I've had a good weekend residency at the Ha Bloody Ha Clubs in Ealing and Chiswick, apart from a slightly dodgy Friday night gig in Ealing where the audience were extremely quiet (for everyone I should add) and I attempted to cajole them into some kind of response by questioning their intelligence. This did garner a little response - justified indignation - but tellingly even my added comment "No Rich, remember, don't insult the audience," didn't get any real laugh.
Sometimes I experience a kind of refined Tourette's Syndrome where I can't help myself saying whatever is on my mind, no matter how wrong it is. Occasionally this can be delightfully funny, but on other occasions less delightful and certainly less funny.
As I drove through Ealing tonight I found myself remembering working here for a few weeks in 1989. I'd just moved to London and was living in a house in Acton with Stewart Lee, Andrew Mackay (Prof from "Time Gentleman Please") and future world sweets expert Tim Richardson.
After a stint working in a Lighthouse part Manufacturers in Brentford, I moved to Ealing Broadway to work on a book. Well, I was writing the West London phone directory. When I say writing it, I don't mean I had to use my imagination. It wasn't a case of coming in, sitting at aq desk and thinking, "OK, page 1, let's see. How about Aaron Aardvark, 1a Aaaaaaaa Avenue, Acton"? It was more a case of copying stuff written on bits of paper into a computer. Still, I am proud of my work on the book and if you can find it in your local library I hope you will take a chance to browse through the West London residential phone book for 1990 - it was the first time I got into print.
Of course we had some larks during work. I remember one day I was working away at my computer and changed Stewart Lee's name to Stewart Wee. Wee is another name for urine and from thence the humour arose (again if you can find the book you will be able to see that no-one found me out. You will also discover our old address and be able to visit the house and maybe put a home-made blue plaque on it).
We had kind of hoped that one day a silly child would ring us up, having found the name in the book, sniggering and saying "Can I speak to Mr Wee please?"
Then Stew could have said, "No you can't. Actually my name is Stewart Lee, so the joke is on you."
But this never happened.
On one occasion, however, I answered the phone and an adult voice said, "Can I speak to Mr Wee, please?"
I quickly and excitedly summoned Stewart who was sitting in the Kaiser Commuter room (this was the name we gave our lounge, after I had dreamt one night that this is what it was called - we were crazy - it was a bit like the Young Ones or Man About The House).
Stewart came to the phone and said, "Hello, this is Mr Wee."
The person on the other end was trying to sell beds and was clearly working his way through the Ws of the phone book (and thus possibly finding himself having read more of my first book than anyone else in the world. I like to think he recognised a little special flare in the composition).
Stewart Lee, showing the great improvisational skill that would one day make him the finest stand-up of his generation, and the fascination with bodily effluent that would one day see him directing blasphemous opera in the West End said, "I'm sorry, you aren't going to be able to help me. You see I suffer from incontinence and so have to have all my mattresses especially made for me."
The salesman attempted to maintain some professional dignity, despite being on the phone to an incontinent burdened with the unfortunate moniker of "Mr Wee". He said he was sorry to hear that and quickly hung up, before I imagine, sniggering to himself and telling the story to the Y bloke on the next desk. I like to think that he'd had a bit of a giggle before the call, said, "Look, this next bloke is called Mr Wee" and then had to compose himself. So this unexpected and embarrassing development might be too much to handle. I like to think that the man still dines out on this story, unaware (til now perhaps) that the joke was on him.
Of course at BT we had a computer which gave us access to all the phone numbers in the area, including ex directory ones. For a while I had Neil Kinnock's number in my phone book. I think I might even have rung him on the night he lost the election, when I was a bit drunk. I don't know what I hoped to say. No-one answered the phone though. I expect he was out.
But like the kind of children who would get pleasure in changing the name Lee to Wee, we mainly abused this power by looking up people with rude names.
There were a lot of people called Wank, but my favourite was a Dr Wank. The official title somehow made the rude surname seem all the more amusing, like a pornographic James Bond villain (so that's why he shut himself away in an undersea base). I hoped he was a medical doctor. I am sure his patients would have loved visiting Dr Wank. I am sure there have been many doctors who have at least had that as a nickname from some of their patients.
My favourite name (and not surprisingly, like all the Wanks he had chosen to be ex-directory to avoid the calls of foolish children) belonged to a Mr Cunto. Somehow the additional "o" makes the name even funnier. Like it's a matey nick-name.
Presumably this is a foreign name, from a land where cunt is not rude and perhaps means farmer or brown. Mr Cunto then travelled to live in England and found his life had been ruined. I don't know about you, but if I had moved to a country where Herring was a swear word and would make my surname ridiculous (rather than being held in the high standing it is in the UK) then I think I might change it to something else. Because being called Cunto must have implications that go beyond forcing you to go ex-directory. Your entire life must be made a living Hell. Having to say your name to people, and then repeat it because they are sure they have misheard. Having to spell it out for people. Imagine it. Why not just call yourself Counto or Bunto or Pissflapso. All would be better than the ignominy of being called Cunto.
I can only imagine that Mr Cunto refused this, perhaps arguing, "I come from a long line of Cuntos. There have been Cuntos in my family for generations and I'm not going to offend their memory by changing it now. I am a Cunto and I am proud."
