Can't Stand Up for Sitting Down

by Jo Brand

  A few friends visited and sniggered at the end of the bed, and it took a whole week before I was back to normal. And halfway through this week, the burglary happened. I was called by the police in hospital and had to go home and survey the damage. I think I quite frightened the police with my puffy moon face. Still, I had some time off and got to watch more Countdowns.

  My dad loved Countdown too and at one point even auditioned for it. Unfortunately I don’t think he ever got more than five-letter words and was unceremoniously informed that he would not be in the show.

  As time went on, I was eventually asked whether I would come and be in Dictionary Corner and I was dead chuffed to be asked. Countdown was filmed at Yorkshire TV studios in Leeds and the day involved leaving home at about 5.30 in the morning, catching the 6.50 train from King’s Cross, arriving at Leeds at 10-ish and then rushing over to the studio, into make-up to be ready on camera at 10.30. We would do two shows in the morning and three in the afternoon, then come back on the 7 p.m. train and be home by about 10.30 — a bloody long day. Vivienne, my agent, always came with me and we viewed it as a bit of a day out.

  The first host of Countdown was the inimitable Richard Whiteley, an interesting mixture of a man with elements of your grandad, an Oxford don and an old-fashioned ladies’ man.

  I became terribly fond of him. He had that sort of 1950s sense of humour which consisted of terrible puns laced with gentle jokes. He was perfect for Countdown. Older viewers could giggle along with his puns, which had a warm familiarity about them and students — the other big group of viewers — could take the piss in an affectionate way.

  Richard was always so friendly and welcoming, as were the production team, like a little family who have been together for years. This is unusual in television, as it’s mainly young, thrusting and tends to have a lot of people called Jake and Sophie working in it.

  I always used to sit in Dictionary Corner with Susie Dent and we would have sweets hidden under our desk, the consumption of which had to be very carefully timed so you weren’t caught on camera chewing like a Friesian. Susie and I would pass notes to each other during the show, discussing the relative merits of various showbiz men we’d met and who we’d snogged. It was very good fun.

  The scandal of the earpiece erupted on Countdown some years ago. One of the papers revealed that guests were fed words through an earpiece just in case they were thick as shit and couldn’t come up with anything longer than three letters. I never considered this a big deal particularly. A sizeable majority of the production team were ex-Countdown champions, and it stands to reason that they would come up with something interesting. And who wants to hear someone like me say, ‘Yes, I’ve got a six too.’

  After a while I developed a little game in Dictionary Corner which involved me making up my own words. This has become somewhat of an albatross round my neck as now it means I have to do it. My favourite word to date is ‘Cronenav’ — a satnav system where an old lady sits in the back of your car and tells you where to go.

  I was very upset when Richard died; he left a big hole in a lot of people’s lives. The last time I saw him, we were on something called Starspell together, a celebrity spelling competition. He and I found ourselves in the final two. I am a right fascist about spelling and very competitive, so I really wanted to win. As it drew nearer to the climax, I got the word ‘philately’ which I knew well, but because I stumbled, I was disqualified and Richard won, but I found myself not minding at all because he was so lovable. Incidentally, during that show is the only time my pants have fallen down on telly. The pair I had on were too small and kind of rolled themselves down. Thankfully I was wearing trousers so they only got as far as my knees so it could have been a lot worse.

  Richard was replaced by Des Lynam and then Des O’Connor, whom I knew vaguely, having filled in on his chat show Des and Mel. Des is a real giggler and a sweet bloke, and one day when I was feeling dead rough at Countdown, he turned up at my dressing-room door holding a bottle of Jim Beam. That was an interesting recording.

  After the two Deses came Jeff Stelling, who I don’t feel I know at all, yet. I have only done Countdown once under his benign gaze, so an opinion has not been formed, but Countdown has been one of the great pleasures of my life both as a viewer and a participant.

  Panel shows are comedian fodder and they all have a fair sprinkling of the country’s hot new comics on them, as well as some old lags like me.

  The most successful panel shows to date have been, I think, Have I Got News For You, They Think It’s All Over and QI.

  I first did Have I Got News early in the nineties, and I was bloody terrified. Angus Deayton was still the host and Paul Merton and Ian Hislop, as they are now, were so confident, on the ball and funny that it was a daunting prospect for a relatively inexperienced stand-up such as myself. I was also aware that an appearance by a woman on these shows was as rare as an empty doctor’s surgery, so I did feel the weight of expectation upon me and that just increased my anxiety. On my first show I was so grateful to Fred Macaulay, a lovely Scottish comic who was doing the warm-up. He was very encouraging and supportive, telling me not to worry and giving me a few suggestions for lines pertaining to the week’s news and I will be eternally grateful to him.

  However, once the lights go up, you are always on your own. As someone who is used to being cooperative and doing a lot of ‘No, after you’, I found it hard to force my way in and spout out possibly fall-flat-on-their-arse jokes — still do, in fact. And there is nothing worse than throwing out a line you think will really make ‘em laugh, only to be greeted with stony-faced indifference. Fred Macaulay used to have a lovely line for when that happened and would say, ‘That’s the best that joke has ever gone.’ Would have loved to have nicked that off him, but have made it a rule that I don’t steal anyone’s material.

  Sometimes when you watch HIGNFY you think, Blimey, that guest hardly said anything. I always feel for those people because I know how hard it can be to make your mark on a show whose permanent members are so brimming with talent and confidence.

  After I’d done a few shows, I stopped for a while as I just didn’t seem to have the butting-in-and-delivering-a-killer-line skill, and when you think you’re being crap at something, my advice is to try harder for a bit and then if it still doesn’t work, stop doing it. Surely it’s better not to be on something, than be crap on it.

  Recently I have started guest-hosting HIGNFY which I find much more enjoyable. Being in that chair gives you an authority that I just didn’t feel I had when I was a guest on the panel. It’s not only about having funny lines, it’s about having the confidence to deliver them, and even the funniest joke in the history of the universe, delivered hesitantly, will not go as well as a bad joke delivered with your big guns.

  This, I think, is a real case in point as far as Mock the Week is concerned. I keep being told by people that I have slagged off Mock the Week, but I don’t think I have. I have just been truthful about how I find it when I’m on it.

  Much of a programme’s character is down to the producer, and Mock the Week’s producer is called Dan Patterson, an experienced, talented and nice bloke. His production company is called Angst’ and for good reason. He is very tight and quite controlling about what he wants, and I found that a difficult framework to work within. Besides that, there are seven comedians in it, all vying for attention on MTW and I found myself thinking, Can I really be arsed to fight for airtime with all these guys who are so keen, confident and funny? And the answer that came back to me was, ‘No, I can’t,’ so I stopped doing the show, simple as that. It doesn’t suit me and that’s all there is to it.

  They Think It’s All Over by its very nature was predominantly male, testosterone-fuelled and not a place for the shrinking violet to be residing. Nick Hancock is a mate of mine so I’m ashamed to say I treated it partially as a social event where I could catch up and have a natter with him. I found Gary Lineker a good laugh to work with, and we would
always find something to have a bet on, whether it was a challenge to get a particular word in or to answer a particular question.

  I once answered a question about football and politics that involved Germany acknowledging the Independence of Croatia. Gary simply refused to believe that I had not been given the answer before the show, but I hadn’t. I do read the papers. Maybe he thought I sat at home poring over Heat magazine. Well, I do, but I read the papers too and I fail to see why the two should be mutually exclusive.

  Gary is what I would call ‘a solipsistic ironist’; he seems to play up to the footballer image of being not very bright and pretends not to know things. Then he takes the piss out of you for assuming he was so thick.

  Rory McGrath used to delight and piss me off in equal measure. He’s a likeable guy, a man’s man, but his never-ending jokes about sportswomen having moustaches used to drive me nuts and I tried to counteract him at every possible point in the proceedings.

  Jonathan Ross, who was a team captain for a while, was also very lovable but would occasionally dive into comedy rants about things I thought were unacceptable. He knew that these would never be transmitted as they were too near to the knuckle, but sometimes his comments used to get on my nerves. Oh yes, yes, I can hear some of you say, political correctness gone mad. However to me, the existence of political correctness is a GOOD THING because it protects the vulnerable. It is only a handful of silly people who have taken it too far and have laid themselves open to well-deserved derision, taking with them the rest of the gang who are only trying to improve the lives of those who have historically been treated like shit. To me there is nothing worse than watching white, wealthy, middle-class privileged men having a pop at people who have less ability and confidence to protect themselves.

  QI is always a joyful experience. I love doing it. Alan Davies is a friend, so I get a chance to see him, but it’s good fun working with Stephen Fry too. Being in the presence of his gargantuan brain makes me feel about five years old. QI has a gloriously loyal following and usually the audience know more than the panel does. The recording takes a good two hours and how they fit it into half an hour, I do not know. I think the feel-good factor on QI is down to the producer John Lloyd, who is a talented, highly intelligent and lovable man who has a great sense of humour and has been behind many of TV’s comedy successes like Not the Nine O’Clock News and Spitting Image. You may think he has given me some money to eulogise him, but he hasn’t.

  Never Mind the Buzzcocks

  This was a show I always loved doing because it was hosted by my friend Mark Lamarr and therefore, saddo that I am, it gave me an opportunity to socialise. Like They Think It’s All Over was a mixture of comics and sports-people, so Buzzcocks was a mix of musicians and comics. I am hardly the world’s expert on music, so I never really knew the answers to questions, but I suppose that didn’t matter and that’s not why people were watching anyway. They wanted laughs.

  It was quite a blokey show and the few women performers from the music industry tended to be there to be decorative rather than anything else. I remember though being on the show with Sporty Spice as she was then known, and bloody hell, could that woman talk; none of us could get a word in edgeways.

  Sometimes I would have a great time on it and things would go brilliantly, because as a comic you cannot help being aware of the laughs-count in your head. Other times, I would slink away from it feeling that I’d done really badly and they wouldn’t book me again because I was so rubbish. In those situations I just had to wait for a couple of days to pass and then I would forget about it and move on.

  I love the radio, always have done. First of all, you don’t have to sit down and look at it and secondly you can multi-task while you’re listening, which is what all us women love to do.

  I have worked mainly on Radios 2 and 4, and also on what was once known as GLR and is now called BBC London.

  My first foray into radio started fairly early on in my comedy career when I was invited to do bits and pieces of comedy and stand-up on a show called Hey RRradio! which was presented by John Hegley and Patrick Marber. I have always been a huge admirer of John Hegley, whom I have mentioned elsewhere in this book. He is a comedy genius and I do not know why he isn’t really famous. He has a cult following of people who absolutely adore him. This may actually be a more comfortable place to sit on the entertainment scale, as once you get a telly profile, lots of problems come with that. (This sounds as if I don’t like Patrick, which is not true!)

  Hey RRadio! was recorded in the charming rural hamlet of Woolwich in South-East London at The Tramshed, which was an old tramshed, handily enough. It was probably nearest to a comedy gig as anything could be without being a comedy gig and therefore was very comfortable to do. Basically we did the show to the audience while someone turned a tape recorder on, taped it and then snipped out the crap bits and then it went on the radio.

  As time moved on, my comedy profile improved with the more telly that I did. Way back in the nineties there was a show on the radio called The Mary Whitehouse Experience which was an early version of the TV show of the same name. The show consisted of me, David Baddiel, Rob Newman, Punt and Dennis (Hugh Dennis of Outnumbered and Mock the Week fame) and a singing duo called Skint Video who were big on the comedy circuit. The producer was one Armando Iannucci who I’m sure you know (The Thick of It).

  The show was recorded in front of a studio audience in one of the radio theatres and had songs, stand-up and sketches in it.

  One day, as I arrived for rehearsal in the afternoon, I was handed a sketch to do. Being the only woman, I tended to get all the ‘lady’ roles. The sketch (short and sweet) consisted of me coming on stage to very loud American-style whooping and cheering and saying, ‘Oh dear, I’ve forgotten to put my pants on.

  Well, I don’t know if I was feeling particularly arsey that day, but I protested about why it had to be me who did that line, arguing that it would be funnier if a man said it. However, this was not accepted and I was told it was a line for a woman to do. So, rather grumpily I agreed to do it, but it niggled at me and when the time came round for me to perform it in front of the audience, I decided to take the line in my own way through to its logical conclusion.

  So I stepped on stage to the sound of whooping and cheering and said, ‘Oh fuck it, I think my quim’s showing.’

  Well, it got a really big laugh with a few gasps thrown in.

  Unfortunately/fortunately it wasn’t live. Had it been, I would probably never have worked on radio again.

  Other favourite forays in the early years included:

  Windbags

  Windbags was a show which I presented with stand-up Donna McPhail. Donna was a very sharp and dry stand-up who had worked on the circuit for years, and her fast speech and habit of jumping from topic to topic was a real contrast to my rather slow and laconic delivery. We used a tune for the top of the show by Rhoda & The Special AKA called ‘Old Boiler’ which is actually a rather scary and unsavoury song about a woman who gets raped. Yes, cheery, I know. We only had the instrumental lead-up in the show, so unless you were an aficionado of Two Tone, you wouldn’t even have noticed.

  We only interviewed women on the show, and our guests included Barbara Windsor, Caroline Aherne and Candida Doyle, keyboard player for the band Pulp. I asked her a question about Jarvis Cocker with whom I had appeared in bed on the front of the New Musical Express. (Well, be honest, that was the only way I was ever going to get into bed with him.) Candida refused to answer the question, saying, ‘He wouldn’t talk about me in an interview so why should I talk about him?’ Quite right too.

  The show ran for a couple of series but sadly never got recommissioned for a third despite having very high listener satisfaction ratings (whatever that means).

  GLR/Radio London

  I loved my time at GLR/Radio London. Although it was a local radio station, because it was London it felt quite cosmopolitan and we were able to get great guests on. Initially I had a mu
sic show on which I was allowed to play what I liked — what a joy to be able to impose one’s musical taste on everyone else. Although I am obviously a bit of an adolescent as I tended to pick songs (completely unconsciously) which had swear words in them. On one morning I remember I had picked ‘Little Boy Soldiers’ by The Jam and ‘Working-Class Hero’ by John Lennon. Halfway through ‘Little Boy Soldiers’ I saw a strange expression cross the face of the techie on the show. He realised a ‘fuck’ was coming up and leaped towards some dials and just managed to dip the sound before the offending word blasted round London. He wasn’t so lucky with the Lennon song, but we apologised and I don’t think there were that many complaints anyway.

  Perhaps my favourite show on BBC London which GLR then became, was an interview show on Sunday mornings where I would be given a pretty heavyweight guest to interview from the world of politics or the arts. Among my best guests were Mo Mowlam, Vanessa Redgrave and Michael Foot.

  Mo Mowlam was as full of life and humour as you would imagine. Very bright, sparky and relaxed. Speaking to her was enormously enjoyable and fun. By contrast, Vanessa Redgrave was scary as anything. Erudite, confident and as true a member of the arts aristocracy as you could get. I felt as if I was interviewing a headmistress, and was desperate not to put a foot wrong. Thankfully I didn’t and we got on well, but I did feel like a naughty schoolgirl who hadn’t done her homework.