Perhaps it’s unfair to expect comedians to be funny all the time. Perhaps, when you’re halfway through a marathon tour of the UK, the pressures of constant travel will conspire to rob you of whatever sense of humour you once had. Perhaps, when you’re nearing the end of a long-running comedy partnership, the desire to market yourself as an appealing proposition cannot help but dwindle. Perhaps, when your final series for the BBC (a “greatest hits” clippings job, with a few minutes of new material thrown in each week) has suffered poor reviews and lousy viewing figures, the desire to rule a line and move on can only make you testy and impatient.

Maybe it’s just because you were sitting on a train to Brighton, with the phone line cutting out every few minutes, feeling self-conscious about being interviewed in public, and understandably nervous about that night’s show.

Or maybe, just maybe, when your interviewer has admired your work for the thick end of a quarter of a century, and has been looking forward to communicating that admiration in person, disappointment is the only, and inevitable, outcome.

Whatever the reasons might be, the fact remains that my much anticipated chat with Jennifer Saunders turned out to be the dullest interview that I have conducted with anyone since Shayne “Mister Personality” Ward, just over a year ago. Granted, Jennifer was never less than courteous and professional – but as our conversation progressed, her answers remained resolutely terse, warily defensive, largely disinterested and utterly humourless.

(Oh, OK. I think she laughed twice. Three times, tops.)

The French and Saunders Still Alive tour, which comes to Nottingham next Thursday, has been billed as a final chance to see the pair perform together, as a comedy duo. “We’ll probably work together again, but I don’t think we’ll be doing the double act as such, unless there’s the odd Comic Relief moment.”

So, no chance of ending up like the ever-valedictory Cher, then? “No, I don’t think so. The tour is the tour, and then that’s the end of it.”

We have been here before, though. Absolutely Fabulous came to an apparent conclusion after the third series, before being resurrected for a couple of “last ever” specials a year later. Five years after that, it returned for two more series, followed by a few more specials, eventually spluttering to an end in 2005. So we might be forgiven for harbouring a few suspicions.

“Um, yeah. But that was… I never, I never wrote that off as a… I’ve never said it was finishing. You know, it’s just: when you get time, and people want it, then you do a bit more.”

If you say so, Jennifer. But what has brought about the decision to call it a day as French and Saunders?

“I think that the days of doing a sketch show have passed. There’s lots of new young acts coming up, and we’d rather quit while we’re still enjoying it – and people still want to see it – rather than letting it drift on.”

A lot of the duo’s material over the years has parodied whatever happens to be popular at the time, be it from television, music or film. There might therefore be a certain sense of relief, at not continually having to “keep up” with everything. (Dawn as Adele and Jennifer as Duffy, maybe? It’s an admittedly tantalising proposition.)

“I think it’s more about what’s a common experience these days. Much less is a common experience. I think it’s harder to play anybody, because fewer people see them. The ratings on TV shows now are tiny, compared to what they used to be. Nobody watches the same stuff. Different age groups don’t watch the same stuff.”

As for any future plans to work with her comedy partner, Jennifer is keeping an open mind. “We’ll be doing another Jam and Jerusalem, so that will be the next thing. But I’m sure that we’ll look at ideas on things we can work on together. We have a production company together, so we’re always seeing each other and talking through ideas. As ever, you never think too far ahead.”

Shooting for the third series of Jam and Jerusalem commences this spring. This is excellent news for those who have enjoyed Saunders’ shift of focus, away from the hot-house world of “media”, and towards the altogether gentler world of village life.

“We have a lovely time. Everyone really enjoys working on it, and it’s a nice fun project. It’s nice working with people that you respect so much, and writing for them.”

Although the show is clearly tightly scripted, it’s tempting to wonder whether any of the lines come from the fine ensemble cast themselves, during the filming process.

“A certain amount, but we shoot it so fast. It’s on a very quick turnover. But if a problem comes up in a scene, then we’ll sit down and change it over the lunch hour.”

Does this shift of emphasis – from the urban to the rural – mirrors changes in Jennifer’s own life?

“I think so, in a way. But there’s so much media now. When I first did Ab Fab, there wasn’t the same celebrity culture. There was only Hello! magazine. Nowadays, everyone who falls out of a cab without their pants on is a Patsy and Edina, in a way. It’s very commonplace. So where I thought there was a gap, it was in something that was basically about nice people. The only thing that it challenges is other people’s cynicism, really.”

But then there is also Saunders’ latest comic creation: Vivienne Vyle, the demonic doyenne of the daytime TV chat show, and a deliberate satire on the likes of Jeremy Kyle. (From Vyle to Kyle: the reference is hardly a subtle one.) Has Kyle offered any response to being so expertly skewered?

“No, none. Absolutely no response.” A steely silence, maybe? “I’m sure he’s blissfully unaware.”

As for the many other public figures that have been targeted by French and Saunders over the years, it seems that none have ever kicked up a fuss. “I don’t think anybody has, really. If we do it on the show, then we tend to invite them along anyway.”

One of the duo’s most memorable parodies was Dawn French’s take on Catherine Zeta-Jones, some of which is reprised on video during the tour. This apparently heavy reliance on video footage has come in for criticism in some of the reviews – but before I could give Jennifer the chance to answer the charge, I was hastily, anxiously silenced. “Don’t tell me, please. Honestly, don’t tell me anything. I’m not reading them, so please don’t tell me.”

Time for one final question, then. Once the tour is over, and the double act put to rest, it must be tempting to think: right, I’ve reached a certain stage in my life (Saunders turns fifty in July), I’ve been at the top of my game for twenty-five years, my daughters will soon be leaving home, and so maybe I don’t need to work so hard any more. Wouldn’t it be nice just to stay down in Devon, keeping chickens, and maybe opening the occasional village fete?

“Well, if we were that rich, then yes – but we only work for the BBC! I think you’ve read too many of those lists! But I don’t think I’d be tempted, anyway. I enjoy my job, and I think it’s a really good, fun job. We’re very lucky, and as long as we can do it, then we’ll keep on doing it.”

This article is the cover story in today's EG colour supplement, inside the Nottingham Evening Post.

(Photo taken on February 5, 2007 by Bryan Ledgard)

Labels: celebs, comedy, eveningpost, interviews

Nottingham Royal Concert Hall, Thursday December 27. A marathon show deserved a marathon review, basically. Besides, all of that furious scribbling helped keep me awake...


(Photo of Ken Dodd taken in November 2005 by pixieclaire001)

19:06. Brandishing his trademark tickling sticks, Ken Dodd comes bounding onto the stage, greeting us with a cheery "Ey-up!" This week marks his fiftieth anniversary in show business, we are soon told. This is a little strange, as Dodd's first ever professional engagement was actually in 1954 -- at the old Empire Theatre, where the Royal Concert Hall now stands. But this is no time to sweat the details.

19.13. Ken has long been known for his marathon shows, and he wastes no time in taunting us with the prospect of being stuck in our seats until the small hours. "Don't worry about the buses and taxis -- there's always the milk floats!", he quips, milking our unease for maximum laughs.

19.25. Noting the average age of his audience (which is somewhere well in advance of sixty, despite a sprinkling of younger faces), Ken promises us two intervals: "One for lager, and one for Complan". We should be so lucky...

19:47. The keyboardist has yet to arrive, having been held up on the A50. ("Don't worry, we'll add it on to the end of the show.") The drummer is holding his own, though -- even prompting his boss on a couple of occasions, when the odd word slips his memory. Unable to take his scheduled musical breaks, Dodd is having to busk it a bit, making the show up as he goes along -- and although he's mostly doing OK, the strain is starting to show. Last month, Dodd turned eighty. Is the onset of old age finally starting to get to him?

20:05. Finally the keyboardist arrives, the stage hands setting up the equipment around him. With music on the agenda at last, Dodd leaves the stage, and a group of children perform a selection of Christmas carols.

20:14. After a very short burst of comedy, Dodd departs once more, leaving the same children to perform a singalong "wartime" medley. Without much in the way of audience participation, it all falls rather flat -- and with the appearance of his long-term partner Anne Jones, who performs a seemingly endless series of well-worn chestnuts, the evening sinks further still. So Ken gets a twenty-five minute break, even if we don't? You can feel the restlessness building in the aisles.

20:45. He's back, and things aren't going too well. "It's an educational show. When you get out of here tonight, you'll go: well, that's taught me a lesson." My companion rolls his eyes knowingly.

20:53. "There's a special name for what I'm doing now: struggling." You said it, Ken. His delivery is faltering -- not helped by a troublesome and rather fruity cough -- and the laughs simply aren't coming. He's trying to win us back, but it's an uphill struggle. When's the interval, anyway?

21:10. Ken is swapping banter with a poker-faced French maid of advanced years, who speaks with a local accent. The skit goes well enough, but there are still an awful lot of ad-libbed cracks about how quiet we all are. He even starts to take his frustrations out on the venue, "a Portakabin with a hint of mock-Wimpey".

21:19. Ye Gods, it's the Diddymen! We grin and bear it. Spirit of the Blitz, and all that.

21:32. Ken is threatening to cancel the interval and lock the gents' toilets. Frankly, I wouldn't put it past him. There's madness in those eyes tonight.

21:39. A musical tribute to the old masters of 20th century comedy -- Cooper, Chaplin, Askey, Groucho Marx, Max Wall and all the rest of them -- is marred by fluffed lines and ragged delivery. All around the auditorium, legs are being crossed just that little bit more tightly.

22:00. Nearly three hours in, the long awaited interval arrives. We stumble around the surprisingly uncrowded bar area, un-numbing our backsides and generally feeling a little shell-shocked. The beers might not be shifting, but the coffee stand is doing a brisk trade.

22:20. We're back in our seats, along with around 90% of the audience from the first half. The house lights go down, and on comes... a magic act! My companion and I look at each other aghast. Is this how they reward our loyalty? There is a routine with a disappearing lady, which I can't work out -- and a routine with swords and a cabinet, which I work out in seconds.

22:37. The great man is back -- and this time, he's brought a Thermos flask and sandwiches. "Most of you have been reported missing by now", he cries, before engaging various members of the front two rows in conversation.

22:45. "How many children have you got, missus?" It turns out that the lady in question has eight of them. He wasn't expecting this, and seems to dither for a while -- before coming back quite brilliantly. ("It's a good job you sewed that hole up in your husband's pyjamas. Well, you know what they say: a stitch in time saves nine!") The gag brings the house down. Hey, this is more like it.

22:54. There is something of a mini-exodus, as people rush off to catch their last buses, or get out of the car parks before closing time. Undeterred, Dodd is in the middle of a bizarre operatic routine about haddock. It's fast and wordy, and requires split-second timing. To our delight, the old boy pulls it off without a single hitch, to sustained applause. That interval seems to have done all of us the power of good...

23:10. The material is rather more "adult" in nature by now -- but it's merely risqué, and far from smutty. As the subject matter shifts from love-making to hospitals, so the material gets ever more considered and clever, playing to our intellects rather than going for endless quick-fire gags. We're into late night, after-hours territory, and the belly laughs are rolling around the room. Behind me, one lady has almost completely lost it, roaring hysterically at every other word. Next to me, my companion is dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Four hours in, and the octogenarian comedy legend is in peak form at last. Perhaps the people who left during the interval had got things the wrong way around -- instead of leaving early, they should have arrived late.

23:25. Dickie Mint, the ever-popular ventriloquist's doll, is sporting a guardsman's uniform tonight. Some of his routine is still fresh in our memories from BBC2's Christmas Eve "Ken Dodd Night" -- but plenty of the gags are new, and no-one really minds. With all the quick-fire word-play between Dodd and his cheeky dummy, the famous "no bad language" rule comes very close to being broken -- but in the end, our blushes are spared.

23:40. In between quips ("You know you're entitled to an attendance allowance for staying here?") Ken is reading out dedications from members of the audience. ("We're one step away from turning into sheltered accommodation!") The banter is flowing freely between the performer and the front two rows. The laughs are still rolling, and strange as it might sound, we feel like we could happily stay here all night. Two hours earlier, we couldn't wait for the interval. Now we don't want to leave.

23:55. Looking and sounding twenty years younger than the man who first stepped onto the stage, Dodd is working his way through some of his old hits -- Love Is Like A Violin, Tears -- and working in the odd Johnny Cash impersonation along the way. A final semi-operatic skit sees him in fine voice, every inch the ageless master of his craft, the last member of the music hall generation still standing. We shall never see his like again.

00:06. Bang on the five hour mark, an unashamedly sentimental Absent Friends brings the night to a close. Suddenly, Ken sounds older and frailer again, as he reluctantly ekes out his final moments on stage, not yet quite ready to step back into the shadows.

00:09. A quick burst of his signature tune Happiness, and it is all over. We feel as if we have just scaled the comedy equivalent of the North Face of the Eiger. He'll probably be back this time next year, just as he has been almost every year since 1954. Good old Ken. For many of his ever-loyal audience, the holday season just wouldn't be the same without him.

(First published on the Nottingham Evening Post's website.)

Labels: celebs, comedy, eveningpost, gigs

This article originally appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post.

Following a successful run at this year’s Edinburgh Fringe, former Likely Lad Rodney Bewes is currently in the middle of a marathon one-man tour of the UK, stretching right through to April 2008.

The show in question, On the Stage – and Off, is a comedic adaptation of the first book by Jerome K Jerome. As Rodney wryly commented, when EG spoke to him earlier this week, “He was only famous for Three Men in a Boat. Nobody thinks he did anything else, just as nobody thinks I’ve done anything other than The Likely Lads – although I’ve been an actor for fifty-five years.”

Before embarking upon his literary career, the young Jerome spent three years during the 1880s trying to make it as an actor, with a spectacular lack of success that left him penniless and nearly destitute. On the Stage chronicles this period – but with the accent on comedy rather than tragedy, as Jerome lurches between a succession of second-rate productions, seedy lodging houses and unscrupulous managers. “Slowly, he comes to see the world of glamorous show business for what it is”, explained Bewes, with some force of feeling.

Jerome’s memoir was well received in its day, so much so that when Three Men in a Boat appeared, the critics were initially disappointed that it didn’t live up to the expectations of his debut. Having already toured Three Men as a one-man show in the 1990s, Bewes clearly feels a particular affinity with its author.

“He came to London from a poor upbringing, and then he made his own life – which is exactly what I did. I could never have done P.G. Wodehouse! I can empathise with Jerome K Jerome, as he wasn’t posh. After his success, the press nicknamed him ‘Arry K ‘Arry, because of his street vernacular. Even so, he became best friends with Conan Doyle, Kipling and J.M. Barrie, and so he was part of the literary set.”

As the tour progresses, Rodney has noticed that it tends to attract “an audience who like theatre. They’re the people who keep the roofs on theatres. It always amazes me who actually comes, away from the television and the fireside and the barbecue and the lawn.”

The show is also peppered with unscripted ad-libs and asides, ensuring that it never becomes a dry, scripted monologue, of interest merely to the antiquarian. “Somebody said it was ‘interactive’, and I had to go and ask what that meant. Apparently, it’s when I muck about with the audience. But I love latecomers, and I love mobile phones.”

“During one of the Edinburgh shows, a mobile phone went off. Because I’m an actor in my head during the play, I turned in the direction of the phone and said: ‘Do answer it! It might be an offer of work!’”

Although the young Jerome might have failed to find his big break as an actor, the young Rodney Bewes enjoyed conspicuously better luck. Following his casting alongside Tom Courtenay in the classic British comedy film Billy Liar, there was no turning back. A few years later, his portrayal of the hapless Bob Ferris in The Likely Lads sealed his reputation. While some actors might have felt somewhat shackled to such an enduringly popular character, the experience has brought Bewes nothing but satisfaction.

“A lot of actors get very grand and self-important, and I don’t think you should. The Likely Lads was my claim to fame, if you like. I even mention it on the posters for my tour. Why not? We’re here to sell tickets.”

“The series was re-released last year on DVD, and a man from the BBC said to me: ‘We’re so thrilled that you’re going to be a boxed set, Rodney’. And I said: ‘Well, what’s next? After you’re a boxed set, it must be the knighthood!’”

On The Stage – And Off plays at the Palace Theatre in Newark on Thursday September 27th.

Labels: comedy, eveningpost, interviews, theatre

(An edited version of this review originally appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post.)

Whether you’re a glamorous frequent flyer in first class, a canapé-shovelling freeloader in club class, or merely one of the down-trodden hordes in cattle class, there is something in Pam Ann’s act that will strike an immediate chord of recognition.

That haughty, don’t-mess-with-me strut that British Airways cabin crew perform en masse through Heathrow Terminal Four, dragging their wheelie suitcases through passport control? Pam has it down to a tee.

That two inch gap in the curtains at the back of club class, left just wide enough for envious economy passengers to watch the complimentary champagne being served in real glassware? Pam probably invented that evil little trick.

Having graduated from the gay scene to the theatre circuit, Pam still enjoys a huge gay following, and her knowing references to some of the more “specialist” aspects of the gay lifestyle drew roars of delight. Much of her audience is also drawn from the airline industry itself, and any references to specific crews – bossy, indifferent BA, air-headed Virgin Atlantic, or those unfortunates on easyJet who dream of one day being able to serve hot food – were just as eagerly lapped up.

The more experimental second half featured a series of other stewardess characters, linked by extensive video footage. Relying more on visual humour than on Pam’s razor-sharp observation and bitchy banter, the material was altogether patchier, and consequently less successful.

For the finale, various audience members – all cabin crew themselves – joined Pam on stage for a hastily and hilariously choreographed performance of From New York To L.A.

Labels: comedy, eveningpost, gigs

(This article originally appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post.)

EG caught up with Caroline Reid, the Australian creator of trolley-dolly bitch extraordinaire Pam Ann, wandering through the streets of London on her day off. Over the roar of traffic in the background, Caroline chatted happily about her best known comic character, and the various other sidekicks who will also be appearing at the Theatre Royal on Sunday evening.

But first… was the globe-trotting Pam familiar with our very own Nottingham East Midlands Airport (recently voted Best Airport at the “prestigious” Baltic Air Charter Association Awards, as I couldn’t help but boast)? Or maybe, given the dominance of low cost airlines such as easyJet and bmibaby, we’re just a little too “short haul” for her…

“Maybe for Pam – but I wish I was flying to Nottingham, rather than coming up on the motorway. I must put that in the contract for next time. But yeah, I know bmibaby: they’re clinging onto the hope that one day they’ll be scheduled.”

Ouch. That’s no way to talk about the East Midlands’ favourite airline… and possibly the only one that asks if you’d like ice cubes in your white wine, to boot.

“That’s fantastic; I may use that. I’m writing it down now!”

Is Pam held in high esteem by the trolley-dolly community, or do they view her as a scandalous misrepresentation of their profession?

“I think they love her, because they’d actually like to do and say the things that I do on stage, but for real. If I’m on a plane, they’ll run up to me saying “Pam, Pam, Pam! I’ve got a joke for you!” I mean, half of them have written my show, really… so if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t even have a show. If the cabin crew like what I do, then I’m doing a good job.”

So perhaps audience members might occasionally spot one of their own anecdotes popping up in the show? (Bmibaby… ice cubes… white wine… one has to live in hope.)

“Absolutely!”



Although Pam Ann headlines the show, four other characters will also be making an appearance, as Caroline explains.

“I’ve got Valerie from American Airlines: she’s 105, and still flying today. She scares the audience with horror stories of air disasters she’s been in.”

Hoping to lure Caroline into some juicy bitching, I suggested that some battle-scarred travellers might regard American Airlines as a horror story in their own right. Interestingly, she was having none of it.

“Well, they’ve given me a uniform, a proper name badge, and their stamp of approval. They’re big supporters of what I do – and if they’re happy, then I’m happy. I love American Airlines, and I’ll wave their flag any day.”

Suitably chastened, I moved Caroline onto her other characters.

“Mona the BA bitch is basically very old school, waves the flag, horsey. She’s waiting for her pension to come round. Very good at her job, but verging on prison warden.”

“Then I’ve got Sarah from Virgin, a typical dumb blonde. Richard Branson hires very young cabin crew; very S Club 7. You just don’t know whether those girls are going to be able to handle a situation of stress.”

“And then there’s Donna from easyJet, who dreams of flying over water. She loves to go down to Heathrow to look at the real cabin crew, and she hopes and dreams that one day she’ll get onto a real 747.”



As for Pam Ann herself, one of her most memorable engagements was when she crewed a private flight for Sir Elton John and his friends.

“They loved the fact that Pam thinks she’s almost of the Elton ilk. They could be brother and sister, really. So she basically put them all in their places, sat them down, and verbally abused them the whole way to Venice.”

Despite the growing public awareness of environmental issues regarding air travel, Pam is doing precious little to offset her own carbon emissions.

“She’s not green at all. She likes a carbon footprint, especially if it’s wearing a Manolo Blahnik. She’d take out a forest in the Amazon to put in a fashion café.”

Anyone assuming a bond of kinship between Caroline and this year’s Eurovision entrants Scooch, with their “affectionate tribute” to the airline industry, might be in for a rude awakening.

“They’re rubbish! They look crap, they’ve got nothing good to say about themselves, and they’ve ripped everybody else off. I know that Eurovision’s about cheese, but that’s bordering on stupid. I liked those Finnish monster guys who won last year; there was something different about them. But as for these guys: they’re like a charter version of Steps. People have asked if they’ve modelled their uniforms on me – but excuse me, I do not look like that! They look like waitresses from All Bar One! People have been saying that I’ve got to support them, but no! I can’t stand them!”

After completing her marathon 41-date tour, which finishes in mid-June, Caroline will be taking her One World Alliance show to the Edinburgh Festival for the whole of August. In the meantime, you can catch her at the Theatre Royal on Sunday evening.

Labels: celebs, comedy, eveningpost, interviews