Read Online Life and Laughing: My Story by Michael McIntyre - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael McIntyre
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bought from Waitrose. ‘You’re so funny, Mr Kenny.’
He wouldn’t just eat for free, but also take whatever he fancied from the restaurant. ‘Do you like this vase, Coke?’
‘I love it,’ giggled my mother. ‘I quite like that ashtray, too.’ They would leave the restaurant with most of the tableware (and once a lamp) with the full blessing of the Italian owner, who would be laughing and applauding his celebrity guest as Kenny and my mum walked out with nearly enough furnishings to open their own Italian restaurant.
After lunch they would pick up Lucy and me from school. You can only imagine the looks on the other conservative parents’ faces when my mum walked through the school gates in fits of laughter on Kenny Everett’s arm. As the schoolchildren came out, Kenny would guess their future professions: ‘Accountant’, ‘Wrestler’, ‘Osteopath’, ‘Dictator’. The kids themselves went nuts with excitement. When the future accountant, wrestler, osteopath and dictator saw Kenny, it was bedlam. The day after the first time Kenny collected me from school, my popularity rocketed.
‘Is Kenny Everett your dad?’, ‘Is Kenny Everett your dad?’ I must have been asked a hundred times by everyone from my friends to the teachers, dinner ladies and, coolest of all, the big boys. This was a crunch moment for me. I’d gone from pea-dropping freak to potentially the most popular boy in school, and it seemed to hinge on my response. ‘Is Kenny Everett your dad?’
I paused, thinking of my real dad, who I loved and was my hero. ‘Yes, Kenny Everett is my dad,’ I said. I was the most popular kid in school.
My popularity lasted a term and a half until the fathers’ race at sports day. I don’t think there has been as much excitement surrounding a hundred-metre dash since Jesse Owens claimed Gold in the 1936 Berlin Olympics. I was terrified about my lie being revealed. My dad looks nothing like Kenny Everett. On the morning of sports day, I tried to convince my father not to attend, but he was breathing hot coffee, cigarettey morning breath into my face at the time, which I think muffled my request. The crowd was enormous, every pupil and parent focusing on the starting line. Other events occurring elsewhere on the sports field were completely ignored as child competitors looked confused as to why their parents hadn’t shown up to cheer them on.
‘Where is he? Where is he?’ murmured sections of the crowd. Some parents had dressed up as their favourite Kenny Everett Show characters; I saw three Sid Snots and a Cupid Stunt. I couldn’t bear to watch. When my dad was introduced there was a gasp from the crowd. Not before or since has an athletics crowd been so disappointed (Ben Johnson’s 1988 cheating doesn’t come close). The Cupid Stunt ripped off his wig and stormed off to his car, still in his fake tits.
‘Kenny Everett’s not your dad’, ‘Kenny Everett’s not your dad’, ‘You’re a liar’, ‘Liar’, said everyone from my friends and the teachers, to the dinner ladies and, worst of all, the big boys. I was the least popular kid in school.
Oh, and I should also mention my dad came last in the race, and in the wheelbarrow race I fell and landed head-first on a fake egg, from the earlier egg-and-spoon race, which gouged my eye. All in all, a terrible day.
This wasn’t the only time I lied as a child. There is one lie that I have carried with me until this very moment, in this very book. In the summer holidays after my disastrous sports day, we went on holiday to Florida. We stayed at the Hilton Fontainebleau, an enormous hotel seen on the opening credits of Miami Vice with Don Johnson. Lucy and I loved it there. There was a waterfall and waterslide into the pool. My father got into a row with the manager at breakfast because a pot of coffee cost differing amounts depending on how many people were drinking it, even though it was the same sized pot. So if ten people had a sip each, it
He wouldn’t just eat for free, but also take whatever he fancied from the restaurant. ‘Do you like this vase, Coke?’
‘I love it,’ giggled my mother. ‘I quite like that ashtray, too.’ They would leave the restaurant with most of the tableware (and once a lamp) with the full blessing of the Italian owner, who would be laughing and applauding his celebrity guest as Kenny and my mum walked out with nearly enough furnishings to open their own Italian restaurant.
After lunch they would pick up Lucy and me from school. You can only imagine the looks on the other conservative parents’ faces when my mum walked through the school gates in fits of laughter on Kenny Everett’s arm. As the schoolchildren came out, Kenny would guess their future professions: ‘Accountant’, ‘Wrestler’, ‘Osteopath’, ‘Dictator’. The kids themselves went nuts with excitement. When the future accountant, wrestler, osteopath and dictator saw Kenny, it was bedlam. The day after the first time Kenny collected me from school, my popularity rocketed.
‘Is Kenny Everett your dad?’, ‘Is Kenny Everett your dad?’ I must have been asked a hundred times by everyone from my friends to the teachers, dinner ladies and, coolest of all, the big boys. This was a crunch moment for me. I’d gone from pea-dropping freak to potentially the most popular boy in school, and it seemed to hinge on my response. ‘Is Kenny Everett your dad?’
I paused, thinking of my real dad, who I loved and was my hero. ‘Yes, Kenny Everett is my dad,’ I said. I was the most popular kid in school.
My popularity lasted a term and a half until the fathers’ race at sports day. I don’t think there has been as much excitement surrounding a hundred-metre dash since Jesse Owens claimed Gold in the 1936 Berlin Olympics. I was terrified about my lie being revealed. My dad looks nothing like Kenny Everett. On the morning of sports day, I tried to convince my father not to attend, but he was breathing hot coffee, cigarettey morning breath into my face at the time, which I think muffled my request. The crowd was enormous, every pupil and parent focusing on the starting line. Other events occurring elsewhere on the sports field were completely ignored as child competitors looked confused as to why their parents hadn’t shown up to cheer them on.
‘Where is he? Where is he?’ murmured sections of the crowd. Some parents had dressed up as their favourite Kenny Everett Show characters; I saw three Sid Snots and a Cupid Stunt. I couldn’t bear to watch. When my dad was introduced there was a gasp from the crowd. Not before or since has an athletics crowd been so disappointed (Ben Johnson’s 1988 cheating doesn’t come close). The Cupid Stunt ripped off his wig and stormed off to his car, still in his fake tits.
‘Kenny Everett’s not your dad’, ‘Kenny Everett’s not your dad’, ‘You’re a liar’, ‘Liar’, said everyone from my friends and the teachers, to the dinner ladies and, worst of all, the big boys. I was the least popular kid in school.
Oh, and I should also mention my dad came last in the race, and in the wheelbarrow race I fell and landed head-first on a fake egg, from the earlier egg-and-spoon race, which gouged my eye. All in all, a terrible day.
This wasn’t the only time I lied as a child. There is one lie that I have carried with me until this very moment, in this very book. In the summer holidays after my disastrous sports day, we went on holiday to Florida. We stayed at the Hilton Fontainebleau, an enormous hotel seen on the opening credits of Miami Vice with Don Johnson. Lucy and I loved it there. There was a waterfall and waterslide into the pool. My father got into a row with the manager at breakfast because a pot of coffee cost differing amounts depending on how many people were drinking it, even though it was the same sized pot. So if ten people had a sip each, it
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