Life and Laughing_ My Story - Michael McIntyre [95]
The truth is, I wasn’t very good. I couldn’t compete with Jimmy and Daniel. Daniel was honest and open and naturally funny, and Jimmy had wonderfully written material. I was naturally funny, but didn’t know how to replicate this onstage, and my material was average. If I were an agent, I wouldn’t have represented me. There’s a comedy website called Chortle; it’s an online bible for British stand-ups and is extraordinarily comprehensive. I knew it was only a matter of time before the site reviewed me and checked every day. When I saw my name on the front page of the website in the ‘Latest Reviews’ section, I nearly vomited with nerves. I wanted a career in stand-up, and here was the first clue as to whether that was possible. As upsetting and deflating as it was at the time, the review was accurate. It ended with: ‘Michael McIntyre is the equivalent of a Marks & Spencer pullover. Dependable and durable, but nothing to get excited about.’
I was devastated. I was so desperate for an endorsement, for somebody to see that I was talented. But the reality was that comedians were becoming successful around me, and I was being roundly dismissed. I showed it to Kitty, who was typically positive and wise: ‘What’s wrong with you, Michael? Not only is this just one person’s opinion, it’s not a bad review. Marks & Spencer is quality. You’ve seen the adverts, “This is not just any chicken, this is M&S chicken, the finest, most succulent, tender, juicy chicken.” That’s you, the best.’
‘The best chicken?’ I said.
‘No, comedian. You’re not just any comedian.’
‘No,’ I resisted, ‘that’s the food. Marks & Spencer’s food is the best, the clothes are average. I wouldn’t be upset if I had been compared to a Marks & Spencer smoked salmon parcel, but I wasn’t. I was compared to a pullover. The food is special, but the clothes are boring.’
‘Nonsense, Michael,’ Kitty retorted, ‘Marks & Spencer stands for quality, whether it be the clothes or the food. Everyone loves M&S and everyone is going to love you. Plus, you’re wearing an M&S pullover right now.’
She had a good point, but it was by no means the review of someone who was destined for the top. Kitty believed in me, but nobody else did, until I performed an open spot at a very small club called the Laughing Club in a pub called the Albany in Twickenham. The club was run by comedy enthusiast Adrian Rox. It was a small function room with about fifty people in the audience, and I didn’t think it went particularly well.
The following day Kitty’s parents, Simon and Alexandra, were visiting our humble abode for dinner. We were sitting in the kitchen/diner/toilet on plastic garden furniture I’d bought from Homebase and eating Tesco value cornflakes. The phone rang, and I excused myself and went to the living room to pick it up. ‘Hello, welcome to Dial-a-Mobile. Are you calling about the new Nokia, sorry, hello?’
It was Adrian Rox from the Laughing Club, and he offered me my first paid gig, in Liverpool. I ran into the kitchen but Kitty wasn’t there.
‘Where’s Kitty?’ I said to Simon and Alexandra, breathless with excitement.
‘She’s in the loo,’ Alexandra said.
‘I’m here, darling,’ Kitty said, from the loo, just a few feet from us, ‘I can hear you.’
‘I just got a paid gig,’ I announced, beaming from ear to ear. ‘One hundred pounds!’
I couldn’t believe I was going to be paid for something that I had been doing for free for so long. The fee didn’t include accommodation. We found a B&B in Liverpool for £30, and the petrol there and back cost £80. The £100 is of course taxed at about 20 per cent. So after my first paid gig I ended up owing £30.
The gig was unremarkable, and for only a handful of Liverpudlians; however, Adrian subsequently asked me if I wanted to host his Twickenham club. He thought I was good at talking to the audience and could jovially move the show