Jack Dee - Thanks for Nothing

About the Book

Would the real Jack stand up?

In this hilariously frank account of his life, Jack Dee finally reveals what turned a once optimistic young man into this grumpy middle-aged git. Its a journey that takes him from a first gig as a ventriloquists dummy, to working in an artificial leg factory and delivering incontinence pads for the NHS, before he finally ends up on stage at the Comedy Store. Along the way, Jack shares his laugh-out-loud views on everything from the overrated moon landing to boutique hotels, personal trainers and people who hold their cutlery the wrong way.

Outrageous, absurd, and full of surprises, this is Jack Dee at his funniest.

Contents

Thanks for Nothing

Jack Dee

Acknowledgements

No thanks to the following:

My editor Susanna Wadeson God, what a pain she was.

The photographer forgotten his name already. Anyway, he was rubbish. Made me look like Id put on weight.

Claire Ward for the artwork like getting blood out of a stone.

Patsy whatshername for her PR. I might as well have ticked the box marked No publicity.

The Sales team. Well, well see.

Larry Finlay, CEO Transworld never even saw him once Id signed.

Everyone else at Transworld Publishers talk about overstaffed.

Gary Farrow for messing up everything he tried to do.

Pete Sinclair worse than useless. Next time dont bother.

Everyone at Open Mike where I write maybe in future, at least try to keep quiet. I know youre pretending to be busy but thats taking the piss.

Addison Cresswell my hopeless agent, who is to literature what napalm is to wild fauna.

But most of all, I must fail to thank my wife and children for their total lack of patience and understanding while I was writing this. Without them I would have got it done miles quicker.

To me,

without whom none of this would have been possible

Preface

I dont read prefaces. They make me suspicious. I always think it looks like the book was handed in with a sick-note.

Its as if the author has got to the end, then suddenly realized that he forgot all sorts of things, so hes stuck in an extra chapter at the beginning just to cover his mistakes.

Well, thats not the case here. Everything I wanted to say, and was legally allowed to, is in the book itself. So why dont you read that instead? Everyone else is on page five by now and here you are, dutifully wasting your time on the preface.

Anyway, because this bit has to have something in it, I might as well give you the basic facts of my early life.

By the way, all this stuff is as I remember it. If I was at school with you or something, and I got the year wrong, then Im sorry.

Actually, having said that, Im not sorry. Also, dont try to get in touch.

So, here it is.

1961 : Born in Petts Wood, Kent. My mum and dad are Rosemary and Geoff and I have a brother, David, and sister, Joanna, who are five and eight years older than me respectively. We live in Orpington until I am four.

1965 : Move to Easton, a village near Winchester. Attend Itchen Abbas Primary School until age seven.

1966 : England win World Cup. Like I cared. Or care now.

1968 : Start at Pilgrims School in Winchester.

1969 : Moon Landing. Overrated.

1973 : Go to Montgomery of Alamein, a local comprehensive.

1977 : Attend Peter Symonds sixth-form college.

1981 : Start a career in the restaurant trade but, disillusioned, experiment with many other jobs.

1984 : Decide to become a priest.

1984 : Decide not to.

1986 : First step on stage at the Comedy Store as a try-out. Meet Jane.

1989 : Give up the day job and turn professional comedian. Marry Jane.

1999 : Arndale Centre in Wandsworth demolished.

And thats about it. If thats all you wanted to know, then feel free to put this back on the shelf and walk out of the bookshop without having to part with your money.

But if youre still curious and want to find out more about what shaped me in the past and what makes me tick now, then take it up to the till and pay for it like a man.

Unless youre a woman, in which case pay for it like a woman. Then take it home, decide you dont really like it and put it in your wardrobe, where it will stay for the next seven years.

Contains strong opinions from the outset.

I CAN HARDLY believe how cheap some things are when everything else is so expensive. Not long ago, I bought an alarm clock, a known brand, 2.95, battery included, and it works perfectly. Or rather it did until my daughter borrowed it from my bedside table to take on a school trip. She had a great time. She sailed, trekked, climbed and lost my alarm clock.

But who cares? Certainly not me. It was a pleasure to return to the shop where I got it and just buy another one. I almost felt like buying two and throwing one of them away. Two pounds ninety-five; and Im pretty sure Ive seen ones just like it for 14.95 at an airport shop.

Then, I needed to replace a short piece of piping that had burst between my boiler and the hot-water cylinder. It was that kind of rubberized piping thats coated in a wire mesh to make it stronger while still enabling it to bend into awkward positions. About ten inches of it, I needed. How much do you think that would be?

Sixty-five pounds, not including labour.

The plumber reasoned that it was very good quality, hence the price. Hence the previous identical one bursting, I suggested.

Then the plumber took offence in the way that only somebody who is desperately, vitally needed can afford to do. In other words, he wasnt really offended at all, but he recognized his opportunity to act offended and was going to take full advantage of it.

Yeah, alright, dont have a go at me, Im only saying thats how much it cost.

He knows I need him too much to say, Actually I am going to have a go at you. I think you are a bastard. Take your grubby bag of spanners and sod off out of my house, Ill fix the boiler myself, because if I did, he would, and I couldnt.

I dont know what happened in our development as a species, what unfortunate glitch it was in our anthropological journey that led us all to this dependency on stroppy tradesmen for a continued supply of hot water.

I wonder how soon after the discovery of fire, a particularly devious caveman, who by extraordinary coincidence was called The Plumber, started telling everyone that if they didnt boil their water a certain way, on a fire started with a certain twig that only he was qualified to supply, it would blow up and kill them. I imagine it was quite soon, knowing human nature.

I expect thats why there are cave-paintings. It was something to do while they waited in all day Wednesday for The Plumber to turn up with his special CORGI-registered twigs that cost 65 pebbles a go.

In the interests of balance, I can see it must be difficult, if you are a plumber, to gauge your own popularity.

Most reasonable people have a natural sense of how well liked they are.

For example, our postman is nice enough. Were not friends as such, but we are on weather-observing terms. We exchange a few words and that is that. He doesnt go on his way thinking that he is a genius or even especially well liked by me merely because he delivered the post to my house and I remarked on the rain we had at the weekend. He and I both know that talking about the weather is the smallest talk there is. It is a safe bet for anyone who wishes to have a quick, uninvolved chat with no risk of it turning into a proper conversation.

The window-cleaner is Polish. On his twice-yearly visits he likes to get on with his work without chatting, which is fine by me. He seems affable and if my Polish were up to it, I expect we could have a pleasant enough conversation about, I dont know, sponges or ladders or something.