‘You’re a ruddy disgrace. Well, I hope you’re happy with yourself because his blessing did not include you!’
Feeling guilty for folding my one-day, all-zone travel pass and crushing Pope John Paul’s face
The ITV kids’ show Michael Bentine’s Potty Time –
‘Mum, are the patients down the lane potty or mental?’
‘Who?’
‘You know, like that man who shouts bloody bugg—’
‘They’re just not well! Now shush and come get your tea’
Sicking up my mashed carrot and turnip after finding a lumpy bit but having to eat it again because my mum couldn’t tell the difference between vomit and the original –
‘Mum, please, just smell it!’
Trying to imagine being twenty years of age while sitting in the choir at church
Hating the idea of letting go of my belief in Father Christmas, even though deep down I knew I was getting too old for ‘that sort of thing’ –
‘I’ve seen your presents, Mike – they’re in our garage!’
‘La la la la la la la la la la la la la!’
Throwing a strop on Christmas morning because I had to leave my new chalkboard-painting easel and go to church to celebrate the birth of Jesus –
‘Get dressed, now, or this goes straight back to Father Christmas’
‘But why? He doesn’t come to my birthday!’
‘Of course he does, he’s everywhere!’
‘Well, why can’t I play here with him instead?’
‘Because he wants you to go to church, that’s where the party is’
‘Is there cake?’
‘No’
‘Jelly?’
‘No’
‘Then what’s the point when it’s not even a proper party?’
Even the day I nagged Dad relentlessly for an ice cream and he took me outside for a chat –
‘I got laid off today. Do you know what that means?’
‘I think so’
‘Well, then I need you to do me a favour, okay?’
‘Yeah’
‘Take this quid and get yourself something from the van. Only, make it last and don’t ask again for a while’
Stealing all the page threes from the newspapers we collected to raise money for St Austin’s Church, and hiding them in a Kwik Save carrier bag under a brick just behind the garages beside St Matthew’s Church. Not knowing why they made my giblets tingle but convinced that it was naughty, yet not feeling guilty about their god watching me because they still had their railings they’d held back in the war ...
All of these feelings, each and every moment, were (and are) a part of me. All of them, wittily broadened out, would make perfect anecdotes to fill a cheery book of nostalgia ten times over. But they’re paths not travelled by my psycho-Siamesetwin Vegas.
It’s along the abnormal, moody B-roads of my mind where I have to search for the first signs of him. Not an easy task, thanks to his scorched earth policy. Carrie Fisher had her postcards from the edge for evidence; Johnny refused to pay the postage.
It’s a shame, though. I loved my childish existence with all its harmless ups-and-downs, and I didn’t care in the least that nothing at this point in my life felt remarkable. It was innocent and lovely, it was growing up in Hayes Street, Thatto Heath, St Helens. I was eager for a life without incident. I thrived on normality. Or, at least, I thought I did.
I made a decision at the age of ten that I truly believe changed everything, for ever. If you think I’m being dramatic, just ask yourself, did you leave home and loved ones at the age of eleven to go and train to become a priest?
No, thought not.
If you did, or if you experienced something even more detrimental, then I’m sorry for lecturing. I just need to make it clear that this book really begins with the planting of the seed of Johnny Vegas.
I should understand Johnny better than anyone: I created him, for fuck’s sake. Or so I thought. But in fact he was never a character. He was a stockpile of subconscious anger. He was the Midas touch to transform everything that might otherwise have crushed me.
Something had to trigger it. The subconscious is like a shit safari park on a rainy day: you need something big to come along to tempt the beast out and make it play. That’s why my story only really starts at the age of 10 – not at the very beginning, but in 1980.
Everything up to that point was more of a hugely contented false start. But it was from around this time that my feeling of displacement really kicked in – the genesis of what would prove to be an odd lifetime’s out-of-body experience. It sounds daft, I know, but the more I retreated inwards, the stronger the feeling of being alienated from myself would become. And the more at odds I’d feel with life’s expectations of me.
As a kid, I’d always said that I was going to be a priest when I grew up, but in truth I had never given it much serious thought. I reckon it was down to the positive reaction I’d get from people when I told them that I wanted to go into the Church as a career, or that I had ‘a calling’, as most believers referred to it.
I’d always felt a little guilty that God had never actually spoken to me directly and asked me to join his team. (Although I’d later learn that presuming an intimate acquaintance with the big man’s intentions was a necessary tool for keeping control within a seminary.) Still, as I grew older I kept saying it, and I remember enjoying the response it would get. You could hold a room full of grown-ups enthralled with talk of becoming a priest, or even maybe a White Father? No, I’m not sure what a White Father is, either, but I think they’re some sort of missionary – and to the good people of our parish, that ambition seemed even more impressive.
A White Father once came and did a sermon in our church. It was pure fire and brimstone stuff. He ranted from the pulpit about how everyone was in very real danger of going to hell – ‘Everyone!’ If St Austin’s had come equipped with a Tudor priest hole then Canon Tickle (only in unfortunate name, not by nature) would’ve been hurling women and children out of the way to get in it. When this guy got up a head of steam, you’d be forgiven for thinking the Pope himself was capable of shoplifting an oven-ready turkey – ‘That’s why John Paul’s gone to Iceland!’
I mean it. It was the Spinal Tap all the way up to 11, the Enola Gay, the head-popping-out-of-the-boat bit in Jaws, the ‘Let’s get rrrrready to rrrrrumble’, the Godzilla, the Star Wars Death Star, the space shuttle Challenger, the Wall Street Crash, the Hanna Barbera ‘Captain CAAAAAAYAYAYAYAAAAVEMAN!’, the first lesbian kiss on Brookside, the Mount St Helens eruption mother of all kick-ass sermons.
‘Stop right now!’ he screamed at the top of his lungs. ‘What are you actually thinking about right now? WHAT ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT!? And don’t lie ... because HE knows!’
I remember my mum, ashen-faced, telling me afterwards that she was doing her maths on the housekeeping and couldn’t remember whether or not she’d paid the pop man (we used to have it delivered, even after the daft rumour – probably