Life and Laughing_ My Story - Michael McIntyre [65]
Lucy and I were so excited to see our dad on these fleeting visits. We would go to the cinema and out for pizza. We argued a bit because I was a teenage pain in the arse, but it was a joy to see him. He seemed optimistic about his new ideas and projects, but I could sense his unrest and worry. He talked a lot about money, mistakes and bad luck. He was still smoking constantly. I watched him puffing away on his little borrowed patio and he looked distracted and frail. He made an effort with Lucy and me, but seeing him alone with his thoughts, it was clear that he was deeply troubled.
Just when it seemed hopeless, it looked like the show that got him started in comedy would return to save him. Jokers Wild had last aired in the seventies, and now twenty years later the show was to return. My dad was to produce a modernized version called The Hecklers. It was a pilot for the BBC, but if it went well it would be good news for everyone. My dad would be working again, and if a series was commissioned, he would have to move back to London. For Lucy and me, this was a wonderful prospect because, although he was visiting regularly, we were also saying goodbye regularly, which was always painful.
The Hecklers was to feature new comedians, so my dad, who was now totally out of touch with the UK comedy scene, had to go talent-spotting at London’s comedy clubs. I didn’t know anything about stand-up comedy. I had only seen three comedians on TV, and although I enjoyed them, I didn’t have an epiphany or anything. I saw the American Steven Wright, who delivered a stream of monotone one-liners (‘I bought some batteries, but batteries weren’t included’). I’d also seen Lee Evans and Lenny Henry in their live shows, but my mum and Steve were laughing so much I didn’t catch many of the jokes.
When my dad came to London, he went out every night to comedy clubs to unearth the stars of tomorrow. Lucy and I would spend the day with him before he’d drop us off in his rented car and say he was off to the Comedy Store in Leicester Square or riffling through an A–Z to locate clubs in Greenwich, Balham and Battersea. I had never heard of comedy clubs, I had never even heard of these places in London, but one day I would. He was going to a club called Up the Creek in Greenwich, the Banana Cabaret in Balham and Jongleurs in Battersea. In the years to come I would play these clubs hundreds of times, and I don’t think there was a time I set off in my car that I didn’t think of my dad setting off to the same place.
This was an era when Eddie Izzard was the king of stand-up but refused to appear on television, and Tony Slattery refused to do anything that didn’t involve appearing on television. So after extensive scouring for talent, my dad finalized the line-up for the pilot. The unknown comedians would be Mark Steel, Steve Coogan and Richard Morton, and the host, you guessed it, Tony Slattery.
My dad bought himself a new black jacket for the pilot. This became my first experience of live comedy, and I had never laughed so much in my life. Each comic performed a few minutes to introduce themselves to the audience, and they were all hilarious. Tony Slattery, in particular, was hysterical.
Everybody seemed thrilled with the pilot, but, as with all pilots, Dad would have an uncomfortable wait before the powers that be made their decisions. While he was waiting, he continued to come to London to drum up business. In November 1993, Lucy and I said goodbye to him on the steps of the flat he borrowed in Maida Vale. We weren’t upset, as he already had another visit scheduled for soon after Christmas.
That Christmas he sent Lucy and me our presents, and we got up early together before the rest of the house awoke to open them. We didn’t want to open them with Mum and Steve because our relationship with our dad was very