This Is Your Life (10 page)

Once I had a clear view of the whole church I was amazed and thrilled by the number of celebrities who were gathered in this one building. Would it seem a little improper to ask that weeping Spice Girl for her autograph right now? Maybe I should wait till the hymns to ask that bloke from
Coronation Street
if he gets found guilty in that court case. There was what's-his-face from Manchester United, behind him was a newsreader who was posing a question (a cooking query maybe?) to the presenter of
Mastercook,
and just behind them looking slightly different in her glasses was Norma Major, wife of the former prime minister. Even the people who weren't famous looked as if they ought to be. Their suits were smart and fashionable and they had an air of importance about them that made me conclude that the people I didn't recognize probably wrote out the cheques for the people I did. As well as most of today's top twenty there was a sprinkling of golden oldies, people who had been at the peak of their careers ten or twenty years ago, some of whom I'd completely forgotten about. There was that actor who was in
Upstairs Downstairs,
for instance, although he was obviously trying to play this down because now he was wearing modern clothes. And then my eye would wander again and I'd be brought bang up to date once more: coming in last of all were the really big stars, Kylie Minogue, Prince Edward, two out of six ‘Friends' and the Dalai Lama. The young girl with the clipboard looked at his invite, ticked off his name and said, ‘Take a seat on the left, please, Mr Lama.'

It was almost as if the more famous you were, the less time you could be seen to be kept waiting in the aisles. But I suppose that's just the way it happened to work out. I can't believe they were sitting in their cars around the corner till the last moment. Each face prompted a different Pavlovian emotion from thousands of hours spent watching television. Seeing England football stars made me instantly think, ‘Goal! England are safe!' Seeing the bad guy from
EastEnders
made me want to shout, ‘You bastard, you broke your poor mum's heart!' Spotting a TV quizmaster recreated the sensation of, ‘Ooh, I know this one, don't tell me!' One or two of the stars seemed to have a slightly resentful air about them, as if deep down they rather objected to being cast with a mere walk-on role in this particular drama. ‘Why should Billy Scrivens be the centre of attention?' they seemed to be thinking as flowers were placed around his coffin. ‘It should be me up there.'

Edging his way past the official photographer and stepping over the cables, the world's most nervous vicar tentatively shuffled up before his celebrity congregation like some rep actor suddenly finding himself auditioning in Hollywood. For most of his sermons he must have felt confident that he was the best public speaker in the room, that he could project his voice and bring out the meaning of the text better than any of the dozen or so pensioners dotted about the otherwise empty pews. But just glancing around today's packed congregation I could spot the winners of three Oscars, four BAFTAs, and the TV Quick Award for Best Daytime Weather Forecaster. The vicar was trembling so much he could barely get his words out. He rushed through his first reading, desperate to make it to the first hymn, at which point he looked even more thrown because this new congregation sang up with such projection, clarity and feeling that he must have thought he had
been transported to the front row of
Phantom of the Opera.

It seemed strange to be worshipping some unimaginable made-up God in a room full of living, breathing deities. How bizarre that we had gathered together in a church, the religion of celebrity hijacking the temple of the previous established faith. Billy Scrivens had toured the sick and incurable in hospital and had touched them; was it not him we had come to worship today? In this century it was not the illuminated saints in the stained-glass windows we venerated, but the figures shining brightly through our television screens. Did not more believers worship at the altar of television on Saturday night than ever entered a church the following morning? In every home in every street we gathered around the god-box to hear the gospel according to St Oprah, for yea, daytime television is the truth, the light and the way.

The organist missed a few notes, the sermon was irrelevant and overlong, and frankly the whole show was a rather amateurish production. It was only at the end of the service when the speakers relayed Billy Scrivens's TV theme tune that the atmosphere picked up and the audience started to respond. When the jaunty tune finished everyone spontaneously applauded. It was quite moving. We were at a funeral in a church but this was show business and it was Billy's lifetime curtain call. Take a bow, Billy Scrivens, you put on a great show, you gave us some great laughs, thank you.

As the applause died down six people took their places on either side of the coffin. But not six ordinary people, not undertakers or Billy's relations. No. Standing by ready to lift and carry out the coffin were six of the most famous celebrities in the country, each one from a different sphere of entertainment. There was the premiership's most expensive footballer, the lead singer from Britain's biggest boy band, a
team captain from a top comedy panel show, the hottest British actor in Hollywood, a leading member of the cabinet, and just in front of him the winner of
Big Brother.

If you'd wanted to arrange the perfect celebrity photograph, the vision of these six stars solemnly and humbly carrying Billy's coffin out of the church would have been it, I thought, as the official photographers eagerly clicked away. Once the coffin was taken outside, it was placed in a hearse and whisked off to a private cremation that would be taking place away from the public gaze. No details of this part of the proceedings were provided on the service sheet, but I knew that if it was for Billy Scrivens, it wouldn't be just any old conveyor-belt ashes-to-ashes job; he'd have the luxury cremation, a sort of executive super-cremation plus, with every frill and comfort laid on for the customer's convenience and peace of mind. It was hard not to be jealous of him, but I just had to accept it: this was how the other half died.

While all this was taking place everyone filed slowly out of the church, showing their sorrow and their best sides to the waiting paparazzi. They inched their way down the road to a nearby hotel that had been requisitioned for the purposes of the wake. It was a disappointing, unglamorous location, a modern post-war hotel that would normally cater for sales and marketing conferences for middle managers. But today the delegates didn't need name badges; their faces did the same job.

My excitement at being alone in this strange company was beginning to wane and with no one to talk to at the party I started to feel awkward and self-conscious.

I hovered on my own for a while next to a plant, which proved disappointingly inadequate camouflage and so I attempted a faint half-smile to various people walking past.
Their internal computers quickly scanned my face, instantly calculated my importance to their careers, registered the score ‘zero' and swiftly redirected their eyeline to the next person along.

Hanging around beside the various groups of industry movers and shakers, I could overhear various snippets of what I presumed must be typical TV conversations: ‘Yah, I'm doing a new Channel Four series called
Icons Uncovered
– you know, a sort of dish-the-dirt-on-the-modern-saints thing. We're exposing the real Anne Frank – there's some evidence that the blank diary wasn't given to
her
after all, she borrowed it off her sister and then failed to replace it. It's dynamite . . .'

Another pitch was going on behind me. “We're trying to salvage the ratings for current affairs. I've got in the producers of
Pop Idol
and
Soap Stars
and we're holding auditions for people who want to become real-life politicians. The winner stands as an independent at the next by-election and with all the TV publicity we reckon they ought to walk it.'

I noticed an abandoned glass of champagne on a nearby table, which sat there fizzing away for ten minutes. I was dying for a drink and finally I strode past it, deftly picked it up and continued on my way as if I'd just spotted someone I needed to talk to. I glugged it back and my nerves began to ease. I found the purposeful searching-for-a-work-colleague technique quite an effective means of feeling less self-conscious. I walked from one end of the room to the other, exaggeratedly craning my neck, looking for this elusive imaginary friend, and then when I got there, I walked all the way back doing the same thing over again.

Although I was sure that thousands of pounds must have been spent on food and drink, there was no actual meal laid on as such. Instead elfin waitresses flitted around the groups of
guests offering them a selection of expensive looking meal-substitutes. I found it hard to get too excited about this feast. ‘
Another
sliver of carrot! I shouldn't really, I've already had one, I might explode if I eat any more! No, no, just
half a
quail's egg for me please – I'm on a diet.'

These beautifully presented little nibbles, artistically arranged on silver platters, had clearly required a great deal of care and money to prepare but they failed to leave you feeling as if you'd eaten anything. In fact, the dainty morsels of spiced prawn or sculpted radishes dipped tantalizingly in exotic sauces only served to remind you how bloody starving you now were, how much you really fancied a couple of big cartons of Chinese takeaway. Even on the culinary front, image had triumphed over substance. It must take real expertise to create dishes that leave you hungrier than eating nothing, I thought; to pull off the gastronomic conjuring trick of combining garlicky breath with a rumbling empty stomach in order that guests leave the party belching spicy reminders that they're completely famished. Of course, any true gourmet will know that this burp food is only intended as a starter. If you wish to avoid a fierce headache when you wake up next morning, you're strongly advised to follow such dainty entrees with a large bowl of Weetabix for your main course when you get home. Only then can you lean back with the satisfaction of the replete diner, taking care not to stab yourself in the leg with the grubby cocktail sticks you secreted in your pocket earlier in the evening because there was nowhere else to put them.

The waitresses dispensing these morsels were petite and skinny as if they had been raised on a meagre diet consisting only of this negative-calorie food they were now bearing before them. They appeared like holograms around the edges
of the circles and the guests acknowledged the platters but never the bearers, as if the selections were somehow hovering in front of them by magic. It puzzled me that no one was talking about Billy or even bothering to appear particularly bereaved – even drinking champagne seemed a little odd. I thought you were only supposed to have that when you were celebrating something. Then an approaching waiter offered me a glass.

‘How much is it?' I enquired.

This prompted a big laugh from some nearby guests.

‘Yeah, I wouldn't put it past him, the old bugger. That's just the sort of thing Billy would do, isn't it, charge for the champagne at his own funeral!'

‘Er, yes, ha!' I said, taking a glass from the tray.
It was free.
Obviously it was free. I can't believe I could have been so stupid.

‘So where do you fit into all this?' I was asked.

I had prepared for such a question on the drive up from the coast. Someone was sure to ask me, ‘How did you know Billy?' and I would reply, ‘Well, we were sort of neighbours . . .' and then if necessary I could talk a little more about us occasionally jogging together . . .

Unfortunately the question was asked by a very striking young woman, who added the irresistible bonus query, ‘Are you in the biz as well?'

‘Yes,' I tutted long-sufferingly, immediately realizing that more information was expected. And then I thought about my teenage letters and how they'd reminded me what I had always wanted to be; what people had always said I was good at.

‘I'm a comedian.'

‘Really,' she said, sounding impressed. ‘I always think that must be the hardest job in the world.'

‘Er, sometimes . . .' I quipped effortlessly.

‘Are you doing the circuit at the moment?'

‘Oh yeah, The Circuit,' I said casually, ‘and, you know, a few other clubs beside that one,' and then they all laughed some more and I wondered if I really was just naturally very funny.

‘What's your name?'

‘Jimmy Con way?' I replied, tentatively phrasing my name as a question that could only prompt the answer, ‘Never heard of you!'

‘Oh yes . . .' she said hesitantly. ‘Yes, I've definitely heard the name . . .'

‘Can't say I've ever seen you on the telly,' said a posh man dismissively. He emptied his glass and clicked his fingers to summon more champagne. I wanted to assert myself, to stand up to this showbiz snob.

‘No, I won't do television,' I said defiantly. ‘It's killing real stand-up.' I had read this line in a magazine in an interview with some comic who had clearly repeatedly failed to get his own television series. ‘Pure stand-up comedy is just the comic, the microphone and the audience, nothing else, live, right there in that room,' I declared, emboldened by the free champagne. ‘Sure, telly might pay more. But which is better – to make a million people mildly entertained for five minutes, or to have a hundred people in the palm of your hand, weeping with laughter for a whole hour or more. Telly's a sell-out.'

It was my best performance since my tribute to Billy on the news and they all looked a little dumbfounded.

‘That is so refreshing,' she said. The woman introduced herself as ‘Arabella from the
Sunday Times
' and we chatted a little more about my experiences playing the various comedy clubs.