The Sound of Laughter (21 page)

'What we're asking for is 110 per cent, eight days a week, twenty-four/seven. It's not an easy job by any stretch of the imagination but it'll probably be the most rewarding job you'll ever have. Isn't that right, Chris?'

'Sean's right and I know if we work together we can build a great future. Now, has anybody got any questions?' said Chris.

At that point the child catcher by the side of me stuck his hand up in the air.

'Yes, my friend,' said Chris.

'Can we frisk children?'

My darkest fears were confirmed.

The next stage of the training saw us being taken into the actual arena itself for the first time. I'm sure I would have been impressed had it not been seven o'clock on a Sunday morning and my birthday to boot. Nevertheless, it was a colossal structure and I'd never seen anything like it in my life.

'This place is gonna rock,' I said to the steward next to me.

'Do you reckon? We open next Saturday with Torvill and Dean.'

'Maybe not straight away then,' I said.

We'd been called so early because we were about to take part in a huge evacuation drill with the emergency services . . . oh, and several hundred construction workers who were desperately trying to complete the building around us.

Each steward was placed at the bottom of a stairwell or fire exit, then we had to usher a pretend crowd out to safety through the fire exits. For added authenticity the management played a CD of
Dire Straits Live
over the PA system, while Sean and Chris shouted encouragement to us through megaphones.

'Quickly, Kay, help that woman, she's got a baby, help the baby.'

'Where? What baby?' I shouted, looking round.

'Row H, seat 12 . . . and don't climb over the seats,' shouted Sean.

They were taking it all a bit too seriously for my liking.

'Hurry up,' he shouted. 'Those people are burning to death.'

Five hours it took. My arms were knackered from gesturing to a pretend public. We had to do it over and over again. I was sick to death of hearing 'Money for Nothing'.

Halfway through the evacuation drill Mike Gunner IV walked down my stairwell with some other execs in suits. He stopped for a breather at the bottom and said to me, 'So, son, is everything A-OK?'

'No,' I said, 'not really, it's Sunday morning, it's my birthday and I've just let a coach full of pensioners burn to death in Row Q.'

Mike Gunner IV just grinned at me with his gold teeth, said, 'That's swell, kid,' and walked off.

I was missing
Little House on the Prairie
and wanted to go home.

A week later it was the official opening night with Torvill and Dean. Suited and booted, all the stewards arrived early to pick up their name badges. I was gutted because for some reason they didn't have one for me. I
had to take the last badge left in the box, which was 'Mohammed'. So for the first night and from then on I was known as Mohammed Kay.

All three hundred of us made our way up to the concourse for a final debriefing with Sean and Chris.

'OK. Tonight's the night, people. You should all know what to do. Those stewards on the doors, don't forget to ask the public to open their own handbags and show you what's inside. Sean?'

'Thanks, Chris, and don't forget to keep an eye out for the sworn enemy of every steward, which is . . . Mohammed?'

Why did he have to pick on me? Unenthusiastically I mumbled, 'Flash Photography.'

'That's correct. And last but not least, don't forget to have fun tonight. Isn't that right, Sean?'

'Affirmative, Chris. Enjoy yourself and remember: you're never fully dressed without a smile.'

I couldn't believe he just quoted a song from
Annie.

'You've hit the nail on the head, Sean, and whatever you do, don't be frightened of building up a relationship with Joe Public. We're not the bad guys ... or gals.' They both laughed but it quickly tailed off into silence again.

'Here's a tip for you. If you see any little children coming into the arena tonight, why not show them the
magic thumb trick?' said Chris, and then simultaneously they both demonstrated the trick. You must have seen it. You tuck your thumb under your finger, then you lean it up against the thumb on your opposite hand and by manoeuvring it back and forth it appears as if you're pulling your thumb on and off.

'I guarantee you, the kids might not remember who they came to see tonight,' said Sean, 'but they'll remember that thumb trick for the rest of their lives.'

And so shall I, dear reader.

Over the next few months I learned how to buck the system. It was relatively easy because the arena was so big and there were so many members of staff you practically went unnoticed – well, as much as a white steward called Mohammed could possibly go unnoticed. One trick was to walk around the arena looking serious as if you were on some life-or-death mission. If you walked quickly enough the other supervisors and management would leave you alone to roam anywhere you liked. In my case it was always near to the stage so I could watch the show. After all, that was the reason I became a steward.

Another tactic I devised was relieving stewards (and I obviously don't mean that in the biblical sense). I'd find them in a prime position overlooking the stage, at the bottom of a stairwell or a fire exit, and walking over to
them, I'd say, 'I've been told to relieve you, you can go on your break.' They'd gladly bugger off for ten minutes leaving me to enjoy the show.

And I managed to watch some absolute corkers during my time at the arena: Pulp, the Eagles, Eric Clapton, Wet Wet Wet, Simply Red (well, they couldn't all be winners). I remember enjoying Simply Red that much at the time that I failed to notice St John's Ambulance rushing past me with a lady on a stretcher who'd collapsed. I got a bollocking for that off Sean and Chris because I don't know if you are aware of this but one of the golden rules of being a steward is that when you're working in the auditorium you're not supposed to enjoy yourself.

'That's the audience's job,' said Sean. 'Your job is to keep them safe while they're doing it. Chris?' (Sorry, force of habit.) When you're a steward you're just supposed to watch the audience. You're not supposed to clap your hands, you're not supposed to tap your feet and you're certainly not supposed to dance. But all that was about to change when Take That came to town.

Their live show in 1995 was without a doubt the best show I ever worked on. They did ten nights in total at the arena and I worked nine of them (I would have done the tenth but I was best man at a wedding). Now I'd never really liked Take That before I saw them live. To
me they were just one of many teenage boy bands that had totally passed me by. But after working on nine nights of that tour I was completely hooked.

They blew me away when they opened (every night) with 'Relight My Fire'. The lights went down, the lads came on and the audience went berserk. The hairs would go up on the back of my neck the screams were that loud. They were that deafening Sean and Chris issued all the stewards with earplugs. I fell in love with the show, I got to know it inside out and I absolutely adored it. So much so that when the shows were over I found I had withdrawal symptoms and had to buy two of their live videos just to get my fix.

Without a doubt the best part of the show was when they ended the night with their last song, 'Never Forget'. The whole audience used to raise their hands up in the air and do a slow overarm clap when they got to the chorus. A bit similar to Queen in the video to 'Radio Ga-Ga'. It was quite emotional. I was determined to get to the front of the stage on the last night just to see the audience in all their glory.

That last night I went on a mission to relieve every steward on the aisle leading directly to the front of the stage. And I managed to get to the front just in time for 'Never Forget'. The view was truly breathtaking as I stood with my back to the stage watching thousands of
people waving their hands in the air. I'm getting tingles just remembering the moment. I also got a verbal warning for joining in. But I couldn't help it, it would have been a sin not to.

I still find it incredible to think that ten years later I was stood on a stage in the same arena watching crowds waving their hands at the end of my show. That's got to be the biggest 'unbelievable' of them all.

The funny thing, is I never officially left my job at the arena and have since been told by the management that I'm still on the books. So you never know, if things go tits up you may find yourself being escorted to your seat one day by a steward called Mohammed who looks remarkably like me.

Things weren't really working out for me over in Liverpool on the combined honours degree. To say I'd bitten off more than I could chew would be an understatement. I was struggling, desperately so, and considered it divine retribution for lying about my qualifications in the first place.

What was it? Why couldn't I settle? I think part of it was all the written work that was required of me. All those essays and dissertations, they really did my head in. I couldn't see the point in reading something and regurgitating it back onto paper in five thousand words. I've always loathed written work. In fact this book is
probably the most writing I've ever done in my entire life.

In my Information Technology lectures I pushed my lecturer, Mr Tibbs, to the verge of a nervous breakdown, due to the fact that I was computer illiterate and kept flicking mine off at the wall every time I spelt a word wrong. Well, it's what my parents did every time something electrical went on the blink at home. 'Flick it off and count to ten' seemed to be the golden rule in our house. As a result I spent most of my IT time re-booting my computer, whilst counting aloud with my fingers crossed.

American Studies turned out to be a complete waste of time altogether. I'd only picked it because the prospectus stated, and I quote, 'you will be covering all aspects of modern American media'. I thought that sounded right up my street and quite fancied a few weighty discussions about JFK's assassination and
The Godfather
trilogy. But in the six months since I'd been attending the lectures all we'd ever talked about was O J Simpson's film career and two of the Latino actors out of
Sesame Street.

On Thursdays we did the only part of the degree I enjoyed – practical workshops in drama and theatre studies. That was more my cup of tea and I quickly came to the conclusion that I needed to be doing a more
practically-based course, and so in my spare time I started to look at other universities. Bit cheeky when you think that I shouldn't even have been doing the degree in the first place. Ah well, God loves a trier.

After lengthy research I came across an HND in Media Performance at Salford University. It was a two-year course that seemed to cover all the areas I was interested in – drama, singing, script writing. But the one subject that attracted me most was stand-up comedy. I couldn't believe they actually did a course in stand-up comedy. I was hooked and decided to call them.

After chatting to a very high-pitched admissions tutor (he sounded like Joe Pasquale on helium) I was pleased to discover that the course was mostly practical. The students were assessed and graded on performance skills rather than dissertations and coursework and there were no exams. It sounded perfect for me, a kind of showbiz Mode II with jazz tap instead of car maintenance.

Another bit of good news was that, because I would be transferring from a combined honours degree onto an HND, and would therefore seem to be academically taking a step backwards, the high-pitched admissions tutor said they'd 'welcome a higher-level student like you, with open arms'. (His voice actually went a little bit higher when he said that – in fact there was only me and
a few dogs that heard him.) I was thrilled and delighted, so much so that I failed to mention that I only actually had one legitimate qualification and that was in art.

They wrote to me with an unconditional offer that I, of course, immediately accepted. So in September 1994 I started my new course at Salford University. The next two years were a complete blast for me. I acted in plays, wrote scripts, recorded radio dramas. For the first time in a long time I was completely in my element.

I no longer felt thick, I no longer felt academically inferior. I started to excel like I never had before. I was enjoying what I was doing and rose to every challenge they put before me. Even my dance lessons every Tuesday afternoon. They were actually more hi-energy aerobics than Royal Ballet, but I gave it my best shot, regardless of the fact that I was no Patrick Swayze. Nobody puts Peter in a corner.

The other thing I loved about the course was that I was able to go home every night. I could separate myself from the course and switch off at the weekends. It also meant I could go back to my part time jobs at the cinema and the arena. Even though it was work, it gave me peace.

Don't get me wrong, I genuinely loved the course, but I just didn't subscribe to student life. I was three years older than most of the other students and when you're
twenty-one, three years feels like a lifetime.

Thankfully most of the students on my course were normal (well as normal as you can get for a bunch of 'showbiz wannabes'). They came from industrial towns throughout the north of England – Sheffield, Leeds, Liverpool – and the Midlands (we even had one from Wales).

I also liked the fact that they didn't fall into the archetypal student bracket. You know the ones I mean. They turn up on Freshers' Week searching for a new identity, dye their hair purple and pierce themselves in an assortment of places because it's their first time away from home and they want to rebel against their parents. They blow their grant money on a pair of thigh-length leather boots and a donkey jacket from a local charity shop. Then, completely broke, they refuse to get any kind of part time job to support themselves and choose instead to spend the rest of the term living off handouts from Mummy and Daddy, whilst sending their dirty washing home once a fortnight. Not that I'm generalizing or anything.

One of the subjects I enjoyed the most was my characterization classes, which we had on Friday mornings with our lecturer Bob Steen. He was quite a character. Tall and permanently tanned, he paraded himself around campus in a denim shirt unbuttoned to
his navel, like Barry Gibb on stilts. As the dark nights drew in Bob chose to wear a cloak and now resembled something out of a Seventies prog rock band like Yes or Emerson, Lake and Palmer (the latter has always sounded like a firm of solicitors to me). Bob wouldn't have looked out of place playing synthesizer in the middle of the desert, silhouetted against a setting sun. He loved himself and, bizarrely, so did most of the female students. They hung on his every word, buzzing round him like flies round shit.

We did a few productions over the two years, the first of which was a Greek tragedy,
Electra
by Sophocles and it was directed by Bob Steen. He came up with the idea of setting our production against a backdrop of Sixties gangland London after watching
The Krays
on ITV one Saturday night. The lads wore long black cashmere coats and the girls had to wear mini skirts (which he loved) and we all talked in bad cockney accents – like Sophocles had written an episode of
Eldorado.

Bob could be a moody swine sometimes, especially if he hadn't had his daily fix of six black coffees and some marijuana. I remember one weekend myself and the rest of the cast had come in to help paint the set for
Electra.
It was November and some of us had walked leaves into the theatre on the bottom of our shoes. Hardly a hanging offence, but when Bob saw them on the stage,
he stopped dead in his tracks and bellowed 'Who has walked leaves onto my set?'

We all just looked at each other and shrugged. We all had. It was autumn outside – what did he expect us to do, levitate into the building? I shut my eyes, expecting him to explode with rage, but instead he just pulled a joint out of his back pocket the size of a roll of wallpaper and, lighting it, said 'I like it, I like it. Let's bring the outside inside. Let's bring the outside inside!' The next thing I knew, he had us all outside in the car park filling up carrier bags with leaves and then he made us throw them all over the set.

Electro,
was very intense and bleak (well, it is a Greek tragedy) but our next production was even bleaker. It was
The Crucible
by Arthur Miller. In case you're not familiar with
The Crucible,
it's basically the story of the witch-hunt trials that took place in Salem, Massachusetts in 1692, when local villagers burnt each other at the stake after accusations of heresy. It wasn't
Grease,
let's put it that way.

I found it slightly frustrating, as it was the second serious production that we'd done since I'd arrived and I really wanted to have a stab at doing something comical. Bob Steen gave me the lead, John Proctor, because he reckoned it would be a good discipline for me. I strongly disagreed and so, on the last night, I
thought I'd inject a little bit of humour into the production. Unbeknownst to Bob, I decided to end the show with a big band number and with a karaoke backing tape behind me, I belted out Frank Sinatra's 'Witchcraft' as I burned at the stake. Even Bob managed to see the funny side and it went down a treat with the audience. A few of them even woke up and sang along during the chorus. It reminded me of
The Wizard of Oz
all over again, but without the lion costume obviously.

After that the staff looked favourably on my pleas for comedy and chose an ageless Russian farce called
The Government Inspector
as out next production. I've mentioned to you before that I'm not very keen on farces, but it was the closest we'd come to doing a comedy so far and beggars can't be choosers etc, etc, etc.

The story is based on a classic case of mistaken identity. In fact John Cleese and Connie Booth paid homage to the play and adapted the same storyline for an episode of
Fawlty Towers
that they entitled 'The Hotel Inspector'.

I was given the role of Mayor. It was a comic tour de force and I relished the opportunity. Bob Steen even allowed me to improvise my lines, a process I found truly liberating.

The University of Salford had many patrons, Robert Powell, Ben Kingsley, Ice T (I'm joking) and the
wonderful writer Jack Rosenthal, who sadly passed away a few years ago. He was married to the actress Maureen Lipman and one day, totally unannounced, she popped into the theatre to watch us rehearse
The Government Inspector
and then gave us a fascinating talk on theatre and comedy. She even singled me out as being a naturally gifted comedian at one point. I was genuinely thrilled to receive such an accolade from someone I admired so much. But I wasn't half as thrilled as I was three months later when Maureen Lipman phoned our house and invited me to audition for a part in a West End show.

My mum was speechless and dropped the phone in shock. It turned out that Maureen (I think I can safely use her first name), had gotten my number off Bob Steen, after contacting him at the university. Apparently a director friend of hers was casting a farce in the West End and for some reason she had mentioned me to him.

My stomach churned at the enormity of the proposition that lay before me. It was a huge opportunity, to be plucked from obscurity and offered a chance to appear in a West End comedy. Okay another farce, I grant you, but hey beggars can't. . . Oh, I've just said all that, well you know what I mean.

A week later I was travelling down to London town on
the train with my dad sat beside me. He insisted on coming with me. In fact his exact words were 'it'll be a nice ride out'. It was a difficult time for him, as he'd been made redundant from his engineering job a few weeks before. But I had no idea how bad things had got until he pulled out a notepad on the platform in Bolton and proceeded to write down the numbers of the passing trains.

'Oh my God, what are you doing?' I said, mortified.

'I've decided to do a bit of trainspotting,' he said, as he flicked through his notepad, revealing page upon page of names and numbers. The Conservative government had a lot to answer for.

'A bit?' I said, 'it looks like you've seen half the trains in Britain already.' No wonder he was so keen to come with me. This journey to London clearly ticked a lot of boxes for him.

'Put it away,' I said. 'Christ, we're in the middle of the rush hour man.' The platform was choc-a-bloc with morning commuters and I hardly had any credibility left in Bolton as it was.

Personally, I could never see the point of trainspotting. You write down the name and number of a train in the hope that one day you'll see it again and then, when you do, you write it down again. When does the fun ever end?

I arrived at the Criterion Theatre in Piccadilly Circus two hours too early – just to be on the safe side. It was the first time I'd been to London since a school trip in 1984 and that turned out to be a complete waste of time. After a four-hour train ride we got put into groups and assigned a group leader. Sadly I got saddled with a Polish nun who was terrified of traffic. So while the other kids went to Buckingham Palace and Big Ben, we sat on Euston station waiting for our train home. The most I saw of London was a map of the underground fastened to the wall outside WH Smith's.

Nervously I sat backstage at the Criterion Theatre, waiting to be called through. There was nobody else there, except for an elderly man who was working the stage door. He sat in his booth reading the
Daily Star
and dipping his KitKat. I don't think he was up for an audition.

I was terrified. It was like the whole Granada interview thing all over again. The next thing I knew my bowels kicked in and I must have pumped about forty times in a row before a pretty girl leaned round the door and called my name. I could tell by the look on her face that the smell that greeted her wasn't very friendly. I naughtily gestured over my shoulder to the old bloke working the stage door as I followed her into the theatre, shaking my head.

She handed me some photocopied lines as I walked towards the stage. 'Here's your script,' she said. 'Sorry, I didn't get it to you earlier, the copier was out of ink.' Jesus, I'd been here almost two hours. I would have been word perfect by now. I'd always been crap at sight reading, especially at school. I hated it when the nuns made us read out loud from a book in class. We had to read a paragraph each, and so I used to have to count how many people there would be before it was my turn, and then count the same number of paragraphs down the page. It gave me a little time to scan the text for any big words. But sometimes the nun would say 'Continue' after I'd confidently read my paragraph. 'Eh? What does she mean continue? That was a paragraph, she said a paragraph.' I'd turn to the others around me, but it was useless. I had no choice and in a blind panic I went from Laurence Olivier to Joey Deacon in two lines. So I don't know what this girl was expecting me to do with the script that she'd handed me at the eleventh hour. Out of ink indeed. It was the West End not a public library.