, who wears nice dresses and warbles up to unfeasibly high notes. Also, not much is called for on the acting front: a fair bit of striding about, barking orders and looking strict. I also thought it might be a nice opportunity to wear a Victorian policewoman’s costume. Not that there was such a thing, because in Victorian times, policewomen did not exist.

  The last and only time I had worn a policewoman’s costume was for a sketch show, and I found myself wearing a costume with the name Joan Sims sewn into it. Joan was, of course, a luminary of the Carry On films and I felt like I was wearing comedy history.

  To get in some practice, I wandered out on the street for a bit and pretended to be a proper policewoman. I told a few people off for parking offences, and it was amazing to discover how much deference people have towards the police.

  In order to start the process off, I had to learn the songs … two of them: ‘When the Foeman Bares His Steel’ (yes, I’m none the wiser, sounds a bit pervy though, doesn’t it?), and ‘The Policeman’s Song’, a well-known ditty that most people have heard at one time or another. I went to a studio in Central London where a lovely man called Duncan put me through my paces. I don’t have a good voice but managed to growl along to it on the lower register. He gave me the OK and said he thought it was unlikely people would throw things as soon as I opened my mouth.

  It was then on to rehearsals in a room down the road. I found the whole thing daunting as all the other performers were regular G&S aficionados. Still, I had to bite the bullet and be prepared to look like a twat in front of them. So I jumped in with both feet.

  I had my own little gang of policemen, bless ‘em, hardly a heterosexual among them, and when we first practised our march onto the stage, the choreographer Steve said something like, ‘For fuck’s sake, you’re supposed to be marching, not carrying baskets of flowers.’

  It was such a good laugh and I could have just done rehearsals for ever, but in what seemed like a very short time, round came the actual show at the Apollo in Shaftesbury Avenue. I had already been to see The Mikado which starred Alistair McGowan, who was so good in it that I began to worry I would cock things up really badly I tried not to do that comparing thing, because down that road lurks depression. There is always going to be someone better than you.

  On the first night I was all but paralysed with fear, terrified that a tiny squeak would come out of my mouth, followed by me running off stage, simultaneously wetting myself and crying. I must have gone to the lay seven or eight times in the last ten minutes, and then I was pushed towards back stage, given my truncheon … and then I heard the opening notes to our march and suddenly I was on the stage waving my truncheon like a good ‘un and doing an approximation of singing.

  For the first few nights I hit a note an octave above what I was supposed to be singing and I could see the appealingly strict conductor Richard looking at me like I was mental. It hardly seemed to matter though and we comedied it up as much as possible before marching off to laughs and applause. I then had quite a bit of time to go out through the stage door and have a fag before I was back on to do ‘The Policeman’s Song’ and deliver the few lines I had.

  There is a big closing number and I was dressed up in some sort of wedding dress for a laugh and had to enter under a garland of flowers with Bev, who played Ruth. We spent the time waiting to go on chatting about a number of varied subjects, and during one particularly interesting discussion about the menopause, missed our cue completely and had to run on at a pace slightly too demanding for two middle-aged ladies.

  I did the show for two weeks and managed to get away with it. On one occasion I was slightly stressed out as I had to get to the Saturday matinée and had not realised what the time was. Glancing up at the clock I saw I was late, got my stuff together and ran out to the car. I slung open the boot, threw a bag in and bent down to check it was properly in. At this point the boot sprang back unexpectedly and whacked me on the top of the head. It hurt like hell and blood started gushing from the wound. Shit, what to do? Casualty? Lie down? Ignore it?

  I went back in the house, got an enormous wodge of kitchen towel, bunched it up and held it on top of my head. I then drove up to the West End with one hand, using the other to keep the blood-soaked wodge of kitchen towel on my head. When I arrived, I had the mother of all headaches, but at least it seemed to have stopped bleeding, and as far as I could see, none of my brains were coming out. The make-up lady very delicately positioned my wig and helmet on top of a fresh wodge and onto the stage I sauntered, feeling like shit.

  I got through the show, thanks to the help of the so-called Dr Footlights, a way I think to describe the rush of adrenalin which means that performers have been able to get through shows with illness, mega-hangovers or bits falling off, but I would not like to repeat the experience.

  My dad did come to see the show and enjoyed it, so that was another ambition ticked off my list. And it felt great, being on the right side of the law for a change.

  Although I probably look like I am well at home in my townie skin, I do actually love being out in the countryside. I make regular trips up to Shropshire and revel in wearing scruffy old wellies and wandering round listening to the birds singing.

  This is why I was so pleased when, some years back, Countryfile with the iconic John Craven asked me to judge their photo competition for Children In Need. It takes two days a year and the initial day is to film a piece to go into the show, to give people the information they need to enter. Consequently, we tend to go somewhere country-ish but near enough to London so we can all get back in a day.

  Once we have made the initial film
telling the viewers the rules of the competition, then John, Chris Packham, the nature photographer and TV presenter, and I get together somewhere in a posh room full of photos and spend the day pulling out the best ones. By the end of the day we have chosen the twelve that will go in the ‘Children In Need’ calendar. It is an absolutely marvellous day Chris Packham is such a nice bloke and a good laugh, and we enjoy rooting through the huge piles of pictures to pick the winners.

  Countryfile pursuits have taken me to Ashdown Forest in East Sussex, to Barnes Wetland Centre in South-West London, and to various animal sanctuaries in Kent and Sussex. I have been eyed up by deer, chased by otters and lain on my tummy in the mud trying to get an imaginative picture of a sheep … harder than it sounds.

  Once, whilst at the British Wildlife Centre down in East Surrey, we held our breath as a tiny duckling struck out across the pond in the otter compound where the mother duck had inadvisedly laid her eggs. As the duckling paddled merrily along, one of the otters slid noiselessly into the water looking for a pre-lunchtime duckling hors d’oeuvre. Seeing this, I all but waded in to try and scoop up the poor little bugger. Chris, on the other hand, is far more pragmatic than me and told me I had to get used to the idea. However, for once cuteness triumphed and our little hero managed to cross the pond and survived to fight another day I don’t know for how long, but at least I didn’t have to witness the food chain in action.

  The photos we judge can be absolutely stunning, and thankfully Chris Packham is quite good at spotting fakes, because I don’t have a clue. We also see lots of pictures of donkeys with hats on, groups of people with dogs, and very occasionally hysterically inappropriate ones — a car, a shop. Who knows what these people were thinking? My favourite over the years has to be the one of a caterpillar on a branch — a very unusual critter because it was white with a red stripe through it. The name should have been a clue — Colgatus … yes, it was toothpaste.

  In the days when I had very few responsibilities, I spent several New Year weeks on holidays round Britain with a bunch of other comedians and assorted friends. Considering we were a pretty disorganised lot it was a bleeding miracle that we actually got it together really Our first holiday was in a rented cottage in Wells-Next-the-Sea in Norfolk, and there was a group of about ten of us. We walked, went on boat trips to see seals, walked to the pub, cooked huge communal meals, played games, drank vast quantities, argued, took the piss out of each other and generally had a laugh. And always, every year, a couple of poor sods had to drive back to London to fulfil the requirement of comedy clubs for comics to be tortured by an audience on New Year’s Eve.

  We always played lots of stupid games. Our favourite game at the time was ‘the water game’ which is very good, evil fun. You all sit round in a big circle, pick a category like British Birds and fill a glass half full with water. Then someone is designated to hold the glass of water and pick a British bird which they write down on a piece of paper to avoid accusations of cheating. Then you go round the circle of people one by one and everyone has to say a British bird. When somebody says the name of the bird that the water-holder has written down, the water is duly chucked in their face. Simple but effective, and the drunker you are the better.

  On these holidays the core group consisted of: Bill Bailey and his girlfriend Kris, Alan Davies, Jim Miller, Jeff Green, Mark Lamarr, Andy Linden, Keith Dover and my friends Waggly and Jez. Other comics and girlfriends/ boyfriends drifted in and out of the mix.

  Bill Bailey as you would imagine, is an absolute delight. Gentle, warm and easygoing, he is the perfect house-guest, because he is happy to do anything. He is a huge animal lover and a musical genius, so can be relied upon to provide musical accompaniment to any pissed singsong and is one of those people, like Jools Holland, who can pretty much play any request you care to throw at him. Considering my musical repertoire extends only to ‘Chopsticks’, ‘Love Story’, which I learned when I was fourteen, and that hideous Celine Dion song from Titanic which I learned for a joke, I am unsurprisingly rarely asked to take a seat at the piano.

  Bill has a problem similar to mine, which is an inability to say no to requests for benefits. Consequently, I think he works far too hard — but any attempt on my part to persuade him to slow down would be a bit of pot and kettle.

  Alan Davies is a good friend with whom I have had some massive laughs over the years. He is loyal, fun and very amusing. He is also good at arguing and I love a good argument, but one can guarantee that it will never get out of hand or be antagonistic. We have similar political views too and have never fallen out over anything.

  His only flaw is that he is an Arsenal fan, but perhaps I am just jealous because they have a much nicer ground than Crystal Palace, the team I support.

  The year after Norfolk we went to Cornwall and stayed in a fantastic house overlooking the sea in St Mawes. Again there was just a huge amount of being very lazy after staying up all night playing games and drinking.

  Several people waded into the sea in the dead of night because they were too pissed to realise it was foolish, and everyone else thought it was too entertaining an idea to warrant trying to stop them. Nobody drowned, I am pleased to report.

  We went back to Norfolk again the following year and stayed near Diss. This was a slightly bad-tempered holiday and I seem to remember some allegations of people not pulling their weight domestically but again, most of it passed in a haze of laughing and hangovers.

  A brutal round of the water game also produced some retribution, with my friend Waggly chucking her water at the wrong person, because I had actually said the same thing she’d picked (Mother’s Pride, since you ask — yes, we were doing bread) and then chucking it over Jeff Green who had picked an obscure make of bread from his home town in Cheshire which she couldn’t possibly have heard of. Dear old Waggly didn’t want to chuck it over me in case I was upset!

  There was also an incident in a hotel pool where Waggly got into trouble in the deep end and very quietly attempted to sink to the bottom. Thank God, she was spotted by two blokes who immediately dived in and dragged her out. I apparently was sitting on the side of the pool and didn’t even notice. It all happened so quickly The first thing I saw was her being hauled out of the pool. So much for all those life-saving lessons at school when you had to wear your pyjamas. I just didn’t have time to run up to my room and put them on.

  We went on long walks and also went bowling, which I hate for some reason. I can’t see the skill or enjoyment in chucking a heavy ball down a runway So I would sit there slightly bored just waiting for people to finish so we could go home.

  Our final holiday was in Devon near Chulmleigh, pronounced Chumley We’d moved from a communal house by this time to a set of cottages laid out round a courtyard. One of our party met and romanced a cheese dealer, which meant that the fridge was constantly full up with bloody massive bits of cheese, and we spent New Year in the village carousing with the locals and being generally badly behaved.

  After this, people seemed to drift apart a bit and no one got it together to organise another jaunt, but they were good fun while they lasted.

  My mum and dad are still going strong. My mum’s now seventy-five and my dad is eighty They don’t live together any more, though they never got divorced, but live about ten miles away from each other, and keep in touch regularly.

  On the whole they have had good health, although after having a stroke in his late fifties my dad all but retired from work.

  My mum, on the other hand, finds it almost impossible to stop working since her retirement. Having been a very senior social worker in the field of child protection, she is frequently called upon to give advice, sit on boards, tribunals and the like.

  Some years ago she had a minor heart attack and, true to form, didn’t tell us, her children, until she had come out of hospital. To say she doesn’t like to make a fuss is an understatement. I went up to see her afterwards and had a terrible scare. I was in the kitchen downstairs and went
up to the sitting room on the first floor to find her lying on the floor on her tummy My own heart skipped a beat and I rushed into the room, only to find she was attempting to programme the video.

  Similarly, it used to worry me if I called her and she didn’t pick up. One evening about nine I called and got no answer, although I knew that she should have been at home. I ended up phoning her neighbour and good friend, John, and persuading him to go and check she was OK as he had a key Actually Mum had gone to bed early because she was tired, and was alarmed when she heard a man’s voice calling up the stairs in the dark. She said she thought it was the spirits come to get her!

  My brothers are both happily ensconced in their domestic lives. My brother Bill lives down in Sussex and has four children in their twenties and a five year old, which I think is pretty hard work.

  Every year, round about the time of Bill’s birthday he brings about fifteen friends to a Palace match and we have a nice nosh-up and sit in the directors’ box to watch the game.

  I have been a Palace supporter since the seventies, when I trained as a nurse near the ground and we used to go in a big group and watch every home game. I loved standing on the terraces and listening to the banter in the crowd. The language was absolutely appalling on occasions but not just for the sake of it; there were genuine comedians in the crowd. There was never an air of threat and it was just a good laugh.

  I very rarely heard any racism on the terraces, which cheered me up because that is one thing I cannot abide or understand.

  I have to say I was very disappointed once in the early eighties when I went for a curry in a local Indian restaurant to discover a handful of Palace players behaving in a racist way towards the waiter. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and went up to the table and called them a bunch of wankers. Hardly, ‘I have a dream,’ but I just wanted to make a point. I then beat a hasty retreat as I suspected they wouldn’t punch my lights out, but the lights of the male friends I was with.