Life and Laughing: My Story

Life and Laughing

My Story

MICHAEL McINTYRE

MICHAEL JOSEPH

an imprint of

PENGUIN BOOKS

MICHAEL JOSEPH

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England

www.penguin.com

First published 2010

Copyright © Michael McIntyre, 2010

All images courtesy of the author except: FremantleMedia (Michael’s father with Kenny Everett and Barry Cryer); © The
Sun
and 01.06.1984 /
nisyndication.com
(Newspaper clipping of Michael’s mother with Kenny Everett); Richard Young / Rex Features (Michael with his wife at the
GQ
Awards); Dave M. Benett / Getty Images (Michael with Ronnie Corbett, Rob Brydon and Billy Connolly); Ken McKay / Rex Features (Michael with Prince Charles); Ellis O’Brien (DVD advert at Piccadilly Circus, Michael on stage at the Comedy Roadshow, Michael on stage at Wembley)

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-141-96971-8

For Kitty, Lucas and Oscar

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

1

I am writing this on my new 27-inch iMac. I have ditched my PC and gone Mac. I was PC for years, but Microsoft Word kept criticizing my grammar, and I think it started to affect my self-esteem. It had a lot of issues with a lot of my sentences, and after years of its making me feel stupid I ended the relationship and bought a Mac. It’s gorgeous and enormous, and I bought it especially to write my book (the one you’re reading now). For the last six months, I’ve been looking to create the perfect writing environment. Aside from the computer, I have a new desk, a new chair and a new office with newly painted walls in my new house.

When my wife and I were looking at houses, she would be busily opening and closing cupboards and chattering about storage (after a few months of house-hunting, I became convinced my wife’s dream home would be the Big Yellow Storage Company), and I would be searching for the room to write my book. The view seemed very important. Previously, views hadn’t been that important to me. I prefer TV. Views only really have one channel. But suddenly I was very keen to find a room with a view to inspire me to write a classic autobiography. Like David Niven’s, but about my life and not his.

The house we fell in love with had a room with a beautiful view of the garden and even a balcony for closer viewing of the view of the garden. It was a room with a view. It was perfect. I could create magic in this room. Soon after moving in, I plonked my desk directly in front of the balcony window. I stood behind the desk drinking in the view of my garden and thought, ‘I need a new chair’, a throne of creativity. With this view and the right chair, I can’t possibly fail.

The big question when office chair purchasing is ‘to swivel or not to swivel?’ I would love to find out how many of the great literary works of the twentieth century have been written by swivelling writers. Were D. H. Lawrence, J. R. R. Tolkein or Virginia Woolf slightly dizzy when they penned their finest works? I tried out several swivel chairs in Habitat on the Finchley Road for so long that I got told off. I realized a swivel chair would be a mistake. I’d have too much fun. I might as well put a slide, a seesaw or a bouncy castle in my office. So I settled on a chair whose biggest selling feature was that you can sit on it.

With my chair, desk and view sorted, it was time to address the décor. The previous owner had painted the walls of my new office orange. I’ll try to be more specific. They were Tangerine. No, they were more a Clementine or maybe a Mandarin. Come to think of it, they were Satsuma. Now, there was no way on God’s earth I could write this book with a Satsuma backdrop, so I went to Farrow & Ball on Hampstead’s high street. Farrow & Ball is the latest in a long line of successful high street double acts (Marks & Spencer, Dolce & Gabbana, Bang & Olufsen). It’s basically paint for posh people. I don’t know who Farrow was, or indeed Ball, but I bet they were posh. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Ball is Bobby Ball from Cannon and Ball, who tried his luck in the paint industry encouraged by Cannon’s success manufacturing cameras.

I perused the colour chart in Farrow & Ball. There are so many colours, it makes you go a bit mad trying to decide. It’s also very hard to distinguish between many of them. A quick googling of the Farrow & Ball colour chart reveals ten different shades of white. All White, Strong White, House White, New White, White Tie … you get the idea. I once bought a white sofa from DFS. It was white. If you asked a hundred people what colour it was, I would say that a hundred of them would say it was white. In actual fact, they would all be wrong; it was Montana Ice. I would suggest that even if you asked a hundred Montanans during a particularly cold winter what colour it was, they would say, ‘White.’

After a brief discussion with my wife (she’s actually colour blind, but I find it hard to reach decisions on my own), I popped for the unmistakable colour of Brinja No. 222. A slightly less pretentious description would be aubergine. Most people call it purple.

My surroundings were now nearly complete: new desk, new chair, lovely view and Brinja No. 222 walls. I placed my Mac on the desk and lovingly peeled off the see-through plastic that protects the screen, took a deep breath and sat down. Unfortunately 27 inches of screen meant that my view was completely obscured. Panic. Why didn’t I think of that? The whole window was blocked by this enormous piece of technology. I was forced to move the desk to the opposite wall. I now had a face full of Brinja No. 222 and my back to the view. I would have to turn the chair around at regular intervals to be inspired by my view. I should have bought the swivel chair.

OK, I’m ready. I’m ready to start my book. It’s an autobiography, although I prefer the word ‘memoirs’. I think it’s from the French for ‘memories’, and that pretty much sums up what this book is going to be. A book about my French memories. No, it’s basically everything I can remember from my life. The bad news is that I don’t have a particularly good memory. You know when someone asks you what you did yesterday, and it takes you ages to remember even though it was just one day ago – ‘I can’t believe this, it was just yesterday’, you’ll say before finally remembering. Well, I’m like that, except sometimes it never comes to me. I never remember what I did yesterday. Come to think of it, what did I do yesterday?

‘Memoirs’ just sounds a lot sexier than ‘autobiography’. Not all words are better in French. ‘Swimming pool’ in French is
piscine
, which obviously sounds like ‘piss in’. ‘Do you piscine the piscine?’ was as funny as French lessons at school ever got for me. Only writing BOOB on a calculator using 8008 in Maths seemed funnier. We’ve borrowed loads of French words to spice up the English language: fiancé, encore, cul-de-sac, apéritif, chauffeur, pied-à-terre, déjà vu. In fact, you could probably speak an entire English sentence with more French in it than English. ‘I’m having
apéritifs
and
hors d’oeuvres
at my
pied-à-terre
in a
cul-de-sac
. After some
mangetouts
, I’m sending the kids to the
crèche
and having a
ménage à trois
with my
fiancée
and the
au pair.
’ Sounds like a great night.

The good news is I think there’s more than enough in my patchy memory for the book. Whatever the French for ‘patchy memories’ is, that’s what this book is. So where better to start than with my earliest memory? I was at a pre-school called Stepping Stones in North London in a class called the Dolphins. I must have been about four years old. I remember it being some kind of music group. We were all in a circle with instruments. I may have had a xylophone, but I can’t be sure. What I do remember is that there was the distinct smell of shit in the room. At this age kids are toilet-trained, so whereas only a couple years previously at nursery or playgroup the smell of shit was a given, in this environment it was unwelcome.

The simple fact was, a four-year-old kid had taken a shit in his or her little pants. It wasn’t me. I have never pooed my pants, although as this was my earliest memory, I can’t be sure. I remember trying to ignore the smell of shit and just get on with what I was doing, much like being on the top deck of a night bus.

‘I smell poo,’ said the teacher. Cue hysterical giggling. ‘Please tell me if you think it might be you. You’re not in trouble.’

Nobody responded. A chubby boy holding a triangle looked slightly guilty to me. A blonde girl with a bongo also looked a bit sheepish.