The year 2009 was when doors began to open and opportunities I never thought I would have fell into my lap, all through a combination of luck, being in the right place at the right time, taking a chance and Jonathan Ross.
By the end of the year, I had been in a successful play, acted in a film made by one of the world’s most famous directors, acted in one of the UK’s most popular television programmes, been nominated for the most prestigious award at the Edinburgh Festival, started a sell-out tour, been on two of the best-loved stand-up shows on TV and received a commission to make my own stand-up show for the BBC.
So much happened that to make sense of it I think it would be best to break it all down as follows:
1. ACTING
I have never trained as an actor and I’m really grateful that I have had the opportunity to do it at all. In interviews I have always played it down, suggesting that I could only ever see myself acting if the character happened to look and sound a lot like I do, and, to an extent, it’s true. While I’m no Johnny Depp, I would love the opportunity to do more of it, because I enjoy being able to take myself out of the equation. As a comedian, you are always the source of everything, whereas acting allows you to place a character before the reality. I will stop going on now, as I am beginning to sound like a luvvie.
In July 2009, I appeared in One Night in Istanbul, a play based on the story of some Liverpool FC supporters going to the Champions League Final in Istanbul, the irony being that my character never makes it to the game despite having a ticket. The play was well-received during its run at the Liverpool Empire and, at times, the audience looked more like they were going to a match than to a play as they would come in wearing replica shirts, scarves and carrying banners, which they draped around the theatre.
My only previous experience of acting had been two appearances in pantomime. The first one was at the Royal Court in Liverpool for the Christmas of 2005, where I played Herman the Henchman in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. The producer decided we couldn’t afford real dwarves and instead employed children with false heads on. This was OK until one matinée, when I was chasing the ‘dwarves’, and Sleepy tripped over and his head fell off into the front row, causing multiple children to scream and be sick with fear.
The second occasion was the following Christmas at the Lowry Theatre in Manchester, where I was Captain Cutlass in Dick Whittington. Chesney Hawkes played Dick, Darren Day played King Rat and Frazer Hines in his 25th consecutive panto played Alderman Fitzwarren. That occasion was to be the inspiration for the 90-minute comedy drama that I wrote and which appeared on ITV1 years later.
I was under no illusion that I was being asked to play these parts because of my acting ability. I was at the time on Radio City in Liverpool, hosting a weekend show imaginatively called ‘Bishop’s Sunday Service’. It was basically a shambolic show where I messed around with the producer, Kelvin, and tried to have as much freedom as you can on a commercial radio station. I ended each show with the Jim Reeves song, ‘Bimbo’ – something that had never featured, nor would ever feature, on the station’s play list again. Being on the radio meant that I could give the panto free publicity, which is why virtually every panto in the country has someone from the local station in it.
Being in One Night in Istanbul meant that I was in Liverpool when Ken Loach started auditions for his new film, Route Irish. When my agent got me an audition, I was full of excitement. I have always been a Ken Loach fan, ever since I first saw Kes, while in my student days I would always seek out his films at the art house cinema because whatever the subject matter he made you part of the world. I have never watched one of his films and not been moved in some way, so I reasoned that even if I didn’t get the part – which I very much doubted – at least I was going to meet the great man himself.
I was told that the film was about three main characters: two men, Fergus and Frankie, who were boyhood friends from Liverpool and who, after careers in the army, became private security officers in Iraq; and the girlfriend of one of the men, Rachel. It was that vague. Ken is famous for keeping his actors in the dark and nobody gets to see the full script till the end of the film, to ensure the reactions are all genuine.
I was overjoyed the day my agent called to say that I had got the part of Frankie. Mark Womack was to be my best friend, Fergus, and Andrea Lowe was to be my girlfriend, Rachel. I had no idea how I managed to secure the part, and never asked about the fee – I would have paid to be in a Ken Loach film, so that was of little concern.
I then received a voicemail from Ken Loach himself, explaining that he wanted to tell me something about my character that I could not tell the rest of the cast.
I called him back and, after thanking him and letting him know how excited and privileged I felt, I waited for the information about my character that I could not reveal to anyone. ‘This is the famous Ken Loach directing technique,’ I thought, ‘allowing actors to be more naturalistic as they will hold character secrets that nobody else will know.’
‘You’re dead.’
‘What?’
‘You’re dead, and the film is about how your best friend Fergus finds out who killed you.’
So that was it. My big film break was playing a dead man.
We flew out to Jordan, where we filmed the Iraq scenes. Watching Ken work was a master class in directing and energy. The man is in his seventies and would do 16-hour days in the heat without flagging for a second. I had mixed emotions about being out there, however, as I knew that when we flew back, that was my part in the film finished.
As the filming in Jordan drew to a close, everybody said they were looking forward to continuing the filming in Liverpool. I had become close to Mark, so it seemed odd to tell him I would see him on the set on Monday, knowing full well I wouldn’t be there.
Mark said later that he turned up to film for what he thought was going to be a family reunion scene with the actors who were playing my family members, when Ken walked in and told them that Frankie was dead. They would not see me again and they were to get ready to go to my funeral. My on-screen mum apparently cried at the news, delivered so bluntly.
Straight after filming Route Irish, I went on to do Skins, where I played a frustrated father of teenage kids with a wife who was not sure she liked him any more. (I know, typecasting.) It was a great laugh and was possibly the first opportunity to try and be a bit cool in front of my own teenagers, although the fact that I was playing a bit of an idiot didn’t really help me in that regard.
My character was called Rob Fitch, who was a fitness instructor. This was ironic as at this time I was doing less exercise than ever and was starting to get a little paunch, which Melanie thought was amusing as it meant I was officially middle-aged. I am not built to be slim and, like my dad, I am naturally stocky, but I have never been overweight.
However, as a man, when you pass 40 you wake up fatter than when you went to bed. Something just happens, and before you know it you’re a bloke who looks like he has a ball up his shirt as you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and see a little pot belly looking back. Melanie is always trying to correct my posture and telling me to straighten my back, presumably working on the theory that if I was taller I would be thinner, which sounds daft but actually works.
Anyway, Skins came along just as my little pot belly was expanding. I had to wear tight T-shirts with the words, ‘Don’t Get Fit, Get Fitch’ on them, which might have been OK had they not been a size too small so that, on occasion, if they were not tucked in tight enough, my belly would pop out of the bottom, somewhat shattering the illusion I was any sort of fitness instructor.
I also had my first screen kiss in Skins. It was with Ronni Ancona, who was playing my wife and is a very attractive woman. It came after a scene where we agreed to get back together after splitting up – again, art mirroring life, as they say. It was an emotional moment and took place in the family kitchen. All the film crew were crammed in there as well, which was quite off-putting, and this was just a snog! How anyone does a sex scene without laughing their heads off is beyond me.
I kept asking the cameraman and the director where they wanted me; I asked Ronni which way she wanted to tilt her head; and I asked the make-up woman if I was going to smudge anything. I was basically like a teenage kid at a party who knows he is going to snog the girl he fancies and spends ages building up to it before going for it.
And go for it I did. I just thought, ‘I am getting paid to kiss an attractive woman.’ I used to be a sales rep, I have to make the most of these opportunities. Also the story mirrored my own so much it was relatively easy to connect with what the character would be feeling. I walked into the kitchen, grabbed Ronni in my arms and snogged her face off.
After a long lingering kiss and passionate embrace, the director shouted, ‘Cut.’ We disentangled our bodies and I stepped back, hands on my hips, somewhat proud of myself. Nobody could say I didn’t give it all when it came to snogging.
The problem was that, as a fitness instructor, I was wearing tracksuit bottoms. And the ‘wardrobe problem’ that had occurred in the university library years before was now apparent for all to see, the difference being that in the library there was not a full film crew looking at me.
There is nothing more embarrassing than being the last person in the room to know that you have an erection.
As I blushed red, Ronni laughed it off and just said, ‘I’ll take it as a compliment!’
2. JONATHAN ROSS
Having allowed me to be his warm-up man, Jonathan was about to inadvertently change my career completely. When he and Russell Brand became embroiled in ‘Sachsgate’, the BBC decided to suspend Jonathan for a period of time, which left a gap in their scheduling. This gap was filled by Jonathan’s agent, my old agent Addison Cresswell, who offered the BBC the opportunity to work with one of his other acts, Michael McIntyre.
Live at the Apollo was by far the biggest stand-up show on TV at the time. Addison’s company made the show, and the BBC was keen to try something new. It was decided that Michael would travel to theatres around the country and introduce acts, most of whom were unlikely to get on to Live at the Apollo. It was a simple sell: the channel wanted to work with Michael, as he was very hot; they needed to fill the slot left by Jonathan; and it would be made by the company who already produced the most successful stand-up show on TV.
The deal was done, and I was booked to appear on the Manchester show of Michael McIntyre’s Comedy Roadshow. It was being recorded in May and would go out in June. As I was going to the Edinburgh Festival in August, and then starting a tour of small venues in October, which would run for the rest of 2009, it was potentially a great platform for me to generate some ticket sales.
Television is so fickle that I knew, if I messed up, the likelihood of being able to get on TV again would be massively diminished. I was still deemed unsuitable for telly by some TV execs, and the reality was that had the show not required at least four comedians for each episode I would not have got on. Nobody knew if the show was going to be popular, but it had a primetime slot, so if you did well, millions of people would see it. If you did badly … even with clever editing, a death on stage is a death on stage.
It was filmed at the Manchester Apollo, a great venue for comedy. After a sound check, I was standing outside at the catering truck having a cup of tea with Anthony, the show’s producer, when Addison came out.
‘Bish, my son. I told you I would get you on the telly.’
For a moment, I didn’t know if he had remembered that I had left his agency two years earlier, but I decided to make the most of his apparent good mood.
‘This is nearly telly. You don’t know if people will watch this, so if you want to put me on telly, put me on Live at the Apollo.’
There was a slight moment of silence as Anthony looked into his teacup. He also produced Live at the Apollo, and had suggested my name on a few occasions, only for it be rejected by the BBC or, perhaps, by Addison.
After a moment’s thought, Addison broke. ‘OK, you wanker. If you do well tonight, we’ll have a think about it.’
He turned around and walked back into the theatre, and I just assumed I had been given another one of those, ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you’ brush-offs, which I had heard for years.
That night I went on stage and decided that, regardless of the potential consequences, I should just treat it as a normal gig. Anything else would mean I was trying to be something that I wasn’t.
Sometimes in life things are all as they should be, and so it was on that night. Jason Manford was the headline act and Michael the host. Those two names ensured that the venue was full with an enthusiastic audience. The line-up was very strong, and I went on after Sarah Millican and Mick Ferry who had compèred my first ever gig and now we were sharing our first prime-time TV slot together. The headliner was Jason Manford. It meant that the show was already going well, and everyone was enjoying it.
The Apollo is a brilliant place for comedy so, as I walked on, I knew that the only thing that could go wrong would be me. My only other television appearance as a stand-up had been interrupted by the magician’s puppy getting out of his bag, so I felt on this occasion I had more of a fighting chance.
My mum and dad came to watch with Eddie, Kathy and Carol, and Melanie was also there with a few friends, so I knew I had support in the audience. But I also knew there was near enough 3,000 people who may never have heard of me, and a potential audience of millions of people watching at home.
If it was going to be a bad gig, it was going to be a really bad gig.
Michael introduced me and I walked on to warm applause. I paused to take a moment and began to feel my mouth go slightly dry, the first sign of nerves. To calm myself, I put one hand in my pocket, tried to be casual and said, ‘Hello, good evening. How are you?’
There was a small reaction from the audience.
‘Good, good, good. Don’t worry, I’ve never heard of me, either.’
This got a decent laugh.
‘Got to be honest with you, ladies and gentlemen, it’s lovely to be here, and for those who haven’t yet worked it out, I’m from Liverpool.’
This was greeted with some cheers and boos in equal measure.
‘It just shows the BBC’s commitment to ethnic diversity.’
There was a decent laugh at that.
‘They could have put me on anywhere but they thought, “No, let’s put him on in Manchester and see what happens.”’
A huge laugh that moved to applause. My dry mouth was gone and I felt at home. I was doing a gig, something I had done perhaps thousands of times before. But no matter what the stakes are, all you can do is make the people in the room laugh, and I seemed to be doing that.
The gig went much better than I had allowed myself to hope for. Lisa had come to watch, but apologised afterwards, telling me she hadn’t been able to see all of my set: halfway through her phone had rung; it was Addison, calling to say he wanted to book me for the next series of Live at the Apollo.
Had Jonathan and Russell not engaged in their misjudged banter on Russell’s radio show, then Michael McIntyre’s Comedy Roadshow would never have been commissioned and, without it, I would not have been booked for Live at the Apollo. And if it weren’t for Live at the Apollo, I wouldn’t have been invited to be a guest on Jonathan Ross’s show when he returned to the air the following February.
It was an exciting time for all of the family. We sat and watched Michael McIntyre’s Comedy Roadshow together – Melanie, the three boys and I. Melanie had been to the recording so she knew what to expect, but the boys – then aged 14, 13 and 11 – hadn’t and I wanted to be there when they saw the show.
My part came on and they did laugh in the right places – although I don’t know if Melanie was kicking them under the table, as sometimes their response was half a second after she laughed.
The show ended and, together, the three of them got up to leave. I couldn’t believe it! They were just going to go and do whatever kids do these days, and I couldn’t help myself.
ME:
‘Well, what did you think?’
THEM THREE:
‘What?’
ME:
‘What did you think about the show?’
JOE:
‘Michael McIntyre’s really funny.’
LUKE:
‘And the man with the long hair.’
ME:
‘Mick.’
LUKE:
‘Yes, and the Sarah woman. She’s funny.’
DANIEL:
‘I like Jason Manford.’
JOE/LUKE:
‘I liked him, too.’
I just looked at Melanie. My own kids were now my biggest critics. Then Joe laughed.
JOE:
‘You were great, Dad.’
LUKE:
‘Yes, you were really funny.’
DANIEL:
‘Yes, Dad, you were dead good.’
MELANIE:
‘But you weren’t on long.’
So I was nearly as funny as everyone else, but hadn’t been on very long.
I was on tour by the time The Jonathan Ross Show was aired in February 2010, so I never got to watch it as it was transmitted. By this point, I would not say that the family had become used to me being on TV; I am not sure that ever becomes normal. But the text I received from Melanie when I got off stage perhaps reflected how life was becoming for us:
‘Saw you on Jonathan Ross. It was very good :-) I think the dog has worms :-( x’
3) ELVIS
At the start of 2009, I was 42 years old which, I discovered, was the age that Elvis died. This gave me pause for thought. It made me reflect on my own life: what I was doing, where I was going and what I hoped for in the future. These thoughts were to develop into the show I took to Edinburgh that year, ‘Elvis Has Left the Building’.
This time I had arguably the best venue at the Festival, the Cabaret Bar, which all comedians love because it feels like a comedy club. The stage is small, the audience is close and, with standing room, you can get in about 175 people. That means that if you sell out there is a chance that not only will you not lose money, you may even make a profit for the month. I also had a great time slot of 9.30 p.m. so, once again, everything was as good as it could be. The only thing that could go wrong would be me.
The show marked the first time I received more positive than negative reviews. Every night sold out, and I was nominated for the main comedy award at the Festival. It was great to feel that I was making strides. It wasn’t so much recognition as validation: audiences were enjoying it, as were critics, and the judges of what is arguably the biggest award for comedians thought I was amongst the best there that year. It felt like all the hard work from the previous years was now worth it. The award used to be called the Perrier and, when it was that, people knew what was meant by it. Unfortunately, the year I was nominated there was no sponsor, so it was just called the ‘Main Award’ which, to be honest, sounds a bit like Employee of the Month.
All these things were positive, but for me the best thing about the Edinburgh Festival that year was that it was the first time the boys came to see me perform. In previous years they had been too young and the time slots too late for them to attend. Also, nobody would like their children to see them perform in venues where they would represent a sizeable proportion of the audience: it is hard enough to impress your children; imagine what it would be like if they came to see you in a converted shipping container as you struggled to try and make half a dozen people laugh. But, that year, with the shows selling out, it felt like the best possible opportunity I was going to have.
Melanie brought them along and they sat at the back whilst I turned our domestic life into material to make strangers laugh. I could see them laughing and occasionally nudging each other when I referred to something that had happened in our home. For any father, ‘performing’ in front of your kids is an odd thing to do. You are taking your standing as the head of the household and giving it up as you publicly seek the approval of others. There is a vulnerability in performing that really does break down the mystique of superiority that most parenting is built upon, but for me that gig was one of the most important ones I have ever done. Having my family sitting watching me in a room full of people was the point of no return. It was me saying to my sons, ‘This is what I do,’ and once you do that there is no changing your mind.
Their dad was now a comedian.