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  I got a job as a nursing assistant in a huge residential institution for adults with learning disabilities. It was a Victorian building housing Victorian attitudes and the twentieth century seemed a faraway dream to most of the poor bastards who actually had to live there. Most of the staff were nice, but they had been driven into submission by a couple of scary senior staff. Neglect and disrespect were our constant companions and occasionally we strayed into sitcom territory, as the elderly gardener was rather partial to displaying his genitalia to any female under the age of seventy. The first time this happened I was rather shocked, but it became such a regular occurrence that I thought it was quite entertaining, although I wouldn’t have wished it on anyone younger.

  All the male residents had their pockets sewn up so as to avoid any embarrassing pocket billiards incidents and their hair was all the same style, taking as it did inspiration from Vidal Sassoon‘s pudding-bowl period. The women weren’t really allowed to be women, although they would occasionally get their own back. One pure delight of a grumpy resident took to hoarding used sanitary towels in a carrier bag and chucking them at people she didn’t like. She was once taken aside by a store detective in Woolies because she’d made a grab for the Pick ‘n’ Mix. I saw her hand go into her trusty carrier, almost in slow motion, and I began to run towards them, my warning shout seemingly becoming distorted and slowed down. I was too late—she’d already taken one out and aimed it at the detective’s head—and I had to work enormously hard to convince the manager of the store that it would be all right for us to shop there again. I only pissed myself laughing once we’d got outside Woolies.

  I saw things that, although they weren’t deliberately cruel, really upset me. One poor woman had a plaster so tightly wound round one of her toes, which was left on for weeks, that by the time anyone realised something was wrong, by the smell, her toe was hanging on by a thread.

  Perhaps my most dramatic contribution to the lives of the residents was the day I took them swimming at a local public pool. They were all having a lovely time splashing about, and one of the other staff said to me that she thought they would really appreciate someone showing them what diving was all about. I had always loved swimming and diving and had done a lot of it at school, so diving off the edge of the pool seemed like a piece of piss. I came out of the changing room in my cozzie, got their attention, stood halfway up the pool and announced that I was going to show them how to dive. I didn’t go far enough up the pool, though, and as I executed a perfect dive, I realised it was too shallow. I hit the bottom, my top teeth went right through my face and I came up out of the water almost knocked out and in terrible pain. However, the main emotion I felt was embarrassment at being such a tit. I did my best to laugh it off as they clapped and cheered, but then noticed there was a small ring of crimson round me which was expanding by the second. Seeing my own blood made me feel faint and I was eventually dragged out of the pool, the sound of cheering and the sight of admiring faces the last image I remember.

  In casualty, I was informed that my face was too swollen for them to use a local anaesthetic, so I had to endure a few minutes of agony as someone laboriously sewed up the hole under my nose. Not only that, a charming and huge scab formed between my nose and mouth and the effect of that plus the swelling gave my profile a gorilla-ish character. This lasted about a month and despite imaginative ideas to hide it—like wearing a scarf, Lone Ranger-style, over my face (too much laughing) or simply holding my hand up to cover it all the time (simply not practical)—I just had to put up with looking like an extra from Planet of the Apes.

  Eventually I felt the line had been crossed at work when I saw one of the staff standing outside the women’s bedroom watching them all getting undressed for bed. I made a complaint about this and was told obliquely that they weren’t interested in what I had to say and as I was a recent addition to the staff, I might as well leave.

  I did and pootled off back home to my mum again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ROSEBED RALLY DRIVING

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to move back into the house of fear tucked away down the lane. My mum had moved on her own to a lovely gothic cottage in a village about ten miles away, and she managed to get me a job at a residential unit for adults with learning disabilities. The place could not have been more different from the Victorian horror I had worked in previously. It was modern, light and airy and the staff seemed to be in touch with the twentieth century, which was a huge relief. The residents seemed happy and settled and there were no shenanigans going on. It’s an indication, I think, of how much difference the management of these types of places makes in setting the tone of the care that is given.

  At that point, I was trying to learn to drive and some days I persuaded my brother Bill, who was only down the road in Hastings, to come and pick me up from work so I could drive home.

  I had had five driving lessons in Hastings already, with a cheery middle-aged guy who seemed totally unflappable, which I suppose is a very useful character trait to have in that job. Most days he would greet me, plonk a pipe in his mouth and off we would go, chugging painfully slowly round the streets of Hastings, with him gently barking instructions at me. However, one day when I turned up for my lesson, I was told he would be about ten minutes late. Eventually he appeared from the little room and we got into the car. He looked slightly flustered and his hair, normally combed to within an inch of its life, was somewhat awry.

  I asked him if he was all right and he explained that the previous pupil, on his second or third lesson, had come up to a T-junction in a busy area and rather than turn left, as he had asked, had somehow got his foot stuck on the accelerator and shot forward across the road and right through a shop window.

  The car had been totalled but the instructor and learner were, thankfully, unharmed, although quite shaken up. And our brave hero had taken a mere ten minutes off with a cup of tea to steady his nerves and got straight back in the saddle, as it were, to give me a lesson. I tried really hard not to drive into a lamp post that day.

  One day Bill arrived to pick me up from work in his car. It was a beautiful sunny day and all the residents were out in the garden. To be honest, I had bigged up my driving skills far too much. I thought I was the Charlie Big Potatoes of the road and an excited little gang gathered to give me a send-off. I got into the car, put it in gear and prepared to pull out into the road. But a surfeit of confidence tends to lead to disaster and, planning a bit of a rally start to entertain them, I pressed my foot rather too hard on the accelerator and shot off far too fast without really considering which way the wheels were facing. They were pointing straight at an ornamental rose bed in the middle of the roundabout, surrounded by lawn. I drove straight across the lawn, ploughed through the rose bed and off the other side, causing a fair bit of damage. I looked in the mirror, expecting to see horrified faces at the damage I had caused, but was greeted by the sight of the little group cheering and waving their hands. They thought it was wonderful and extremely entertaining and so did I, until I came back the next morning and was asked to sort out the ploughed field I had created.

  A little while later, despite this shaky performance, I took my driving test, which I was desperate to do, as I wasn’t mobile enough and bloody lazy. I took the test in my trusty baked-bean can which I’d bought off my brother for three hundred quid. It was absolutely tiny and when I saw the size of the examiner I worried that I wouldn’t even be able to get him in the car, let alone drive without sitting on his lap. I took Valium, just to take the edge off my anxiety. It unfortunately made me rather too relaxed and at one point I nearly drove into a hole in the road. However, I performed a very impressive emergency stop in order to avoid it and, surprisingly, passed. My huge examiner turned out to be an ex-copper who hardly ever passed anyone, so I was extra proud.

  What I really liked about this place was the whole ethos of liberalism. We had events like discos, parties and sports. I will never forget the reaction the g
roup always had when we put on ‘Thank You For the Music’ by Abba. They absolutely loved it and would indulge in an orgy of stamping, singing at the tops of their voices and spinning round and round with delirious joy. Every time I hear that song an instant image in my head transports me straight back to that place and the amazing atmosphere.

  One interesting dilemma we faced there involved a woman in her forties who was engaging in a rather dangerous pastime which caused some concern. She would stand out at the front of the building, which was on a main road, looking for sex from passing drivers. It wasn’t just the sex that she was after, but the rewards that were forthcoming afterwards. A few local old geezers who were lonely and either widowed or single would pull up, find a convenient bush and, after the act, furnish her either with some chocolate or a packet of fags. It has to be said that she was no looker, but neither were they, and this strange contract seemed to satisfy all parties. Everyone was aware of what was going on and a staff meeting was held to discuss an action plan. To their credit, in my opinion, a decision was made to let her carry on doing it. Having weighed up the benefits and potential dangers, it was felt that it would really deplete the quality of her life, because it was the only thing she really seemed to enjoy. I can understand how distasteful this may seem to people, but I have always felt it is so unfair to exclude those with a disability, learning or physical, from the opportunity for sexual contact.

  By this time I was about twenty and had packed an enormous amount into the last couple of years. I began to start thinking about the future and what I wanted to do. My mother knew that I fancied working in the arts and by that point I had considered comedy. Why did I want to do comedy? I admired comedians, even though there weren’t many women stand-ups whom I could learn from. Most of the women who were famous for comedy were comedy actresses, like Beryl Reid, Joan Sims and Hattie Jacques. Women tended to fall into two categories in comedy films at the time: gorgeous and sexy and therefore the object of some leering Neanderthal’s affection, or a so—called ‘grotesque’—fat, ugly, nasty, a bully, a nag. Whatever exaggerated aspect of womanhood you could conceive, and none of them very pleasant.

  I didn’t want to be a comedy actress, though; I knew which category I’d soon enough get shunted into given half a chance. I knew that I wanted to do stand-up, compete with men and come out if not ahead of them, then at least equal. I often think that wanting to compete in such a male arena was probably to do with my brothers. Then again, plenty of women have brothers and no sisters but end up quite feminine and certainly don’t want to go into comedy.

  So I would hazard a guess that my mum was a major influence too, in demonstrating that women can do anything they want, not only in the way she behaved, but in her interests, the content of her conversation, her outlook on life, her politics and her wit. I think I had taken most of those on board without even realising it. Also, my dad had a nice sense of humour. In his later years it wasn’t very evident but when we were younger, he mucked about, made jokes, played tricks and liked a laugh.

  Other than that, I can’t unravel any more overt reasons for ending up in this ridiculous job. I’m not even sure whether I was funny or quick-witted. I’d always liked telling jokes to my brothers, but is that enough? I don’t think so.

  My mother very sensibly pointed out to me that it would be advisable to get a qualification and/or trade under my belt before I gallivanted round the West End plying my trade, whatever that might be. So I applied for a place at Brunel University (‘In Bristol? Lovely!’ Um, no, in Uxbridge, near Heathrow Airport). The course I went for was known as a sandwich course (yes, I’ve done all the jokes). It was a four-year course, rather than the normal three years. It was called a ‘Joint Social Sciences Degree’ with an RMN qualification (Registered Mental Nurse—yes, done all those jokes too).

  I went off to the interview and, despite the fact that it was near Uxbridge, I liked it. An added bonus was that they were prepared to take me with my very crap A-levels, which nowhere else would. So they offered me a place and I took it and got ready to start in the autumn of 1978.

  There were a few loose ends to sort out before I went. Dave was one of them. We still had quite an on-off relationship. When he realised I was flying off to start a new phase in my life, he suddenly became keener. This is a common theme, I think, among uncommitted blokes, the ‘Don’t Know What You’ve Got Till It’s Gone’ syndrome Joni Mitchell so eloquently sang about.

  By this time Dave was in Bognor Regis, but he sent me an imploring letter, asking me to join him to sort out our difficulties and get back together properly. I think the ‘M’ word may even have been mentioned. But the truth of it is, fond as I was of him, he was a mess, drinking heavily and generally misbehaving in a being-unfaithful-with-other-women kind of way.

  Anyway, with a trepidatious heart, just a few weeks before I was to go off to college, I set out in my little car—a Honda 600 Z Coupe, my baked-bean can on wheels—to see what we could make of the whole mess.

  He’d booked a hotel room for two nights. It was adequate and had a sink right at the end of the bed, which would come in handy later on. I arrived there in the early evening, dumped my bag and we headed straight out to see what Bognor had to offer in terms of nightlife.

  Not much, as it turned out. We spent quite a lot of time in various pubs and I had a very strong suspicion that he was adding something stronger to my bottle of Pils because within about half an hour, I was absolutely off my face. We ended up in a nightclub at about eleven thirty, by which time I could barely remember my own name. I found a table next to the window and halfway through our first drink there I knew I was going to throw up. I also knew I didn’t have any time to make it to a handy receptacle like a toilet, so I staggered to my feet, leaned towards the window and heaved the contents of my stomach into the open air. Or so I thought. The problem was that the window wasn’t open and therefore I only succeeded in decorating the window itself with my previous meal.

  Result: thrown out of the club. By this time I had the most appalling pre-hangover headache and just wanted to lie down. But my escort wasn’t finished yet and dragged my half-conscious body to a late-night bar. He sat me on a stool at the bar and went off for a piss, but no sooner had he disappeared round the corner than I keeled backwards off the stool and ended up in a heap on the floor. Result: chucked out of that bar too.

  Defeat came upon us and we wandered back to the hotel, where I spent a very pleasant night kneeling at the end of the bed throwing up like a champion vomiter for hours into the very handy sink.

  The next morning I thought I would be allowed to sleep, feeling as I did like I had several brain tumours and quite a few ulcers. But no, Dave was surprisingly bright and chirpy and, as the sun was streaming in through the window, suggested a stroll on the beach. I knew I could no sooner stroll than back-flip all the way down to the beach, but I dragged myself out and we managed to make it down there, whereupon I plonked myself gratefully down. Within seconds, Dave informed me he was going to find an off-licence to get a bottle of wine and wandered off. I knew if I drank any more alcohol I would die. My head was pounding, it was hot and my eyes felt as if they had been rolled in grit. So I did a really awful thing … I fucked off. Making sure he wasn’t heading back towards me, I legged it up the beach as fast as I could, found the car and drove off, leaving all my stuff in the hotel room and no note. The journey home was appalling, a combination of great, big, snotty sobbing and throwing up. My poor mother took one look at me and advised bed. I slept all that day and night. And that was the last time I ever saw Dave.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A SPINSTER OF THE RURAL HAMLET OF UXBRIDGE

  University was great. Despite my vague plans to go to Oxford or Cambridge when I was at grammar school, I’m really pleased I picked Brunel. At the time I was there, from 1978 to 1982, it had no arts department, only science and engineering, and therefore there were eight males to every female. So we tiny group of women used to joke that at lea
st there was more chance of getting a bloke.

  Brunel is situated just outside Uxbridge, and it has to be said that the area is not a charming rural hamlet by any stretch of the imagination. The university was also almost on the doorstep of Heathrow Airport and so planes went overhead very close to the ground. Eventually we just got used to it. I saw Concorde a few times but, as I am female, I wasn’t that impressed by it, which I suppose is a rather shocking thing to say. It was just another metal thing up in the sky.

  I wasn’t very enamoured with flying. I think it’s probably the feeling of lack of control. In order to counteract the sensation of rising panic in the pit of my stomach when on a plane, I used to just get pissed. Later on, when I became a comic, a friend of mine, Jeff, got me a ‘Don’t Be Scared of Flying’ day for my birthday.

  Lots of us wimps turned up at Heathrow where we were herded into a room by some official looking people. Jeff came with me and relentlessly took the piss out of each stage of our day. First of all, a pilot and a psychologist came into the room. There were about a hundred of us. He explained how planes fly, and I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t really listen so I couldn’t tell you. The psychologist talked about anxiety, all of which I knew already, so I didn’t listen to that either. Then we had a chance to go for a wee. Some woman in the toilet was handing out Valium to anyone who wanted it. This was not part of the service, you understand, just an enterprising member of the public. We were then taken in a bus to the terminal and walked through it in order to get on a plane which was to be flown by the same pilot who had spoken to us earlier. I got the distinct impression that all the airport staff knew exactly who we were and there were various ‘looks’ and tittering going on.