Bonkers: My Life in Laughs Page 10

  So. Lulu sang ‘Weeeeee … heeeeee … heeeeeee’ once too often and we machine-gunned her. The pops went off and were fairly frightening and Lulu, at one point, kept one arm too close to her side.

  At first, nothing seemed wrong. Laughter, laughter. Look at Lulu covered from head to foot in blood!

  And then Lulu slightly wincing. Something not good. And then Lulu rolling up her shirtsleeve to reveal hole in arm.

  It was a perfectly round hole, the same size as the charge. Like a £2 coin, but twice as deep. It hadn’t started to bleed yet, as the charge had cauterized it for the moment. But it was shocking. Nobody quite knew what to do.

  Producers, of course, were panicking and seeing an expensive court case ahead. The Special Effects guy approached her timidly with a J-Cloth, which we said wouldn’t do. We took Lulu to her dressing room and called for First Aid. It turned out that the only First Aid available on a studio night was the doorman, who had been casually made aware of the fact but had very little training. He arrived at the dressing room with a small box of cotton wool and plasters, to be greeted by the sight of Lulu head to toe in wet blood.

  He dropped the box and had to sit down.

  The poor man eventually had the situation explained to him and thought we should take her to hospital. He was right. Jon Plowman, the producer, took Lulu to hospital.

  She never complained, she never moaned, she never sued. She was well behaved throughout and, despite having to have some minor plastic surgery, has remained our friend to this day.

  There’s one more star I need to mention in passing. It would be weird not to. Madonna. She who has adamantly refused to have anything to do with us.

  We started asking Madonna to be a guest on the show very early on. Someone knew her publicist, who assured us that she was a big fan.

  Marvellous.

  We continually mentioned her in sketches and played her quite a few times. We were restrained at first, thinking that, hoping that – one day – she might be our friend (like Rowan Atkinson). After repeated snubs, we realized that our cause was hopelessly lost, and that, I’m afraid, made us quite cruel.

  Madonna, Madonna, Madonna!

  Why wouldn’t you come on our show? We aren’t crazies! We don’t want your skin!

  Anyway, back in our writing room. We would spend half the day talking and reading magazines, generally getting vague ideas and ammunition together. Nothing written down. Series Six of French and Saunders is a fairly accurate recreation of our writing process. That is my and Dawn’s favourite series because it’s so dangerously close to the truth.

  You see, ideas don’t just happen. You have to feed them. You can’t do a decent poo if you haven’t eaten anything. Apologies, dear reader, but it’s the best analogy. We had to feed ourselves with gossip and trivia. All our writing was always improvised. The hard thing was writing it down, which we had to do for the production team. We would always attach a note at this point, assuring them that, although it might not read particularly well, it would eventually be funny. We promise!

  By lunchtime, having exhausted ourselves making a list and calculating how long each sketch might have to be, we thought we definitely deserved a treat. Some nice food or maybe even a trip to a theatre matinee. We particularly liked matinees, with their guaranteed audiences of two ladies and a dog.

  Occasionally, however, we went a little more highbrow. We once took in a matinee of David Hare’s The Breath of Life – a two-hander, starring Maggie Smith and Judi Dench – at the Haymarket. Needless to say, the audience was full. We were particularly nervous because we were going backstage after the play to see Maggie; Dawn had met her doing a Dickens for TV, and they had got on well. We were so in awe of her and Judi that we were on our best behaviour.

  DAWN: We must turn off our phones.

  (It is the twenty-first century, dear reader, and I have only just persuaded a reluctant Dawn to the mobile)

  ME: Yes, Dawn. I am turning off mine. It is off. If I can press any button, it will not come back on. Yes. Good. We are safe.

  But such was our nervousness and the Power of the Dames that, a few minutes in, I leaned over to Dawn.

  ME: I’m taking my battery out.

  DAWN: Good idea. Look, I’m taking my battery out.

  ME: My battery is out.

  DAWN: My battery is out.

  The play continued. In my head, I was still thinking about the battery and the phone.

  ME: Dawn. I’m worried in case the electricity from the battery somehow transfers to the phone and switches it on.

  DAWN: Yes, I’m worried about that too.

  ME: I will give you my battery and you give me yours. Then I’ll keep yours in my pocket and you keep mine in your pocket. But not near the actual phone.

  DAWN: OK.

  After the play, we went back to Maggie’s dressing room. She thought the show had gone quite well, apart from the idiots who were whispering most of the way through the first half. You can’t win.

  Another treat we had lined up when writing was a trip to the Observation Room. ‘Ah ha, what’s that?’ I hear you cry.

  Well, the Observation Room was a glass box in Television Centre that was set high above one of the biggest studios. From inside it, you could watch whatever was happening on the floor below. There was a TV screen where you could tune into whatever was happening on the Ring Main. The Ring Main was internal TV, where anything that was being recorded or rehearsed in any studio could be viewed. Anyone, at any time, could watch you when you thought you were having down time, messing about, looking rough or picking your nose. But for us, it was fantastic. We watched studios being set up, rehearsals, actresses talking when they didn’t realize that microphones were picking them up. It was a fountain of material. Oh, how we loved the Observation Room! We would take our sandwiches there. It felt naughty.

  We once watched almost the whole of The House of Eliott (a period drama about the fashion industry of the 1920s) from the Observation Room and Ring Main. We couldn’t quite believe how funny The House of Eliott was. We particularly loved how overdramatic the storylines were: ‘How are we ever going to find any new buttons?’ We went on to create ‘The House of Idiot’ for French and Saunders with – I have to say – almost pinpoint accuracy. We knew everything! We knew what they said when cameras were on, and we knew what they said when cameras were off.

  The great thing about parodying TV and films in those days was that there was a fairly good chance that, if something was popular, then millions of people would have seen it. TV was a common, shared experience. Big films were obvious, but we did occasionally parody a director or a genre. Our favourites were actually always the less obvious ones: Bergman, Fellini and Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? We didn’t have to do perfect impersonations as we were always French and Saunders within the parody.

  If there was trouble, Dawn could always ask in the sketch, ‘Are we going to do the accent?’

  ‘No. It’s just going to be my voice.’

  Our parodies did cost quite a bit of money. Nowadays I don’t think the budgets would be there to do them. Misery, Lord of the Rings and Silence of the Lambs were all shot on film and on location, with as much care as the original. Bob Spiers would often match the films shot for shot.

  In Bob we had the best director, and in Jon Plowman we had the best producer. We had the best make-up and wardrobe, the best camera team – nearly all had trained and grown up at the BBC. Creatively it was the best place that we could have been. Plus, in those early days, the budgets were agreed in-house and were much more fluid. If we were doing a particularly expensive parody, say, or if we needed more wigs here or a special effect there, the accountant would see if he could nip a bit off Russ Abbot.

  The BBC was more than a channel. More, even, than a production company. The BBC was a national resource. It trained and produced the greatest technicians in television, most of whom then eventually went on to work in the film industry. It was a centre of learning and creativity,
with an executive culture that trusted the creative staff to do their job. It was the place everyone wanted to work, despite the fact that you got more money on ITV. It was full of TV history. Dawn and I loved just to walk round the corridors and see what else was happening. Who was in the studios? Who was writing what?

  It had great studios, totally made for purpose. Make-up rooms and dressing rooms were all perfectly placed to service each studio, and there were small tea bars between each one for snacks and refreshments. If you needed a proper lunch, you went to the canteen that overlooked the Blue Peter garden. If you wanted a posh lunch, you went to the silver service restaurant that was on the balcony above the canteen. Same food, but with a waitress serving your peas with two spoons. Executives would eat there with guests or stars. This was before the days when they all felt they had to get a limo to the Ivy and spend unnecessary amounts of licence fee.

  Back then, if you wanted to speak to an executive about something, you just nipped up to the executive floor and popped your head around Michael Grade’s door. He was the Controller of the BBC, and his door was always open. Nowadays that would take two weeks of planning and scheduling. You’d have to have several meetings about it before you could actually meet him. And when you did finally have the meeting with him, you would have to go out for lunch to have it. In a car, with all the kerfuffle that goes with it.

  (I’m afraid I’m on a roll and I may as well finish. It’s a bit of a rant, I’m afraid, but I think I’m old enough.)

  I wouldn’t want to be starting out in TV today. The whole process of having a programme idea commissioned is mined with layer upon layer of executive decision-making, or rather lack of decision-making. Nobody seems to trust anyone to know what is funny, least of all the artists themselves. You have to write and rewrite until the gem of the original idea is lost and all you have is a script of executive notes that they then turn down, because it doesn’t seem to be quite what they were after. If you are lucky enough to get through that process, then you have to embark on a series of interminable readings and platform performances, played out to blank executive faces. Still, they are not quite sure. They need another round of rewrites and indecisions before they are.

  My friend Abi went into a meeting with some production execs who had commissioned her to write a treatment of an idea, her idea, that they had loved. It was about a girl who was determined to live in a convent but suffered all the contradictions between modern life and convent living.

  The executives loved it. ‘Love the character, yes. But … does she have to be a nun?’

  Jon Plowman, who went on to become Head of Comedy (and produce Absolutely Fabulous) believed passionately that writers should write, and producers and executives should keep their noses out. I’m with Jon. I just don’t get it any more.

  Mainly I don’t get why no TV executive ever seems to stay long enough in a post to make any difference. They are usually either fired or flaky, and move on within a year. In my dreams I would line up all the executives who accept a position, get paid a fortune and then suddenly leave, and give them a small rabbit punch to the nose. The BBC should simply curate the best shows possible with the best talent available and not be swayed by executive egos. These egos should be expected to stay for at least five years, and if they leave before that time, they shouldn’t get money or a bloody party.

  End of rant. I thank you.

  Where was I?

  Oh yes! The joys of French and Saunders. And it was always a joy. We loved the BBC with a passion, and we were allowed virtually free rein.

  The White Room. Dawn at the door. Knock knock!

  ME: Who’s there?

  DAWN: It’s me.

  ME: Who is me?

  DAWN: It’s me! Your comedy partner, Dawn French.

  ME: What do you want?

  DAWN: Can I come in?

  ME: Yes. Come in. What are you waiting for?

  (It was the closest to a catchphrase that we ever had.)

  Dawn enters.

  She could be dressed as Pocahontas, or a vicar. And I could be wearing my BBC turban and sweatshirt or be Jackie Onassis.

  Dawn can be very surreal.

  ME: What have you eaten today, Dawn?

  DAWN: All I have had – and this is the truth – is a piece of coal and a worm.

  She once decided that she should enter with a huge human ear attached to her back, which she was growing for ‘The Giant’. I love it when she introduces ‘The Giant’ into the dialogue.

  DAWN: Jen, Jen … JEN!

  ME: What?!

  DAWN: You know The Giant?

  ME: The Giant?

  DAWN: Yes. THE GIANT!

  ME: The one up the beanstalk?

  DAWN: No, no, no, no. Not that one, you idiot! Not that giant, you fool! Why would it be that giant? Oh, I see what’s happened here … do you think there is only one giant?

  ME: Well …

  DAWN: Oh, Jen. Oh, Jen. Oh no, how very sad. Jen, there’s more than one giant. This one lives over the hill.

  ME: The Jack and Jill hill?

  DAWN: Yes. The Jack and Jill hill. Not the beanstalk giant, you fool. Oh dear. Sometimes you are very naive.

  ME: Does the giant know about the Borrowers?

  DAWN: What?

  ME: The Borrowers.

  DAWN: The …

  ME: Borrowers. The little people.

  DAWN: Oh, Jen. Oh dear. How sad! You don’t think there are little people, do you? Oh dear. They don’t exist.

  For so many years, we were allowed this playground and this dressing up. We could be men, we could be ABBA, we could be aliens, we could be Thelma and Louise.

  We also managed to sign a contract guaranteeing us a certain amount of programming at the BBC.

  ‘Maureen?’

  ‘Yes, loves.’

  ‘The contract.’

  ‘Yes, loves.’

  ‘We know it’s full of stuff and everything.’

  ‘Yes, loves. You don’t want me to go through it, do you?’

  ‘No. No. It’s just, can you say what’s really important, which is … Please can we have a parking space in the doughnut?’

  The doughnut was the BBC building at the heart of Television Centre. It was circular, with a hole in the middle, and there were a few car parking spaces near the stage door.

  ‘Do you actually want that in the contract?’

  ‘Yes, please. We do. We just want to be able to drive in and park there when we are in the studio.’

  ‘Right, loves. I’ll talk to the powers-that-be.’

  And we got it! I don’t think Dawn and I were ever happier than on the day we were allowed to park in the doughnut. We were waved through a security gate and barriers opened.

  It was notoriously difficult to get into the BBC, no matter how long you had worked there, no matter how well known your face was (unless you were a man in a white van, in which case you could enter at will, load up, and leave with an entire stock of props and costumes – with a friendly wave to see you on your way). But now we had parking rights. I never, ever tire of the thrill of entering the BBC.

  It was the eighties. We had our own shows, got married, had children, wore shoulder pads, hung out with Bananarama, and consequently got fairly drunk on occasion. We wore baggy shirts buttoned up to the neck and high-waisted jeans. We discovered the Groucho Club and could actually afford the drinks. We took part in the Secret Policeman’s Ball and hung out with the Pythons. This was in the days before celebrities had been invented: people just did their jobs and got cabs home. No hangers-on. No PRs.

  Just look at Band Aid. Band Aid! You wouldn’t be able to do that now. Bob Geldof just rang up a bunch of his friends, asked them to sing a song for starving Ethiopians, they said yes, put on a leather jacket, jumped in their cars, went to the studio or Wembley, had a few drinks, danced around a bit in the sunshine, had a few more drinks, had a laugh and then drove themselves home. But now, can you imagine? It would take about 4 million people about 4
million years to plan, and there would be absurd amounts of entourages and dressing rooms and Tweeting.

  Not in the eighties.

  In the eighties, life was bloody great.

  In the words of Jackie and Joanie ‘San Angelo’ Collins, ‘It’s got lipstick, it’s got sex, it’s got men, it’s got women and it’s got more lipstick. It’s true, we know, for we were there. For we are those Lucky Bitches.’

  And we certainly were.

  SEVEN

  1991. The year we started making Absolutely Fabulous.

  I had given birth to my daughter Freya the October before. When I was pregnant, Dawn and I hadn’t really worked together much, and she had made Murder Most Horrid.

  We have always felt that working apart is a good thing to do. I think that a lot of double acts have trouble because they rely too heavily on the partnership. If one wants to go off and do something, the other one gets bitter and jealous and unemployed. That has never happened with us.

  Well, the unemployed bit has. And generally, that would be me. Mainly because Dawn has always been very employable – being the fine actress that she is – with a fierce work ethic. Plus, she gives very good presents.

  I am always content ‘resting’. I think it’s my natural state. Never happier than when just pottering or daydreaming, and relying on Ade to bring in the beans.

  I have been to auditions only a very few times, and found them to be cringingly embarrassing. I freeze up and become, frankly, moronic. You see, I’m not trained, and I have nothing to fall back on. I turn into the me who went to interviews at universities: silent and dull, with absolutely no prospects.

  For film auditions, they now do a very modern thing of getting you to come in and put yourself on video, which can then be shown to producers in America. It’s horrible. Acting out some nebulous lines, with all the other lines being read by the work experience child, to blank faces and a tiny camera (or probably nowadays someone’s phone), for them to then ask you if there are any other ways you could do it.