Frank Skinner Autobiography (44 page)

Seamus Cassidy, the then Channel Four Head of Comedy, told me that if I signed with Avalon he wouldn't want to work with me again. For a still relatively new comic, this was quite a big deal, but I didn't want a broadcaster to pick my manager. One thing I liked about Jon was that he didn't seem scared of anybody. A lot of managers and agents are so thrilled that they're talking to broadcasters and signing fancy contracts that they worry more about upsetting the TV people than they do about fighting their act's corner. I knew I wasn't equipped to deal with some of the tricky fuckers who run telvision, so I thought it might be a good idea to get my own tricky fucker to do it for me.

I asked, in turn, every Avalon act, including Dave Baddiel, what they thought of the company and, especially, Jon Thoday. Of course, as is traditional, they all moaned about expenses and the like, but every one of them said that, to be honest, they thought Jon did a great job, and that his main priority was always his acts. When I got back to London, I decided to throw in my lot with the evil empire.

I know what you're thinking. ‘What does he mean, “back to London”? I thought he lived in the Black Country.' Well, after my marriage went bust, I just wanted to walk away from everything. Lisa was living with friends by now, and I left the flat and all its contents, and drove out of town. Most entertainers move to London because it is the centre of Britain's showbiz universe, but I just went there to escape. I asked Jane, the woman I'd met when working on
Packet of Three
, if I could stay with her. She thought it was a bad idea, but I talked her round and suddenly I was living in London N1.

This is, I think, a fair and accurate account of what happened to me in 1991.

Alternatively, one could suggest that I got a bit of success and a bit of telly, dumped my poor young wife who'd stuck with me through the hard times, and replaced her with some fancy London bird who worked in telly. And then dumped my old mate and manager, who had been with me from the very start, and replaced him with the most despised, ruthless and cynical comedy agency in Britain. I think if you've read the book this far, you've earned the right to decide for yourself.

In November, I was back in Birmingham, doing a sell-out show at Birmingham Town Hall, one of my regular haunts for watching bands back in the 1970s. It was a really special, local-lad-makes-good occasion. Even Lisa turned up to congratulate me in the dressing room afterwards. Then she asked if she could have a quick word outside. I stepped on to the landing, right next to the stage, and she asked me for a divorce. She left, and, after a quick ‘ma', I stepped up on to the big empty stage, and stared into the big empty auditorium.

The divorce was a horrible drawn-out process. I desperately wanted to treat Lisa fairly, but my lawyer kept trying to rein me back. Lisa and me and our lawyers finally ended up, two years later, in the Birmingham Magistrates Court. I was told that, although I needed to attend the hearing, I wasn't allowed to say anything. The magistrate said he felt that my final offer to Lisa, a £15,000 lump sum, was ‘extremely inadequate'. This was at a time when I earned about £40,000 a year. He said she was unemployed, with no savings and no source of income, and it was only right I should give her enough money to make a fresh start.

I felt really misrepresented and demanded to speak. My lawyer got very agitated and warned me against this, but I felt I had the right to defend myself. The magistrate gave in and sat back to listen to my explanation. I said I was sad that my marriage to Lisa had failed and that I had chosen a lawyer from the list of ‘Family Lawyers' I had been given, because I was told that this would reduce the chances of a messy divorce and help ensure that Lisa got a fair settlement. I told the magistrate I was ignorant in all these matters. I didn't know what a ‘fair settlement' was. If, I went on, the magistrate told me what he believed was a fair sum, I would write a cheque for that amount here and now, and hand it over to Lisa.

The magistrate looked stunned. He said he had been in the job for fifteen years and he had never heard such a speech. It was a real shame, he said, that a marriage that had produced such sentiments hadn't worked out. All this conversation went on in front of Lisa and the two lawyers. The magistrate said he thought that £30,000 was a ‘fair' settlement, so I wrote the cheque and handed it over. My lawyer had gone purple. That was on the Friday.

Two days later, Lisa was in the
Sunday Mirror
, saying how horribly I'd treated her and quoting loads of stuff that I'd said in those ‘totally confidential' counselling sessions at Relate. The headline was ‘My Half-Time Sex with Fantasy Frank'. She said that, on one occasion, we'd been watching football when the half-time whistle blew, and I'd immediately turned to her and suggested that we squeezed in a quick shag before the second half. Well, so what? It was a televised game, we weren't on the fuckin' terraces. I think it makes me sound quite loving, and remember, these were the days when the half-time interval was only ten minutes long. I'd get two in now. There'd even be the opportunity to change ends.

A year later, she was in the
News of the World
, telling a similar tale but with a bit of extra spice, which I imagine was added by the journalist. In this version, I would only have sex if there was football on the radio, and after we'd done it, I'd run around the bedroom, kicking a football and shouting, ‘Skinner has scored.' If anyone accused me of that now, I could bring in Mr Keepy-Uppy as a character witness. He'd testify that I could never get all the way round the bedroom without losing possession to an inanimate object.

And then, in late 2000, Lisa spoke to the papers again, this time the
Sunday People.
She would soon be able to list her profession as ‘columnist'. Having used up all the true stuff in the first two stories, she moved into fiction. She claimed I had tricked her into taking a lump-sum divorce settlement and that our relationship put her off sex for life. She had two children and one on the way. She also stuck in a personal message to Caroline, telling her to get out fast before I ruined her life as well. Here, hold on a minute . . .

Anyway, I guess she got her own back. In my defence, I was devastated by my parents' death, and I stupidly thought that marriage would make everything better. As the balance of power was heavily weighted towards the rising TV star, I suppose she had to use what methods she could. I got a bit pissed off after each of her articles, but I still wish her well. After all, what is this, or any other autobiography, but an elaborate kiss-and-tell. Maybe one day she'll forgive me my mistakes. She might as well, she's running out of Sunday papers.

Following my Perrier success, and despite my move to Avalon, Channel Four were very keen on a second series of
Packet of Three
, but they felt that some changes needed to be made. Their first suggestion was a bit of a shock. They wanted to get rid of Henry. I thought this was unjust. The first series had been a flop, but it was hardly Henry's fault. The show just didn't work. And anyway, if they dropped Henry, who would host the show? They had a suggestion. Me.

Their argument was that it was a waste to have the Perrier winner on the show and not let him do any stand-up. This was really difficult for me. First of all, Henry was my mate and I didn't want to stab him in the back, even though Channel Four insisted that they would do the show without him whether I hosted it or not. Secondly, my now girlfriend, Jane, was set to produce the new series. I didn't want people thinking that I'd got the job because my bird was running the show. It was all a bit grim, but I did want to do a second series and prove the critics wrong.

First Lisa, then Malcolm, now Henry. That's what it felt like. What should I do?

I hosted the second series. It was re-titled
Packing Them In
. Henry moved on and began concentrating on his writing. He became a top-notch writer on the award-winning
Mrs Merton Show
and also on the award-winning
Royle Family
series.

Packing Them In
died on its arse.

When
Packet of Thre
e was slowly going down the plughole, the Perrier Award turned up and saved my comedy bacon. How was I going to get out of this one?

I got asked to appear on the BBC satirical panel show
Have I Got News for You?
Y'know, I like those little introductions I've started slipping in just lately – ‘the BBC satirical panel show', for example. Maybe I could make a feature of them. I should try something like ‘the disjointed, disappointing variety show
Packing Them In
, hosted by ‘the ruthless, back-stabbing, gone-all-la-di-da Perrier Award winner, Frank Skinner'. Actually, maybe I'm being a bit harsh here.
Packing Them In
wasn't all
that
bad.

I have to stop for a moment. Throughout this book I have tried to be completely honest, even if it hurts, but now I'm doing something else. When that Henry Normal thing happened, I felt a bit uneasy at first, but I never felt like I was doing a bad thing. I spoke to Henry while it was all going on, and he seemed totally fine about my part in it. So there's being honest, and there's that Catholic hitting yourself with a cat-of-nine-tails to try and prove how pious you are. Oh, I don't know. Maybe this is another one for you to call.

Anyway, I got asked to do
Have I Got News for You?
which was at the very peak of its popularity. The show was made by Hat-Trick Productions, at that time the Man United of independent television companies, certainly as far as comedy was concerned. Hat-Trick had tried out another panel show earlier that year, called
The Brain Drain
and I had really rocked on one of the episodes. One question was ‘What never happens in movies but you wish it would?' I said that when, in Robin Hood films, Robin and his merry men, dressed all in Lincoln Green, leap from the Sherwood Forest trees to ambush the Sheriff of Nottingham's men, I wish, just once, one of the baddies would point at Robin and say, ‘You just wait till autumn.'

Anyway I must have impressed someone because I ended up on the very prestigious
Have I Got News for You?
, and went really well, so much so that I was the first guest to appear twice on the same series. These two appearances were very important for me. Suddenly
Packing Them In
was forgotten and I was on the up again.

Even twice-bitten Channel Four were still showing faith in me. They were planning a series called
Bunch of Five
. The idea was based on the old BBC
Comedy Playhouse
format. The series would consist of five sitcom pilots, and the one that went down best would become a series. The five included
Dead at Thirty
by Paul Whitehouse and Charlie Higson,
The Weekenders
by Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer, and
Blue Heaven
written by and starring me. Guess which one got the series?

Blue Heaven
was about an unemployed West Midlands bloke in his early thirties called Frank Sandford (played by me, obviously), who still lived in Smethwick with his parents. My dad was played by John Forgeham, who I remembered as Jim Baines in
Crossroads
, and Paula Wilcox, who I had fancied for about thirty years since she was in
Man About the House
and
The Lovers
, played my mom. In fact, she was still pretty stunning, which is the last thing you want from someone playing your mother.

I took the name Sandford from Teddy Sandford, an old Albion player, and the whole series was my sort of love-letter to the Black Country. It was mainly shot on location around Oldbury and Smethwick, and the scripts included lots of incidents from my life, including Celine and the earrings, and Fez asking at the Social if it was where you got the free money.

In the show, I was half of a pub duo called Blue Heaven. The other half, my onscreen mate Roache, was played by the Irish actor Conleth Hill, a good Catholic boy who became one of my closest friends. I spoke to the camera, mid-dialogue, like Michael Caine in
Alfie
and there was no laugh-track. It was sort of like
The Grimleys
, but with jokes.

To be honest, if you'd asked me a few years ago what I thought of
Blue Heaven
, I would have said it was no more than a fair try by an inexperienced writer, but six months ago, a fan at a stage door gave me all six episodes on one VHS. I was really chuffed because I didn't have any of it on tape, and the next night Conleth and me watched the whole series, straight through. I didn't remember any of the gags seven years on, so it was like watching someone else's stuff. As a great athlete once said, I laughed my bollocks off. It was the funniest sit-com I'd seen in ages.

I know this sounds terrible, but it's a problem I have. When I was in that Edinburgh flat with Dave Baddiel in 1991, we watched a TV show called
Edinburgh Nights
, hosted by Tracey McLeod. Tracey was a friend of Dave's and I had got to know her during that Edinburgh. She was one of the unfortunates that I would sit down and tell about my broken marriage. I remember explaining to her that I was still upset but I wasn't crying anymore. I called it my post-blart stage.

Anyway, that's by the by. Dave and me were watching
Edinburgh Nights
, mainly because I was on it. They did a short interview and, as usual, I sat looking at myself and thinking, ‘Fuck off, Baldy.' Then they showed about five minutes of my stand-up. I laughed like a big fool. Dave was amazed. ‘Why are you laughing?' he said. ‘You've heard all the jokes before.'

‘Yeah,' I said, ‘but I'm doing them so well.'

I know it's not a story that shows me in a great light. I just thought I'd add egomaniac to my ever-growing list of self-abuse. Self-abuse? No, I must get on. The fact is, I'm a very good comedy audience. I laugh at other comics so why shouldn't I laugh at me? Besides, I once read that my all-time comedy hero, Stan Laurel, used to laugh like a drain at Laurel and Hardy movies. That made me feel a lot better.