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1 September 2006 saw my proper television debut. The show got over 2 million viewers. Channel 4 were pleased with my performance and I naively expected to be catapulted into the mainstream, but I soon returned to playing the clubs and Jongleurs. I was hungry for success. Every time my mobile phone rang, I hoped it would be Addison. However, he is an extraordinarily busy man, managing the careers of Jonathan Ross, Lee Evans, Jack Dee, Sean Lock, Dara Ó Briain, Alan Carr, it’s a who’s who of British comedy. As the weeks passed, my ‘Addison calls’ were becoming less frequent. I was far from out of the woods.

My next big show was the gala at the Brighton Comedy Festival. Alan Carr was hosting, and I only had to do ten minutes. The gig was my biggest audience to date. The Brighton Dome holds about 1,800 people. The fact that I only had to do ten minutes meant that I could string together all my best jokes. I was looking forward to this night for weeks. I’ve always felt ‘the more the merrier’ with comedy audiences. What I didn’t know was that Addison was in the audience. He comes from Brighton; he has a second home and family there. So when I had a sensational ten-minute gig in such a big theatre, I showed Addison my true potential. He had only seen me with an audience of eighty. I came alive on the big stage. I love to move around, to express my jokes physically.

I could tell afterwards that I had gone up another notch in Addison’s eyes. He was chattier with me, fussing over me and getting me drinks. The next day, I went off for another gig somewhere, continuing to gig almost every night, and Addison had an idea. He had seen me on a big stage, and he thought maybe he could get me on the biggest stage of them all. In a few weeks, the Royal Variety Performance was to be hosted by his client Jonathan Ross. He thought that if I could reproduce my Brighton performance in front of Royalty and on BBC1, I could be fast-tracked to success.

The major problem with Addison’s theory was that I wasn’t booked for, or wanted on, the show. The comedians had already been selected. Lee Mack, Omid Djalili and Ken Dodd were due to perform, along with Jason Byrne, who was taking the spot of unknown new comic. There was no room for me. Addison sent my Comedy Store Special to Peter Fincham, the controller of BBC1, and implored him to give me a chance.

In late November of 2006, I was in the Jongleurs Nottingham dressing room when Addison called me on my mobile. My heart leapt with excitement when I saw his name on the caller display.

‘Michael, it’s Addison. Are you sitting down?’

I worried for a moment he was telling me I had to do my A-Levels again at Woodhouse College.

‘Yes,’ I lied.

‘Now, I think I’ve got you a very big gig. I think you’re up to it. If it goes well, it’s massive. I thought you were fantastic in Brighton. You just need to do that again. Do you think you can do that again?’

‘Of course, I do that every night. What is it?’ I asked with a bit of trepidation.

‘The Royal Variety Performance. They’re going to add you to the bill if you want to do it. They’ll make an announcement tomorrow. I’ve stuck my neck out for you, but I’ve got a good feeling about this. Do you want to do it? I need to know now, ’cos I’ve got to move fast on this.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I said feeling faint, clinging to the ironing board for stability.

‘Fantastic. You need seven minutes. It’s in two weeks. You better start practising what you’re going to say,’ Addison instructed, before hanging up.

I wanted to share my news and spun around to the other comedians in the dressing room. It was a familiar depressing sight of deadbeat bitter comics ironing, bitching and ignoring the fruit. I felt a rush of joy wash over me. I didn’t say anything. They weren’t interested in me, or my good news. I’m getting out of this place.

Finally, that was my last night at Jongleurs.

For the next two weeks, I was out every night rehearsing my seven minutes, not that I needed to, I knew my jokes. I