Once in a while I’d get a crush on a housemate and it would really add to the excitement of the show, knowing they’d soon be out, all pie-eyed from the flashbulbs, and I’d be there with my hair combed and a bunch of daffodils. I didn’t have affairs with that many housemates; as a percentage it’d barely register, but there were a few and it was bloody brilliant. It was like watching Indiana Jones on telly, then looking out the window on to the patio to see him out there cracking his whip, with his top off and his big, gorgeous brown boobs all jiggling about.
The most reported of my affairs was with Makosi, because I believe she spoke to the papers. Well, kiss and tells have never especially bothered me as I am lucky in my vanilla sexuality. I’m not into anything weird, I just love girls. That woman was delicious, she could’ve kissed and told about the darkest corners of my soul and I’d’ve simply raised a glass to her gold medal knockers and Venusian bum. She was lovely. All the better for having seemingly crept out of my TV set at nightfall and brought my dreams pulsating into reality.
For a fella who was a bit of a chubby nitwit at school, the status I was afforded at this new institution was like a late graduation party. Many of the Big Brother housemates were hapless goons, but a considerable number were bloody easy on the eye-hole and now, looking back, I realise I was lucky. Really lucky to have had such a fun job with such lovely companions and such gorgeous people to flirt with. The show became increasingly successful, ratings grew, and childhood comic idols like Bob Mortimer, David Baddiel and Frank Skinner would tune in, which made me feel sanctioned. My stand-up grew from regular “circuit gigs” above pubs to extravagant cabarets with screaming girls and blokes demanding I repeat my daft catchphrases – “Ballbags, you swine! I pulled down my trousers and pants …” See? Daft. E4, the digital channel we were on, offered me new shows, as did other channels. Lesley Douglas, Controller of the world’s biggest radio station BBC Radio 2 as well as its titchy, digital sibling BBC 6 Music, offered me a show on the latter, and MTV, the station I’d been hurled out of in controversy and disgrace as a worthless junky a few years earlier, came back with the amazing offer of a sexy chat show.
Nicola I kidnapped to install in my ever-growing surrogate family. One way or another I felt kind of isolated as a kid, and consequently as an adult, or tall child or whatever it is I am, I’ve been team building like Brian Clough. Animals, children and the working class comprise the company in which I’ll feel most at ease. I suppose then I should look for a combination of those attributes, buy a caravan and settle down. Though half an hour in bed with a pitbull puppy would be most disconcerting. As my friends grow older (whilst I curiously remain Pan-frozen) there are more children in my life. John Rogers, my invaluable moral barometer and good-humoured collaborator, has a pair of sons that I adore and with whom I can retreat for hours into lies and whimsy, lost in the boundless lunacy of their impulses and thoughts. Oliver, the oldest, is seven now and studious, and quizzes more thoroughly my assertions about unseen pixie kingdoms that thrive unseen beneath the Leytonstone streets. Joey, who is four and a half, has a bazooka mind that shells the world with scenarios and commands that would see an adult condemned to Bedlam. The last time I saw him he told me he wanted me to eat his heart, smiling as he spoke with twinkling wonder. And Nicola has since kicked out her belly squatter, Minnie, a delicate, tiny fairy charwoman.
After a recent work lunch at which most of my misfit tribe were in attendance, John Noel, the terrifying anti-hero of my first book, said as he left the table, “You’ve built a family for yourself there, Russell, the family you’ve always wanted.” Then, strolling towards the restaurant door, he added in the thick Manchester accent he has bequeathed to his eldest, Nik, “Bunch of fuckin’ weirdos, but a family.”
It was not only Nicola who was pregnant at work. I too was up the duff with a ghoulish tummy brood. Inside my gut hummed a chimera. A monstrous amalgamation of glam-rock icons and cartoon characters gestated in my womb. As Big Brother’s popularity grew, the delivery of this beast became imminent. Eventually it burst forth – devouring me whole as I bore it – this spindly liquorice man, this sex-crazed linguistic bolt of tricks and tics and kohl-eyed winks. Clad in black like a hangman or highwayman with dagger boots and hurricane hair came my creation. An organic construction sufficiently macabre to contend with the chemical warfare of modern fame, and though this monster bore my name he did not resemble the delicate schoolboy or battered addict that preceded him – no, this creature was ready.
†
Chapter 4
Enter Sandman
I arrived on set at 1 Leicester Square, the MTV chat show vehicle created for me, fully formed. The junky they formerly employed had died, predictably, at twenty-seven. Now, thanks to Big Brother and John Noel, I was employable. John, our fierce patriarch and himself no stranger to madness, had bullied me into the Big Mouth job, and he used his unreasonable force to get me a very good deal at MTV. I don’t mean financially, though it might’ve been, as I tend not to ask about money, I simply trust that John, and latterly his son Nik, know what they’re doing. What was more important to me on my prodigal return to MTV was control. I wanted Nicola and Sharon with me, Sharon who bejewels me, and gobs at me, and keeps me giggling. And I wanted to write the show with Matt. Matt didn’t work on Big Mouth – he wasn’t needed, the show was fast and flighty and with Mark and Ian on board it was functioning. This new show, though, on MTV, where me and Matt had met, from where I’d been fired for dressing as Osama bin Laden on 12 September and running with crack and smack as my “dual fuels”, this was the kind of “on the edge”, digital stab of madness where me and Matt could flourish.
We were to be joined by a new oddball, the show’s handsome series producer Gareth Roy. I’ve mentioned Gareth already, mostly in his capacity as a twerp – well, that is largely defining but he does have a job as well. He is a creative producer, and 1 Leicester Square was where I met him. You’d never know at a glance that this Hull City-supporting hunk is a French hornist, and likely you wouldn’t care, I mention it only because the introverted nerdiness required to master a wind instrument is in evidence every time he opens his mouth. MTV, as you know, is cool. It is cool above all else, its graphics, its shows, its attitude, its brand are all about coolness, so the fact that their cool new flagship chat show ended up being hosted by a twit, written by a berk and produced by a prat is worthy of note.
Gareth has qualities, of course, he’s funny and silly and understands TV, he’s sweet and thoughtful and charming and a fine writer. What he ain’t is cool. None of us are. Yet, somehow, the show was. So MTV must know what they’re doing. 1 Leicester Square had a beautiful set, trash burlesque, pink chandeliers and leopard-skin chaises-longues. Again, cool.
Geographically it was a nightclub space above, as the name would suggest, 1 Leicester Square in the West End of London, causing friend, comedian, quiz show smartarse and pilot episode guest Simon Amstell to memorably say, “1 Leicester Square? It sounds so glamorous. Number 2 Leicester Square is an Angus Steak House.” We cut that from the show; the guests are not encouraged to have better lines than me. We didn’t, it stayed in. It was only a pilot.
Nik Linnen, my manager, John Noel’s eldest, made an early foray into the perspicacity that would soon make him my partner and move his magical, volatile father into an “upstairs role” (where our more frequent and ultimately loving clashes of character would be curtailed) when he observed that whilst, in the UK, MTV is an obscure satellite channel, in the US it is an institution;