Bob Mortimer - And Away...

Bob Mortimer

The Autobiography

And Away

First published in Great Britain by Gallery Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2021

Copyright Bob Mortimer, 2021

The right of Bob Mortimer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

1st Floor

222 Grays Inn Road

London WC1X 8HB

www.simonandschuster.co.uk

www.simonandschuster.com.au

www.simonandschuster.co.in

Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

The author and publishers have made all reasonable efforts to contact copyright-holders for permission, and apologise for any omissions or errors in the form of credits given. Corrections may be made to future printings.

Plate section credits:

Kevin Cummins/Getty Images, Dave J Hogan/Getty Images; Dave J Hogan/Getty Images; Comic Relief/Getty Images; PA Images/Alamy Stock Photo; AA Film Archive/Alamy Stock Photo; Lisa Clark/Owl Power; BBC Photo Library; Christopher Baines; Pifco; Blakeys; Jerry/British Listed Buildings; Wikimedia Commons; TudorTulok/Wikimedia Commons.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Hardback ISBN: 978-1-3985-0529-2

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-3985-0802-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-3985-0530-8

For Eunice Mary Mortimer

19222004

Welcome to my book. It contains all the stories from my life that came to mind during its writing. Some of these memories are clearer than others. Where there are gaps in my remembering I have tried to fill them in as best as I can using my knowledge of myself and the people involved. My guess is that around 90 per cent of the content is true and reliable. In a couple of the chapters I have left it to the reader to decide which stories are the truth and which are lies. The book contains very little opinion or advice, which I hope you will agree is a good thing. There is one piece of advice, though, that I feel is worth stating before you commence:

Always enter your shoes before wearing them.

In which I tell the tale of my early life and adventures, framed within the intriguing story of a brush with mortality and laziness.

In every dream home a heartache

And every step I take

Takes me further from heaven

Roxy Music, 1971

I am fifty-six years old. My life is trundling along like a podgy golden retreiver being dragged along the pavement by an indifferent owner. I wake up in my bed to the distant sound of a building site and the click click drip of the central heating system.

I sleep on a thick memory-foam mattress so there is always a certain stickiness to my risings. The undersheet clings to my back as I sit up, then floats back to its base as if giving out a sigh of relief. My knees click along with the radiators as I make my way to the bathroom.

I look in the mirror and see before me a face like a puddle of spaghetti hoops; bloated, creased and tired. Im always tired. No amount of sleep can shift the massive ball of pure weariness that has lodged itself to the rear of my eyes.

I get very breathless at any exertion. I put it down to my age and the years of smoking. I have tried to quit in the past but have never been able to manage more than five hours without a cigarette. Maybe next year.

I am about to embark on a month-long tour of the UK with my comedy partner Jim Moir, whom you may know as Mr Vic Reeves. Its an anniversary tour marking thirty years since we first stepped on stage together. There will be energetic, sometimes aquatic, singing, athletic and handsome dancing, and tight little bundles of concentrated slapstick. I need to get myself into some sort of recognisable shape, but the tour starts in three weeks.

I decide to do some staircase exercise nonsense. You know up and down at a discernible pace and stepping on and off the bottom step at various approximate speeds. But before that I whimbrel into the kitchen and cook myself a fullish English breakfast. Beans near, and not on, toast, a fried egg, three rashers of back bacon, fried mushrooms and tomatoes. I wash it all down with a mug of tea containing five sugars and then suck hard on a wonderful post-baked-bean cigarette. Thats better.

Then to the stairs. I hate exercise. I curse the inventor of exercise and all his disciples. I turn my back towards shops that sell exercise equipment. I send moonlight shivers to each and every jogger that has forced me to walk through their sweaty pavement haze. Exercise is my nemesis. I would rather clean a 747 jumbo jet using a mouses eyepatch than exercise.

I run up the two flights and back down again. I repeat times ten. I get clammy and my mind turns towards the dreary. I cant do it. Its just too unpleasant a way to spend even two minutes of your life. Out of breath, I slump onto my sofa with another cup of tea (and another five sugars) and draw heavily on my second cigarette of the day.

Thats when I feel it: a sharp but not really significant pain just behind the lower sweep of my left ribcage. Its gone almost as soon as it came. No big deal. I finish my cigarette, get up from the sofa and there it is again.

My immediate thought is that it is what my mum would have called a cold on your chest.

Have a mug of Bovril, sit with your coat on and sweat it out, she would say (with a fag in her mouth). But with my tour coming up, I think it best to phone the GP and get an appointment. I book in to see him later that day.

My doctor is a lovely, caring man called Bob Bowes. I always enjoy going to see him, not least because in the corner of his consultation room he has the lowest sink I have ever seen. I reckon it stands about two and a half feet off the ground. Ive asked him if it is specifically for children. He says not. Ive asked him if the person who fitted it was particularly small and fixed its height according to his requirements. He says not. Ive asked him if its height gives it a specific medical use or advantage. He says not. Ive asked him if it is made of lead and sinking into the ground. He says not. Ive asked him if hes ever considered employing a sink raiser to sort it. He says not. I sense he is never going to tell me. I suppose its his sink, and if hes happy with it then thats all I really need to know. Ive learned to mind my own business when it comes to preferred sink heights.

I tell him about the little pain behind my rib and he listens to my chest with his stethoscope. He doesnt like whatever it is hes hearing and says that I need my heart checked. Its a bit of a shock, but the pain is so minimal that Im not really worried. However, with the tour imminent, he arranges for me to see a cardiologist a couple of days later.

The following night I take the train up to London with my partner Lisa to see the band Squeeze at the Royal Albert Hall. We meet up with Matt Berry and my long-time TV-producer guru, Lisa Clark. I sit next to Matt for the show. I have always adored Squeeze and will always adore Matt. Hes funny, polite, unassuming, a musical and comedic frontrunner. When he laughs, his face beams with pure joy. Hes got a great big beard and a great big heart.

A lovely night is had by all. Matt loves a bit of gossip and is quite ruthless in his assessments of other players in the comedy world. (Matt, the wonderful Reece Shearsmith and I occasionally meet up for drinks in London. They are strictly gossip only evenings, our favourite topic always being which of our contemporaries are currently sitting around the dining table at The Lucky Club.)