The Sound of Laughter

by Peter Kay

  But we were in for the long con and three months later on the last day of term we tasted victory ourselves when we saw a furious Lawson staggering round the convent gardens carrying a mountain of ladies' coats.

  'Well, they must belong to somebody,' he repeatedly said to passing pupils whilst attempting to hand them a pink PVC mac. They just walked off mystified. Apparently he ended up giving the coats back to the local jumble sale.

  I found the rehearsals to The Wizard of Oz easy enough – every Sunday afternoon and a couple of evenings a week, after school. The hard part was revising for my exams. I've never been good at any kind of revision or dissertation. I start off with every good intention but within five minutes I find myself distracted, watering plants or putting my CDs in alphabetical order . . . sorry, I just noticed my Lighthouse Family CD was in with the Beatles.

  I'm not good at exams either. In fact, I even tried to cheat on an exam once in third year. I'd just seen a film at the pictures called Spies Like Us with Dan Aykroyd and Chevy Chase. It was OK, a few funny bits, but there was this one scene where they tried to cheat during an exam and that's what gave me the idea.

  I was in the middle of revising for my dreaded Chemistry exam. I decided to put my plan to the test. On the day of the exam, I got a scrap of paper and delicately wrote down some answers in the smallest handwriting I could muster. I scrunched the paper up into a tiny ball and then pondered where I could hide it. It had to be somewhere I could whip it out with ease if I was stuck for an answer in the exam. My trouser pocket was too obvious, so was my shirt sleeve. For some reason, and I still can't figure out why to this day, I decided to stick the ball of paper in my ear.

  Delicately, I balanced the paper on the edge of my ear, then I sneezed violently and it shot down into my ear and got stuck. I immediately started to panic which is the worst thing you can do in an exam. I grabbed a sharpened pencil and attempted to fish it out but I only managed to push it further into my head. By this time the other pupils were becoming distracted by the commotion. I looked over to Sister Zar Doin-it in a desperate effort to catch her attention. Eventually she glanced up from her copy of True Detective to see me now out of my chair, slapping the side of my head like a maniac. With tears in my eyes and the answers in my ear she sent me to see the nurse.

  Our resident school nurse was a she-male, a fella in drag, who only made an appearance a couple of times a year, to check six hundred kids' heads for nits and to dish out the annual TB injection. By now hyperventilating for fear of going deaf, I knocked on her/his door. Stinking of nicotine, 'it' opened the door.

  'What's up?' it snapped. Sobbing, I concocted a pathetic story about how I'd been a slave to earache the last few weeks and had only placed paper in my ear because I'd run out of tissues. I don't think it believed a word I was saying for one second. It mumbled something in Latin, looked into my ear with its reusable lighter and advised me to go to hospital. Bloody hell, not the hospital. They had to get my mum out of work. What a complete balls-up.

  At the hospital, my mum and a nurse had to pin me to the floor while a doctor ferreted around in my ear with the biggest pair or tweezers I'd ever seen in my life. I felt like one of the Borrowers. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the doctor started to drag the paper out of my ear. The noise was deafening. Then suddenly there was a pop, like a cork coming out of a bottle as he removed it from my head. I just prayed to God he didn't open it up and try to read it.

  Things didn't work out too bad in the end because I missed my Chemistry exam by going to the hospital. And I managed to get my left ear syringed into the bargain. I've been able to hear perfectly out of my left ear since.

  The Wizard of Oz was approaching fast and the nuns weren't happy when I told them I was going on holiday to Ireland for a fortnight with my mum. This meant I'd end up missing some important rehearsals. But what could I do? We'd had it booked for months. I promised them I'd be back in time for the dress rehearsal.

  I'd been going over to Ireland most of my life. Normally we'd fly over but because of the cost we could only go every couple of years. Flying used to be expensive. It's hard to imagine that today with all these budget airlines popping up everywhere. Nowadays you can fly halfway round the world for sod all. I hear people saying,

  'How can they afford to fly so cheaply?' and I say,

  'Try reaching for your life jacket under your seat when you're flying into the sea and you'll soon find out.' What do you want when you're paying sod all for your flight? Safety?

  This particular Easter the airline prices had got so expensive that we decided to go on the boat from Liverpool instead. Never again. It takes an hour to fly to Belfast on a plane from Manchester. It took eleven hours on the boat. I didn't realise that they travelled so slowly until I ventured up on deck after we'd been sailing for four hours and found I could still see the Liver Building.

  It was an overnight crossing and we had toyed with the idea of getting a cabin and our heads down for the night, but my mum's sister Roisin had made the same trip a few weeks previously and said that the nonsmoking lounge had long leather seats that were comfortable enough to sleep on.

  I don't know what my Auntie Roisin's idea of comfort was, but we didn't get a wink of sleep all night. The sea was very choppy and we spent most of our crossing sliding up and down the leather upholstery in a storm. We looked like a couple of extras from The Poseidon Adventure. It was awful, so awful in fact that last night, when my mum asked me where I was up to with my book and I replied, 'The boat trip to Belfast,' she immediately closed her eyes, shook her head and mouthed the word 'awful'.

  As well as enduring the discomfort of the leather seats, the howling wind and the freezing temperature, we also had to listen to the shittiest compilation tape in the world . . . ever. It was on a continual loop for the entire journey. In the middle of the night I resorted to trying to smash the speaker above my head with my shoe and I still get nauseous when I hear 'Moonlight Shadow' played on the pan pipes (mind you, wouldn't anybody?)

  Thankfully I had a lovely time in Ireland, but then again I always do. The way of life is much slower over there and it usually takes me a couple days to unwind, but once I've adjusted to it, peace and relaxation are the order of the day. I can honestly say that I'm rarely happier anywhere else in the world.

  It does amaze me, though, how laid-back everybody is. You've just got to go with the flow or the lack of it as the case may be. We used to stop at my granny's and some days we wouldn't even get round to leaving the house. We'd have every intention of going out but family would call and after copious amounts of tea and cake we'd always end up falling asleep in front of my granny's big open fire. Next thing you knew you'd wake up to the theme from Prisoner: Cell Block H and the day would be over.

  When I did manage to leave the house and get out into the fresh air I'd usually find myself walking down the hill into the local town, Coalisland in County Tyrone. I don't wish to sound patronising but it always seemed to me as if time had stood still – the bus, shops, even the public transport, on the rare occasions it appeared. In fact, apart from the barracks with its sixty-foot-high corrugated-iron fence that looked as though a spaceship had landed in the middle of the town, nothing had changed since 1947. One day I paid a visit to the library and hired out a cassette with my granny's library card. It was an audio cassette of the comedy series Porridge starring Ronnie Barker. I'd seen Porridge a few times growing up – it was usually on on Thursday nights after Top of the Pops. My parents would laugh at it a lot but I didn't understand it. As I got older I became more familiar with the movie version of Porridge that they made in the late seventies.

  It held special memories for me as it was one of the few times we all went to the cinema together as a family. My dad took us to the Odeon one night after school. Porridge was on a double bill with Rising Damp — The Movie. I remember my dad falling down in between the seat he was laughing that much.

  Maybe that's why I like it so much. I think it's in
evitable we inherit some of our parents' tastes. That day I hired Porridge, took it back to my granny's house and listened to it. I laughed as hard as my dad had at the Odeon all those years before. What impressed me the most was the sharp and witty dialogue, delivered with such impeccable timing. From that moment on I became a lifelong fan of Porridge and it opened my eyes to the comic genius of Ronnie Barker. It also ignited a spark deep down inside me. Perhaps one day I might be able to be a comic actor like him.

  Our holiday drew to a close and it dawned on us that we'd have to endure that bloody awful boat trip back to Liverpool again. Throwing caution to the wind we decided to book a sleeping cabin for the return journey. We also plied ourselves with a cocktail of anti-sickness tablets and sleeping pills before we left my granny's.

  Drugged up to the eyeballs, we said our emotional goodbyes and headed for the boat. Little tip for you, always check the date and time on your ticket before you leave. I sarcastically mentioned this to my mum as we stood on the docks watching 'our' boat sail off into the distance. That's the last thing I remember before I passed out.

  The rest is just a hazy memory. I do have a vague recollection of my Uncle Rory giving me a fireman's lift up my granny's path but the rest is a blur. After sleeping for seventeen hours we woke around teatime the next day, said our now not so emotional goodbyes once again and made a second attempt to catch the boat. This time we made it.

  But because of the previous day's cock-up I got back a day late for the dress rehearsal. I was in the nuns' bad books and Miss Shambo the school choreographer was furious. She'd spent the weekend teaching the rest of the cast some important dance moves and I'd missed them.

  I've no idea how familiar you are with The Wizard of Oz but while on their way to the Emerald City, Dorothy and co. are attacked in a forest by some creatures known as the 'Jitterbugs'. They're insects of some kind, or in our case third-year girls in tank tops and ra-ra skirts with their faces painted green. The Jitterbugs supposedly possess your body and make you dance until you drop, or in my case, just drop. Because Miss Shambo said it was too late for me to learn the dance routine and that I'd just have to sit on the stage like a good little Lion while everybody else cavorted around me to 'Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go' by Wham!

  'Don't you think it'll look stupid with everybody else dancing except me?' I said to Miss Shambo.

  'Yes, I do, but everybody else has rehearsed the steps.' As far as I was concerned I might as well sit on the stage holding a sign up saying 'Sorry, folks, but I was on holiday when they rehearsed this'. In fact, I actually started to make one in Art but ran out of glitter.

  Opening night, I nervously sat backstage having some last-minute fur stapled to my helmet and listening through the air vent to the audience filing into the assembly hall. It was my first big performance since the moon landings of '84.

  Before I knew it I could hear the orchestral strains of 'Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead' and then, once again, I felt the familiar cold hand of a nun as she touched my tail and she led me towards the darkened stage.

  'We'll have to stop meeting like this, Sister,' I whispered into her veil, but she gave me no response.

  I leapt out from behind a cardboard bush and roared 'Put 'em up' in my best American accent. It got a few laughs. So far so good. Then came the Jitterbugs. Wham! started playing right on cue and I immediately dropped to the floor as Miss Shambo had ordered, but as I sat watching the cast jitterbugging around me, I thought, hold on, this isn't right, and I could feel the adrenalin rushing through me. There was only one thing to do, so I leapt to my furry feet and like a Lion possessed I began to dance. I hadn't a clue if what I was doing was good or bad, but what I did know was that it was getting big laughs from the audience.

  With the laughter ringing in my ears, I jumped off the stage and danced out into the audience. I had no idea why, or where I was going, I just knew that I was on to something good. I headed towards my family. 'Hello, Mum,' I shouted and gave her a wave. By this time the place was rocking and the audience were in hysterics. They knew this wasn't in the script.

  I danced passed the Mayor and the governors, all the while avoiding eye contact with Miss Shambo who was sat in the corner furiously scribbling notes. I made my way back on to the stage and noticed a couple of trees representing the forest (well, they were actually second-year girls with American tan tights over their heads covered in bits of green tissue paper). I had an idea forming. I knew it was quite naughty but if I pulled it off it would bring the house down. I danced to the back of the stage, straight up to a tree and cocked my leg up. The room exploded. I held my leg in the air for a few seconds pretending to urinate.

  'Aw, you're dead, Miss Shambo's going to kill you!' said a girl's voice from inside the tree, but I couldn't have cared less. The sound of laughter was deafening now and with that kind of a reaction what I was doing couldn't be all that bad. But Sister Sledge gave me a right bollocking during the interval. She collared me backstage and said,

  'Is that what you're going to be when you grow up, a comedian?'

  I wanted to say, 'Yes Sister, it is,' but it was hard for me to talk with her hands round my windpipe.

  Ten years later in Marks & Spencer I bumped into that same girl. She said hello, I said hello back.

  'You don't remember me, do you?' she said. I had to confess I didn't. 'You pissed on me in The Wizard of Oz,' she replied, a little bit too loudly for my liking in the middle of Blue Harbour. 'My mum and dad always said you'd end up a comedian,' she added and walked off.

  Wham! reached their climax and I returned to my original position at the front of the stage and sat back down. The whole room shook with applause. It felt good.

  Being in the show seemed like academic suicide at the time. In fact, that's exactly what it turned out to be. I got one GCSE in Art and Dorothy went back to Kansas.

  But I've never regretted it for a second. Performing in the show opened my eyes again to the true potential I had for making people laugh. Not only was I glad that I followed my instincts and played the part but I also got to keep the Lion costume (and wear it sixteen years later on the road to Amarillo).

  Chapter Four

  A Highland Toffee and a Packet of Three

  I once overheard an actor being interviewed on TV-am. The telly was in the next room but I heard the interviewer (I think it was Richard Keys) ask what advice he had for any budding actors who may have been watching and fancied having a go at it.

  'I'm afraid you can't just have a go at acting,' the actor snapped back at Richard. 'If you want to be an actor then you've got to eat, sleep and breathe acting, that's if you want to be any kind of success.'

  I remember that scaring the shit out of me. I didn't want to eat, sleep and breathe acting, I just fancied having a go at it. You can imagine my relief when I ran in from the kitchen to discover that the actor being interviewed was Burt Kwouk. But nevertheless it did make me think, maybe I was fooling myself on this performing arts course?

  College could be fun sometimes, I have to admit, but I was finding it hard to settle in and I wasn't really enjoying myself. The other students were friendly enough but they seemed pretentious and angry. It was the first time a performing arts course had been set up in Bolton, and of course like all things new, there were a few initial problems. In this case the staff members. It felt as though nobody had actually sat down and thought about what running a performing arts course would entail. As time passed by we slowly began to get more and more suspicious about the tutors' qualifications. Did they know anything about performance? One tutor in particular took us for theatre workshop every Tuesday afternoon. I'll call him Mr Delaney (as that was his name). Unfortunately for him he was a severely cross-eyed man, who we discovered also taught horticulture to disabled people on the other side of town. He'd then drive over to us for the afternoon session with soil under his fingernails and spit on his shoes.

  Straight away we didn't see eye to eye. In fact, it was more eye to ear where he was c
oncerned. He'd already thrown me out of one of his lectures because I said I thought that Shakespeare was only famous because of his last name. God forbid you'd have an opinion.

  Mr Delaney resented me for being funny. I remember he completely blew his top in a lecture once. Grabbing me and leaning right into my face, he shouted,