Dear Fatty (39 page)

How lucky we were that the BBC took a long-term view of our career there. And how lucky we were to have the remarkable Jon Plowman as our faithful producer, who always defended and fought for our jokes. Our first series was well meant and showed glimpses of promise but was pretty shabby, wasn’t it? In the present climate at the Beeb, we wouldn’t be permitted to go any further for sure. Back then, the head of ‘light entertainment’, Jimmy Moir, decided to take a gamble on us, (or, in his words: ‘I’ve got my dick on the table for you ladies’), to give us time to develop and learn, to nurture us, and to take the long view. Thirty years later, we still wonder occasionally if they want us … I think it’s quite good to doubt. It puts us on our mettle. Forces us to keep inventing and experimenting with new ideas. (And persevering with some old ones. It’s funny, isn’t it, how Madonna rejecting our endless requests for her to come on the series has turned into a superstition of ours, the show just doesn’t seem right without her familiar ‘NO! Go away!’) This desire for fresh challenges is why it’s so important to bid farewell to our sketch show. We need time and room to work on new, different ideas. Stuff we’ve been cooking up together and individually for years, but which there’s been no time to concentrate on. Besides which, I think we both agree that sketches are a youngster’s game, they’re so demanding. Personally, I look forward to cheering on the next batch of female funnies – I wish there were more, to be honest, but nevertheless, big respect and good luck from the old mamas to the young missies like the divine Catherine Tate,
and
Miranda Hart, and Katy Brand and Karen Taylor and Josie Long and Gina Yashere and Laura Solon and Ruth Jones and Beatrice Edmondson …

Talking of change, how did you manage to change so skilfully from being the mistress of effortless understatement in the early days of
Girls On Top
and
Comic Strip
and
French and Saunders
, to the queen of pratfalls and big, broad, loud monsters, like Edina and Viv Vyle? I guess the switches were imperceptible over time, but on reflection you have run the gamut and back when it comes to versatility. How very annoying to discover that everyone has noticed your huge talent. I selfishly imagined it was for the benefit of my own private pleasure.

Do you remember once, when we went to see our friend Gareth Snook playing Prince Charming in panto in about 1986 or something? Buttons came on to play games with the audience. I love panto and was already a bit overexcited when he held up a giant troll (like those ones with brightly coloured hair that sit atop a pencil going up their wazoo, except a hundred times the size) and explained it was the prize for the winner who had the lucky number on the back of their programme. I glanced at the back of mine – number 13 – huh, not much chance. I wasn’t surprised to see such an unlucky number, I’d never won anything in my life, never. My concentration was wandering slightly when Buttons shouted, ‘Number 13, come on down!’ I simply could not befeckinlieve it. I’d won! I’d won the giant troll! Thank you, God, I’d always wanted one of those … I remember screaming at you, ‘I’ve won! It’s me!’ as I stood up to rush and collect it. I felt you clawing at my clothes and urging me to sit down. But no. I wanted that troll, I deserved to claim my rightful prize. I
pushed
past everyone in our row and ran down to the front, with such euphoric glee, waving my programme with my prizewinning lucky number aloft as proof of my great good fortune. It was only as I reached the stage, and I started to tune in to the resounding laughter, that it dawned on me that this was a joke – EVERYONE in the theatre had number 13 on their programme. It was only me that didn’t click until it was too late. The elderly had got it, the children had got it, the three rows of mentally challenged people at the front had got it, the whole audience had got it. It was just me, twatty thick ol’ me, that hadn’t. The walk back to my seat took five years. Thanks for trying to comfort me in my utter humiliation, by the way, and for not disowning me at that awful, cringing moment.

Another memory that stays with me is the time, many years later, when we performed with Darcey Bussell onstage at the Opera House in a benefit for the Benesh Institute. We achieved a major ambition of mine that night, by simply having, on the door of our dressing room, a gold star and a list of its occupants as follows: Miss Darcey Bussell, Miss Sylvie Guillem, Miss Viviana Durante, Miss Jennifer Saunders, Miss Dawn French. Oh my good, good God. We were prima ballerinas for the night! What a laugh it was. We did our silly sketch where I pranced about, echoing Darcey’s steps in a giant mirror (a routine we later repeated on
Vicar
), and you played a bossy dance teacher (good toes, naughty toes). We had been asked to bring alternative costumes to wear for the finale, so I had a friend make me a preposterous outfit where I looked like an old-fashioned ballerina in a tutu over a huge swan with tiny dangling knitted ballerina legs hanging over the swan’s back. The swan’s neck
was
held by a handle and its legs were, of course, my legs in black tights with huge ungainly flippers for feet. It was inspired by Bernie Clifton and his ostrich. The effect was just plain silly and hopefully very funny. Well,
we
laughed anyway. I know I looked ridiculous, that was the point. Ordinarily when you do a big jokey sketch with a big jokey costume, you endeavour to get out of it pretty quickly. When the gag’s over, it’s over. Unfortunately, as you may remember, that night we all had to remain onstage to receive the Royal Blessing of the institute’s patron, Princess Margaret. She obviously knew a lot about ballet and seemed familiar with many of the dancers onstage, who were the crème de la crème from around the world. She moved along the line, chatting and congratulating everyone till she got to me. She leaned around the swan head to shake my hand, and looked me full in the face with full-on pity in her eyes, quietly said, ‘How brave,’ and moved on. I think she thought I was special needs or something, being given a chance to jump about with the real dancers. On second thoughts … she was right really, wasn’t she? Tee hee!

I love it that we still have so much fun together when we come out to play in our civvie life. Like when we started a book club to encourage us to read more, and to have a chance to meet with our favourite mutual female chums for literary criticism and alcohol in equal measure. Or going to see Dolly Parton over the years, witnessing both her waistline shrinking and her genius ever expanding. And I love that we have been part of each other’s family. I’m
so
glad you had three girls, all older than my daughter, all very different, who I could watch and learn from. I have gained so much from seeing you and Ade bring them up so
beautifully
. The kid tips you gave me – some I took, some I ignored – all helpful.

I will never forget the cloak of protection you flung around me when the press were on my tail trying to exacerbate an already sensitive and tricky situation with Len and me. We’d just started a new sitcom,
Let Them Eat Cake
, at the BBC, and I was trying to be light-hearted and funny, when I was actually feeling hounded, and anxious for Len. You were like a Gladiator, fiercely guarding me, and calling for coffee breaks whenever you sensed I was a bit wobbly. You deserve a proper Gladiator name for that. How about ‘Defender’?! Yeah, sounds good. ‘On my first whistle, you will fight off predators with a giant cotton bud. Defender, are you ready?!’

I watched you the other week, at your 50th birthday party, looking more radiant and confident than ever, basking in the love of those who care so much for you, and I was reminded in one blinding instant how lucky I am to have you.

So, as I say, here we are, at the end of an era. Saying goodbye to
French and Saunders
with a last shout in London at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane. I’ve said some important work goodbyes recently –
Vicar, F+S
, and so on. You’d think I would feel sad. I don’t. I feel more alive and more creative than I have for years, and I can’t wait to say hello to LOTS of new projects. I think both of us are now busier than we’ve ever been, in every way. But we mustn’t forget to stop for a breath occasionally and enjoy the moment. Because it’s a glorious moment. We’re 50. And it’s bloody fantastic! There are only two things to look out for as we get older. One is loss of memory and … I can’t remember the other one. I bow to you, and bring on the next 50!

As we move our gear into yet another dressing room for the last time, I remember all the other dressing rooms. How they are all so different and yet the same. The sharing of hairdryers and make-up and rollers. The chocolates and the nuts and the Berocca! The speeded-up running of lines in a bid to reassure ourselves that we know the show. The no-nonsense notes to each other, no punches pulled, no time for politeness: speak up. Wait till I’ve finished before you move. Don’t do that thing to the audience at that moment. Energy. Pace. Clarity. Don’t blether. God, I hate this. Are your flies done up? God, I love this. This is going to be a good one. Remember they’ve paid. I need the loo. I need a Quirk. Make it a Robson instead. A quick handshake for luck. You arsehole. You twat. The
F+S
theme tune. The lights. We’re on!

There’s just no buzz like it.

I think we might miss it, you know.

LOOK, MATE, IT
was one kiss, on Michael Parkinson’s chat show, in front of millions of people. It would have been better if you’d decided to display your undying love for me in a slightly more discreet way, maybe backstage or something, y’know, pull me gently into your dressing room and kiss me hard up against the wall, something like that, but no, you chose to go public. I know you were elated, and swept up in the moment, so you couldn’t resist declaring your uncontrollable lust, and hallooing my name to the reverberate hills, and making the babbling gossip of the air cry out, ‘Dawn, oh Dawn. For she is my love!’ I
know
that, and I went along with it because I felt sorry for you. I didn’t want to spurn you or shun your advances and embarrass you in front of a whole nation. But George, babe, it’s over. Really. You must come to accept this and leave me alone. Please. I am happily married, sorry. I’ve tried to think of ways we could perhaps meet, fleetingly, in various Premier Inns around the country for a series of secret, hurried and passionate liaisons, but it just isn’t going to work out. My satnav is on the blink, I’d never find you. It would be hopeless and, frankly, tawdry. So just turn and go, George. Don’t look back. Remember the good times and try to find someone to love if you can, someone who’s nearly as great as me.

Good luck, darling. Farewell.

Moo French (age 50)

IT’S TIME TO
stop writing now, but I feel frustrated by all the stuff I
haven’t
managed to tell you about. There’s so much. Nearly a lifetime’s worth. I’ve forgotten more than I can remember! It’s clear to me that when I reflect on everything that’s happened so far, it’s not the work or the career I remember so much as the people. My life has always been, and continues to be, about an abundance of people. Somehow I’ve been on the receiving end of such plenty when it comes to the folk I know. It’s an embarrassment of riches. I haven’t even begun to tell you about my fellow Lark Risers and how they’ve come to be like a second family to me. Or about how much I love Catherine Tate, or about Bex Hale who decided to rethink everything she ever knew, or Helen Lederer, the third funniest woman in England, or Trevor Leighton, the easy, natural artistic savant, or Jon Fink, my writerly confidant, or Maureen Vincent, my trusted guide. Or Sue or Cyn or Linda or Davey or Ben … all of these people and more are the colour of my life. They are the ones who, along with my family and the BF and Fatty and so many others, shore me up and love me so well.

In the end, y’know, I’m wholly convinced that, as ol’ Macca said, ‘the love you take is equal to the love you make’. I’m further convinced that you can only know
how
to give love if you’ve been given it yourself. And I have, Dad, in bucketloads. Starting of course with you and Mum. My steady stream of unwavering love from you was stemmed far too soon, but Dad, for me to feel the lashings of self-worth I do, is a clue to how deep and wide that flow must have been. I only know how to love others
because
of your huge unquestionable love for me. And that’s a gift that keeps on giving.

Don’t misunderstand. I can certainly be ornery. I am extremely stubborn about probably far too much. I am unforgiving of those I don’t trust or who have betrayed me, or who are needlessly unkind, or who threaten my beloveds. I can be cantankerous and cunty when it suits me. Come to think of it, it never actually ‘suits’ me. Does being contemptuous suit anyone? Whenever I catch sight or sound of myself in the full grumpy flow of despicable thoughts or words or deeds, I repulse me sufficiently to try and stop, thank goodness. It’s far preferable to seek out the good than dwell on the bad which is so bloody exhausting. A bit like Mum with the dogs in the parlour, I endeavour to give everyone at least a chance, y’know, before I condemn them to the eternal fires of hell!