by Rob Brydon
Several of my teenage years ended like this, drunken friends getting off with drunken girls while Sober Bob strolled home mystified by the unfairness of the universe.
The Stoneleigh was one of the very few nightclubs at which I spent any time as a teenager; the other was the Troubadour in the Aberavon Shopping Centre, where I worked weekends while in the sixth form. Seeing the name of the place in print is a little misleading, lending it an undeserved air of sophistication when you bear in mind that the glasses were made of plastic. If readers are at all familiar with a nightclub called the Troubadour, it’s more likely to be the one found on Santa Monica Boulevard in Los Angeles, a legendary venue famous for the role it played in launching the careers of, amongst others, Elton John, James Taylor and Carole King. To really appreciate my memories of the Port Talbot Troubadour, it’s vitally important that you clear your mind of any thought of the Los Angeles venue. They were very different.
I worked behind the bar of the Port Talbot branch, handling the plastic glasses on Friday and Saturday nights, during the last summer before leaving home and heading off to college. In doing so I joined a group of regular employees who would have been a scriptwriter’s dream, so clearly were their characters defined; had it been a sitcom that was being written, then a convincing argument could have been made for their individual and collective entrapment (the state in which, we are told, all successful sitcom characters find themselves).
There was the single mum, Julie, who I’m guessing would have been in her early twenties, with lots of make-up but the perfect skin of a porcelain doll. Then the young lovers, Sandy and Andy. Sandy worked behind the bar and Andy helped the DJ. (Did he? I don’t know how anyone writes an autobiography without a team of helpers.) And then there was Barbara, the older, matriarchal member of the team. (Was she forty? Was she younger? I don’t know! I was nineteen, it was ages ago.) I do remember her regarding me with amusement as a nice boy who’d lived a pretty comfortable life up till now and had perhaps not experienced much of the earthier side of life. I can’t remember what it was exactly, but one evening she responded to something I said with an emphatic, ‘What you need is a good fuck.’ Perhaps I’d asked her what it was she thought I needed?
The resident DJ at the club was a jovial fellow with the violently heterosexual name of Roger Knight. He worked on a raised dais, from where he enjoyed a panoramic vista that encompassed the entire dance floor and most of the rest of the club. From his lofty eyrie he had control of the sound system and lights. Not just the flashing and spinning disco lights as they pulsated in a never-ending festival of colour (red, blue, green … ooh, purple) but the house lights too. When one of the not infrequent fights broke out, Roger would press a button – like Christopher Lee’s Scaramanga reaching under the table to fire his gun – switching on the ceiling lights nearest to the affray, and calmly point to the newly illuminated offenders so that the bouncers would know where to go. He did all this without breaking a sweat, still managing to mix seamlessly from KC and the Sunshine Band into something new from Level 42.
If you’ve ever worked in a bar or ‘disco’, as I suppose this was, then you’ll know that the running of the place is a curious blend of show business, the hospitality industry and a hint of the underworld. It has to be said that some of the clientele would have struggled to keep up with the etiquette requirements at the Henley Regatta and could be quite direct in their responses to what was going on around them. One chap to whom I served a pint of something or other screwed up his face in disgust and spat the mouthful of liquid straight back out at me, saying, with admirable economy, ‘That tastes like piss.’ Thus expressing in four words what even the most gifted food critic would struggle to contain within a page.
The many scuffles and fights I witnessed while working at the Troubadour weren’t limited to the boys, although it was usually the young men that started them. The girls would often get involved too, in the traditional ‘leave it, Wayne, he’s not worth it’ manner, pulling at the mid-eighties-fashion-clad arms of their beloved before getting a taste for the action and piling in themselves.
Fans of the macabre will be pleased to hear that the bloodshed wasn’t confined to the dance floor. One of the most disturbing sights I have ever witnessed was revealed to me all those years ago in the Ladies’ toilets after an especially unpleasant mishap. Earlier that evening, I’d noticed a bit of a scene developing around the entrance to the conveniences, and the subsequent appearance of an ambulance crew. Once the club had closed and we were clearing away the plastic glasses, one of the bouncers came over to me, gesturing towards the toilets and smiling, ‘Come and have a look at this, Rob …’ The bouncers were always very friendly to me, huge, hulking, brick outhouses of men, often with children’s faces. They seemed to take to me. There was something of Androcles and the Lion to our relationships, although I can’t honestly claim to have ever removed thorns from their toes. We went into the Ladies toilets, to be met by a sight that wouldn’t have been out of place in Brian De Palma’s Scarface.
A toilet was lying in pieces within its cubicle; there were pools of blood on the floor, and blood splattered over the walls. It was all I could do not to be sick. The bouncer told me what had happened, shaking his head and tutting as he recounted the story. Apparently, a girl had been standing on the then unbroken toilet, looking over the cubicle divider to chat with her friend, one booth along. The toilet had given way under her weight and split open. As she fell to the ground, the jagged porcelain of the shattered toilet had sliced into her leg and, hey presto, ‘Say hello to my little friend.’
It wasn’t a bloodbath every night, though, and I had many good times amongst the regular staff whose number I was swelling during the busy summer holiday period.
As I look back now on these few months of work, which would lead up to my leaving home and going to college, the whole episode takes on the air of a Neil Simon play. Me, the young innocent, taking my first faltering steps into the adult world, bumping up against all sorts of characters who, in light of my age and the setting in which we found ourselves, related to me for the first time more as an adult than as a child. Substitute Brighton Beach, New York for Port Talbot, and Eugene Jerome for me, and my story could remain roughly the same without any impairment of the audience’s enjoyment.
All the staff welcomed me and made me feel as though I was one of the team – although, looking back, I was more than a little wet behind the ears and I’m sure, for this reason alone, a great source of amusement to them all. I was yet to be initiated into the ways of the fairer sex, with no sign of a girlfriend on the horizon despite many efforts on my part to woo my classmates at Porthcawl, all of whom seemed to have taken a vow of abstinence when it came to anyone answering my description. But surely, you protest, working in a nightclub must have presented you with some opportunities to explore new possibilities? Hmm, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? If I might be permitted to employ the terminology of the football fan for a moment, perhaps I can relay to you an episode in which it can be said I missed ‘an open goal’.
It was Hawaiian Night at the Troubadour, an exciting prospect for staff and locals alike. I remember arriving for work in an optimistic pair of colourful shorts and a suitably Hawaiian shirt, to be met by a wolf whistle from Barbara. Ironic, I’ve no doubt. Julie would have treated me to a sympathetic ‘aww …’ and Sandy probably joined the chorus with a giggle.
There were two bars at the Troubadour: the big main bar, which would be staffed throughout the night by three of us and, around twenty-five feet away to the left, in the darkness on the edge of town, a smaller facility, which would be manned solo. For this reason I always referred to it (rather wittily, I thought) as the Millennium Falcon. It would not be the last time I would find myself explaining a joke. On the night in question, after a period on the big bar with my colleagues, I was sent over to man the Millennium Falcon. This gave me a great sense of pride, to be handed such responsibility so soon into my tenure at the club, and a
s my short white legs crossed the floor space, clad only in my colourful tropics-suggesting shorts, I was determined not to abuse the trust that had been placed on my young shoulders.
The thing to remember about the smaller bar was that you were on your own, and the till was your sole responsibility; if there were any mistakes or discrepancies at the end of the evening, they were down to you and you alone. It was expected that you would make good any shortfall, a serious proposition given the modest wages that the job provided. With this in mind I was extra careful to give the correct change and to always keep an eye on the till, which was positioned behind and to the right of me, lest someone attempt to dip their fingers therein. With hindsight, this overly cautious approach cost me an evening of delights which would, I’ve no doubt, have altered the course of my future relationships with women. At the very least, I would have started the race at the same time as the other runners, rather than chasing desperately behind them, baton in hand. It’s fair to say I handed over my baton much later than my friends …
But back to the little bar. There I was, working away diligently in a Hawaiian style when at some point I found myself talking to two girls as they leaned against the bar. I can remember absolutely nothing about their appearance. I remember a great deal about their actions. As the conversation progressed (what were we talking about? I have no idea …), it occurred to me that the girls, and certainly one of them in particular, were becoming increasingly fruity, the one leaning in ever closer as her friend looked on approvingly. I remember them urging me to come out from behind the bar and join them so that we could familiarize our young selves. I was hesitant, my lack of success with girls at this point leading me to believe the only rational explanation for such interest on their part was their being involved in an elaborately planned sting, the design of which was to separate me from my beloved till. At which point their stripy-shirted accomplices would drop from the ceiling, SWAT-style, and empty the till of all the carefully counted money I had collected thus far.
To encourage a positive response on my part, the more forward of the two, while her helper looked on offering encouraging glances, began to suck my finger. She was sucking my finger! It may have been two fingers; it may even have been three. It was all I could do to stand upright and not pass out. In between slurps she would keep imploring me to come out from behind the bar. I wanted to. God knows, I wanted to. I think it’s fair to say that I had never wanted anything more in my entire life. She had managed to wangle out of me the fact that my mother’s red Datsun Cherry was parked outside, and suggested it would be the perfect vehicle for the three of us to drive off in towards her warm and cosy flat on the nearby Sandfields Estate. I pictured this beautiful abode as she sucked and licked my fingers ever more salaciously, while simultaneously glancing nervously over my shoulder to check on the till.
By now, there were two things stopping me from leaving the safety of my post. One was the till, the other was the risk that my flimsy shorts, robbed of the shielding properties of the bar, might give too clear an indication of my conflicted state. I have to say that nowadays in such circumstances I would probably leap up onto the bar and demand a spotlight, but in those long-gone times of fantastically frequent and often unaccountable downstairs developments, I usually found myself reacting with great self-consciousness. And so it went on, the freshest stalemate known to man, until, bewildered and defeated, the two of them sloped off in a highly aroused state of defeat and I was left, standing proudly next to the till – still intact.
On many occasions since that day I have played out in my mind the events of that most anti-climactic of evenings, struggling to remain true to the details as they unfolded. Rather like a screenwriter adapting and altering a much-loved book for the cinema, the only thing I change is the ending. In all my nights at the Troubadour, this was the one and only time that sex – or, at least, the faint possibility of sex – reared its head. This and the ever present, ‘can’t rule it out’ scenario lurking in my overdeveloped adolescent imagination that one evening, quite without warning, Barbara, in the manner of a short, Welsh and slightly aggressive Mrs Robinson, would take me in hand and teach me the ways of the world.
She never did.
The Troubadour was the first job I ever had, unless you count washing cars for Dad’s sideline, a car valeting business in a lock-up in Port Talbot. There’s not a great deal to report about my time with the sponge – in fact, it’s no exaggeration to say that my only memory is of washing away one day and hearing the DJ on the radio announce that the new single from Shakin’ Stevens was entitled ‘Green Door’. I can remember that with sparkling, high-definition Blu-ray clarity. I must have spent hours there, washing, polishing and buffing; yet that’s all I can remember. Perhaps it’s Shaky that makes it memorable. I was a huge fan, with an exhaustive collection of his record-breaking singles, stored neatly and safely in one of those little plastic carrying cases that we all had in those days. I would cycle to Port Talbot and purchase the discs on the day of release, at Derrick’s, the record shop favoured by Port Talbot’s more discerning young hipsters.
I eventually met Shaky many years later, when he came on The Keith Barret Show Christmas Special and we sang together. Almost. He had a throat infection, so we ended up doing a peculiar version of his big festive hit, ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’, where we’d sing a couple of lines each, he miming and me singing live. It hadn’t been easy, booking him; I had to call him personally and reassure him that we weren’t going to take the mickey. We weren’t. I couldn’t have been more excited than at the prospect of singing with my childhood hero. When I finally got to speak to him on the phone and make my pitch, I probably scared him a little with my knowledge of his back catalogue, listing obscure album tracks and ‘B’ sides to convince him of my sincerity.
I wasn’t the only one excited at the prospect of Shaky’s appearance. I remember singing away on the night of the recording, as the fake snow fell all around us, and seeing that most edgy of actors, the King of Credibility, John Simm, who was standing on the studio floor behind the cameras, jigging around and singing along. I’d met John while filming 24 Hour Party People, Michael Winterbottom’s retelling of the Factory Records story, all about Joy Division, Happy Mondays and New Order. Here he was now, dancing along to Shaky and me.
If someone had told me when I was back at school, or sitting up in my bedroom playing Shaky’s records, that he’d one day be standing next to me on my TV show miming his heart out, I wouldn’t have believed them. As it turned out, I would go on to meet and often work with many of my heroes in the years that followed – but of course I didn’t know this at the time.
As a result of the school shows, I had a quiet confidence that I would go on to find success as an actor or a performer of one sort or another; it was a confidence that would be put to the test, but for now it was intact. With that in mind, the first step was to find a place at drama school.
PART TWO
‘Working on a Dream’
8
In my final year at school, assuming that I’d somehow manage to pass the five O level exams necessary for a grant, I began filling out the forms required to apply for auditions at drama school. I chose the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (or RADA, as it is famously known), the Central School of Speech and Drama, both in London, and finally, closer to home, the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama, in Cardiff. As far as I can recall, applicants were told to prepare a piece of Shakespeare and something modern. Something modern tended to mean Pinter, and so I set about learning a piece from The Homecoming. It was the bit where Lenny is talking to Teddy about his misappropriated cheese roll, and it’s full of unpleasant undertones. I’m not sure that I managed to convey the darkness and unbearable menace that is so obviously there; I suspect I came across more as David Jason’s Del Boy in a bit of a bad mood.
Many, many, many years later I would meet Harold Pinter at a restaurant in London. My wife and I had been for dinner with friends, one of whom
was on good terms with Harold and his wife Lady Antonia Fraser who, we discovered, were seated two tables away. At the end of the meal our companions went across to say hello, and so I drifted over to join them, admittedly a little intimidated by the thought of the great playwright whose words I had failed to do justice to, twenty-three years previously.
To my surprise, he recognized me as I approached. ‘Ah, you’ll know … We’re talking about laughter, different forms of laughter.’
I affected a look of confidence, as though casually chatting with Harold Pinter in a West End restaurant (it was the Ivy – there, I’ve said it) was something I took in my stride, an occurrence of almost monotonous regularity. Meanwhile I was searching for something to say that would show me to be a bit of a thinker.
He was looking up at me, and waiting for my response.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘there’s a great difference between the laughter you hear from the studio audience on an old Morecambe & Wise Show and the laughter you hear from the audience at a modern television recording,’ and I made a face to indicate that in my opinion things were better in the days of Eric and Ernie.