The Varnished Untruth

by Stephenson, Pamela

  Well yes, but it’s important for you to understand that anxiety and many of the ways in which it’s expressed, such as OCD and some eating disorders, tends to run in families. Your essential anxiety was part of your mental constitution. You had it, your mother had it, and probably others in the family did as well. You were not to blame for it . . . and by the way, neither was your mother. And the trauma you sustained as a child and teenager – that was not your fault either. You were just a child!

  My head – my cognition – gets that, but there’s this deep shame about it too . . .

  How does that shame manifest itself?

  Well, it’s like this: a voice inside tells me that if only I had been more . . . loveable . . . those bad things wouldn’t have happened to me . . .

  You know very well that’s the way children tend to think when they’re trying to make sense of rejection, abandonment and abuse. They cannot allow themselves to rail against the adults who were responsible, so they turn their fury inwards instead . . .

  It’s taken me some time to understand that my long, childhood period of feeling unappreciated and unloved constituted a traumatic injury. Previously I had thought of trauma as always being the result of a single, scary event, like being nearly drowned or being attacked by a stranger . . .

  It’s a common misperception . . .

  As I grew into an adult I definitely began to have this very unusual feeling that I might actually deserve to be happy – even successful. This wasn’t easy to believe, but it was definitely dawning on me. By 1979, for example, when I was twenty-eight years old, my confidence was growing . . . I was gradually getting more used to being in London, and came to understand a bit more about how things worked. I stumbled into my role in Not The Nine O’Clock News, a TV show developed at the BBC by a gang of elite Oxbridge blokes. It’s quite true that I met the boyish, ebullient and clever producer John Lloyd at a party, but I didn’t shag him (as many people thought). No one could understand why a brash Australian Sheila got such a big break in British television, and unkindly assumed it was for the wrong reasons. However, it happened through a serendipitous – and well-boundaried – social meeting.There I was, in a relaxed mood among friends, doing some impressions of newscasters I’d seen in the USA, and apparently John Lloyd was quite taken with my sense of satire and invited me to go to the BBC and audition for him and co-producer Sean Hardie. At the time, I didn’t really pay John much attention, but I finally trotted into Television Centre at White City and improvised a few characters, read a few scripts. To be honest, I thought they seemed a bit disorganized and lackadaisical. They were surprisingly open about the fact that they had never done TV comedy before. I may not have been in the famous Cambridge Footlights like them (I’d never heard of that at the time), but I had done a fair bit of TV in Australia – and, most importantly, the time I had spent during my travels seeking and studying local satire in countries like Russia, Poland, Turkey and Indonesia made me well qualified to perform topical comedy.

  Luckily, John and Sean took me seriously and decided to cast me. The show started and it quickly became popular. Looking back, it was quite clever of them to choose me, because a nice British girl might have been afraid to do some of the things I did – taking on icons like the newsreader Angela Rippon, for example. But see, I had no idea who anyone was so I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t understand British society or politics, and I didn’t know or care if I was offending anyone.

  Coming to public attention – with all the attendant razzmatazz and discomfort – occurred very quickly. I barely understood what was happening until years later. But just before I was cast in Not The Nine O’Clock News I had come to embrace the Buddhist philosophy, which helped me to stay relatively centred – at least at first. It was a wonderful antidote to the worrying brand of Christianity I’d experienced earlier in life. In Buddhism, there was no such thing as original sin; you started out good and had a decent chance to remain that way. For an Anglican-raised person that was quite a novel concept! Buddhist precepts are based on the idea that, well, there are set guidelines if you want to be happy, but it’s your choice, and there is a minimum of agonizing expectations to be met – no wonder it was so attractive and helpful to me. Plus I found the meditation practices I acquired at the London Buddhist Centre in Bethnal Green, like the Mindfulness of Breathing, truly helped to assuage my escalating anxiety.

  You were becoming more anxious again, just at that point?

  Absolutely. Well, my life had changed so drastically. There had been all that travel, then a relocation to London, and now becoming successful . . . There was a part of me still going, ‘You’re unworthy, you don’t deserve that . . . Who do you think you are?’

  And whose voice was that, do you think . . . ?

  I suppose it was my mother’s or my father’s voice . . . Those voices could seriously interrupt my concentration. On the very first day’s shoot I simply could not get my lines right (later, John Lloyd told me he thought then and there he’d made a terrible mistake – I suppose I was lucky he didn’t fire me on the spot). But, with the help of the meditation techniques I had learned, I very quickly got into my stride. I can’t imagine what the others thought I was up to, isolating myself in a corner of the set, but I was desperately trying to calm myself and enter a useful creative state. There was a sketch in which I played a weird animal rights campaigner who barged into restaurants to ‘rescue’ cooked chickens and perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (I know, I know . . . it doesn’t sound funny, but you had to be there!) and after one long, largely improvised scene, our director called ‘Cut!’ and I suddenly became aware that the crew was applauding. ‘OK, I can do this,’ I thought happily. ‘I may not have gone to Oxford, but I’m ready.’

  After just a couple of weeks, NTNON gained a momentum – and notoriety – that got us well and truly noticed. As producers, John Lloyd and Sean Hardie cleverly pushed boundaries just as far as they could, while keeping the material smart and with broad appeal – even if it was pretty puerile at times. Talent-wise, we performers were a mixed bag, with Rowan Atkinson being largely a solo artist, Chris Langham (who was in the first series but did not continue on with it) being more of a self-contained writer and stand-up, and Mel Smith and myself approaching the work more as actors. Once Griff Rhys Jones replaced Chris we all began working more as a group but, like all performing groups, there were tensions and rivalries.

  But the NTNON team involved far more than four performers. Many writers and a talented production team helped to craft classic scenes such as ‘The Gorilla Sketch’, in which I played a TV anchor interviewing a curiously articulate gorilla called Gerald (played by Rowan) who had a quirky relationship with a zoologist (played by Mel). I’ve noticed that sketch still seems to hold its appeal, whereas the more topical offerings – such as another spoof BBC interview we did in which serious-minded people debated whether or not the Monty Python movie Life of Brian was blasphemous or not – were extremely funny at the time, but are now mystifying.

  One day I became aware that NTNON producers were particularly excited – as were my fellow cast members – because they had an appointment to meet a Scottish comedian called Billy Connolly, who they wanted as a guest on the show. I’d never heard of Billy, but I dutifully went along with the gang to meet him at his manager’s office. We all shook hands with this hairy stranger, then walked round to Geales fish restaurant for lunch. I was shocked. You know how sometimes you meet someone and have a completely unexpected reaction, a kind of secret knowledge? Some people would call it ‘love at first sight’ and I suppose it was. I was extremely taken with him. He was so different from the men I had met during NTNON – well-educated, genteel males without that edge of danger that Billy had. I was (unknowingly) very strongly attracted to him.

  ‘Danger’ . . . interesting word . . .

  Mmm, I take your point. At lunch he ate his fish with his bare hands and I remember thinking, ‘What an animal!’ He was thrilling; a savage gypsy lover
with a voice like gravel and honey, but I learned he was married. Oh, yes, that’s right – so was I.

  I had been married to the actor Nicholas Ball for about a year. He was a delightful man whom I truly loved, but we were not quite right for each other, and things were getting pretty tense at home. I had met him when he was the star of a TV detective series called Hazel and was enormously taken by him. We got on well for a while, but my sudden success in NTNON eventually meant I was unable to give him the time and focus he deserved.

  In Billy, you may have unconsciously recognized a fellow survivor . . .

  Yes! We matched and consoled each other but, right from the start, there were some big problems . . .

  I’m not surprised. But it was partly your previous abuse at the hand of a crazy, dangerous man that made it possible for you to be with Billy, wasn’t it? I don’t mean that he was like Helmut, but he was headed on a highly self-destructive path, which you came to recognize, didn’t you?

  Well, yes. And I had vowed never to put myself at the mercy of a violent man again, so when Billy showed signs that he was capable of out-of-control behaviour (i.e. under the influence of alcohol), I set a firm boundary and was prepared to walk away. I definitely fell in love with him the minute I met him, but at the time when I met Billy, my career was extremely important to me. I think he recognized that. Incidentally, I’m wondering now if perhaps John and Sean noticed we had a connection, because they got us to do a sketch in which Billy played an Iranian Ayatollah to whom I sang a love song as a naïve guerrilla. ‘There’s a man / In Iran / That I can’t ignore . . .’ Very silly, but hilarious and highly topical (the Iranian Embassy siege meant the sketch had to be withdrawn for a week until things were resolved), and you can see there was a spark between us.

  But as I said, I was conscious that NTNON was an extraordinary opportunity for me, and I was thoroughly focused on it. It was the perfect job for someone who was passionate about satire and had thoroughly studied it – and I was thrilled and proud to be part of it. However, it was also a pretty stressful work environment.

  Right from the start, I felt like an outsider. Not only was I the only female in the cast, but I was culturally quite different. Half the time, I didn’t understand what the others were laughing about. I was completely mystified about the British class system, British politicians and their political parties, and the nuances of life in the UK generally. In some ways I suppose that might have been a good thing because, until I caught up, I focused on what I could do: impersonations. I had never done them before, but using my acting skills and my musical ear (which helped me achieve vocal accuracy), I developed into a startling copy-cat.

  The BBC had an amazing in-house wig and make-up team at that time. I was especially helped by Kezia de Winne to look like the people I was impersonating, notably: newscasters Angela Rippon and Anna Ford, TV presenters such as Annie Nightingale, politicians like Margaret Thatcher, and pop icons like Olivia NewtonJohn, Kate Bush and Agnetha from ABBA. I loved crafting those impersonations. I took them so seriously I tried to forget they were meant to be funny – until I performed them for the live audience. Once I heard strangers laugh I knew they were good, and then I thoroughly enjoyed their approval. That’s the great thing about comedy – instant gratification! But I played everything very straight, never camping it up, and that helped to make the sketches even more powerful. My self-education in the political theatrical environments I’d visited during my travels had set me in good stead. And I understood that risk and danger in performance provided an edge that could be riveting to an audience.

  In fact, I played a huge range of characters on the show, not just impersonations, and was grateful that John and Sean were classy enough to allow and encourage me. After all, I could have just been a token woman. But instead of playing, say, the nurse, I was the doctor, and plenty of our sketches inverted – and even made fun of – traditional female roles. I didn’t have much to measure this against, but I sensed that this was a new quality of female support from male producers and I really appreciated it. John and Sean also provided me with an amazing opportunity to show my characterization skills. They seemed genuinely excited to watch me develop as a comic actor.

  Naturally, there were complexities in the group’s performing dynamics. Right from the start, I felt Mel and I worked particularly well together. He was a real actor and I think we understood how each other worked. Of course, Rowan Atkinson and Griff Rhys Jones were extremely funny but, in many ways, I wish Chris Langham had remained in the cast. I thought he was extraordinarily talented and was really more grown up than the rest of us. Perhaps that was his downfall, as it set him a little apart from the team.

  I’d like to say I played every female role but, in typical British style, the boys also loved to get into a dress whenever possible. ‘All right, very funny, ha, ha, ha,’ I’d say sourly. I don’t really blame them for wanting to cross-dress, because it guaranteed some serious laughs – especially for Mel – but at the time I found it really annoying. And I just didn’t quite get it. I was barely aware of the British pantomime dame tradition, hated Benny Hill and thought the whole idea of dressing as a woman if you weren’t actually transgendered – or received erotic pleasure from it – was really tacky. The boys and John tended to look slightly guilty whenever they were working on a drag sketch – well, they would, wouldn’t they, with me pouting furiously in the corner? They were all collapsing with mirth, while I made no attempt to conceal my pique.

  To be honest, I think they could be forgiven for deciding that, off-screen, I had no sense of humour. I remember being very thin at the time, and very edgy. I chain-smoked and ate very pure food – no salt, sugar or fat, if I could help it. I’ve mentioned that I had become a practising Buddhist and spent a lot of time meditating – which did help my focus and performance anxiety – but I wasn’t exactly fun to be around. I wish I could have just lightened up and enjoyed myself, but I couldn’t. It was all so overwhelming. And I did feel such a misfit. Well, what else was new? I’d been feeling that my whole life. Also, I was increasingly affected by occasional unkind comments in the press, which seemed to confirm the deep selfloathing I had never fully managed to eradicate.

  In achieving such success, and reaching such a central position in the limelight, you also risked massive rejection, didn’t you?

  Good point. And I really had no one to talk to in the early days; I was too busy to have friends and I was going through a very painful withdrawal and separation from Nicholas. The NTNON boys and I were a team in the professional comedy sense, but that was as far as our contact went. Actually, I’m not even sure I could use the word ‘professional’! We put the show together in a seemingly haphazard way. I remember our early rehearsals, in a big, chilly room somewhere near Hammersmith. There was a Space Invaders machine we all used to take turns at, non-stop. We’d start rehearsing a bit late, then halfway through the morning Richard Curtis would turn up with a crumpled bit of paper – something he’d handwritten for Rowan. Rowan would read it and, next thing, John Lloyd would be doubling over with his high-pitched laugh. The rest of us would roll our eyes because we wished Richard would write something brilliant for us, too. Now John would be in a great mood and Rowan would be smirking, Mel would be playing Space Invaders, and Griff would be eating an iced bun out of a paper bag, but I would be morose and plotting in a corner. I desperately wished I could write sketches that would blow them all away. I was like Ringo Starr, who used to think he’d come up with a good Beatles song, but when he turned up to play it for the band he’d walk in and Paul would be playing ‘Yesterday’. None of us could write like Richard, although together we were good at developing what other writers had drafted. Eventually, more writers would shuffle in and John would start reading what they’d been working on. If he broke into a giggle at any point the three boys and I would saunter over to see who could swipe that line. Oh yes, comedians will sell their mothers for a laugh – and we were no exception.

  Usuall
y these groups, like your comedy team, end up replicating dysfunctional families, and the individuals often behave in ways that are triggered by the group dynamic . . . You were slotting into your familiar role of family outsider, weren’t you?

  Ah, yes. Now that I am a psychologist I understand a lot more about groups, and I wish I’d understood that process back then. Nowadays, I’m especially interested in comedy troupes and musical bands and, professionally, I have often helped members of such collectives to deal with the stresses and problems that arise under such pressured conditions . . .

  Well, many people regress – and destructive competitiveness can be inspired by quite innocent acts: for example, assigning a particular role to one person may cause another to feel injured and resentful, even though the adult part of him may understand it’s for the greater good and he’ll get his turn.

  Yes. I know there were complicated issues – even a kind of sibling rivalry – swirling around all our psyches; and with John and Sean as ‘daddy’ and ‘mummy’ there were bound to be fireworks. Of course, now I understand that it must have been my deep fear of rejection that often caused me acute pain in that situation. Fortunately, all these feelings were kept in check – under the surface. Cross words were never spoken as far as I know . . .

  Maybe they should have been . . .

  Yes, I suppose it would have created more authentic relationships between us. To be honest, I don’t think any of my fellow cast members liked me at all. And I don’t blame them. Well, what would they have liked about me? I imagine the kind of women they would have liked were upper middle class, fun, matey, essentially lovely, accommodating types, like, well, Emma Thompson, who had come from the same background as them. I was far from accommodating and in NTNON I tended to steal the limelight a bit by being sexually provocative (the sketches sometimes demanded that). And I made the mistake of behaving competitively towards the boys, which didn’t go down too well. I really hadn’t learned how to get on with men who weren’t my boyfriends. Yes, the chaps disliked me. I wasn’t ‘one of them’, we were never friends, and we have not kept in touch. Also, I discovered after a couple of series that I was being paid a lot less than them. That seriously pissed me off.