Life and Laughing: My Story (28 page)

Don walked back towards the dressing room, and I was forced to go with him. He looked at me, puzzled as to my continued presence. He then stopped to chat with some staff, and I remained by his side. I continued tugging at my sleeve, but it was no use. I started to panic that I was going to ruin everything. He gave me a look that confirmed my fears that my enforced hanging around was starting to annoy him. He then walked around the club seemingly trying to shake me off. The show restarted, he stood at the back to watch with me uncomfortably close by his side.

‘You can go, you know,’ Don eventually said with more than a hint of annoyance.

I gave my sleeve a final yank and thankfully freed myself from The Don. I think I just about got away with it. Don thought I was funny, a bit clingy maybe, but funny. I had a booking for two weeks’ time. I would play the Comedy Store twice in a fortnight, I was up and running, I felt like a com-edian for the first time.

The saying goes, ‘You’re only as good as your last gig.’ Well, in my mind that meant I was now a sensation. My first success in stand-up went straight to my head. I informed everyone I met that I was a comedian. I recounted the story over and over again: ‘… and then they called back and said we’ve got a spot tonight … and I was like … TONIGHT? OK, I’ll do it …’ Another thing I did in my overexcitement was to invite everybody I knew to come to the Comedy Store in a fortnight to witness at first hand my rising stardom.

The person I most wanted to watch me at the Comedy Store was Kitty. I was convinced that the dream I had had was about to come true, in just two weeks. All I had to do was repeat my performance with her in the audience, make sure my clothing didn’t become attached to Don Ward and she would fall helplessly in love with me.

The only problem was that Kitty said she wasn’t available on the night of my Comedy Store booking. Not available? My dream is coming true here and she’s unavailable. It transpired that the news was even worse than that. She was going out with somebody else that night, this other guy, the ‘it’s complicated’ one. I couldn’t believe it. I knew she was seeing someone, but I also knew that we were talking on the phone every day and when she wasn’t with him she was with me. This was my big night, she should be there for me even if we were ‘just good friends’. But I had to face the reality that she was more than ‘just good friends’ with ‘it’s complicated’ guy, and when it came down to it, she chose him. When I put this to her, she denied it and said it was just due to timing, this was a longstanding arrangement.

I was starting to lose my ‘playing it cool’ strategy. ‘Just cancel him, this is important to me,’ I pleaded.

‘I can’t, Michael,’ she said, adamantly.

‘This is a massive night for me and I want you to be there, you should be there,’ I continued.

‘I don’t understand why. Why can’t I just come to another gig? I’ve been asking to come to your gigs before and you wouldn’t let me, what’s so special about this one. What’s the big deal? You’re overreacting,’ she said.

She was right. I was overreacting. I was in love with her and I was pinning my hopes on this one night that I had fantasized about so much that I had convinced myself it was becoming a reality. But it wasn’t reality. The reality was obvious. She liked me, but not enough, and not even as much as this other guy. Seeing me have a triumphant gig at the Comedy Store wasn’t going to change that. I was wasting my time here. I realized that just like every other girl I had feelings for while growing up, she just didn’t quite feel the same way. I wasn’t going to give up, I couldn’t, I loved her. But after that conversation, I stopped dreaming.

I had a job to do. This Comedy Store night was massive for me. I had invited friends to see me and if I had another good gig, Don Ward could catapult me up the comedy ladder. In my desperation to make this happen, I made a terrible decision that reflected my lack of experience. I decided to perform a completely new set. Don had heard my jokes. I thought that performing a brand new ten minutes would be the most impressive thing to do. So I went on with untried and untested material and died a thunderous death onstage, in front of all my friends. It’s one thing dying on a bill of ‘open spots’ because most of them are having a similar experience. But at the Comedy Store, where the standard is so high, it’s horrific. It was just as painful for the audience as it was for me.

Even today, if I tried to write a brand-new ten minutes and perform it at the Comedy Store, I would struggle, guaranteed. So imagine how awful it was. The only salvation was that Kitty was out with ‘it’s complicated’ guy. Suddenly I was thrilled that she had another man in her life and we were ‘just good friends’.

Oh, and I nearly forgot, somebody in the audience shouted, ‘You’re shit.’ Like I needed confirmation from this arsehole. I’m losing all my dignity, humiliating myself in front of 400 people, but this guy felt that wasn’t enough. Welcome to the world of stand-up comedy: when it works, there’s nothing better, and when it doesn’t, there’s nothing worse.

This time when I returned to the dressing room, the other comedians ignored me entirely. The door opened a few times, but it wasn’t Don. Don wasn’t coming this time. I couldn’t bear to face my friends, so I just slipped out. I had no future bookings and no chance of any – maybe in a year, if I was lucky. What a dramatic turnaround. My dad said this was the toughest job there is, and I had just found out why.

You’re only as good as your last gig.

It was important to get back in the saddle as soon as possible, so I performed at a series of open-mike nights with varying success. I just couldn’t make myself nearly as funny onstage as I could offstage. Having blown my big chance at the Comedy Store, my opportunities to progress were now limited. I telephoned Jongleurs Comedy Club. Jongleurs is a chain of clubs throughout the UK; they have open spots at their London clubs in Camden and Battersea. Again, I was given a spot in a year at their Camden club. This time I hoped I wouldn’t get a phone call back. So I had that in the diary to work towards, and I also had the new-act competitions. I entered four competitions, the Hackney Empire ‘New Act of the Year’, the
Daily Telegraph
‘New Act of the Year’, the BBC ‘New Comedian of the Year’ and ‘So You Think You’re Funny?’ run by Channel 4. Over the years the winners of these competitions have included the likes of Peter Kay, Alan Carr, Rhod Gilbert, Lee Mack and Dylan Moran.

To give you an idea of the standard of comedy I was producing at this time, I was knocked out in the first round of the Hackney one, the
Telegraph
one and the BBC one. My final chance was the aptly named ‘So You Think You’re Funny?’ This was the competition that Peter Kay won with his first few gigs and that set him on the road to National Treasure. The unfortunate thing for me was that I wasn’t so sure I was that funny when I headed out of my flat to the first round at Madam Jo Jo’s in Soho. But there wasn’t a competition called, ‘I’m not so sure if I am funny any more’, so off I went to try my luck once again.

Walking out of my flat, I saw Kitty’s blue Mini parked outside the Steeles pub. I considered not popping in, fearful of finding her in the arms of ‘it’s complicated’ guy, but thought I had little to lose at this point. It had been six months since the Comedy Store gig, and we were now genuinely friends. My pursuit of her had been curtailed. I couldn’t keep it up, especially as she offered me no signs of hope. I had also had a few mini-romances of my own. I had no real feeling for these girls, but I was starting to become more self-assured – getting rid of my cashmere coat certainly helped. So when Kitty suggested she came with me to the gig, it wasn’t a big deal. It was natural.

I wasn’t trying to impress her, we were just two people sharing an evening together. Friends. I wasn’t particularly nervous about performing for her because I wasn’t performing for her; I was performing for me and for the judges.

Stephen K. Amos was the host. He was warm, funny and generous to the other acts. He introduced me as looking like Hugh Grant. It was a relaxed atmosphere. I didn’t have to tell myself I had nothing to lose; I genuinely felt that way. The result was a very comfortable and naturally funny gig. It was effortless. I had lost my air of desperation in both my performance and the way I was behaving with Kitty.

It was almost as if I had given up trying. Trying to be funny onstage and trying to make Kitty like me. I had started to be myself. We were inseparable for the next few days. Something had changed, something natural and wonderful was happening between us. I wasn’t overexcited by this shift in our relationship. I didn’t have to play it cool, I felt cool. She asked me to take her out for dinner as she had something she wanted to say to me. I booked her favourite restaurant, Villa Bianca, an Italian in Hampstead. She picked me up in her Mini as she had done two years before, the last time we had been out for dinner. We held hands as we walked from the car to the restaurant.

‘So what is it?’ I asked, confident that what she was about to say was what I had been waiting for. Waiting for two years and longer, much longer. Nothing was as important to me as her, nothing meant more. I was prepared to just be her friend, just to know her. But it seemed my backing off had allowed to happen what I always felt was inevitable.

‘I think I’m falling in love with you,’ she said.

At last.

19

Finally I got my romantic comedy ending. The credits would roll over snapshots of our future together, on our wedding day, sipping cocktails on our honeymoon, cradling our newborn in the delivery room, that kind of thing. Although there was some unfinished business to attend to, the situation with ‘it’s complicated’ guy.

‘I’m going to meet him tonight and tell him,’ Kitty said a few days later, waking up in my undecorated untidy one-bedroom flat.

‘Meet him?’ I said. ‘Call him, text him, why do you have to meet him? Can’t you just not return his calls? He’ll get the message. Or leave him a message – in fact, I think this is a good idea. Why don’t you leave an outgoing message on your answer phone telling all other men in your life that you’re with me now? “Hi, I’m sorry I can’t take your call, I’m in love with Michael. Please leave your congratulations message after the tone, and I won’t call you back.”’

‘Michael, stop worrying. I should meet with him out of respect. We are very close, and I’m not going to see him any more, so I think I should tell him in person,’ she reiterated.

‘He’s not your boyfriend, you’re not a couple, there’s nothing to break off. I don’t get the relationship between you two,’ I said, refusing to back down.

‘It’s complicated,’ she repeated for the millionth time.

It seemed I had little choice but to trust her as she went out that night with ‘it’s complicated’ guy. I suppose I understood. I had to trust and respect her. I just didn’t trust him. I know what men are like; I am one. He was going to try everything to make her change her mind about me and that really pissed me off. She might think she’s saying goodbye to him, but she’s actually giving him a final chance.

After she left my flat for the first time in days, I spent the afternoon amplifying my fears to fever pitch. I asked her to come back to me later that night, but she said I was being ‘Silly, and it’ll be late. We’ll talk tomorrow.’ I knew I couldn’t stay at my flat alone that night, counting the minutes until morning, so I went round to a friend’s house. He lived just up the road in Belsize Park, equidistant from my rented flat and the flat Kitty shared with her parents. I continued to worry, panic and work myself up while getting steadily drunk on cheap white wine. Repeating myself again and again, slurring my words, belching, ranting like a madman:

‘Why does she have to meet him?’

‘Why can’t she come back to my flat?’

‘I thought she loved me, she’s supposed to love me.’

‘What does she mean, she’ll be home late, how late? Why late? How long does it take to tell someone to fuck off? Let’s time it … “Fuck off” … how long did that take?’

At about 1 a.m., I stumbled to my feet and said goodbye to my friend, who must have been thrilled to see the back of me. Standing on his doorstep, I could have turned left to my flat or right to Kitty’s. My judgement clouded by alcohol, I concluded that I should go down Kitty’s road to see if her blue Mini was there, to make sure she was back. She should be back; it was 1 a.m. As long as I knew she had returned, I could take myself home, pass out and then wake up and hopefully spend the rest of my life with her.

I staggered up her road towards the substantial Victorian house where she lived in the ground floor flat, but there was no sign of the Mini. There were also plenty of available spaces. She wasn’t back, it was one in the morning, and she wasn’t back. I was starting to despair, and then just at the moment I was walking past her front door, I heard a car. I turned around and caught an unmistakable glimpse of her Mini chugging up her road.

‘Shit!’ She can’t see me here. This looks awful! So I quickly dived behind a bush in her front garden. Luckily, it was a bushy bush so I was pretty well hidden.

I heard her park her car. In the dead of the night only her sounds broke the still atmosphere. Her turning the engine off, shutting the car door and locking it, her high heels clicking on the pavement getting louder as she approached. I was confident she hadn’t seen me.

But then her footsteps stopped. She was standing directly in front of the bush. I remained motionless, trying to suppress my breathing. What a mess I had got myself into this time. I’m convinced that only I could have created such a surreal moment. I have found the girl of my dreams, she has pronounced her love to me and within our first week together here I am, hiding in a bush in her front garden at one o’clock in the morning.

‘Michael?’ she said to the bush, tentatively.

I had no choice. I bolted upright from the shrubbery and tried to act as normal as possible.

‘Hello, darling,’ I said, just like a husband to his wife coming home from the office.

‘What the fuck are you doing hiding in my garden? Have you been here all night? Are you insane?’ she shouted.