So, Anyway...: The Autobiography

politeness and inability to shake off people who were being a pest, had developed an annoying habit since his arrival. Every morning, after we arrived at the beach, he would wander off on his own, chatting to people at random, until he came across someone – always a man – whom he judged to be outstandingly boring. He would talk to them until he had

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For the first time in my comedy-writing life I now had to produce scripts on a regular basis, and this brought with it a simple problem: I would start the morning with a blank sheet of paper, and I might well finish the day with a blank sheet of paper (and an overflowing waste-paper basket). There are not many jobs where you can produce absolutely

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When you encounter a culture totally uncontaminated by logic, it eventually undermines your reliance on reason. For example, Johnny Lynn walked into a department store in search of cufflinks. ‘Where do I find cufflinks?’ he asked. ‘Try the tobacco counter.’ ‘No,’ said Johnny, indicating the cuffs on his shirt, ‘cufflinks.’ ‘Yis. Try the tobacco cou

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untrammelled money-grubbing was a way of life – nay, a raison d’être. Furthermore it didn’t matter how the rich made their pile: waste disposal, trailer parks, sex toys, plastic forks, rubber doorstops, pornographic magazines, torture equipment, edible goldfish, mines, contraceptive sheaths, trading in widows and orphans, it . . . just . . . didn’t

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Self-confidence seemed to me more mimicry than anything else and I suggested visiting Clifton Zoo to watch the leaders in a group of baboons, and learn from them: make your gestures slow and deliberate; cultivate a deeper voice; appear casual at all times; eschew all rapid movements. That was all you had to do to look confident. I also knew that I

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He starts looking carefully all round the carriage. After a pause . . . MF: I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with B. Or J. B or J. JC: How could it begin with a B or a J? MF: For various reasons, none of which I am at liberty to divulge. B or J. Easy . . . JC: What’s the answer? MF: Ectoplasm. JC: Ectoplasm? MF: Mr B. J. Ectoplasm. He

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I skimmed the front page and something caught my eye – the date. It was Tuesday 27 October 1964. My birthday. I was twenty-five. So I went off and had a lovely celebratory lunch at my favourite restaurant. I was perfectly happy to be on my own. While I enjoyed company, I didn’t seem to need it, and I saw little of the Cambridge Circus team each day

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Assistant: . . . I beg your pardon? Mr Pest: No, Edmund Wells. Assistant: . . . I think you’ll find Charles Dickens wrote David Copperfield, sir. Mr Pest: No, Charles Dickens wrote David Copperfield with two ‘p’s. This is David Coperfield with one ‘p’ by Edmund Wells. Assistant: (a little sharply) Well, in that case we don’t have it. Mr Pest: Funny

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No, I think it’s simply because there was nothing in the whole damn show that was really funny. And I think that, deep down, that’s what has always really motivated me. When I’ve had enough artistic control, I’ve always aimed at being as funny as I can possibly be – not at being clever or witty or amusing or charming or whimsical or quite funny – a

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