My big TV break came in 2003 on a show called For One Night Only, which nobody watched. It was an attempt to bring back variety, and it was shown exclusively in the Granada region in the North West. They made three shows, I think. I say ‘I think’, because all trace of it seems to have disappeared. Nobody’s even bothered to put a clip up on YouTube, and since that is full of videos of people eating yoghurt, it shows you just how poor the show was.
Although I was beginning to develop ambitions that comedy could be more than just doing nightly gigs for £127.50 (which was what I received after my agent’s cut), I still never allowed myself to believe I could earn the same as my day job and be able to do stand-up full time. But, as a side line, it had growing potential.
My agent kept trying to bring me to ‘television meetings’ in London, but I was always too busy working and had very little aspiration to be the token Northerner on things, so I never felt I was missing out. I did get to do some spots as the warm-up for The Jonathan Ross Show, which did give me some insight into how good TV worked, but it was to be years before I appreciated the impact television could make on a comedian’s career and the rewards that could follow. At this stage, I felt I was winning anyway, as I had a great second income doing something I loved. I was to be further convinced that television was not for me after the disaster of my first appearance.
My agent called me to say that a producer of For One Night Only had seen me in Liverpool and thought I would be perfect for the show. At this point, I had been doing comedy for a few years and, as nobody else was interested in me for TV, getting a shot on a programme transmitted at 10.35 on a Friday night in just the Granada region was the best option I had.
The show was filmed in the Batley Carr social club in Batley, Yorkshire, which is a famous social club, having been part of the cabaret scene for decades. I was booked as a new face to offset the better-known acts. These included the host, Stu Francis (not the sharp Canadian one-liner exponent, Stewart Francis, but the Stu Francis of the ‘I could crush a grape’ catchphrase); pop sensations Smokie and Brotherhood of Man; a very good mainstream comedian called Sean Styles; a magician who looked like a Richard Clayderman tribute act (if you’re under 35, Google him); and Bernie Clifton, who is famous for doing his act whilst pretending to ride an ostrich.
I was told to arrive at the club by two in the afternoon. I should have known things were not going to go well when nobody knew who I was when I arrived. The club itself looked like it could generate a good atmosphere: the tables were set out in a semi-circle around the stage and were slightly tiered the further back they went, so they formed a kind of amphitheatre. However, the fact that the backdrop on the stage was the kind of silvery curtain you only ever saw when Jim Bowen revealed the main prize on Bullseye meant there was no pretending you were anywhere else but a social club in Yorkshire.
I eventually tracked down David, the producer who had booked me, and though he tried to look pleased to see me I did have the distinct impression he had forgotten I was coming. I was then introduced to the director of the show and asked if I wanted to do a run-through of my act.
The venue was empty apart from a few people setting up cameras, and a lady hoovering. I had been doing well in all the comedy clubs, so I was confident in my ability to perform and I couldn’t think of anything worse than standing on a stage in front of an empty room trying to practise being funny. I said I was OK and didn’t think I needed a rehearsal. This was greeted with a surprised look from the producer, who was obviously concerned by my lack of professionalism.
‘Are you sure?’ the director asked. ‘Everyone has a run-through.’
At that point, a man ran on stage wearing Bernie Clifton’s ostrich outfit: the orange legs, the false legs hanging over, the reins on the bird’s beak – the lot. He then proceeded to do Bernie Clifton’s act, including walking backwards and forwards, arguing with the bird as it turned to look at him and then struggling to control it when it wanted to chase the lady with the hoover and, by way of apology shouting after her, ‘Oh, he likes you!’
The director and producer both looked on approvingly whilst all this was going on, occasionally flashing me a look that seemed to say, ‘See, now that’s a pro.’
‘Is that Bernie Clifton?’ I asked, thinking he may well just look different in real life than he did on telly. By ‘different’, I mean a few stone heavier, and at least a foot shorter.
‘No, that’s his driver. Bernie doesn’t do the run-through, he doesn’t have to now.’
So I was watching a man pretending to be another man pretending to ride an ostrich. That is the level of professionalism they thought I should aspire to.
Perhaps this was when I should have left, but, as it was to be my first television appearance, I wasn’t going to ruin it over a misunderstanding. ‘They’ll soon see when I get on stage,’ I thought.
I shared a dressing room with Sean, who seemed surprised I had no change of clothes. I just had the jeans I was wearing, and a spare shirt. As I still had my day job, a suit meant work, whereas jeans meant comedy or just about anything else that was not work. Funnily enough, when I left the job and could wear jeans all day, I started to wear suits on stage. It just felt right that I should change to go to work, and that is what I have done ever since.
So, on this night, the night of my first TV appearance, I wore faded jeans and a brown shirt. I looked like a dad trying to look like a student. Although when I saw the audience, I could have got away with pretending I was a student.
The moment the audience sat down, I knew I was in for a rough time. I would say the average age was 65. One of the greatest compliments I receive today is when I am told that generations of the same family come to my shows – from grandparents to teenage children – so today I would feel comfortable faced with such a crowd. The problem was that in 2003 I didn’t have the same armoury of material that I could shape to fit an audience; I just had some stories that worked for student or circuit gigs in front of people in their twenties. And while 40 years can be a big difference for an audience, that night in Batley it felt like centuries.
I was to go on after Brotherhood of Man and before the magician. I waited in the wings and watched the show. I was more interested than nervous. Stu Francis did a great job as the host as he seemed to be able to get the audience on his side whenever he wanted. If he felt he was losing them, he would simply mention the grape catchphrase and they were back, and I found myself wishing I had a catchphrase or something to fall back on. But before I could think of one, I was introduced.
I walked on to warm applause, but it was at this point I knew I didn’t belong. For starters, I was the only person in the building who was wearing jeans. I could actually see some of the audience bristle at my appearance, and I could detect murmurings of ‘Who is this scruffy bastard?’ in the air, but I decided to crack on with my opening line.
‘Hiya, my name’s John Bishop. So, who’s got kids then, and when I say “kids”, I mean little ones, not ones who have driven you here tonight?’
Nothing.
I mean nothing. Not a little huff, a grin, half a smile – nothing. It wasn’t a great opening line, I admit, but I thought a subtle reference to everyone being pensioners was a good way to defuse the fact that nobody knew who I was. But, as I could tell from the first 30 seconds, nobody cared.
I ploughed on with my material, anyway, which involved a story where I re-enacted the awkwardness that comes when you are a single dad and you have to take young children with you when you need to use a public toilet. The punchline, which was delivered in a squat position pretending to have a dump – ‘I can’t leave you out there, kids, there could be nutters out there!’ – was greeted with silence.
I can assure you that taking a dump in front of your kids was not something the audience at the Batley Carr social club thought very funny. There is nothing more humbling as a performer than to be squatting as if to take a dump to try to enhance a story that nobody wants to hear, whilst being filmed for television.
And it was whilst in this position that I heard a response from the audience. It was a whoop. Not the laugh that this killer piece of material deserved, but a whoop. Which was then followed by some talking, more whoops and even a few claps. Before I could begin to think that they were for me, the floor manager walked on and told me to stop.
I had known I was doing badly, but I had thought he would have at least let me finish.
But as I rose from my squat position, I saw the magician dashing on flustered in a sequined shirt, blond hair flowing, chasing a runaway puppy. The audience was now enthralled by what was happening on the stage in a way they had not been moments earlier. After a minute or so, however, the puppy was caught and the audience was left with me alone on the stage again. The boredom returned to their faces when the floor manager said I should carry on.
‘Where from?’ I asked.
He listened to someone on his headphones. ‘Just do that last bit from the start again.’
My heart sank. I had to repeat the same section to the audience, having already endured the fact that they didn’t think any of it was funny the first time round.
The only thing worse than being told a joke you don’t find funny is being told it twice, and the only thing worse than that is being the person who has to tell the joke. It’s at that moment that you really wish the magician was good at his job and could make you disappear. Even I lost enthusiasm, and my squat was barely a bended knee the second time around.
I didn’t walk off to the sound of my own feet because Stu got the audience to applaud, they played a sequence of music and the dog barked. The audience must have thought the whole thing was falling apart because the magician came on straight after me, and his whole act built up to a finale where he produced the puppy from a hat. The audience’s reaction to this piece of magic was somewhat muted, as they had seen him moments earlier chasing the puppy that he now wanted us to believe he was conjuring out of thin air.
It took Sean Styles to save the show and Smokie to sing about living next door to Alice to prevent a riot.
When the show was edited and transmitted, I watched it through my fingers. If any of my mates watched, they never said.
I knew I had not gone down well when I called in to my mum’s the weekend after it was aired.
‘We watched you last night,’ she said. ‘It’s a shame they didn’t give you very long. I said to your dad, they’ve cut out all his funny bits.’
That’s what’s great about my mum. Even though I knew the patched-up remnants of the best bits had been shown on TV, I still left thinking she had a point and perhaps they had just edited it wrongly. The truth is, they had done their best to make me look good, but any editor can only work with what he has and, as a performer, you know that if the most interesting thing on the stage is a lost puppy you haven’t gone down very well.