by Dave Spikey
Me: Alright?
Familiar-looking chap: Yeah – you?
Me: Great, thanks. So what are you up to at the moment?
Familiar-looking chap: Oh, just the usual, you know, still captain of Man United and England!
Me: (Smiles stupidly.) Good … see you later, then.
How could I have not recognized Bryan Robson?!
As mentioned, I’d done occasional warm-ups for the mid-morning quiz show Chain Letters, with various presenters, including Allan Stewart, Ted Robbins and Vince Henderson. It seemed tradition that every season had a new presenter. I’d always got on well with the crew, and the production team at Tyne Tees were always brilliant. Nevertheless, it still came as a surprise when Christine Williams, the producer, encouraged me to audition to be the presenter for the new series in 1997.
I had the advantage of knowing the show inside out, but I wanted to introduce more comedy into the format and consequently prepared an audition piece to highlight this. At the audition, the producers and the show’s creator really seemed to like my take on the format. I knew I was up against some big guns and household names, but at least I had the satisfaction of knowing that I had given it my best shot.
A couple of weeks later, I was working away in the Haematology lab when the phone rang and Christine told me that I’d got the gig. They liked the added comedy element and wanted more of the same introduced into each show. She told me the dates of recording and that they would be filming forty shows, at five shows a day for the most part. I should come up a day early for a couple of trial runs and to pick a wardrobe from a local gents’ outfitters. I was stunned and sat there for a long time trying to take it all in. What a break!
Before the appointed filming dates, I met Peter at the North-West Comedy Awards. After seeing his amazing performance, I asked him to help write comedy links for the top of the show and for my intro into part two after the adverts. I also used a few ideas from a good friend, Rob Dean, and from my son Steve, and they are credited on some of the shows.
During the meetings with Peter at which we wrote the links, we realized that we had a lot in common in our comedy influences, both writers and performers. We chatted about ideas and projects that we had in our heads or partly written and developed, and found a lot of common ground – which we would later put to good use.
I took two weeks’ holiday from the pathology department and travelled up to Newcastle to record Chain Letters. They treated me like royalty up there: I stayed at the posh Copthorne Hotel on the river and was kitted out with numerous suits and shirts and shoes ready for my debut.
During the rehearsals, I began to realize the enormity of the task. If I had been nervous and apprehensive beforehand, I was ten times as bad now that it had all become ‘real’. There were six cameras and I had to remember which one to present to during the quiz, and although there was a fab floor manager – whose name I’m embarrassed to say I forget
– who helped me brilliantly, it was a very alien world to me.
Add to this the fact that I had to remember all the rules, the order of play in each of the rounds and the validity of the words the contestants generated in various permutations throughout the game – all this without the aid of autocue or earpiece for direction – and you have a recipe for a nervous breakdown, especially for a person who was more at home trying to decide if a lymphocyte was normal or ‘atypical’.
With all the pressure, I found that trying to insert the comedy moments was virtually impossible, as my brain was already thinking about round three and who was in the lead and who was to play first and how the round actually worked! And let’s not forget that we were filming five shows a day with three contestants in each show, all with their own ‘hilarious’ stories to remember and discuss in a light-hearted and amusing manner … and you can see that I’m making all sorts of excuses for my, at times, wooden performances, in which I do a passable impression of a rabbit caught in your headlights.
Me: Contestant 1, I understand you have a passion for ducks?
Contestant 1: Yeah! I love ducks. I collect them. Not real ducks: plastic ducks, plaster ducks, metal ducks – all sorts of ducks.
Me: How many ducks?
Contestant 1: Hundreds! I’ve lost count. I’ve got them everywhere. I’ve got some on the wall by the stairs that quack when you walk past them, I’ve got some in the hall, I’ve about fifty in the lounge,
I’ve even got some in the toilet! I’m mad, me!
Me: Yes, you are. So, Contestant 2? You collect Tin-Tin Annuals?
(And repeat × 200 …)
As it turned out, the team were all very pleased with the run-throughs and passed on many words of encouragement, which helped me a great deal. All in all, the shows went well and I reckon, out of the forty, I was a bit rubbish on ten, but I had a great time up in Newcastle, which I’ll never forget. They’ve just started re-running my episodes on Challenge TV and I watched about a minute of one of them through my fingers the other day, as they seem so dated and I look so young and inexperienced.
My favourite show is the one where I wore a brown wig throughout without making any reference to it. It was the third of the batch of three afternoon shows the audience had had to endure. I was flagging a bit as I sat in make-up prior to the record, when I spotted the wig on a shelf. I asked the make-up lady if I could wear it for the show and she said no. She said she’d get in trouble if she put it on me without the producers’ approval, but I said I’d take full responsibility and if Christine didn’t like it, she could stop the show as soon as I walked in around the revolving ‘Chain Letters’ sign (a sign in which I once got trapped when I mistimed my entrance). So I wore the wig – an ordinary brown wig with a side parting, not a comedy wig – and stood waiting for the theme tune to kick in.
‘Chain chain chain … Chain Letters’ went the tune, the sign revolved and I made my entrance. The response was amazing. The camera operators all looked around their cameras, questioning what they were seeing down the viewfinder, the floor crew all looked on open-mouthed, and the audience looked stunned and then, because they’d seen me present two shows already, wigless, started to laugh – low at first, then bigger and bigger.
I feigned confusion. ‘What?’ I asked innocently, while waiting for the floor manager to shout, ‘Cut!’
She never did, so I just carried on – and was blessed with comedy gold when I asked the first contestant to explain the circumstances surrounding her recent ejection from a job interview. She explained, with a glazed expression which I couldn’t immediately account for, that the manager interviewing her had the worst wig on that she had ever seen and that she couldn’t stop herself from giggling every time she looked at it because it was perched at a ridiculous angle. I shook my head and gave Camera 2 (I’d learned by then) a despairing look, exclaiming, ‘Why do people do that? Why hide your head under a wig, for goodness’ sake?’
With that, I straightened mine a bit and moved on to the next contestant. ‘So, Malcolm, I understand that something funny happened when you had an epidural?’
When we broke for the interval, I heard the unmistakable sound of Christine, the producer, descending the steps from the gantry. ‘Uh oh!’ I thought. ‘I’m in for it now’ – but no, she was smiling broadly. She produced a comb and said, ‘Let’s move the parting to the other side and see if anybody notices.’ I did the rest of the show without mentioning the wig and it was definitely my favourite episode.
One of the great things about Chain Letters was that we largely dealt with four-letter words and that fact – combined with the contestants’ urgency in moving rapidly from one word to the next almost without thinking – introduced another dimension of jeopardy which the studio audience loved.
Up would come a sequence starting with ‘PAST’: ‘I’ll change the “T” to a “S” to make “PASS”. I’ll change the “A” to a …’
The audience are laughing because they are way in front of you, my friend.
‘… To
a, um, to a “U” to make “PUSS”?’
Sorry, no – not allowed; you should have stuck with ‘PISS’.
The best of these was a taxi driver from Salford, who had won his way into the final and had to change ten words in sixty seconds (or something like that). He was struggling with ‘PANT’ and said, ‘I’ll change the “A” to a “U” to make “PUNT” … Oh, oh! Now what? I’ll change the “P” to a “C” to make “C*NT”.’
Then he looked at me and I shook my head, as the audience dissolved into hysterics. ‘No, you won’t, mate,’ I said – but then, unbelievably, I saw the floor manager urging me on: ‘Carry on,’ she mouthed.
So I carried on. Inevitably and magically, the cabbie was now struck dumb, so we were stuck with a massive ‘C*NT’ displayed on the Chain Letters board for the remaining ten seconds.
The production team had thought that ‘C*NT’ might be an acceptable Anglo-Saxon word. I said, ‘Yeah right, but even so, you couldn’t broadcast that before Richard and Judy.’ So they had to give the cabbie, who had been failing miserably, another go. This time, he succeeded in getting all the way round the board to win the £1,000 jackpot!
I have often since thought that maybe, on that first attempt, he had clocked the time elapsed and knew he was going to fail – and so he seized the opportunity of securing another chance by chucking in a filthy word. If that is indeed the case, then every credit to you, my friend.
It’s a good job that every other contestant didn’t realize the potential of this tactic – no, hang on a minute, when I think about it, that would have been brilliant!
Strange to say, that was the last ever series of Chain Letters.
He’s Behind You
MY GOOD FRIEND Eamonn O’Neil, who had given me a big break on his radio programme and WOW roadshows, gave me another opportunity when he became a producer at Granada TV. They had a new live Friday night show in the pipeline, which would showcase comedy acts, bands, actors and other celebs who would be soon appearing in the region. The show was called What’s New?
Eamonn was to co-present and had persuaded producers that they would need a comic to fill in between the featured acts and in the gaps caused when bands had to set up after a comedian etc. I did an audition on camera – filmed in the Granada car park! – and got the job. This was a surprise because my audition piece was a bit shit and involved me wearing a sombrero at one point, but I can’t remember why (although I might have sold it on camera as a misunderstanding, as I thought that they wanted somebody on the show doing ‘tropical’ comedy and Mexico’s in the tropics, right?).
It was a great gig, but very nerve-wracking because it was totally live and I had to be ready to fill gaps as they arose, sometimes for twenty seconds and sometimes for three minutes. Many times, I had to stop routines halfway through and think of a way to get out of them. Because it was a variety-type show, I also threw in some rubbish magic, mind-reading and juggling, and it all went well, thank the Lord, and was fantastic experience. It was a great show with all the top bands and comics of the day, and celebrity interviews thrown in too – so I’m talking Georgie Best, Les Dawson and Wet Wet Wet, oh aye!
It was around this time that I dipped my toe into acting again (of sorts). Eamonn had starred in the pantomime at the Gracie Fields Theatre in Rochdale; the following year, they asked me if I fancied it, and I thought I might. It would mean taking a chunk of time off work for rehearsals and matinees, but although the money wasn’t great, I judged that it would be a good experience.
The panto was Jack and the Beanstalk and was directed by Colin Meredith, who is an accomplished actor. Jack was played by Ginny Buckley, who is now a top television presenter, most notably on BBC1’s Holiday, and the fairy was the lovely Kathryn George, who is a fab actress and is probably best known for her role in Hollyoaks. I was the ‘Silly Billy’ character, the kids’ friend (I hate kids), and I was the only character given any leeway with the script, in order to warm up the audience with ad-libs and get the kids going with some audience participation and all that.
I ran on after the opening number with ‘energy’ (which is how you must always enter and leave the stage) and launched straight into the ‘Alright – Okay’ game. I shout to the kids, ‘When I shout, “Alright?” You shout, “Okay!” When I shout, “Okay!” You shout, “Alright!” Alright?’ The kids shout, ‘Okay!’ and we’re off. (I once tried this approach when I was doing the studio warm-up for a children’s TV show in Liverpool and it went horribly wrong. This was Liverpool, after all. I ran on, did the whole spiel, ‘When I shout, “Alright?” You shout, “Okay!” When I shout, “Okay!” You shout, “Alright!” Alright?’ and a little kid on the front row said, ‘F **k off.’)
The cast and crew were lovely to me and the panto was good fun, although I hated the dancing because I’m rubbish at learning the steps and routines; I can’t even sway in the same direction as everyone else. I had to do a big dance routine with the children’s chorus, which involved me doing a bit of mopping and singing, ‘You’ve got to S-M-I-L-E to be H-A-double P-Y’ – and I wasn’t! It was hard enough remembering the routine without Kath and Ginny stood in the wings, trying to put me off.
I’ll always remember the brilliant time I had. I returned the year after to play the part of the ‘Big Bad Wolf ’ in Little Red Riding Hood, but I haven’t appeared in panto since, even though I do get offered them on a regular basis.
In fact, it wasn’t until December 2009 that I was tempted back onstage, when I was offered the part of ‘Narrator’ in The Rocky Horror Show at the Manchester Palace Theatre. My first instinct was to turn it down because I didn’t know the show and I’m not really into the spoof horror genre. The thing was that everyone I mentioned it to, friends and family alike, said, ‘You’ve got to do it! It’s an iconic piece of theatre and a massive cult hit!’ I trusted their opinion and agreed to take the role.
In preparation, I went to see the show at the Liverpool Empire. I sat there with my jaw on my chest for the whole performance as the audience, dressed as characters from the show – blokes in golden hot pants, girls in saucy maids’ outfits, and both sexes in variations on the basque-andsuspenders look – heckled the cast for the duration, with the Narrator bearing the brunt of their ‘contributions’. I loved the show; it had so much energy, stunning performances all round, fantastic sing-along songs and the almost deafening encouragement of the audience, which was stirring and daunting in equal measure. I came away thrilled, but also very apprehensive about taking this on in a couple of weeks’ time.
I had a three-hour rehearsal the week before, a run-through on the day … and then I was on! In a way this helped because I didn’t get much time to think about what lay ahead. Adding to my nervousness was the fact that the opening night was Press Night, and also the night when the most hardened and devout Rocky Horror fans attended.
I went to the toilet about a dozen times in the hour before, and then donned my costume and stood in the wings with my Narrator’s book, listening to the audience come into the auditorium. They were noisy and excited, and now and then a massive roar would go up as a particular punter entered in an outrageous costume.
The opening number is fantastic – ‘Dammit Janet’ – and as it ends, the lights dim and I enter through smoke from downstage. The spotlight picked me out and a huge cheer went up, which gave me such a lift and helped carry me through the chorus of obligatory boos that the Narrator always receives.
I began with, ‘I would like if I may …’ A dozen or so people shouted out, ‘You may!’ and I responded graciously, ‘Thank you,’ and then, ‘It’s a good job, really, otherwise we’d be f **ked.’ I got a big laugh and continued, ‘… to take you on a strange journey.’ A hundred people shouted, ‘How strange?’ and I said, ‘Very strange; stranger than dancing with a beautiful woman and feeling an erection start … and it’s not yours.’
There are certain places in the script where you know you will always get heckled and so you leave a gap to let
the audience in. One such line regarding Brad and Janet should read: ‘… had left them feeling both apprehensive and uneasy.’ I intentionally paused after ‘had left them feeling’ and every night someone would shout ‘Horny!’ and I would agree with, ‘Oh yes, hornier than Tiger Woods approaching the second hole,’ which was topical at the time and got a massive laugh.
Another favourite was, ‘… but it was too late to go back now. It was as if she was riding a giant …’ They all shout out ‘Cock!’ whereupon I consult my book and say, ‘I’ve got “tidal wave” here – but I will accept “cock”. Well, when I say “accept” …’
Sometimes, I would engage in a bit of banter with the hecklers, some of whom could be quite persistent.
Bloke: (Shouts out something indecipherable.)
Me: It’s like being heckled by Scooby-Doo! Bit of advice, mate, try putting a few consonants in there, all I’m getting is ‘euuuaaaooo …’
Bloke: No neck, no neck. (A rubbish heckle which refers to the Narrator in the film version, so doesn’t make sense.)
Me: You’re very quick, aren’t you? You know who told me that? Your wife. Well, I think that’s what she said, but she had her mouth full at the time. And … it might not have been me she was telling because there were a few of us there.
Bloke: Tell us a joke.
Me: God, he’s like one of those turds that won’t flush away! Alright then, a joke: an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walked into a pub and they all agreed that you are a bit of a twat.
GAME OVER
The show got five-star reviews, we had great audiences for the run, I got to sing and dance on stage … and I enjoyed it! I led the ‘Time Warp’ from up a ladder and had the best time. I worked with some amazingly talented people, and along the way learned a lot about stagecraft and, more importantly, about myself, and how essential it is to get out of your comfort zone now and then, and to test yourself.