I Was Johnny Sellotape
Mark Rickards, who has made many a fine programme for Radio Scotland and Radio 4, tells me he was giving a talk to media students at Stirling University.
One student plans to make a short feature on stand-up comedy and Mark suggested they contact me to talk about my own experience in this field.
As I told Mark, I'm always happy to mouth off about things I don't know anything about but in this case my vast experience amounts to two performances about five years ago. Nevertheless I have, somehow, gained the reputation of being a secret comedian and I've been asked about it in a number of newspaper interviews. Time, methinks, to put the record straight.
It all happened when I was the Editor in charge of the Fred MacAulay show and found myself talking to the production team about how they might cover an evening of comedy auditions happening at the King's Theatre in Glasgow. It was being organised by the London-based Comedy Store who were on a U.K. tour and trawling for new talent along the way. Off the top of my head I invented a character called Johnny Sellotape who, in my imagination, had been one part of a double-act with his partner Billy Bostik.
"They were pioneers of adhesive comedy," I told the team, "but they fell apart. The act never caught on because they both wanted to be the straight man."
Taking a joke too far, I invented a catchphrase for Johnny - "UHU" and decided that he would attach emergency jokes to his jacket with sticky-tape just in case he ran out of material.
Well, having gone this far, I was easily persuaded to turn up for the actual auditions. So two days later I'm standing in the foyer of the Kings Theatre with about fifty other hopefuls. I'm wearing glasses, my hastily designed comedy jacket (complete with emergency jokes) and, for some reason, I have half a pound of gel in my hair. I watch one performance after another and begin to get so nervous that it feels like someone has secured an iron band around my waist. Then I'm called to the front, given a green light and told I have two minutes to make 'em laugh.
"Hello my name's Johnny ... Johnny Sellotape. It's a bit tacky, but it sticks."
Of course, the audience is comprised of other would-be comedians who know that only a few of them will make it to the final. Yet, somehow, I pull it off. I get the laughs and applause and, would you believe it, the judges decide I'm through to the final. Another finalist is Craig Hill who has since gone on to great things.
Then Fred MacAulay appears and the three of us get our photograph taken by the magazine, who have kindly given permission for me to reproduce it on this website. They also give Johnny Sellotape a rave review, describing him as "a genuine, 24-carat, side-splitting, destined for international fame, undiscovered comic genius." I had that clipping in my wallet for about two years.
Alas, it was not to last. A week later I'm in the final and I take to the stage in front of a full-house at the Kings. I've spent a lonely afternoon in a dressing room, working myself into a nervous frenzy, and by the time I walk out under the spotlight, I've lost my bottle. I just want to go home and watch the telly. I don't want the life of a stand-up comedian. I know it, the audience know it and they grant my wish.
There's a clapometer verdict and I come last. I smile bravely. I go backstage and take off my comedy jacket. Johnny Sellotape is no more. He has come unstuck.
Except that a year later I make a half-hour radio programme about Johnny's fictional life. So, it wasn't a total waste of time. Funny old business, isn't it?
