Life and Laughing_ My Story - Michael McIntyre [108]
I was having lunch with Kitty on the last Monday of the Festival. I could now hear out of both ears, but I had an unsightly cold sore. My wife was urging me to relax and enjoy the last few nights: ‘Whatever will be, will be. It’s out of your hands.’ My mobile phone rang; it was Duddridge, telling me that I was down to the final ten and that several judges would be coming to my show for the next two nights before announcing their five nominations on Wednesday. That was the call I was waiting for; it isn’t out of my hands, it’s in my hands.
I was happy with the way the show went that night, mostly material but flashes of improvisation. On the last night before the nominations I really went for it. Confidence was now flowing through me, I felt like I could make anything funny, anything at all. I felt like Neo from The Matrix when he starts to believe, and becomes all-powerful. I was playing with the audience for fun and now the audience contained Perrier judges who had my career in their hands. But to me they were just an audience to play with. I asked, ‘What do you do for a living?’
And a rather tall, serious-looking gentleman said, ‘I’m a journalist for The Times and I’m on the Perrier panel.’
I didn’t bat an eyelid and set about trying to make the scenario as funny as possible. I kept referencing my chances of being nominated and certainly overstepped certain boundaries, but it was funny, everyone was having a great time. When the show ended, I felt optimistic about my chances. I told Kitty that night that I had given it everything and I meant it. I knew I had new fans on the panel who enjoyed what I did, which was make people laugh with no gimmicks, no structure, no real content, just laughs. Word got back to me that one of the panellists, the infamously tough critic for the Scotsman, Kate Copstick, said she would be fighting to get me nominated. Duddridge received a phone call checking my eligibility for the award. Everything was pointing in the right direction.
Wednesday morning was the most excruciating hours of my life. The result had come through at around midday the year before, 12.12, 12.34, 12.40, 12.47. Still no news. No phone call. Every minute that passed, I felt my chances were dwindling. I kept refreshing the Chortle website – if anything had happened, they would reveal it.
1.05 p.m., the phone rang. It was my mum, I snapped at her, ‘There’s no news, I’ll call you.’ Kitty was feeling as sick as I was.
At least another half an hour passed, and I was losing hope. Nica Burns, the founder of the Award, traditionally calls all the nominees personally, so I thought I was only clinging on to the faintest hope when Duddridge called. ‘Hello?’ I said, as calm as I could.
‘It’s not good news, you haven’t been nominated.’
While I was listening to his words of consolation and support, Kitty ran into the room and I just shook my head in her direction.
I didn’t win the Perrier. I wasn’t even nominated, and now I was in even more debt.
The following day there was an article in The Times by two of the Perrier judges who wrote: ‘Only Michael McIntyre stands out from the acts delivering pure stand-up. When his material matches his improvisation – or when he drops it altogether, Ross Noble style – then he might be a major star.’
I hadn’t done enough. I was close, but that counted for nothing. My Festival petered out, and I played to about fifteen people on my last night. I returned to London on the Tuesday and on the Thursday to Jongleurs in Nottingham, first on the bill.
23
The ‘death rattle’ was how I used to describe the sound of the post dropping through the letterbox.