Look who it is! (13 page)

The first year was wasted for me, as I pretended to everyone that I wasn’t gay – yes, I know! I strenuously denied it because I didn’t want to be so easily read. I wanted to be complex. It went hand in hand with my wish to be an actor and, I guess, to be deep and more than that hideously camp, gurning gargoyle I’d seen on the video. The decision to lie about my sexuality still makes me cringe, and my only explanation can be that, deep down, I thought the new start at university could be a chance to reboot and literally become a changed man. Isn’t that typical of me, though? Most people choose university to reveal their true colours and showcase the person they had always kept hidden deep down inside of them, but were denied at school. I, on the other hand, chose to become someone light years away from the real me and steal the identity of a streetwise, fanny-loving heterosexual with a passing interest in theatre – well, you couldn’t say I wasn’t complex. As you can imagine, it was like telling the tide to go back.

By the spring of 1997, I was living in Hendon with two fellow Drama students in a little flat above Captain Fish on the Hendon Way. It was convenient for its proximity to Brent Cross Shopping Centre, but really dire for airing your washing. If you hung it out the back, it came in stinking of haddock. If you hung it out the front, it would come in smelling of exhaust pipe. So we would have to resort to having
the clothes drip around us in the flat, praying that we didn’t get a shadow on our lungs from each other’s panties.

There was a lot of excitement at the college, as an exchange student programme was offered. We could swap with Drama students in American cities such as New York and Miami. Although I was living above a chip shop, I decided to stay put. But a few of our students went over there and immersed themselves in the American way of life – one girl, Sally, a bit too much. She came back with a new nose. Later that year, we had to honour our side of the bargain, and a whole batch of American students, Patty, Paige, Carol Ann, Mary Beth, etc., came over here. They were lovely, and their enthusiasm was catching. This sudden rush of new blood into our tired social scene also did us the world of good. We had new people to talk to and, more importantly, to take the piss out of.

As it happened, two of the students developed a crush on me, Anne and Chad. Now, I never believe anyone fancies me, basically because they don’t. So when both of them started to make eyes at me, I thought it was a bet. Why would they be interested in me? I couldn’t work it out. All I knew was that it was starting to get embarrassing. They really, really fancied me. No one had ever done that before. It was as if they had been hypnotised; when they heard the magic words ‘Hello, I’m Alan’, they would turn into lustful, horny nymphomaniacs, intent on removing my clothes.

One night, after having a few too many glasses of wine, Anne straddled me in the Horse and Jockey, demanding that I fuck her. I refused, and she started to ride me like a bucking
bronco. I’d never seen the like before. I didn’t know where to look. I was so embarrassed, especially since the landlord had only just relented and lifted the ban after ‘Anna Pavlova-gate’, where I had danced like Salome with a net curtain over my head, knocking over a table of drinks. But that’s another story.

The even stranger thing was that Anne and Chad were both actually attractive. This was a first for me, good-looking people showing an interest. If all the mingers came forward and sold their stories, it would look like I’d had a gangbang in a circus. If I had ever pulled someone nice, it was usually after a very big drunken session, and the morning after they often wouldn’t hold back their contempt for the bespectacled, buck-toothed person lying next to them.

Obviously, the camp voice resounding from under the covers – ‘Oooh, love, you wouldn’t mind popping on the kettle?’ – would destroy what little passion still lingered. Usually, I wouldn’t get my cup of tea. I’d just get told to put my clothes on and be escorted out of the flat with a blanket on my head, like a paedophile heading off to Crown Court. You wouldn’t even sully the occasion by asking if they’d like to see you again. You’d get the gist. If the tea isn’t forthcoming and they’ve phoned a taxi before you’ve even woken up, then the chance of a civil ceremony can seem very distant.

Chad was a thick-set, Jewish American who had a heart of gold, but an insatiable lust for me. I’m not much of a sexual person. Sex is a bit like ‘Cash in the Attic’ – I can take it or leave it – but he was like a crazed nymphomaniac. He had a soft romantic side, too. He was staying in a hostel with all the other Americans, and I remember once that, except for Chad,
they had all gone on a two-day trip to some northern theatre. He had the dormitory to himself. So he put all the mattresses on the floor and set up rows and rows of candles and flowers all over this huge cavernous room. It was so romantic, and such a wonderful surprise as I walked through the hostel door. I couldn’t believe it. We had a lovely night – well, once I’d stopped worrying about the obvious fire hazard and memorised my escape route in case a mattress did go up like a Christmas tree.

But then for every romantic interlude, there would be a sex-crazed session. He was insatiable and sometimes he would try to drag me into bushes for sex. He’d also follow me into a toilet and try to pull me into a cubicle. The man was an animal. I’m not into all that, but the more I resisted, the more lustful he became. He probably thought I was playing mind games, whipping him into a frenzy, then letting him have his way with me at the last moment. But I wasn’t. I genuinely did want to finish my crossword – and, no, I will not count to ten and follow you into that portaloo. My life became a nightmare.

Don’t get me wrong, some people would love to have that kind of dynamism in a relationship they would relish the fact that you don’t know when and where you’ll be having sex. But my nerves are shot at the best of times, so the last thing I need is the equivalent of Cato on Viagra, jumping out of a wardrobe with a raging hard-on. Yes, I loved having a boyfriend, but there were three people in that relationship: me, him and his penis.

* * *

In the final year at Middlesex I chose the Stand-up Comedy module. That was not because I liked comedy or wanted to be a comedian, but because all my friends had chosen it, and we got to go away on a long weekend to Tenby for a comedy bonding session. It sounded like a lot of fun, and the end of the course was looming. I think in the back of our minds we knew that this would probably be the last time we would all be together. Excitedly, we all bundled into the minibus and left Ivy House for Tenby.

Tenby is a really picturesque part of South Wales, its pretty houses and dramatic coastline framed by the hills. When we visited, it was so quaint and unspoilt. We stayed on a lovely farm which belonged to the comedy tutor, Huw Thomas, who ran the comedy night, ‘Downstairs at the King’s Head’, in Crouch End, where we would be performing these comedy routines the following week. With its two barns, one for the girls and one for the boys, and its surrounding land which ran down to the seashore, the farm encouraged the liberating feeling of getting back to nature. We let that sense of freedom wash over us and the grime of North London soon became a distant memory.

We made a fire on the beach out of some branches that we found. We bought some beers and sat around reminiscing and telling stories. Huw would gently nudge each of us to tell a funny story, and in turn everyone would nervously tell an anecdote. The alcohol loosened us up, and the warmth of the fire seemed to draw us out of ourselves. Before long, the stories and jokes came gushing out. Huw had cunningly showed us what we needed to recreate next week at the busy
pub in London: intimacy, confidence, empathy, and, of course, the capacity to be fucking hilarious.

It was a lovely evening, and I remember having a wonderful sense of fulfilment as I made my way back to the boys’ barn. I lay in bed and thought about the next week. What would happen? Would I get booed off? Would I bring the house down? These thoughts were thrust right out of my mind when a hand was clamped over my mouth and another hand went down my pants. Terrified, I tried to scream. It was only when I heard Chad say, ‘Get in my sleeping bag,’ that I at least started to breathe.

‘Get off me,’ I hissed. ‘How long have you been waiting here?’

‘Thirty minutes,’ came the reply.

As it happens, Chad had slunk across the room whilst the others had been asleep and clung to the bottom of my bunk bed, like Robert De Niro gripping the axle of that car in
Cape
Fear
, and waited. I told him to get back into his bed, and he sulked off. This was getting too much.

The next day we honed our stand-up skills. Instead of the cosy warmth of the fire on the shore, the venue was a third barn, which had been made up like a comedy club. There were tables and a microphone on the stage. We still had beers to take the edge off it. We all tried our newly prepared jokes and hoped that people laughed. As you can imagine, it was a mixed bag. Some went down well, some died a death. But overall, we were all gunning for each other.

All I knew from those two nights was that this comedy lark was terrifying. The fear that takes over your body and
turns your stomach inside out was unbearable. Through the years of doing comedy gigs up and down the country, I have learnt to control it and harness the nerves. Now I use it to get excited and focused, a positive energy, you might say. Thankfully, nowadays it is very rare for me to get those knee-trembling nerves and heart palpitations. But when it comes, it comes, and it’s an acute reminder of those early comedy gigs when you couldn’t eat all day, even the smell of food turning your stomach. The fear seized you as you were standing in the wings, making a silent prayer to God and saying, ‘I would rather do anything than go out on that stage tonight. Screw this comedy lark. Why do I want to be a comedian, anyway? Why don’t I just go and get myself a boring shit job instead?’ Then I’d stop myself and go, ‘Oh, I have! I’m packing shampoo bottles tomorrow at eight.’

The next week at ‘Downstairs at the King’s Head’ we were all set to perform our comedy routines. That morning I’d woken myself up at 7.30, after having the worst anxiety dream ever. In the dream, I’d gone on stage and no words came out of my mouth. They just stuck in my throat. I had lost my voice and the crowd had started booing. People had started to walk out. Hoping that it was not a premonition, I made myself a cup of tea and a couple of slices of comedy and sat down on the comedy and watched a bit of comedy on the comedy. Please stop thinking about this fucking comedy routine, I pleaded to my already overcharged brain. The whole day just froze. It would stay frozen until I went on stage and said the magic words:

‘Hello, I’m Alan Carr.’

When we finally arrived at the Kings Head at six, we were led ‘Downstairs’, and the nerves went up a notch. I thought, ‘So this is where I’m going to die.’

‘Downstairs at the King’s Head’ has all been done up now, but back then in 1997 it was dark and gloomy, almost bunker-like. It wasn’t conducive to comedy at all, in my opinion. We went through the running order. I was in the second half – oh great, more time to fret. By this time the nerves that had tormented my stomach all day had travelled up my windpipe and were persecuting my throat. I would have gagged if I’d had anything to eat all day. So it was more of a dry heave as we were shown our dressing room and the toilet, which, looking back, was handy really.

I can’t remember how I bided my time before my performance that night – oh yes I can, I shat myself. Not literally, you understand, but I might as well have with the wind I was producing – oh goodness, it’s an affliction that haunts me to this day. Royal Variety Performance,
Friday Night
Project
, Hammersmith Apollo, my wind has no discrimination when it comes to the classy venues; it just pops out and lingers, a bit like the Grey Lady at the Royal in Northampton.

As it progressed, the night became too much for my nerves; every step of the comedy night sent my anxieties up to the next gut-wrenching level. When Huw shouted, ‘The doors are open,’ that would crank my nerves up. Then hearing the voices of the punters – another crank up. The opening of the second half, gulp, and then finally, ‘Ladies and gentleman, Alan Carr’ – I passed out.

Well, I didn’t pass out, but I couldn’t tell you what I said, what I did, if they laughed. I went into tunnel vision. All I know is that after the ending of every joke, the knot in my stomach loosened. After what seemed like a couple of seconds, I heard myself through the dream saying, ‘I’ve been Alan Carr, goodnight,’ and then, thankfully, applause stirred me from this strange half-slumber I’d been living in. Apparently, I’d brought the house down. People were patting me on the back, allegedly I’d had everyone in stitches. A huge wave of relief washed all the nerves away, and I just slumped in the corner feeling the last spark of nervous energy leave my tingling body. I remember thinking I never wanted to do that again.

But I did.

T
he next day at Ivy House, people were saying that I should do comedy professionally and that I was a natural at it.

‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ I politely replied.

Yes, the adulation and all the positive comments were lovely – ask any comedian, you cannot beat the euphoria you get when you’ve stormed a comedy gig, it is the most exhilarating feeling in the world. However, the nerves that had ravaged my body were too much. I simply couldn’t muster up that energy to perform every night. When would I eat? When would I sleep? I vowed I would never go through the strain of performing comedy again, and I stuck to my word for four years. ‘Besides,’ I would tell my fellow students, ‘I’d rather continue with my acting. I enjoy that.’ They would nod sympathetically, remembering my Len and the baby-stoning incident.

The end of the course was simply a matter of weeks away, and desperation mixed with panic is a lethal cocktail – especially when you are about to make important life decisions. Whilst we had been drinking, mucking around, joking and winding people up for three years, some of the more proactive students had sensibly earned their Equity cards, put on shows, travelled Europe and joined theatre companies.