Frank Skinner on the Road
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In this new volume of memoirs, Frank Skinner describes his experience of going back on the road doing stand-up again, after many years spent working mainly on television. His adventures on tour are by turns funny and moving as he meditates on growing older, the terrors and joys of trying to make a live audience laugh night after night and on the nature of comedy itself.
For the first time we read a comedian's account, in his own words, of how his act is put together; his return to a world of dark little clubs and the strange encounters he has there. But what is perhaps most startling and original about Frank Skinner's writing is his honesty nbout not only the highs and lows of his career, but more intimate and personal issues - male sexuality and matters of the heart.
room at the Velázquez exhibition. They have to pay for that somehow: alcoholism, drugs, cellulite … something, anything, to unsweeten their soufflé. That is why Shakespeare wrote tragedies. He knew people like to see the rich and mighty – kings, princes, warriors – brought down to their knees by some character-flaw or a humbling twist of fate. If any celebrity does manage to have a good run of fame combined with happiness, they should at least have the decency to wail and whimper when the
6 p.m. As I walked across Trafalgar Square that night, I realised the gallery was closing and the crowd was filing out. A woman from the gallery beckoned me in through a side door and led me to the entrance of the exhibition. It was empty. ‘If you need anything, give me a shout,’ she said, and wandered off to talk to a colleague. Usually, a high-profile exhibition like this is crammed. I spend a lot of time waiting for people to finish looking at a painting, sculpture or whatever, so I can step
part of the original song, a couplet which combines nostalgia for England’s 1966 World Cup triumph, with great hope for the future … I know that was then But it could be again. … and rewrite it in a more, well, oven chips kind of a way: Less than five per cent fat Who can argue with that? I’d have still been washing my hands now. Anyway, what I’m saying is, it isn’t the money. And that’s incredibly liberating. I heard a great story about Max Miller, the famously risqué comic of the
few Catholic friends about my nightmare confession. I figured no one else would really understand why I was so shell-shocked. They all said I should report the incident, but I never did. I didn’t want to get the priest into trouble, or I didn’t want to be further estranged by an unpalatable closing of ranks; I don’t know which. I went back to that church another couple of times, but I felt like a stranger in a cold and foreign land. I don’t go there any more. I’ve been to confession since,
– when I had to make a last-minute change to my choice of relish because, wait for it, I couldn’t get the top off the piccalilli jar. I was going red in the face – I could hear the thumping pulse in my neck – but I could not get that fucker off. The next day, having laid awake, fretting about the stubborn jar, I got up early and, after several attempts, spaced about twenty minutes apart so I had the chance to rest in between, I finally did it. I placed the open jar on the work surface and then