by Dave Spikey
Billy looked at it, unimpressed, and then looked around the garden at the many bushes and shrubs and trees and thought, ‘Buffet! Good times.’
He never ate the grass, not once.
I’m Buzzing Now
I CONTINUED TO struggle to find gigs where I could improve and progress in comedy – until fate lent a hand. I saw in the Bolton Evening News that the Octagon Theatre was going to introduce comedy workshops in the studio on one Friday a month. Comedians and writers were invited down to chat about ideas and polish routines in the company of like-minded people. The course was the idea of the theatre director Romy Baskerville and was organized by a couple of local lads who had written stuff for the current (1991) hit series of Spitting Image.
I went down and discovered that these people were interested in the same comedy that I was. Comedy based on real life and the everyday things that happen to all of us. We chatted through various performers’ ideas and routines and then we performed short five-minute sets. It went really well and I was immensely encouraged.
One of the participants was John Marshall, aka ‘Agraman’ – the human anagram – who performed his own poems. The poems provoked quite a mixed reaction, inducing groans and laughs in equal measure, with obtuse subject matter and awful rhymes, but I loved them for exactly that reason. John invited me down to a comedy club that he’d started in Chorlton, Manchester to perform an open spot. The club was called The Buzz and it was to become a legendary venue on the burgeoning so-called ‘alternative’ comedy scene.
I went down the following Thursday and took my son Stephen to see the North-West’s first prestigious comedy club. I can’t remember who was on that night, but I sat with Stephen on a table quite near the stage and lapped it up. Agraman was the compère, filling in between the acts with his unique brand of poetry, to which the crowd groaned along.
Then it was time for the open spot and I was introduced. Agraman gave me a nice build-up and then I was on. I did ten minutes to solid laughs and loved every minute of it, especially with Stephen being there, and when I came off, Agraman offered me a full paid spot a few weeks later.
I must have played The Buzz twenty or more times in those early years, and the venue and John hold a very special place in my heart. I had mainly good times there and propped up the bill when Lee Evans, Eddie Izzard, Jo Brand and many others appeared there.
Another pivotal moment at The Buzz came when I was performing at one of Agraman’s special Comedy and Music nights. These were great nights and he always booked in the perfect mix of bands, singer-songwriters, poets, comedians and other performance artistes. I was on with a band called The Bosnians, who were being championed by a couple of local BBC radio presenters at the time. After the gig, the presenters approached me to take part in a variety show they were staging; I went on to appear in many shows for them all over the North-West.
The presenters were Eamonn O’Neil and Jimmy Wagg and they had (and have) an immensely popular Sunday morning show on BBC Greater Manchester Radio called the WOW show. Eamonn and Jimmy have been big supporters and good friends over the years, and in those early days they gave my comedy career a massive boost, with big shows at The Willows variety club, Tameside Hippodrome and, most famously, two shows in one day at Oldham Coliseum, where my son Steve was plucked out of the audience to play a guitar solo with the band to huge acclaim.
The WOW audiences were my sort of audience, and the gigs always sold out rapidly. I also guested on the radio show occasionally, which was a brilliant experience and a learning curve, as they also had a small studio audience and a largely phone-in-based chat show.
When Eamonn and Jimmy went on holiday, I filled in for a couple of weeks with co-presenters, most notably the legend that is Norman Prince, ex-Houghton Weaver, a great presenter, funny man and all-round gent. I wanted to change the format a little bit because I didn’t want us to be a poor man’s WOW. I convinced the producer, after much persuasion, that it might be a good idea to include quizzes on the show that were actually impossible to do on the radio. She was sceptical, but I knew that the WOW audiences would go for this madness. I called this ‘Quiz with a Difference’ and sang a little jingle to that effect whilst accompanying myself on a kiddies xylophone.
The first week we did ‘Name That Train’, where I played a track from a sound-effects LP – and the phones never stopped ringing. Most callers played it for laughs, but as I’d hoped, a few took it seriously, which was even funnier.
‘I think it’s a Black 5 Class locomotive pulling the Settle to Carlisle express over the Ribblehead viaduct.’
Of course, I hadn’t a clue what type of train it was or where it was going (how can you tell that from a snippet played on the radio?!).
Our main quiz, which required three contestants, was ‘The Crossbow Challenge’, in which callers aimed a crossbow held by me at a target in the studio – obviously this is impossible, but they went for it big time and we acted out the mayhem the game was supposedly causing in the studio. We also had ‘What Happened Next?’, where I played the recording of a ‘South American’ commentator excitedly commentating on a big football match and we stopped the commentary at a certain point. (My mate Rick provided the very dodgy soundtrack, screaming out random Spanish words: ‘Santa Maria! San Miguel! Patatas bravas!’ etc.) The callers queued up to provide the answers, which included a donkey running on the pitch and heading in the winning goal, and all sorts of other nonsense.
Another contest was ‘Spot the Difference’, where we acted out two almost identical scenes that I’d written for a murder mystery and then asked listeners to identify not only the three dialogue differences (easy enough), but also two scenery and costume changes.
I owe so much to Eamonn, Jimmy, the WOW listeners and the great Agraman, the human anagram. As a postscript, I once did a one-off comedy special with Agraman at Ronnie Scott’s club in Birmingham – and the crowd absolutely loved him. He went down massive and came offstage shell-shocked; he’d never had a reception like it. I reckon they recognized him as a true jazz poet. You know that old saying: ‘He’s a poet and doesn’t know it.’
Compère and Contrast
IT WAS AROUND this time that I got a surprising opportunity by being in the right place at the right time. It was a Sunday night and Kay and I were literally putting our suitcases down after returning from a holiday when the telephone rang. Trevor Chance asked me if I could get to Blackpool in half an hour and I said, ‘Just about, but why?’ He explained that Cannon and Ball were playing the Opera House and needed a compère urgently and would I do it?
Would I? I loved Cannon and Ball; still do. Tommy is a perfect straight man and Bobby Ball is a comedy genius and until you see them live, you will not appreciate the breadth of his talent. And so it was that half an hour later I was stood in the wings of the Blackpool Opera House, being briefed by Stuart Littlewood, C&B’s manager, with only three minutes to curtain.
He said, ‘You go on and do ten minutes to warm them up, then introduce Shahid Malik, the illusionist; he’ll do fifteen minutes, then you go back on and do five; then introduce Allan Stewart, he’ll do fifteen, then you back on for another couple of minutes; then introduce Linda Lewis, Rock-a-doodle-doo and all that, then take her off and then it’s the interval.’
Then the lights dimmed, the curtain went up and the band started, a proper good band I’m talking here, and they played a fantastic arrangement of ‘Blow the House Down’ by Living in a Box. (Every time I hear that song on the radio, it takes me right back to that precise moment in time.) Anyway, I had no time for nerves, I had no time to question, ‘Why me, when I’ve only ever had a handful of paid gigs?’
(The answer to that was perfectly simple – I was the only comedian without a booking that night who lived within twenty-five miles of Blackpool.)
The stage manager announced my name and I was on – to a packed Blackpool Opera House, the largest theatre in Europe with every one of its 3,000 seats occupied!
I did a
good ten minutes, got Shahid on, and then the rest of the half flew by and it was the interval before I knew it. I went back on at the top of the second half and did another ten, then brought Tommy and Bobby on and stood in the wings watching two of my comedy heroes. I must have done okay because I was asked back to host for the next three Sundays.
Stuart Littlewood rang me a few months later and asked if I would compère Cannon and Ball’s big theatre tour – and of course I jumped at the chance. I toured with them on and off for three years, including a few dates in Northern Ireland during ‘the Troubles’, when we were escorted around by an army convoy. We stayed in a hotel in Belfast near the theatre and the windows had bulletproof glass and all the staff locked up at midnight and went home. A bomb went off some distance away while I was onstage one night, and I remember getting a laugh by saying, ‘Bloody hell, everyone’s a critic.’
In between the Cannon and Ball tours, I was asked by Stuart if I would tour with Max Boyce. I said, ‘If you mean Max Boyce the Welsh comedy legend, I would be thrilled to tour with him,’ and so I did. My dad and I were both massive Max Boyce fans and we’d watched all his TV shows and I’d bought his LPs, so to work with him was an amazing thrill.
The first show was at Bedworth Civic Hall, Coventry. Due to a traffic delay on the M6 (if I had a penny for every traffic delay on the M6 I’ve encountered over the years, I’d have about eight hundred and thirty-three pounds, give or take), I was late. I got changed quickly and Slim the tour manager ran through the show with me. There was only me and Max on the show, so I would go on and do half an hour, then it’s the interval, then I’m back on for ten to warm them up and get Max on.
So Max’s band strikes up and Slim announces me offstage, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, will you please welcome Max’s special guest, Mike Starkey.’ I stood looking at him, thinking, ‘I thought you said there was only me and Max on,’ and he’s frantically gesticulating for me to get on, and I realize, ‘He means me! I’m Mike Starkey,’ and on I went.
At the start of the second half, I was waiting in the wings when Max appeared, resplendent in red blazer with a big Welsh RUFC rosette, white trousers, red-and-white scarf and, of course, his enormous leek. I was stuck for words, he was such a comedy hero, but Max was and is a wonderfully generous and encouraging performer. He praised me on my first-half performance, which thrilled me, and when I asked him how long a set did he want me to do before I introduced him, he just said, ‘As long as you want; if you’re enjoying it, don’t worry about the time.’ I did about ten minutes and got him on, and then stood and watched him from the wings, as I did most nights.
Max is a brilliant comedian, raconteur and singer/songwriter, and the only comic I know who uses the band to dramatize and complement his energetic routines, providing sound effects for thunder, wind and any other atmospheric conditions that will enhance his wonderful stories.
I toured with Max for a couple of years and loved every minute of it. I brought my mum and dad to see the show in Crewe, and Max arranged for them to have the Royal Box. He even had a good chat with them afterwards, when he was very flattering in his praise for me, telling my dad that I was a difficult act to follow. I wasn’t, though – not for Max with his energy and passion and talent for comedy, and his skill for interweaving wonderfully evocative and poignant songs into his set. Top man.
I look back on this time with loads of affection and pride. Pride because I performed to vastly different audiences in that time and entertained them all very well, I hope. In one memorable twelve days, I appeared with Cannon and Ball on Sunday, Max Boyce on Tuesday, Jo Brand at my comedy club in Bolton on Wednesday, Jack Dee at The Buzz on Thursday, Lee Evans at a comedy night in Cheshire on Saturday and Eddie Izzard the following Thursday at The Buzz! Good times.
And the Winner Is …
SO, ON THE comedy scene, things were going well. A few more ‘alternative’ gigs opened in Manchester, and also through ‘Laughing Gas’, a comedy promoter in Chorley and Blackburn. I was picking up more and more gigs because the other big names in Manchester comedy, most notably Steve Coogan and John Thomson, had moved down to London to perform and voice Spitting Image.
But the really big name at the time was the brilliant Caroline Aherne, who was doing character comedy, first as Mitzi Goldberg, an oddball country singer, then as Sister Mary Immaculate, and then, of course, as Mrs Merton. I was lucky enough to work with Caroline a lot in the early years and she was always a brilliant performer. She had won the ‘City Life North-West Comedian of the Year’ award in 1990 (an annual comedy contest which has become one of the most prestigious comedy prizes in the North-West of England) and Agraman encouraged me to enter it the following year.
The final was held at the Royal Northern College of Music and I went on last of eight, after the favourite, Dave Gorman. I won it, though it was not a popular win with the sponsors or the judges – but on the night I had a proper good one.
After my triumph, the next natural step for me was to get onto the London comedy circuit. Surely my win in the North-West Comedian of the Year competition would open some doors for me?
Oh no: one after the other, London promoters asked me the same question: ‘The North-West what?’ I couldn’t get even open spots hardly anywhere – but then managed to secure one at the Comedy Café, about which I’d heard good things.
After working all day in the lab at the hospital, I drove, one Wednesday night, the three-and-a-half hours down to London, found the Comedy Café almost empty, and did my ten minutes to about twenty people. It went okay; no, it went good. I drove the three-and-a-half hours back home. I phoned the manager the day after, and he said that unfortunately he hadn’t been able to get down to catch my act the night before, and could I ‘pop’ down again in a couple of weeks. It had to be done – and eventually I got a half-spot there, and months later a full spot.
The only person who gave me a half-spot over the phone without seeing me was a lovely girl called Monica, who ran the Meccano Club in Islington, and I went down and had a good gig. It was a great venue; all the top acts played there. I met Will Smith there – the comedian ‘toff ’ Will Smith – who very kindly let me sleep on his couch for the night. It was an act of generosity that was representative of the comedy world at the time.
Other comics soon said I could use their names as recommendations for getting bookings. In the early days, John Moloney was very kind to me and I stayed with him and his missus at their flat in Balham. I started getting bookings at the best clubs – Banana Cabaret, Downstairs at the Kings Head, Ha Bloody Ha – and then Malcolm Hardee offered me a weekend at the legendary ‘Up the Creek’. Although scared shitless by its reputation (it was the only comedy club I’d seen with bouncers!) and by his introduction – ‘Next act now, all the way from Bolton, could be good, could be shit – Dave Spikey!’ – I had a good gig. Malcolm was kind to me, as he was to so many up-and-coming acts, and his untimely death affected many of us deeply.
After a while, I decided I was ready to ask for an open spot at the best comedy club in the country, the club where so many years ago I’d suffered with Rick a death by a thousand heckles – the Comedy Store.
I did my first ten minutes on the late show (which could still be very intimidating, although they didn’t throw you to the wolves at the end any more). I did okay and Don Ward, the owner, liked me and asked me back to do the early show, which also went well, and so I got a half-spot, which went even better – and then he asked me to bring my diary into his office in the interval. I did so and he gave me four weekends straight off. I explained I couldn’t do the Thursdays because of my hospital job and he was very accommodating and said I could just do the four shows on the Friday and Saturday (two shows each night).
I remember walking out of Don’s office elated – I’d made it! I’d have my name on the listings outside the main entrance, alongside some of the country’s best comedians; something I’d wished for for so long.
Bertie and the Chicks
KAY AND I stopped eating meat about twenty years ago, after we got stuck for twenty minutes on our way to work in a traffic jam, next to a lorry transporting battery chickens on their last journey. By the time we got to the hospital, we were vegetarian; and by the end of the day, they were mercifully dead.
When I say ‘vegetarian’, that’s not strictly true: it didn’t just suddenly happen; we had to wean ourselves off fish and seafood. During the next year, we worked our way down the evolutionary scale, until the momentous day when we ceased eating molluscs and threw ourselves off into the abyss of vegetarianism.
I have been veggie ever since, with the very occasional lapse early days, so that would be over twenty years now. I don’t know why it took me so long to realize that this was the way for me because I’ve always loved animals and I consider myself a kind, caring, compassionate and fair person. It suddenly dawned on me that there is something terribly obscene about torturing and slaughtering a beautiful sentient creature in order that I might have a nice meal, which I will have forgotten about a couple of hours later, and yet for which an animal had to die, give up its precious life. Because life is precious and all of us animals of this planet have one thing in common, and that is the instinct for survival and the long, happy and healthy life that should go with it.
So, rant over, I suppose the natural progression for Kay and me was to take a more active role in animal welfare and rescue, which we did and have devoted a lot of time to ever since. We started off with chickens.
There’s a bloke who comes in the local pub they call ‘Chucky’ (him, not the pub). They call him Chucky, not because he once used voodoo to transfer his soul into a doll, but because he runs a battery chicken ‘farm’. So still evil, but a slightly different kind of evil.
I got some chickens from Chucky’s place. He was sending a thousand off for slaughter and asked if I wanted some, and so I took two dozen and he charged me a pound each. A pound!