Similarly, in the first major attempt to rank all the nations of the world by happiness in 2006, the United Kingdom came forty-first.
So there seems to be something of a contradiction between the historical and media view that the English are desperately prone to unhappiness, and the evidence that they themselves say that they’re happy. In other words, if I ask you anonymously in a poll, you’re happy, but if I’m hosting a late-night radio phone-in show, you can really get your teeth into how miserable you are.
One possible way to reconcile this is the theory about happiness in England put forward by American journalist Eric Weiner in his book The Geography of Bliss. Weiner’s contention, after a year-long, worldwide research trip, was that the English people are only happy when they’re unhappy. Weiner suggested that the British are a grumpy people but ‘… most Brits, I suspect, derive a perverse pleasure from their grumpiness… happiness is a transatlantic import. And by transatlantic, they mean American. And by American, they mean silly, infantile drivel… for the English, life is not about happiness but getting by.’
And this I can agree with. In England, and indeed in Ireland, that happy-clappy, up-with-people! insincere smiley horseshit the Americans train their service industry and politicians to talk in, well, that just feels creepy; for example, when you really think about it, I mean, just mull the words over and over in your head, doesn’t ‘the pursuit of happiness’ sound like the weirdest thing to put in a constitution? No, that stuff doesn’t really wash here. And it has saved us from the ludicrous delusion that ‘happiness’ is a state of joy, and that we deserve that. We don’t, and the chemistry of our brains can’t possibly supply it. There’s only so much serotonin to go around. The healthiest definition I have heard about happiness was attributed to Alain de Botton, who simply said, ‘Happiness is no pain.’ If you can achieve a life without pain, well done. We have that concept in Ireland. You’ve probably heard an Irish person use the word ‘grand’, as in ‘How are things?’ ‘Grand.’ This means, ‘Fine, perfectly fine. Nothing special, let’s not go on about it, but fine.’
If an Irishman is selling you his car and describes its condition as ‘grand’, then run a fucking mile. But if he’s on his deathbed and that’s how he describes his life, well, good for him.
In the meantime, of course, there’s nothing to top a good moan, and this brings us neatly back to the English and, specifically, to Bertrand Russell, who said, ‘Men who are unhappy, like men who sleep badly, are always proud of the fact.’
So, possibly, nine out of ten English people are happy because they aren’t. And the other 10 per cent? Well, when they find out that they aren’t really happy, they’ll be thrilled.
Swansea Grand Theatre
1 unemployed IT worker
1 bicycle repairman for Toys ‘R’ Us
1 barrister
1 man who works at the land-registry office, with his mate, who moonlights as…
1 bouncer at Lavalounge
Just a quick endnote on happiness from one of the final towns on the tour, and one reached on a freezing mid-November day, the coldest day on the tour since we set off the previous March.
Swansea is the second largest city in Wales, originally thought to have been founded by the Viking king Sven Forkbeard, the King of Denmark and father of King Canute. By the nineteenth century, it was a major centre for coal and copper smelting, so much so that it became known as ‘Copperopolis’. There was mass immigration from Ireland after the Great Famine and, by all accounts, the city was an appalling place to live during the nineteenth century. There was no sewerage system at all until 1857, so they had to endure several cholera outbreaks, and Swansea also has the dubious distinction of hosting the UK’s only outbreak of yellow fever (in 1865).
Despite industrialization, the medieval centre of the town was preserved into the modern era. However, in February 1941, three consecutive days of raids by the Luftwaffe completely levelled it, and large areas of the rest of the city centre. ‘Our Swansea is dead,’ wrote Dylan Thomas, who also described the city as an ‘ugly, lovely town’.
Thomas is one of their famous sons, although in lists of the most famous former resident he is often beaten by ‘Swansea Jack’, a flat-haired retriever who saved twenty-seven people from drowning in the Swansea docks between 1930 and 1937. He received a silver cup from the Lord Mayor of London for his heroics and, in 1937, was named ‘Bravest Dog of the Year’ by the London Star. There is a large monument to him on the promenade in Swansea. Catherine Zeta Jones sometimes comes first too. Although she has yet to earn a statue.
Swansea also came close to the bottom of that 2006 poll to find the happiest place in Britain.
Like all the destinations in this book, I can only speak for that snapshot I see when I pass through the towns. I make no claims for authority, other than to say, I was here for one evening and this is how it was. As you’ll have noticed, I often see towns when they are shut, or deserted, or during the winter months, when they are in darkness and unrecognizable. A lot of the time, it’s just not worth wandering out of the theatre, because it’ll just be another cold and deserted identikit British highstreet. But occasionally, just occasionally…
When we arrived in Swansea, the streets were thronged and families were out and lights were gleaming in the trees. I scampered away from the theatre and found myself in the middle of the annual Christmas parade, which was weaving its way slowly through the city centre. I’m not sure if every mid-sized city in Britain has a Christmas parade; I suspect not. I would also be shocked if it was greeted with anything like the numbers and the glee I saw that night in Swansea. The crowds were five deep on either side, stamping their feet for warmth, and hoicking their kids up on their shoulders to get a better view of the passing armies of elves and drummers and waving Santa Clauses.
Giddily, I joined the crowd in catching the tail of the parade and then circling through backstreets to get down to the front again, to hear the arrival of the drummers I had already seen. People were wearing glowsticks on their heads and all the trees had just been lit up, and even I, in the town for only a few minutes now, could see the transformation. It was joyous, and infectious, and I rang home from the parade just to share it, and also to say that it was almost Christmas and this tour was almost over and that I would be home soon.
Like I said, I can’t claim any authority. But I was only in Swansea for one night and the place looked deliriously happy. So let’s give them that one.
Chapter 18:
A Classic Act in a Classic Venue
Before the end, though, a pilgrimage.
One of the minor disadvantages of gaining any success as a live comic is that the move to theatres takes you away from the rest of the community of comics with whom you used to spend your working nights sharing the bill. This means less drunken fun. It also means fewer chances to see other comics perform.
Although it may seem a little perverse to take a night off and spend it at someone else’s comedy show, it’s the only way to catch up with the work of your peers. As this year of my tour progressed, I had made trips to see Bill Bailey, Ed Byrne, Omid Djalili and others. Before I finished on the road, though, there was one show left to see.
This would be no peer of mine, however. I wouldn’t have the cheek to place myself in this company, at least not until I have shown that I could keep doing this for at least another forty years. And, equally, spend at least a couple more hours onstage each night.
It was time to catch the Ken Dodd show.
The question was, where best to catch it? Ken’s website was a long list of dates, passing through as many towns as I’ve been writing about in this book. One stood out, though. I’ve mentioned a few times about Yorkshire being the easiest place to find a chatty crowd (that night in Sheffield excepted – Oh Sheffield, what must I do to draw you out?). In Leeds, you get all that natural charm, and also one of the most legendary rooms in showbusiness. It’s one of the oldest theatres in the country, a proper
Victorian music hall dating back to 1865 (its original name was ‘Thornton’s New Music Hall and Fashionable Lounge’) and still regarded as the best venue for stand-up in the nation. Steeped in history, it is popularly known as the filming location of the variety spectacular The Good Old Days, and there are pictures on the walls of the times Charlie Chaplin and Houdini performed there. With the crowd tight around you, it’s a room built for the spoken word, both from the comic to the crowd and, to an astonishing level, from the audience back to the comedian. Offered as evidence, this is from the first of two shows I did here in 2006:
Leeds City Varieties
1 man who sells alarms to pensioners:
‘Wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that you sell “alarm” to pensioners?’
1 pension actuary:
‘You two should join forces. You petrify them with the crime stats and, five minutes later, he arrives to sell them a burglar alarm.’
1 market researcher
(Midway through the show his phone rang; it was news about detergents.)
1 man from the trade association for road hauliers
(His wife would sleep with the Milky Bar kid, given the chance.)
1 teacher:
‘What do you teach?’
‘I teach business to stupid nineteen-year-olds.’
1 nurse called Andy
I asked Andy what the greatest thing was that had ever happened to him:
‘Somebody once handed me an amputated leg,’ he said.
‘Well, you’d obviously dropped enough hints. Was it your birthday and Christmas presents all at once? Did they wrap it well?’ (At this stage I’m standing shaking an amputated and gift-wrapped leg and going, ‘What is it? Is it a leg? Oh please, let it be a leg! That would be the best Christmas ever!’)
The great thing about Leeds City Varieties is that this was the quiet night.
Leeds City Varieties (the following night)
1 piemaker (who gave me an éclair to shut me up)
1 offshore engineer
1 nurse (who arrived late from an emergency):
‘Did you tell them you had tickets for a show?’
‘Yes.’
1 Liverpool man who works in job ads
1 financial adviser
1 plasterer
This doesn’t look as good, but I’m cutting to the chase. I met the plasterer midway through the show. His name was Keith, and he worked for a company called M&K Ornate Plastering:
‘Why is it called M&K? Why isn’t it called K&M?’
‘M is the one with the van.’
As if this wasn’t great enough, he then approaches me onstage, mid-show, with a business card, if I ever move to Leeds and suddenly inherit a lot of ornate plastering in disrepair.
I explained that I wasn’t really in the market, but what the hell, we had five hundred people in, did anyone want the number?
‘Yes!’ shouted a woman from the left balcony.
So I read out the number.
‘0778 123…’
And I moved to continue the show.
‘Did we all get that? Great! So anyway, I was talking about…’
‘Wait!’ shouted a woman from the opposite balcony. ‘I didn’t have a pen. Read it out again!’
So I read out the number a second time: ‘0778 123…’
I tried to resume the show again.
‘Where were we? Ah yes, I was just about to tell you about the time when I…’
‘So,’ shouts a woman from the back of the room, ‘it’s oh-seven-seven-eight…?’
And I collapsed on the stage in a fit of the giggles.
I rarely corpse onstage. I’m usually too close to the joke I’m making to find it funny, or too busy trying to top an audience joke to let it slay me. There was nothing I could do here. I just had to read out the bloody number again. And after that, who knows? Again and again and again; I might be handing out that number to each audience member in turn while they kept passing around the one pen.
I was going to be stuck for the entire evening handing out a plasterer’s mobile number, while the show kept floating further and further away.
Eventually, I gathered myself enough to lift the business card for a third time:
‘It’s 0778 123… Now, do we all have that? Is there anyone else?’
Long pause.
And then a lone voice from the back of the room: ‘And they do plastering, right?’
At the end of a two-and-a-half-hour show, after the encore, when any decent, humble man would have finished long ago and gone home, I walked out for one last curtain call. This time I brought my mobile out with me.
Hushing the crowd, I dialled the number on the card. Not Keith’s number, of course, but the number for the mysterious M. It went to answer machine:
‘Hello,’ said I, ‘is that M&K ornate plastering?’
There was a huge cheer from the crowd.
‘I’m at the City Varieties in the city centre,’ I continued, picking at the delicate plasterwork by the side of the stage, which, to be frank, seemed to be showing its age. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that we have a lot of ornate plastering here that might need replacing.’
More laughter from the crowd.
‘You’re probably wondering why I chose you for the job…’ and I paused for the last joke: ‘Y’see, I hear you have a van.
‘Thank you very much, goodbye, safe home, my name’s Dara O Briain. Good night.’
When I was writing this book, I found M&K’s card and gave them a call.
‘Hello?’ said a lady’s voice.
‘Hello, I’m looking for M&K ornate plastering.’
‘Ah, I’m afraid that company doesn’t exist any more,’ said the lady, who turned out to be Hannah, M’s wife.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ And there was a pause, and I became sharply aware how weird this jaunty phone call was going to sound if they’d just spent an ugly couple of years in court sorting out a hideous business split. Or worse.
‘My name is Dara O Briain. I spoke to K from the stage a couple of years ago and wanted to catch up with him. Do you mind me asking what happened?’
‘Well, Keith had an accident when he fell off a ladder and couldn’t work. So Michael had to go on without him. Let me see if I can find you Keith’s number though…’
As she gave me the number, I had the distinct feeling that there might be a good reason why I have never sought out audience members after a show. A snapshot can be good enough. Maybe now I was going to plunge into a grim real-life story of industrial accidents, forced redundancies and depression, and all I would have to offer would be some forced jollity and my comedy improv skills. I couldn’t chicken out now though. I rang Keith.
‘Oh hello,’ he said, in a cheery and surprised voice.
‘You don’t sound very depressed,’ I said. ‘I heard you’d had an accident and couldn’t work.’
‘Yes, but I had insurance, and now I’m lecturing in Plastering at Leeds College of Building.’
He then went on to give a cheery rundown of a hideous accident, involving his leg getting trapped in the rungs of a ladder as it tipped through a window, a tale which included observations such as ‘It’s not a good sign to see the sole of your own foot looking up at you,’ and ‘When they put the morphine in, the orderly said, “Here comes the good stuff,” and he wasn’t wrong.’ It was the most enjoyable chat I’ve had in ages. Then I remembered why I’d called him.
‘Did you ever get any work as a result of me giving out your number that night?’
‘We actually got a lot of calls that night, but I ignored them. I presumed that if they were serious they would call back. One of them did, and we went out to see the place.’
‘And then…’
‘Nah, it was shit, so we just told him we were busy.’
So much for my power to move markets.
‘Do you get to many other shows?’
‘Oh yeah. We saw one of your colleagues from Mock the Week, but
we left halfway.’
‘Really?’ I said, my interest rising. ‘Was it rubbish?’
‘No, it was really good. It’s just that me and the wife were having such a good chat that we decided to leave the show and go back to the pub. Actually, we did that when we went to see Lenny Henry as Othello as well. Great first half, but we were having such a good night the two of us, we thought that was enough and went back to the pub.’
We parted with me vowing to track down more of my audience for a chat, and offering him tickets for my next visit to Leeds. I’m sure he’ll take the tickets, but if he doesn’t make it past the interval, I’m not sure I’d begrudge him.
Although M&K won’t be available to do the job, that plasterwork will look stunning the next time the City Varieties opens its doors. The entire complex is being shut for eighteen months for a £9.2 million refurbishment. The final act to appear before the closure was Ken Dodd, and I got the very last ticket to one of the last shows.
When I arrived at the box office I asked the nice lady what time we’d be finished at.
‘Well, we’ve been told twelve forty-five, but with Ken’ – and she leaned in and shrugged – ‘who knows?’
I’d rung Peter Sandeman, the manager, to see if there was any chance of meeting Ken before the show. Peter couldn’t promise me that Ken would have time but, when I arrived to collect my ticket, he did give me some history of the marathon shows.
‘He used to do two shows a night, y’know,’ he marvelled. ‘He’d do one at five and then another at eight thirty. Of course, we’d get to eight twenty-five and there’d be a queue of five hundred people standing out in the cold and Ken still wouldn’t have finished the first show.
Tickling the English Page 23