Life and Laughing_ My Story - Michael McIntyre [38]
Lucy, Dad, me and our camera-loving Great Dane called Moose at Drayton Wood, my dad’s countryside abode in Hertfordshire.
At one lunch, my dad and Holly had several people over. I don’t recall the occasion. There must have been about ten of us sitting at the large dining room table. My father at the head, telling stories accompanied by his own booming laugh. I was a child surrounded by adults, so the only time I was involved in conversation I was asked typical questions like, ‘What school do you go to?’, ‘Do you enjoy it there?’ and ‘What’s your favourite subject?’
‘Hey, Michael,’ asked my dad, ‘how are your guitar lessons coming along?’
‘You must be a real Jimi Hendrix by now,’ Holly added.
I had been bunking off my guitar lessons for a year at this point. It had actually been so long that I had forgotten I was supposed to be going.
My heartbeat quickened, my voice trembled slightly as I mumbled, ‘Fffine.’
My dad addressed the whole table: ‘Michael begged me to get him a guitar. I wanted him to learn the piano, but he was so adamant.’
‘Adam Ant doesn’t play the guitar,’ interrupted Holly. Everybody laughed at the ‘adamant’ and ‘Adam Ant’ mix-up. I thought maybe I was saved and the conversation would turn to New Romantic pop. I was wrong.
‘What songs can you play?’ asked my dad with a mouthful of Holly’s finest ‘Sloppy Joe’. I was terrified and tried to change the subject.
‘Have you told everybody about the geese? And how you murdered them,’ I suggested.
‘Oh yes, I will. But first I want to know what songs you can play on that guitar I bought you.’
How was I going to get out of this? I had to remain calm, but my heart was nearly beating out of my chest. I flicked my eyes to Lucy, who knew I hadn’t even taken the guitar out of its case. She looked almost as terrified as me.
‘Er-er-eeerm,’ I stuttered.
‘Come on,’ reiterated my dad. ‘You’ve been learning the guitar for a year, what’s your favourite tune?’ All eyes were fixed on me; I felt like throwing up. I couldn’t think of a single piece of music ever written.
‘The …’ I began.
‘The what?’ pushed my dad.
‘The National Anthem,’ I said finally.
The whole table looked confused. A bit of ‘Sloppy Joe’ dribbled out of the side of Lucy’s mouth. ‘The National Anthem?’ said my dad, surprised.
‘That’s very patriotic,’ somebody else interjected.
‘Yes,’ I said, realizing I had some work to do to be convincing, ‘I love it, I just love playing it, I love our country, I love the Queen, I’m really good at it. Aren’t I, Lucy?’
‘Yes,’ Lucy assured everyone. ‘He’s brilliant at it, he plays it all day.’
‘OH MY GAD!’ interrupted Holly in her thick US accent. ‘Cameron, I can’t believe I forgot. I’ve got an old guitar upstairs in one of the boxes, I’m going to go and get it.’
‘What a great idea,’ agreed my father. ‘After lunch Michael can play the National Anthem.’
The blood drained from my body. I was in hell. I wanted the ground (all 35 acres of it) to open up and swallow me. Holly disappeared to look for the guitar. My mind was racing. What was I going to do? Should I feign illness or injury? I was in the midst of a nightmare. My dad began telling his geese manslaughter story. It seemed like only seconds before Holly returned, tuning her old guitar as she walked towards me. My father cut short his anecdote. ‘You found it, great!’ Holly placed the guitar in my trembling hands. The whole table turned to me.
‘Stand up, Michael,’ my father directed.
I stood up, awkwardly holding the alien instrument. This was the moment, the moment I had to admit my lie. The moment to reveal the shameful truth, that I was not so much Jimi Hendrix as the Milli Vanilli of school guitar lessons. I decided to go for it. I don’t even know if I decided. I found myself strumming the guitar and singing, ‘God save our gracious Queen, long live our noble Queen …’ I sang it as loud as I could, to mask the fact that I was just randomly strumming. It sounded