I Used to Say My Mother Was Shirley Bassey (27 page)

Nevertheless, I was completely mesmerized by this girl and I'd completely forgotten about my neighbour until, with a sharp huff, he flicked his newspaper straight. Maybe he thought with all of my jerking movements I was in fact having a seizure. By now he wasn't reading the paper any more and was also giving my lady the eye. This is a ruse used by many Tube riders. Have a book or newspaper handy, pretend to read it while trying to look up a skirt, down a blouse or in any other direction to catch a glimpse of the people in front of you. Failing that, try looking at the glass reflection opposite to check out the people next to you! It works every time.

The lady in red was still smiling and my grin was wider than the platform at Tooting Broadway. Eye contact is one thing, but if we'd been closer together then I could have made foot contact. Our chemistry was unmistakeable but I was too embarrassed to make a move on the packed Tube. Irrational anxiety set in. The kind that only rears its head when you fancy someone and don't have the guts to do anything about it. What if she gets off next stop? Then I'd have blown it for sure. Then more panic. What if we get to my stop? I may have had a gig to get to but at this point I was willing to sack it off. I thought to myself, I'll stay on the Tube and get off when she does. I'll make it natural looking, if that's possible. Only a strong infatuation can make you look at a total stranger and think, Yes, I'll definitely follow you home.

The Tube slowly juddered to a halt when we pulled into the next station. I was wound so tight that when newspaper man stood up to leave, my body reacted instinctively and I began to rise too. My mistake made for a weird musical chairs moment and I sat down again sheepishly, feeling pretty foolish. However, right on cue, my new girlfriend laughed. Yes, she must've thought I was playing another joke. Get in there, Stephen. Saved from the jaws of disaster.

With newspaper man off the Tube there was a seat free next to me. Now, here we are at a crossroad. I like girl, girl like me, there's a spare seat next to me. Sometimes I wish that girls would just take the initiative. No sooner had I finished my lust-crazed reasoning when the stunning girl moved across and sat next to me. I got a lump in my throat.

‘Hi,' she said. ‘I'm Marcia.'

I opened my mouth and broke the Golden Rule – ‘Stephen, nice to meet you. Erm, are you off out somewhere?' What a stupid question. Did I really think that she just went round and round the Circle Line all day? But I was thinking on my feet and figured that at this stage I ought to be polite to make up for the neck jerking and mad facial expressions that had been my method of communication so far. From a distance, our silent love mime had been quite endearing; continuing it close up could indicate mental health issues. As it turned out my mental health wasn't the problem.

Then Marcia dropped the bombshell. Taking her hand off the cover of the book, she continued, ‘Can I interest you in the Lord?'

It was then I noticed the book's title: The Bible. Growing up, my parents used to discipline us the old-fashioned way: by using religion. By which I mean they used to beat us with a copy of the Gideon Bible. Plus, I'd had to endure endless evangelical church services in Nigeria, so I really don't like organized religion much at all. With one simple sentence she'd let me know that the whole sorry charade so far had just been an attempt to coerce me into being converted to the bloody Good Book.

I looked her up and down again and suddenly her beautiful outfit made sense! What a temptress! My previous question turned out to be surprisingly apt as it looked like she must indeed just ride the Tube lines looking for people to preach to about God. What a manipulative, poisonous, Venus mantrap. Plus she'd lured me in and distracted me from the fun of reading a perfectly good free newspaper.

‘I, er, I haven't really given it much thought,' I replied, feeling deflated in the extreme and studying the Tube map intently, counting the stops until I could get off. If anyone had witnessed our sweet exchange a few moments before – boy, they must be laughing now.

‘Well, maybe now is the time for you to give your life to Christ.' I couldn't ignore her because she was now sat next to me. I looked longingly for another seat to move to but now, predictably, the whole carriage was full. ‘We have many Bible classes in this area, can I invite you along?' That was about as far away from my idea of a dream date as it was possible to get.

‘How did you find the Lord?' I asked. That question shook her right off balance. Good.

‘Erm. A bit like this really, someone stopped me on the Tube and I was hooked.'

I saw an opportunity to quiz her and I went for it. ‘Well, what if that person was a Muslim, or Hindu or Jewish?'

‘What do you mean?' Her face had now visibly changed. The pretty smile was gone.

‘I'm just saying, maybe that person caught you at a bad time. You could have been a Hare Krishna or an atheist.' (And going back to my flat with me right now, I silently added.) ‘What if that person had been a ticket inspector? You could have been a convert to working on the London Underground by now if you'd met the right person at the right time.'

She sat back further in her seat and her hand once again covered the Bible. ‘There is only one God. Through Jesus Christ I will be saved from the many temptations I meet on the way.' She retaliated in that painfully rehearsed way that you get from people who have found religion and are now using it as a shield against all argument or sensible discussion. ‘I know what you're doing.'

‘I'm just asking a simple question,' I protested.

‘No, the devil works in mysterious ways. You have come to challenge me, to test me.'

‘Isn't it God who works in mysterious ways?'

Before I could finish she interrupted abruptly, ‘You are the devil. I suggest you mend your ways and find the Lord.'

The Tube arrived at the next stop and, with precision timing, she was up and heading for the door. I expect she was just going to catch another train and find someone else to convert. As the doors opened, she turned and gave me a look that could have removed paint from a toilet wall. I had been unceremoniously dumped and condemned as the devil within minutes. This city is full of surprises, some good and some bad. On the surface, London is a tolerant and permissive place. But watch out when you get on the Underground. Here there be morlocks.

T
HERE
'
S SOMETHING ABOUT
London's West End that's just fucking cool and I'm very lucky to have spent six months of my life playing there. And playing is just the right word. Live theatre is like live comedy and nobody's in it for the money because almost nobody makes any. But people keep turning up to work because the community of actors, producers, directors and technicians are so full of affection for each other. It's a surreal night-time world consisting of dilapidated dressing rooms, painted scenery made of plywood and late-night bars. The whole strange backdrop takes place under hot bulbs and heavy foundation.

When they asked me to take a role in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
in 2004, I initially said no. Why would a stand-up comedian like me, getting by very well using my own words onstage, want to surrender half a year to performing a script written by some American? I'm pleased to say that I am easily led and I took up a residency at the Gielgud Theatre with a bunch of my best friends for a season.

The play is about a mad house and the director had decided that they would cast all the crazies from London's red-hot stand-up comedy circuit to play the inmates. To add some star power to the production, Christian Slater and Frances Barber were cast in the lead roles and the result was very successful. Being battle-hardened comedians we wouldn't have cared if John Gielgud himself had been resurrected to play the lead and I think perhaps our anti-star-struck attitude allowed the Hollywood and West End glitterati to let their hair down.

The show was baptized at the Edinburgh Festival where the home-made careless irreverence of the world's greatest arts festival gave the show the rocket fuel it needed to hit the ground running when we came to London. The Edinburgh Fringe is a place where anything goes and we took some of that misrule spirit with us to the West End and ruled the streets while the show was on. Barber and Slater were like a Royal Family with an unusually large court of funny man (and woman) jesters.

I remember the first night in the Gielgud set the scene. I played one of the nurses, which was a good speaking part (although I played one of the bad guys and not one of the clowns). At the curtain call, Christian Slater and Frances Barber accepted the rapturous applause. But, as a kind of joke, my best friend came running down to the stage from the gods baring a bunch of flowers. Christian went to take them, only for my mate to cheekily brush him aside and give them to me instead! I have to say that even though I didn't steal the scenes I was in, that night I certainly stole the show (sort of).

Being a comedian I didn't take it all that seriously and was just having fun. I was unaware of the serious rules of the theatre. You have to turn up an hour before the performance; you can't drink until the final curtain; you can't leave the theatre; and you mustn't wear your costume outside. All of which are sackable offences. I managed to commit them all in one afternoon, when I decided to go and meet my friend during the interval at the Samuel Smith's pub next door. I only realized something was wrong when the company manager came running into the pub shouting ‘Amos! Get back on stage!' I'd actually missed my cue. I had to apologize to my fellow cast members using the Tannoy system backstage. I couldn't resist the chance of another funny. So I said over the system, which relayed to every dressing room, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to apologize for missing my entrance as I had visited the pub. I can honestly say this may never happen again.'

Still, for six months, that crummy rundown pub was the de facto West End green room. Once it became known that Christian Slater and Frances Barber were frequenting it, suddenly you couldn't move for people like David Schwimmer, Patrick Stewart, Dennis Hopper, Donatella Versace or whoever else was in town for the night. You'd catch them at the bar trying to figure out if Alpine Lager for a quid could really be a good idea to order in public (if you've been to a Sam Smith's pub you'll know what I mean). I think Donatella took one look around at the hookers and ancient winos who were the traditional customer base and turned it into her shabby chic collection for the spring.

Playing in the West End meant that suddenly we all had membership of all the members' clubs and we abused our newfound stardom to the max. When you're with famous actors you can pretty much get in anywhere and do anything. We even found those few strictly exclusive bars that are open very late and don't have a barman. They call them ‘honesty bars' and they just expect you to take what you like and leave the money. I was so impressed that I left a tip. I wrote on a piece of paper ‘Get a barman!' as I tucked into a fourth bottle of champagne.

Most of the cast being made up of comedians, we even put on a special late-night comedy show involving all of the actors, including the serious ones. Christian was nervous about it and so one of the other comics cheekily gave him one of my lines to use just before he went on stage. I don't think he even had time to read it beforehand. He marched on and said, ‘I love performing in front of you good people. But really, this isn't all that. What I really want is my own TV show. But the BBC have a very strict diversity policy. Apparently, I've got to wait for Lenny Henry to die first.' Now, coming from me, that's a very funny joke. But coming from Christian Slater it sounds like he has an unnatural urge to murder an innocent black man, who he'd probably never even heard of. Still, we couldn't help laughing.

Probably the most rewarding part of doing the show was getting to do the matinees for school groups from disadvantaged areas. These youths had never been to the theatre before and during some shows you'd hear them talking or texting on their mobile phones. After the performance, the organizers would arrange for a Q&A session, which to be honest was quite painfully forced. You know the kind of ill-thought-out event that none of the actors and none of the kids really wanted to do. You could see the teachers prodding the students to ask Christian Slater questions and we'd get stuff like ‘How do you keep your uniforms clean?' and ‘Did it hurt at the end when they electrocute you?' They clearly had no idea who I was as one of them asked me, ‘Hey, can you do the Ezekiel bit from
Pulp Fiction?'

The whole thing was an unforgettable experience with hundreds of people grouping around the stage door every night hoping to get autographs from Christian or Frances. We'd go out clubbing together and I remember there was almost a riot when I took Christian Slater to Heaven, London's biggest gay club. He was totally mobbed. But fair play to him, he took it all in his stride and posed for pictures with the regulars. It didn't do me any harm bringing him there because I had honorary VIP status for the night.

Years later, I still look back on that time and can't really believe it happened. After it was all over, most of us comics went back to our day jobs: making people laugh in clubs. It was quite a head shift going back to the Jongleurs comedy circuit. I didn't mind because when we were performing in all those shows and living that life it didn't seem like real life at all. The acting bug has caught me big time. It was six months of total fantasy, during which anyone could be whoever they wanted to be and act in any way they wished. I suppose that is what being an actor is all about and, during my brief stint as an actor, I'm glad I at least learned that. If it had been real it wouldn't have been anywhere near as much fun.

F
OR A STAND-UP COMEDIAN
it's all about getting to play the Hammersmith Apollo. You've seen it on telly; you've seen the billboards of your comedy heroes outside; and you daydream of one day walking on that stage. When I was a kid I'd walk to school under the Hammersmith flyover and gaze up at the huge eight-storey tall awnings that hung along the outside and wonder just what Gloria Gaynor, The Police, Blondie or even Gary Numan sounded like live on that stage.