As you are probably aware I have been something of a stranger to accolades and awards during my eighteen year career as a comedian. One of the first radio shows I worked on, "On The Hour" won a whole raft of prizes, but I feel it might have done that without my involvement, giving the calibre of the team behind it (including Armando Iannucci, Chris Morris, Steve Coogan, Stewart Lee and Patrick Marber). In fact given that all of those people have gone on to win many subsequent awards, whilst I have won nothing makes you think that maybe I was dragging them down to begin with. Indeed Stewart Lee won awards before he worked with me, but only started winning them again once our association was over. I am not being paranoid, just factually accurate. Not only have I won nothing, until this year I haven't really even been nominated for anything. Yet I have constantly worked. Clearly demonstrating my overwhelming mediocrity.
I have always claimed that I disliked the idea of awards, showing particular disdain for the Perrier Award in Edinburgh, which has never even given me the smallest nod in the 15 Fringes I have attended and the 22 shows I have done. I have always said I don't like the idea of having awards at an arts festival and that picking "winners" is detrimental to everyone, but really I am mainly just jealous and angry that no-one has ever wanted to give me an award. After two decades of doing this job it would be nice if I had something in my awards cabinet that I had built in 1989 in a fit of hubris, but which has nothing in it apart from dust, the Daily Telegraph Worst Comedy Experience 2005 Award (no actual trophy), A Gamesmaster Golden Joystick (which I stupidly actually threw away when we moved offices in the 1990s) and The Kings of Wessex Ex-Pupil of the Year 1996 (no actual trophy). It's not really enough to impress the grandchildren I will never live to see.
I admit it. I just want to win an award. Just one. Just something the will provide evidence that I was actually here on this planet. Even though I have been on awards panels and know what a complete load of shit most of them are, how most of the decisions are political or fixed by the broadcasters to promote shows they want to do well. I just want some recognition! There, happy now?
This year, I have to admit has seen a slight shift in the award people's attitude towards me. I won the notbbc.com Best Live Show award. Then I was nominated for the Metro Best Blog award, which I thought I might be in with a chance of winning, which made it all the more upsetting when
I didn't even make the top two. It was strangely more upsetting than not getting nominated at all. At least if you're not nominated then you don't have your hopes raised.
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I had been astounded to find out that I had been nominated for the Arena Magazine Best Comedian Award. Given my lack of TV work recently I was surprised and flattered that someone had noticed me, presumably having seen menage a un. I was realistic. I knew that I couldn't win. Someone like Ricky Gervais or Russell Brand would get the trophy, but I was pleased to be invited along for the party and cancelled a couple of gigs so I could make it along, including one I had really wanted to do for a project that does comedy in unusual places and wanted me to strut my stuff in a museum. But I don't get nominate for awards every day of the year (In fact about as regularly as Halley's Comet comes round and similarly an awards nod for me signifies disaster for the United Kingdom), and I had heard there would be supermodels at the event, so I binned the gigs, lured away by baubles and the glamour of show business.
I hadn't heard too much about the night in advance. I didn't know who the other nominees were, but knew that Harry Hill was up for it, which was enough for me to know I could get drunk and enjoy myself, not troubling my mind with coming up with a victory speech. Once I was at the swanky bar restaurant in Knightsbridge, I found out the nominees also included the Mighty Boosh and Garth Merenghi. Again I was happy to accept that I had come in fourth. Paul Kaye aka Dennis Pennis was at the party and I joked to Emma Kennedy who I had selected as my date for the evening, so that I would be free to dance with supermodels, that if he was up for it too then at least I wouldn't come last. I mean, what had he done lately? Only acting surely. I assumed he was up for a drama award.
We had a posho meal and drank cocktails and I saw Will Young and Rachel Stevens. Harry Shearer was also there, who as you may recall
is one of my comedy gods. Then alien-faced supermodel
Lily Cole walked in and I thought, well if I get knocked back by Rachel Stevens, there is my back up. It was going to be a good night.
I noticed that none of the other comedy award nominees had turned up. Of course, all these fellas are so used to winning awards, that an Arena magazine bauble means nothing to them. But this was a big deal for me. This was my first ever solo performance award ceremony and though I knew I couldn't win, started thinking, well you never know, if they had been sharp enough to notice my existence, maybe they'd give me something. Perhaps the fact that the others hadn't turned up was significant.
After dinner they started quickly handing out the awards for a variety of categories. It became apparent that every winner was there in the room. Emma noticed this too. "I think you're going to win" she said, "You're the only one here." I had to agree that it was a possibility.
It came to the comedy award and the MC said, "The comedy award winner first came to prominence through his interviews with celebrities as Dennis Pennis...."
I couldn't believe it. If I had been beaten by any of the others then it would have been fine, but Dennis Pennis? Even more from the 1990s than me. Arena magazine think I am less funny than Paul Kaye. It was again more insulting than not having been nominated at all.
And I then started to feel a bit embarrassed. Every winner was in the room and hardly any other nominees had turned up. Obviously Arena had let the winners know that they had won in advance. Maybe if Harry Hill had won he would have been there, but he obviously had found out he hadn't won and so hadn't shown up. But me, so unused to being remembered or acknowledged, hadn't even thought about asking if I'd won and had just turned up on the promise of some steak and free booze and the chance to pretend that I might have the courage to chat up a beautiful woman.
If I hadn't been nominated I would never have heard of these awards and even if I had heard of them I would not have expected to be nominated and I would have been happy. Now I felt embarrassed and sad, like Arena magazine had invited me along to an evening solely to wipe dog shit in my face. Dennis Pennis!
Still at least I had continued my record of not winning awards and can still go on and on about my lack of recognition, which I am quite proud of. And in a way only winning an Arena award in your entire career is sort of more embarrassing than winning nothing. If an Arena award was all that I had to show my grandchildren it would sort of be less impressive than having nothing to show them. Wouldn't it?
"I don't care," I told Emma, "Because I am going to have sex with Rachel Stevens and Lily Cole tonight, so who is the real winner?"
Emma didn't seem convinced.
"Really, for once in my life I am going to give it a go. I am going to get more drunk, go up to Rachel Stevens and say "I would really, really like to have sex with you, what do you think?"
And if she looked at me strangely at this point I could then say, "I was nominated for the Best Comedian Award"
And she might say, "Did you win?"
And I'd say, "No."
And she'd say, "And you still turned up?"
And I'd look at the ground and say, "Yes"
And then she'd say, "Who won?"
And I'd say, "Dennis Pennis."
And she'd say, "He isn't even a comedian. So you're a worse comedian than someone who isn't a comedian. How shit must you be?"
And I'd say, "Look, are you going to have sex with me or not, because Lily Cole is over there and I'll give her a go if you're going to play all hard to get."
And Rachel Stevens would say, "Isn't she 19? You must be at least 40. That's disgusting."
And I would say, "I'm 39 Stevens, you prick tease. You make me sick."
Having played it through in my head I decided it was probably best to just drink some more and then go home. And let Lily Cole and Rachel Stevens just wonder who that mysterious silent stranger was, who kept staring at their breasts. I imagine her blog today will be mainly about how she was too nervous to come over and ask Richard Herring to have sex with her. Bad luck Stevens, you blew it, prick tease!
So I went home feeling depressed. Even though I had come knowing I would lose, the manner of my losing was such a surprise that it was actually a kick in the teeth. Though I did briefly get to shake hands with Harry Shearer, so all wasn't lost. In many ways that is better than having sex with Rachel Stevens.
Yes.
I am a loser. That's why you love me right.
At the bar a man came up to me and said he wanted to thank me because it was a love of Fist of Fun that had brought him and his best friend together and they were still friends all this time on. I said to him "That means more to me than all the awards in the world."
I was lying though. I'd much rather have won the award. I am now officially less funny that Dennis Pennis.
