The Outside Of Everything

Chapter 18
The Situation Comedy

For all those years we may have lived the life of Riley, but we did it on the cheap. Partly out of choice, and partly out of necessity. We became experts at getting what we could for next to nothing, and preferably for nothing. So, for example, it was a case of clipping out coupons from papers, and getting free haircuts at Vidal Sasoon's. That was always a hoot. You'd get a free haircut in exchange for modelling for up 'n' coming students. Carefully supervised, of course. A place just off Oxford Street. You had to sit around for ages, but it was a pleasant enough experience on account of the excellent mixtapes that would be playing in the background. Adrian Sherwood's On-U Sounds were particular favourites there, oddly enough, along with old disco stuff like the Crown Heights Affair. Very nice.

Another very nice way of getting by was taking up free cinema tickets, which you'd occasionally see offered in the papers or Time Out. You had to send in an SAE and hope for the best, but most times we were lucky. Normal people were too busy for all that. And so we got to see all sorts of previews of weird and wonderful films in plush West End cinemas at unsociable times, like Sunday mornings, which wasn't a problem for us. Actually some of those films, while they may have sunk without trace, were way better than some of the more high profile successes. That should not come as a surprise to you.

Then there were the free tickets for the recording of TV and radio shows, which you could get hold of if you dug around a bit. This was way before the days of websites I hasten to add. The best free tickets were ones for BBC radio shows. After all who wanted to trek over to the TV centre at White City? At least with the radio shows you got invited to a very plush and civilised theatre on the lower part of Regent Street. I'm not even sure it's still there, but we were very fond of it. We preferred the idea of radio to TV anyway. For a while we rather fancied the idea of us as fusty rebels, sitting around in our tweed jackets, religiously listening to Radio 4, and occasionally Radio 3 for one of the more esoteric and difficult symphonies. The only trouble was that the reality was rather less appealing, and we regrettably often found ourselves in opposition to the establishment, its agenda, and the overpowering smugness of the Beeb, in spite of its moments of magic.

What really got to us was the appalling quality of some of the radio sitcoms we sat through. I mean, I know it was all free, but nevertheless there should be standards. Certain sections of the liberal establishment have a tendency to romanticise the comedy shows of yore. It's one of the lies foist upon us. There's an overwhelmingly unhealthy sentimentality about such things. It blinds people to the truth. And the truth is that most comedy is excruciatingly unfunny. Thinking back to some of the shows we sat through back then. Well yes some of them were fine. Some of the guys in the bow ties, some of the bods with the beards, they were very sharp and very quick. But generally the shows were terrible. So often though they were radio vehicles for fading third rate bit part players from some dire TV sit com. Ooh look a couple of blokes that were in It Ain't 'Alf Hot Mum or Dad's Army. You get the picture. It's a myth to think all sitcoms were on a par with those written by say Dick Clement and Ian Le Frenais, or Galton and Simpson. Would that it were true.

So those shows. Well, okay, we got to see them for free, but they were either deeply offensive, full of stereotypes, or if you were feeling slightly more generous so bad they were funny for all the wrong reasons. There were certain parts of the recording ritual that really got to us too. One would be the warm-up man. I say man because that's what they were invariably were. And these warm-up men were weirder than anything Scorsese could dream up. They were bitter, twisted types, who never had and never would make it to the big time. So they got these warm-up slots where they were the sacrificial lambs there to try to inject some life into an audience of lowlife and loafers with nothing better to do of an afternoon than sit through a free ritual recording. The other bit that really wound us up was the gopher type with the board and the cues telling us when to laugh of all things. I don't know about you, but there are few things worse than the sound of forced studio laughter throughout desperately unfunny comedy shows. So gradually, almost intuitively, we started our programme of oh so civil disobedience.

What was important was for us to act individually on this one, rather than obviously as a collective. Otherwise we were doomed to failure. The plan was to cause as much disruption as possible while making it all seem almost accidental. No stand up speeches then. Nor any storming of the stage or throwing bad eggs after bad eggs. No, this was more subtle. A bout of coughing here. A fit of the sneezes here. A whoopee cushion mischievously placed near an unsuspecting and non-aligned member of the audience. A torrent of giggling in quite the wrong place. A most unbecoming belch, and a desperate dash for the loo, at a crucial moment in the recording. Absolutely immature, I would willingly concede, but devastatingly effective. There is a wonderful sense of satisfaction to be gained from winding up seasoned pros who are imposing their ineffectiveness on us all. Quite touchy they can be too. The poor darlings didn't take too kindly to our tactics, and it was inevitable we would be rumbled. Inevitably, after weeks of fun, Security showed us to the door. Outside, they said. That's right, we said, The Outside of Everything.

Of course it was just bitterness on my part. I thought I could write better gags. Ah the conceitedness of youth. Mind you, the only comment of mine that slipped widely into the joke canon was merely a quip that contained more than a few grains of truth. Someone asked did I like the rock group Husker Du? Well, really. No, I'd say, every time I hear the name it makes me think of that awful Black Lace song, and then I can't get the refrain out of my brain. Ah. There's plenty more where that came from playmates, I used to feel like saying. But I didn't.