In the Nineties, documentary makers like Paul Wason used to boast that they were ‘taking the temperature of Britain’, and that’s what these two writer-performers are doing now in a series of rapid character sketches, only with more acute powers of observation and a rectal thermometer. Take Vicky Pollard, whose incoherent scatological outbursts brilliantly captured the hormone-crazed confusion of the adolescent mind, or the verruca-covered urchins who splashed around aimlessly in the municipal swimming pool, a place that no self-respecting person would be seen dead in (unlike, say, Michael Barrymore’s private pool).
More disturbing still was the world’s least convincing transvestite, Emily Howard, whose motto is ‘I’m a lady, I like to do ladies’ things’, and whose appearance is fifty per cent Emily Bronte, fifty per cent Reggie Kray. She reminded me of the wig-and-suspenders-wearing transvestite flasher I read about in my local rag only this week, who, when apprehended on a golf course by police and asked ‘Have you ever sought medical attention?’ got his/her own back by replying, ‘Well … I did have a bit of sinus trouble recently.’
With Steve Bendelack as director, and Mark Gatiss as script editor, a certain League of Gentlemen influence was inevitably apparent (although I’m certainly not complaining, because what better influence could there be for a comedy?)
Cake-crazy Marjorie Dawes is certainly a near relative of the pen-obsessed Pauline, but that didn’t make her insane slimming advice (‘Cut your favourite food in half, and it’s just half the calories! And because it’s half the calories, you can have twice as much!’) any less plausibly ridiculous, or less funny.
Darker moments included the appearance of teenage gerontophiliac Gary, and two gay Government advisers who both wanted to do to the Prime Minister what he’s recently been doing to the country, but most surreal of all was the sight of two Black and White Minstrels listening anxiously to a radio, on which the Home Secretary was promising to ‘send them all back to Minstrel-land’. Incidentally, I’m currently trying to obtain a copy of the Black and White Minstrel radio show, which they used to record in full make-up and costume, an act that was almost as pointless as the magician I heard on LBC in the Seventies, saying: ‘Yes, caller, I can confirm that this is your card.’
As with Avid Merrion’s Bo’ Selecta! (a programme that must have been inspired by this duo’s characterisations), this series succeeds because its stars are accomplished straight actors, as well as gifted writers.
The result is a comedic masterpiece that’s innovative, funny, and very, very British, full of characters who (once the series gets a terrestrial showing) are destined to become as well-known as the dramatis personae of The Fast Show.
The kakopyginous [sic] Marjorie will certainly become celebrated for her unhinged approach to weight loss, with methods almost as odd as my own idea for winning the ‘Slimmer of the Year’ title in one of the hundreds of diet magazines that currently infest the shelves at WH Smith. I won’t actually lose any weight for the award, of course. I’ll just buy a pair of trousers with 158-inch waist, put them on, point at the huge amount of slack, smile for the photos, and collect the dosh.
YES!
The Wednesday after the Jonathan Ross Show was recorded I won the Best Newcomer award at the British Comedy Awards. Despite having been active in the world of comedy for the best part of a decade. I kept quiet about that. When my name was called the room erupted in cheers. This was before our monumental success jaded the response of some of our peers. I had planned to say nothing as I accepted the award, as I really had no idea what to say anyway, so I kissed Jonathan on the lips and ran off in an outrageously camp way. It was original and funny, and for the first time in my life I felt as if I was at the centre of something, rather than on the fringes. Still I couldn’t quite let myself go. Instead of going to the party, I came home and read a book I had started called The Gulag: A History of the Soviet Camps. Clearly I still didn’t quite know how to enjoy myself.
The next morning I was walking through Covent Garden, doing some Christmas shopping. A teenage girl recognized me and pulled on her father’s sleeve. The man approached me. ‘You’re off that Little Britain, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Can my daughter here have a photo with you?’
‘Of course,’ I said. And the teenager came and stood next to me as her dad fiddled with his mobile phone, and eventually took the picture.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘She likes all the famous people.’
I looked at them both. ‘I’ll tell them. They’ll be thrilled!’
Every Christmas Day my family visits my dad’s brother’s family. Uncle Leslie and Auntie Vivien’s daughters Laura, Natalie and Sarah are the cousins my sister and I performed with in little made-up plays as children. I never spent that much time with them as a child, and less in adult life. Sometimes the once-a-year Christmas visit was all I would see of them.
This particular year everything changed. Cameras came out for the first time. I don’t remember them ever taking a photograph of me before. Now a record was needed of my visit. Autographs were requested for friends. Some of the children even watched me drive off.
It was strange.
I was famous.
I hadn’t changed but the world had changed.
And my life would never quite be the same again.
‘Patsy fancies you,’ said Matt. I didn’t take much persuading to meet up with her. When I did, that sweet smell of hers was the first thing I noticed. Matt, Patsy and I went to see Paul Kaye in an awful play called Dinner together. At the end of the evening Patsy and I swapped numbers. Immediately the texts started going back and forth.
Then Patsy invited me round to her house in Notting Hill. Then we were kissing. Then I was being photographed leaving her house in the morning. Then I was in the newspapers for something not to do with my work. Then I became so well known that when I walked down the street every second person recognized me. Women threw themselves at me. And sometimes I caught them. Then I became rich. Then I swam from one country to another.
Over the next decade my life became curiouser and curiouser. Like Alice in Lewis Carroll’s novel, I entered Wonderland. A place of dreams and nightmares.
To be continued …
Illustrations
1. A star is born. My mum had strange hair then.
2. The funniest person in the world ever. My grandad.
3. Still a baby, I am already admiring my sister Julie’s dress.
4. Why did I not persist with the knee-high white socks look?
5. Moments before I attempted my Channel crossing in 2006.
6. An early fashion shoot with my sister Julie.
7. Me at my most angelic at my Auntie Janet’s wedding.
8. Of course I wouldn’t wear fur now. The mauve dress is fine though.
9. In my CCF outfit. Hello sailor!
10. In my first starring role as Queen Henrietta Maria in All The King’s Men.
11. Me and my many chins in Romeo and Juliet at Reigate Grammar School.
12. My best friend Robin Dashwood and me strangling Edward Luck in Ball Boys.
13. On the way to the Sixth-Form Ball, with my Ford Fiesta, thinking I am James Bond.
14. Channelling Frankie Howerd at my eighteenth birthday party.
15. Sharing my Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Bristol University.
16. Gratuitously pulling a stupid face at my graduation as my mother pretends to be amused.
17. An average night out for my first girlfriend Katy Carmichael and me.
18. With Hant and Dec.
19. Incredible Games had some amazing guest stars. Yes, I met Mr Blobby.
20. A sketch that, fortunately for us, was never shown: ‘I am black and my dad’s in the Klan.’
21. The so-unfunny-they-were-funny double act Mash and Peas.
22. Take Heart Lucas and Walliams style.
23. With my real dad Peter Williams.
24. With my pretend da
d Paul Kaye. ‘Beat me on my bare bottom, Daddy.’
25. Everyone at the time asked me if I was wearing a chest wig. The answer, sadly, is no.
26. With Edgar Wright and Doctor Who’s Brigadier Nicholas Courtney fi lming Sir Bernard’s Stately Homes.
27. Backstage at Shooting Stars. We both look incredibly gay.
28. From the genius of Vic and Bob, the Labour Party Band. I was Peter Mandelson, apparently.
29. ‘My Gay Dads’ with Simon Greenhall.
30. Keith Harris and Björk.
31. Happy times with the comic genius Caroline Aherne.
32. In Paris.
33. Sharing a bed on an ocean liner with Rob Brydon. Some of my chest hair is now on Rob’s head.
34. In Venice with my Rob.
35. Lurking behind him in character in Cruise of the Gods.
36. As Michael Jackson in Rock Profile, with Edgar Wright. I didn’t do the voice.
37. With the long-suffering Jamie Theakston in Rock Profile. We are Howard and Jason from Take That.
38. With Steve Furst as the Bee Gees. I am the lion one.
39. ABBA, of course.
40. Sir Elton John and My Partner David Furnish.
41. Simon and Garfunkel just before they fell out again.
42. With the comedy pope Graham Linehan, in Dublin.
43. Robin and me with a man with abdominal muscles much like my own.
44. The very funny and ever so naughty Mark Gatiss.
45. With Mark Gatiss and Paul Putner in a Doctor Who spoof. Mark had to be the doctor.
46. With Blake’s 7’s Paul Darrow just after I insulted his teeth.
47. I just can’t believe I am working with the great Richard Wilson. The great Jack Shepherd is lurking.
48. With God – Tom Baker, of course – on the set of Randall & Hopkirk (Deceased).
49. Expressing my deep love and admiration for Vic Reeves.
50. On the set of Attachments with my TV dad Andrew Sachs, just before I asked him another question about Fawlty Towers.
51. As Ruth Madoc in Blankety Blank. Painfully thin and painfully unfunny.
52. Matt as Andy Warhol…
53. … and how it turned out. As Lou and Andy. ‘Yeah, I know’.
54. Emily Howerd debuts in Little Britain with a bit too much make-up on.
55. Everything about this photograph is wrong.
56. Matt and I just before we put our costumes on to film.
57. The very PC Anne.
58. With Sally Rogers, filming Little Britain.
59. Ray McCooney. Not everyone thought he was funny.
60. Backstage at Little Britain with the long-suffering Tony Head.
61. A world record attempt on Little Britain. Paul Putner and Steve Furst squeeze into the Mini.
62. Marjorie Dawes under inspection.
63. In some very tight shorts, with James Corden, shooting Cruise of the Gods.
64. I couldn’t believe I was working with two greats – Coogan and Brydon. And pulling a face to prove it.
Permissions
‘Tom, Dick and Harry’ sketch by Richard Curtis
The Complete Poems by Philip Larkin. Copyright © Estate of Philip Larkin. Reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.
Against Interpretation and Other Essays by Susan Sontag (first published 1961, Penguin Classics 2009). Copyright © Susan Sontag 1961, 1962, 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966
‘Later Tonight’ lyrics by Neil Tennant & Christopher Lowe. Copyright © Sony/ATV Music Publishing. All rights reserved. Used by permission
‘The Collection’ taken from Plays 2 by Harold Pinter. Copyright © Estate of Harold Pinter and reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.
‘The Collection’ by Harold Pinter. Copyright © 1963, 1964 by H. Pinter Ltd. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Review, Ben Thompson, The Independent, 18 August 1996
Review, Victor Lewis-Smith, Evening Standard, 13 May 1999
‘Into My Arms’ lyrics by Nick Cave. Printed by kind permission of Nick Cave and Mute Songs Ltd.
Review, Victor Lewis-Smith, Evening Standard, 17 September 2003
Every effort has been made to contact copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to correct any errors and omissions in future editions.
Acknowledgements
First I would like to thank myself for writing the book. That was the hard bit.
Reluctantly I would also like to acknowledge the help of the following people:
The managing director of Michael Joseph, Louise Moore.
My literary agent Paul Stevens at Independent.
The editor Katy Follain.
Katy’s colleague Rowland White.
Anna Mrowiec the editorial assistant.
Beatrix McIntyre the editorial manager.
Catriona Hillerton and Lisa Simmonds, who work in production.
John Hamilton and Lee Motley, who are responsible for the design.
Hugh Davis the copyeditor. If you find any spelling mistakes, take them up personally with him please.
Katya Shipster the deputy publicity director.
God there are a lot of people to thank, this is getting quite boring now.
Ruth Spencer the marketing manager.
What do they all really do?
Viviane Basset the marketing director.
I have never even met half these people.
Alex Elam the head of rights.
Not a clue what he or she does.
Anna Derkacz the sales manager.
Thank you all so very much. I love you all dearly.
DW
He just wanted a decent book to read ...
Not too much to ask, is it? It was in 1935 when Allen Lane, Managing Director of Bodley Head Publishers, stood on a platform at Exeter railway station looking for something good to read on his journey back to London. His choice was limited to popular magazines and poor-quality paperbacks – the same choice faced every day by the vast majority of readers, few of whom could afford hardbacks. Lane’s disappointment and subsequent anger at the range of books generally available led him to found a company – and change the world.
We believed in the existence in this country of a vast reading public for intelligent books at a low price, and staked everything on it’
Sir Allen Lane, 1902–1970, founder of Penguin Books
The quality paperback had arrived – and not just in bookshops. Lane was adamant that his Penguins should appear in chain stores and tobacconists, and should cost no more than a packet of cigarettes.
Reading habits (and cigarette prices) have changed since 1935, but Penguin still believes in publishing the best books for everybody to enjoy.We still believe that good design costs no more than bad design, and we still believe that quality books published passionately and responsibly make the world a better place.
So wherever you see the little bird – whether it’s on a piece of prize-winning literary fiction or a celebrity autobiography, political tour de force or historical masterpiece, a serial-killer thriller, reference book, world classic or a piece of pure escapism – you can bet that it represents the very best that the genre has to offer.
Whatever you like to read – trust Penguin.
www.penguin.co.uk
Join the conversation:
Twitter Facebook
MICHAEL JOSEPH
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Camp David Page 27