WARNING: This particular blog is not for the faint-hearted. Do not read it if you are easily (or even slightly) offended by ‘bad language’ or graphic detail. If you are offended, do not complain to me. I have, as they say, clearly printed a warning…
In yesterday morning’s blog, I mentioned comedian Bob Slayer’s naked exploits running along the balcony as part of the Greatest Show on Legs’ performance at a Leicester Comedy Festival preview last Friday.
Yesterday afternoon, Bob told me that, after Friday’s show in Leicester, he encountered a couple from the audience:
“We were chatting about the consequences of falling off the balcony. I think they would have been in the negative area of the spectrum. So I reassured the lady: You do realise I was on a wire…?
“Oh, she says, I am so pleased to find out there was some safety as I was really worried for you. At this point, her husband started laughing and said: He was naked! Where do you think the wire was attached?!”
Yesterday, Bob and I met up to have a look round BBC Television Centre in London’s Shepherd’s Bush.’TC’ is being closed later this year. My first job in television was answering the phones at TC if anything went wrong with the plumbing, if anyone’s office radiators needed bleeding or if mice appeared (among another things).
“I’ve been in Television Centre many times,” Bob told me yesterday. “I got a bit annoyed at a Comedy Shuffle party once and just wandered round the building into other end-of-series parties. I went into the Would I Lie To You? wrap party. Somebody asked me Are you supposed to be here? and I said Yes and they believed me and I thought I should have been on the panel of that bloody show because I’m a bloody good liar! And I drank their wine and nicked a box of wine as I left. Someone asked if I’d nicked the box of wine and I said No, I was given it and they believed me.”
Later, as we walked past The Defector’s Weld pub on Shepherd’s Bush Green, on our way to see comedy critic Kate Copstick at her nearby Mama Biashara charity shop, Bob told me: “I removed Copstick’s bra in that pub!”
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“It was after some gig,” he explained vaguely.
When, a little later, we were having a meal with Copsick, I asked Bob about it again.
“It was a nice bra,” he said. “But I felt I couldn’t keep her bra, so I brought it back. Did you feel I rejected it?” he asked Copstick.
“I’m more sensitive than people give me credit for,” Copstick told him.
“I know,” said Bob. “I know. Most people are.”
“How did you know it was Copstick’s bra?” I asked.
“Because,” explained Bob, “it had her boobs in it when I first saw it.”
“Indeed they were,” agreed Copstick.
“And then they weren’t in it,” said Bob. “And then the bra was in my hands. So, unless she had nicked it off a tramp in the street…”
“I’ve given up bras now,” said Copstick.
“Oh yes,” said Bob, looking, “so you have… Kenyan style?”
“Yup,” said Copstick, bouncing with enthusiasm.
“What a pity I don’t do a video blog,” I said.
“Jason Rouse showed me a video once,” said Bob. “He has a routine which, to my knowledge, he’s never done on stage and I’m trying to persuade him to do it. Basically, he just fires poo out of his arse, upwards of six to twelve feet. He reckons his record is fifteen feet.”
“Are we talking fully-formed balls of poo?” asked Copstick.
“He drops his trousers…” started Bob.
“Or liquid?” asked Copstick.
“He showed me a video of it,” Bob continued, “when we were halfway to Edinburgh Highlight and I’m eating, thinking I’m not going to be put off by this. He’s trying to put me off eating and he’s shitting in the video and I’m still eating and there’s people puking on his phone and I’m thinking It’s only a video! and then, all the way to Edinburgh, he’s saying Come on, Bob, I need a shit, I need a shit!
”We get to Edinburgh and go up these stairs out of the car park into the shopping centre, can’t find how to get to Highlight and he’s going I need a shit! and I’m creasing up with laughter: Oh stop it, Jason!”
“You’ve no sympathy for the human condition,” said Copstick.
“…and he just drops his trousers in the stairwell,” Bob continued, “and he shot it out six feet. I pulled my video camera out of my pocket to take a video, leant in and it hit me… not literally hit me, but the stench of it hit me and I puked and he was so proud he had made me puke.”
“And all this,” asked Copstick, “was in the stairwell of the shopping centre?”
“…of The Omni in Edinburgh, yeah,” confirmed Bob.
“Dear God!” said Copstick. “Projectile shitting could be the future of comedy. Still, it’s unlikely anyone’s going to steal Jason’s material.”
“As far as I know,” said Bob, “his material is still there.”
“It’s not like, one of these days,” continued Copstick, “you’re gonna see Robin Williams live on stage and Jason’s going to be saying That’s my act!”
“You think the act has potential?” I asked.
Copstick raised an eyebrow.
Bob then told us a legally currently unprintable story about paedophile DJ Jimmy Savile.
“I’ve been licked by Jimmy Savile,” said Copstick. “I was doing a BBC kids’ TV show called On The Waterfront and, in it, I did this thing called Through The Sunroof – a rip-off of Through The Keyhole…. but it was Through The Sunroof – What sort of person would have a car like this?
“We were doing one of Jimmy Savile’s many cars. We should have spotted the dried semen stains on the back seat – Dried semen stains, a rattle and a cuddly toy? What sort of person would have a car like this? It must be Jimmy Savile.
“When he was introduced to me, he was just… He was the only person – apart from possibly Xxxxx Xxxxx – who I met and I just went Earghh! inside… Even I did and I’ve had some appalling sex with some truly unsavoury people. People even I find unsavoury. I once had a girl who blew paint from her arse directly onto my face.
“So it’s not that I haven’t been around…
“But I’m introduced to Jimmy Savile, I put my hand out to shake his hand and he takes my hand, turns it over and licks the palm.”
Bob said nothing, just looked at Copstick.
I said nothing, just looked at Copstick.
“Well, that’s kind of exactly what happened,” said Copstick. “There was a moment of silent stillness where you could just hear everyone think Earghhh! and I was thinking I can’t say anything. After all, this is Jimmy Savile.”
“What did you say to him?” I asked.
“I didn’t say anything,” Copstick repeated, “because he was Jimmy fucking Savile. I just thought Earghhh! and wiped the palm of my hand on my trous.”
“Did your eyes meet?” I asked.
“Oh!” said Copstick, “his eyes were like little marbles. Horrible. But I didn’t say anything to him. He was Jimmy Savile. Which is obviously what everyone else thought when he did things to them. They thought: I can’t say he stuck his dick in my ear, because I’m only six and no-one will believe me, because he’s Jimmy Savile.”
“And that would have been aural sex,” I suggested.
There was a long silence.