A Young Man's Passage

by Julian Clary

  I didn’t analyse my lifestyle or my prospects much. For those few years, ambition was bubbling under the surface, but I didn’t seriously imagine cabaret gigs were a stepping-stone to anything more lucrative or exciting. I had stopped applying for acting work after a miserable Theatre in Education tour with Buster Young People’s Theatre. (I’d been miscast as a blokey bloke, doing a dreadful play four times a day for a pitiful wage and having to turn down cabaret gigs into the bargain.) As the Joan Collins Fan Club, I could make an asset of my mannerisms and voice, aspects of my performance that were criticised in the theatre. It didn’t feel right to me to suppress them. Why should I? I could write my own material, arrange my own bookings and direct myself. It was a wonderfully self-sufficient lifestyle.

  What I liked best about it was the utterly trivial nature of my ‘job’. I was paid for speaking the thoughts I’d be having anyway, for criticising hairstyles and holding up punters’ grubby coats for everyone to ridicule. I purposely nipped in the bud any material that might be construed as having ‘meaning’. Anything that smacked of resonance was undesirable. I was lightweight – that was the whole point of me. JCFC was about choc drops, glamour, mild humiliation and gentle laughter, nothing else. I deliberately set out to create my own world where I was the norm and the audience were the outsiders. What’s more, they were to feel privileged to get a glimpse of my superior environment. Their lives, I declared, were dreary by comparison with mine. I was kind to let them in but scornful of them once they arrived. My satisfaction in all this, and probably my psychological motivation, was a reversal of all I had experienced at school. I would be vindicated. I would be applauded for the very things I was once victimised for.

  Whether or not it worked this way varied from show to show. A lot of factors could spell ruination. It’s never been a watertight act; failure was always a sniff away. I might go on too late and the audience would be too drunk to enter into the conceit. The p.a. might be dodgy so they couldn’t hear properly. My self-confidence (always fragile) might evaporate, or Fanny might not be in the mood and leave the stage. I might go too far in picking on a particular individual and sympathies for one of their number could cause the audience to turn on me. The act on before me might go down a storm, in which case the audience were laughed out and willing me to die for the sake of some variation.

  There was a flurry of excitement in 1984 when I was asked to appear on a television show called Live From the London Hippodrome and be interviewed by Janet Street-Porter. Dusty Springfield was the star turn. I can’t remember much about it, except that the van broke down en route and Sue Holsten from the singing telegram agency spent the evening fending off the clampers while I rehearsed. I was shown to the seated area where the interview was to take place, to find it was all wet. Apparently Dusty had had a tantrum and thrown her gin and tonic around. I was thrilled to sit on such an icon’s spilt beverage. I was only on air for a fairly uneventful three minutes and no one at all seemed to have seen me, so after a few days had passed and I’d had no phone calls offering me highly paid bookings or more TV work, I went back to the telegrams and the circuit.

  Bigger and swisher venues began to do alternative comedy nights, and more comedians and more punters were attracted to the circuit. Jongleurs, Banana Cabaret, The Comedy Store: work was there almost for the asking. Quite a few comics ran their own clubs, with varying degrees of success. Malcolm Hardee ran a club called the Tunnel – so called because it was right by the south-east London side of the Blackwall Tunnel – in the back room of the Mitre pub. It was always well attended, a rowdy well-oiled crowd waiting for the inevitable moment when Malcolm would get his genitals out, which he did most weeks. He was quite rightly very proud of his enormous testicles. A man fell asleep in the front row once and Malcolm woke him up by pissing on him. Paul Merton and John Irwin ran the Room Above a Pub cabaret in Wimbledon, although not many people seemed to come. I played there in June 1985 for £7, my share of the door takings. Usually you took home a percentage of the box office, never knowing in advance what your fee would be. I didn’t mind this, as the money was always fairly divided and no one was making huge profits.

  In April 1985 I worked what must have been my first seven-day week, and my earnings were as follows:

  Monday – Earth Exchange, £15.

  Tuesday – Word of Mouth Club, £10.

  Wednesday – Pindar of Wakefield, £17.

  Thursday – Rosemary Branch, £9.

  Friday – Jackson’s Lane, £50.

  Saturday – Finborough cabaret, £25.

  Sunday – Xenon’s, Piccadilly, £50.

  I was the only camp act on the circuit in those days. No one else dressed up apart from me, and other comics looked on bemused as I painted my face and pulled on my tights. Fanny rested in the empty suitcase prior to her performance, stepped on once by an apologetic Patrick Marber, in those days one half of an act called the Dross Bross. I’d found a gap in the market and I had novelty value, if nothing else.

  Susan Sontag in her ‘Notes on Camp’ was moved to write that camp is ‘a feat goaded on, in the last analysis, by boredom’. Who knows what she was talking about, but from time to time boredom and then depression crept over me. When the dark cloud descended, my life seemed tiresome. I only got up in the morning to walk the dog, otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered. I trekked round London with Fanny and a suitcase trying to entertain a few dozen members of the public in charmless pubs and clubs. I enjoyed the chase when cruising a man, but post-coitally I was under no illusions. My existence was vacuous and lonely. There was no point to it. I sometimes felt like I had deliberately fashioned an existence that would starve my soul.

  But I gamely carried on, diligently keeping a journal for a week or so, reviewing my own performances with a critical eye.

  Saturday 9 March. Pranksters cabaret, Southampton University

  Shameful. Lifeless and uninspired from start to finish. Mitigating circumstances might be that I was deaf in one ear and the audience not a sophisticated one, but I didn’t rehearse and was overconfident until the moment I stepped on stage. Before my first sentence I heard a ‘fuck off!’ and many people walked out while I was on. Extremely embarrassing in front of Arthur Smith, Jeremy Hardy, Podomofski and Berni Bennett.

  Sunday 10 March. Room Above a Pub cabaret, Prince of Wales, Wimbledon

  Fine. Did some improvising as soon as I came on, prompted by the tape not coming on (‘What is this? Amateur night?’), then delved behind the curtain and found a fridge and pulled out an empty packet of Dark and Golden (‘Rather like this place: empty’). Did a lot of touching and walking around. Had 3 stooges: Sebastian, Hermione and Trevor (‘I could almost be in Hampstead!’). All went according to plan. Hadn’t rehearsed.

  Friday 15 March. Bangor University, North Wales

  Audience quiet but good-natured, as opposed to disinterested. Necessary to move in close and prod them about a bit. Did well to pick on the union secretary and ask if he was the college stud. Asked a group of rugby players, ‘Are you six individuals or three couples?’ On the whole it was confident, if not inspired. What you might call satisfactory.

  Saturday 16 March. MacClachlans cabaret, Hemingford Arms, N1

  Very good. Lifted by the presence of Linda and Charles Miller, BBC. Got myself into a speedy, hyper mood before I went on, which worked, so that I interrupted myself all the time. Kept referring to some poor man’s extraordinary ears, then another man’s mouth, someone else’s nose, etc, and built up an identikit picture of an Islington punter.

  Sunday 24 March. Xenons, Piccadilly

  Got quite carried away and did half an hour instead of the specified 15 minutes. A lot of heckler stoppers including, ‘Did you forget your broom?’ Put most of the new ending in, about the JC School of Acting, but bottled out of getting a punter up for the finale. Next time. Shouts of ‘More!’ which doesn’t happen often.

  Sunday 31 March. King’s Head, Crouch Hill

  Good, but a regression
in that I didn’t include any of the new stuff this time, and still didn’t do the new ending although the time was ripe. Had a very friendly stooge called Ian and made the most of that. Timing good.

  Sunday 7 April. Tunnel Palladium, The Mitre, SE10

  With the usual crowd of hecklers it was necessary to keep the laugh lines coming, so there was much chopping and changing to keep them at bay, which I did. Did the new script, too, at last, which works really well. Unfortunately I’d already used half the jokes in it, which was silly. Sweated buckets and was indeed emotionally drained.

  Thursday 11 April. Rub-a-Dub Club, Sydenham, SE26

  A good night. Took my time and did half an hour. One punter was persistently talking to his friend so I asked what they were talking about. ‘I’m trying to find out if you’re any good.’ Shut him up on my third attempt. Commented on the large number of quiffs in the audience. Did new ending. Went very well.

  Friday 12 April. Donmar Warehouse, Late and Live

  For BBC and friends I excelled myself. Constant ad libs, including, ‘Did we get up the wrong side of the slab this morning?’

  Saturday 13 April. Not the Camden Palace, NW1

  OK. Nosebleed started as soon as I did, so that threw me somewhat and according to Linda I had my glazed expression on. New ending but punter refused to sing ‘I’m Gonna Leave Old Durham Town’. Should have it on tape in case.

  What I didn’t know (and how could I?) was that things were about to change. Moves were afoot, a TV channel was in the making, a programme being conceived that would change my life for the better, bringing me the excitement and adoration that eluded me. Fate was about to stir things up for the better. Had I known, I’d have grinned and borne it. Farewell south-east London housing estate, farewell gigs above pubs, and farewell anonymous gay cruising. For a while, anyway.

  SEVEN

  ‘The worst thing about having success is trying to find someone who is happy for you.’

  BETTE MIDLER

  OVER THE NEXT few years my life seemed to improve in a series of leaps and bounds. Whether this was due to some beneficial astrological alignment I cannot say, but I was grateful for each happy change. There was a positive progression at work, each step seemingly connected to the one before, as if I was a character in a film, the plot of which was racing towards my fulfilment. The first area of my life that destiny took charge of was my location.

  As we know, I was residing in a one-room council flat in deepest south-east London. I had kept the local kids at bay on the Brooke Estate with the occasional free helium-filled balloon, but local youths were not so easily won over. They had eyed me suspiciously from day one, and when they saw me emerging from the van one afternoon in my Tarzan costume, their dark mutterings denoted trouble ahead. They did the only thing possible and tried to kick my door down. When this failed they poured sugar into my petrol tank.

  The next morning a letter arrived from the Seymour Housing Co-op in Marylebone informing me that they now had some vacancies and would I like to come for an interview? I had registered with them several years earlier and forgotten all about it. The co-op was fabulously located in Seymour Place, W1, and consisted of about fifty flats clustered round a charming communal garden, secure and safe behind a big, dark-red iron gate. When I went along and explained my plight they were most sympathetic, and within weeks I had moved in. I loved it so much there I thought I would never move out again. Flat 21 was another studio flat, but bright and sunny. A pillar in the middle of the room separated the bed from the living area, and it boasted the luxury of separate bathroom and kitchenette. The fortnightly co-op meetings were fun, my neighbours were cheery and I was a five-minute stroll away from Hyde Park. I gave up the balloon deliveries and the Honda van.

  It was a few weeks after this that I went into hospital and had the anal warts forcibly removed. My personal comfort, inside and out, was complete. I thanked the Lord.

  Ye Gods now seemed to be turning their attention towards my career. I joined an improvised comedy workshop run by Kit Hollerbach at The Comedy Store, which improved my confidence when messing about with punters during my act. I had plenty of work and was able to declare myself officially self-employed. In 1985 I did 144 gigs, and in 1986 the number had risen to 195. I became very business-like on the telephone, arranging my bookings and negotiating my fee. I was now one of the stalwarts of the comedy circuit, but apart from the listings magazines I received little media attention. I wasn’t yet labelled ‘limp-wristed camp comic’ by the tabloids. But people were starting to take interest. I became fashionable, in a cultish, underground sort of way.

  The Times wrote: ‘His timing is impeccable, his tongue razor-sharp, as he satirises anything from Joan Collins to surrogate motherhood. Fanny the Wonder Dog, his tiny honey-coloured mongrel, sits deadpan at his side throughout.’ Time Out did a spread on me with nice big colour pictures. ‘In such celebrated but frankly dingy venues as The Comedy Store, possibly London’s most famous underground car park, Clary seeks to create a world of glitter and glamour . . . but his main aim is to insult the audience,’ wrote Malcolm Hay. I liked the way he finished his article: ‘If you want to catch the act, my best advice is don’t sport a Marks and Sparks jumper or a centre parting. One other thing – watch out for the smile on the face of the tiger.’ I sent it to my parents with a note: ‘Here’s a little light reading which might make a welcome change from the Telegraph . . .’ I was anxious to impress them. They had never seen my act. They knew I wore make-up and a lot of black rubber and I wondered if they thought it was far more sinister than it really was.

  Family was very important to me. I phoned my mother every few days and went home every few weeks with my dirty washing, accompanying mother to church on a Sunday morning. My sisters were both married and nephews and nieces featured. At Christmas and Easter we all gathered together and cards were played, the same catchphrases passed down from one generation to the next. One Christmas Auntie Tess played cards for 16 hours with only the briefest of lavatory breaks.

  These were happy, carefree days. Fanny and I trotted off to work with our trusty white suitcase, on a Saturday maybe squeezing three gigs into the evening: The Comedy Store in Leicester Square at 8 p.m. and midnight, and in between a dash across Soho in full slap to the Chuckle Club, run by the aromatic Eugene Cheese.

  We travelled about a lot too, to university gigs or provincial comedy clubs. Sound systems that crackled, dressing rooms that stank, punters who didn’t listen and doormen who refused to let dogs on the premises were all everyday obstacles. But we went anywhere that wanted to book us, and stayed in grim B&Bs where necessary:

  16 December 1986

  Fanny and I have to laugh sometimes. We find ourselves at the Chatsworth Guesthouse in Bristol, a small terraced house. ‘No Vacancies’ sign proudly displayed in the window. The concierge is old with a cough.

  The decor in our twin room is a symphony in pink. Three walls ice cream pink, the wall opposite me salmon. There is a grey-and-white speckled carpet with root-like squiggles of black, red and blue. On top of this between the beds is a brown mat, elaborately patterned with darker brown rings and sunset red small, medium and large squares, each of which is afflicted with the root problem first noted in the grey carpet. Curtains are red faded to orange with large hand sized daisy chains from top to bottom, filled out with smaller white freesias. (And nets of course). Matching duvet covers in maroon and purple floral effect with differing pillow slips: pink and white nylon. The under sheet is nylon with suspiciously rubbery under cover. There are two chairs, a wardrobe, a small chest and a small black and white television.

  The fire instructions suggest: ‘Attack the fire if possible with the appliance provided.’ The remaining feature of the room is the sink with cold (true) and hot (untrue) running water.

  I also had an interesting sideline going as a member of a pop group called Thinkman. The record producer Rupert Hine, together with the lyricist Jeannette Obstoj, had created a nifty album abou
t media hype called The Formula. To market the album they plucked three likely-looking young actors from the pages of the actor’s directory Spotlight and passed us off as musicians. Together with Rupert we were Thinkman.

  The three of us sat bemused in Jeannette’s Connaught Street living room and listened as she rolled an unfeasibly large joint and explained that the con we were about to pull on the music industry was all in keeping with the concept of the album. We were each given new names and assigned a musical instrument. I was Leo Hurll, keyboard player. Andy was bass guitarist and Greg was to play drums. We were given fake biographies to learn and driven to a warehouse in Battersea where we were given lessons in miming our instruments. ‘This is mad!’ we three would whisper to each other when Rupert and Jeannette weren’t listening, but as they were paying us £150 a day to enter into the fantasy, we just went with the flow. We wondered what on earth we were getting ourselves into, but a stylist dressed us in expensive designer clothes and we dutifully turned up to film a big-budget video. There was a huge industrial set: cameras, photographer, make-up artists, record company executives, catering trucks – it all seemed to be happening for real. The champagne and joints helped things along. On set and off we were referred to by our new names. We learnt the lyrics and bashed away at our (unplugged) instruments as we mimed: