Johnny Vegas - Becoming Johnny Vegas

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My parents Pat and Lol, for always seeing the son they loved and raised, not the lunatic the public craved. You remain my heroes and the people I most want to be like when I grow up.

My brother Mark, for introducing me to Quadrophenia and all things mod.

My brother Robert, for not going ballistic when I sold your bike panniers to Magpies Nest. Now, give me a go in your shed, I wont nick anything, honest!

My sister Catharine, for getting me and my artistic need to colour outside of the lines. Your phone calls from Hong Kong were a true life line.

My son Michael, for the joy I find in everything you do and say. My love for you, kiddo, is the one unshakeable, 100% absolute I have in this life. You will always be the achievement Im proudest of. Thanks for the books at bedtime and reminding me how important reading is to me.

Good news!

Youve finished your book?

No, not yet. Why?

Its like youve been set the worlds longest bit of homework in the world Dad, ever!

ps. The graphics on Minecraft suck! 1-0 to me.Ha Ha!

My wife Maia, for your constant patience, help and encouragement throughout every single day of this hellish writing process. Every paragraph agonised over, every moody strop, every dark moment of self doubt, you were there darling, and there simply wouldnt be a book without you. You are my best friend and the secret behind my new smile. You dare me to try and be the husband you deserve and the father Michael needs. You are my soulmate.

Beverley Dixon, my dear friend and long-suffering assistant. Thank you for every single angry call fielded each time a deadline was missed, for projecting an air of calm knowing full well I was rocking gently in the foetal position whilst repeating the mantra I cant do this.

Bryan mattress back Davies, a friend who was there at the very beginning and, I have no doubt, will be till the very end. For the man who gave Vegas his name in the first place our exploits seem scarce amongst these pages, but thats only because I dont want a whacking with the shillelagh off of Sheila. What happens in/with Vegas stays in/with Vegas. You Mucker, are a prince amongst men.

Mike pillow talk Pennington.

St Helens, for the honest to goodness decent folk who populate it, and for having the greatest Rugby League team on the face of this planet. For being the town that makes me sad to leave, proud to preach about whilst away, and eternally glad to come home to!

Im SAINTS until I die, Im SAINTS until I die. I know I am, Im sure I am, Im SAINTS until I die!

To all my extended family, friends, neighbours, colleagues and fellow comics whose stories couldve filled a dozen books. Im merely a bit player, it was all of you who ensured the tapestry of life was so rich.

My publisher Natalie Jerome. You had plenty of chances and genuine reasons to walk away from this project, but you didnt. Thank you for believing throughout broken deadline after broken deadline that we could produce something a tad more special than a stocking filler.

Ben Thompson, for persevering throughout the editing equivalent of that Japanese game show Endurance. Thanks for convincing me I was the right man for the job on this mate, my own story, and for truly knowing your comedy onions.

Andy Hollingworth, for milking my soul like no other man with every photo you take, but capturing both he and I perfectly whenever you do.

Robert Chalmers and James Rampton. Thanks for trying to polish the turd I refused to believe I could squeeze out in the first place gents. Your help was never taken for granted, nor will it ever be forgotten.

To decent conscientious teachers everywhere, but especially Rowena Rowlands and Steve Bonati. In yourselves youre worth your weight in gold, but your legacy is priceless.

Father Dave (Melley) for Christening my son Michael, being there for my and Maias wedding in Spain, and for encouraging folk to explore their faith rather than preaching ultimatums should they struggle with it. I wish there were more souls like you in this world.

STAR WARS, my other religion.

Heading up to Edinburgh in 97, who couldve known that by the end of the Festival I would cease to exist, not only in the bloodshot eyes of this brave new world but, more importantly, to myself? Michael Pennington was now nothing more than a half-forgotten scribble on a birth certificate tucked away in Dads old bureau back home in St Helens. Like a Vietnam vet with a thousand-pint stare whod seen and done things folk couldnt imagine, Id go home, but my soul the very thing that made me, me, that Id fought so hard to protect way back in Upholland was still up there, north of the border, missing in action, more pickled than perfectly preserved.

Johnny Vegas was the only name on peoples lips. In any other industry Id have been dismissed, or at least offered some form of counselling. Instead, I was given TV and DVD contracts, plus a guaranteed national tour: more a re-invention than an intervention.

I was now a much-lauded, highly-functioning professional drunk riding high behind the wheel of an 18-stone monster truck of inevitable tragedy. An accident waiting to happen and, boy, had Johnny s patience paid off.

I cant blame the Festival crowds, promoters and press for celebrating the arrival of the all-conquering Vegas . After all, how were they to know I hadnt been him from the very beginning? God knows I gave it my all to perpetrate the myth and then make it whole.

When I look back at interviews from that point on, most insightful interrogators hinted at the fact there was a blurring of the lines that went way beyond the booze: something wrong that made this act so right, so real. A psychological sarcophagus that shouldve remained buried but had instead become a No. 1 horror-show attraction. A joke shared by all except me, because even up till recently, I could never quite bring myself to believe that this master of mayhem was actually really a part of me.

Was it my navety or Johnny s manipulation that had led to this? My arrogance at thinking I could control the beast and put it back in its cage once it had served its purpose? Johnny had tasted the success that he believed he and he alone had earned and, viewing my attempts at a happy-ever-after with pitying contempt, was not about to risk losing the limelight by sharing it with anyone.

Johnny would give his all for the audience, and self-preservation was a luxury he could not afford. Like a rider thrown from a crazy horse of carelessness with my foot still caught in the stirrup of insanity, I was dragged along for the ride, and he would run until he dropped; tearing through the comedy scene like every day was his last, trampling over family and friends, a fiance, and shitting on every showbiz doorstep along the way.

I started this book claiming it for myself, but the story from here on in really isnt mine to tell. I cannot take credit for his acclaimed achievements, nor the well-documented disasters. It would take the arrival of my son, Michael junior, and later on my soul mate, Maia, to give me the courage to dare to stop the ride and shout, I, me, Michael Pennington, I matter, and I want to get off! To have enough faith in my own talents to lock Johnny Vegas away, flares and all, in a suitcase up in the attic (like in the Anthony Hopkins movie Magic ) where no one could hear him croon. I just honestly dont know if I dare let him out again for long enough to tell his side of the story.