Posted: Wed Sep 27, 2006 8:50 am Post subject: Jack Dee
DEE-VINE COMEDY 22 September 2006
THE new Jack Dee show is so hilarious that it's sparked a war between bosses at BBC1 and BBC2, who are vying to snap it up. The series "Lead Balloon" - Jack's first ever sitcom - will kick off on BBC4 next month. We've seen a sneak preview and all we can say is move over David Brent (or, indeed, Andy Millman) because Rick Spleen is on the scene. And he's bloody funny. Deadpan comedian Dee plays Spleen, a likeable stand-up comedian who isn't quite as funny as he thinks. Just about everything in his life is slightly flawed, much to his intense disappointment.
Dee tells us he was inspired by The Office and Curb Your Enthusiasm. "Rick Spleen is one of these people who just finds life very difficult. He's even stuck with a lousy stage name he chose 20 years ago." It turns out that the character's based on someone very close to Jack... "Its starting point is autobiographical - he's not happy-go-lucky like Mr Bean or Frank Spencer, so there's a lot of me in there. At one point he was close to becoming Victor Meldrew," says Jack. The show also features Rick's long-suffering wife Mel (Raquel Cassidy), his dour Eastern European home-help Magda, zonked-out daughter Sam and her dozy boyfriend Ben.
One Beeb insider said: "Great comedies are like gold dust, but this is one of the best in years and people here are very excited. It is guaranteed to move to BBC2 or even BBC1 once people have seen it - both channels have already expressed keen interest."
Modest Jack is just glad his show has worked out. "It would be lovely if it got picked up and seen by a wider audience," he admits. "I'm pleased with it, it's the show I set out to make."
Tune in for split sides with Lead Balloon at 10.30pm on October 4.
'I'm not an interesting celebrity. I don't snort cocaine or wear women's underwear' Patrick Barkham
December 4, 2007
The Guardian
Jack Dee is quite literally buttoned up: he is wearing a T-shirt, a polo shirt and a hefty leather jacket on a warm autumn day. He is also so deadpan it is hard to know what on earth he's really thinking. Known best for perfecting the grumpy side of sardonic in his stand-up comedy and on Celebrity Big Brother, Dee has the disconcerting habit of meeting questions and statements with long, level "mmmms". It is impossible to say whether he is signalling agreement or vehement disagreement.
The comedian Matt Lucas once said he thought some comedians were born with funny bones. "Mmmm," says Dee. Was he born with sardonic bones? "Mmmm ... the comedy that matters is the comedy you pull out of thin air. It's a bit like when something funny has happened and you try to explain it to someone else and end up saying, 'You had to be there.' The jokes are great but what really matters for a comedian is his performance, his whole attitude, and the laughs that he gets between the jokes rather than on top of the jokes."
Dee has tried to bring a little bit of this attitude to Lead Balloon, the tale of Rick Spleen, a grumpy stand-up comic wrestling with a midlife crisis at the margins of showbiz, which he stars in and also co-wrote. Originally released quietly on BBC4 last year, the sitcom received decent critical notices, was widely compared to Curb Your Enthusiasm and swiftly transferred to BBC2. A second series was commissioned, and Spleen is currently running on BBC2.
Spleen is more than a "what-if example of me if I hadn't had a break and got fairly successful at a certain stage," says Dee, but there is certainly cross-over. "Whenever you're in any acting role you are mortgaging your own character. It's obvious that my life experience has helped in the creation of Rick's life experience, which is a fictional thing. It is in the owning up of looking over your shoulder at how other comedians are doing and claiming to have written something that a writer wrote for you. There are things that you notice and stow away under 'things I'll take to my grave' and end up confessing to through creating another character, in the safety of acting."
Then there are the differences. Dee is fiercely disciplined about spending days in his London office writing the sitcom with Pete Sinclair (a prolific comic writer for Have I Got News For You and of a similar disgruntled middle-age vintage to Dee and Spleen), whereas Spleen and his comic sidekick are great procrastinators. More importantly, Dee's stand-up has long been based on saying the unsayable, whereas Spleen hopelessly complicates his life with his excruciating lies.
"A fantasist, a bit like Billy Liar", Spleen "very rarely would give a direct straight, honest, true answer or statement. He says the truth once in this series and ends up being attacked," Dee says.
Dee finds a lot of comic potential in lying. "Part of [Spleen's] malaise is that he is unable to come to terms with life as it really is. He has to embellish it in some way and when life falls short of his expectations he fills that gap by turning it into a different version of events. It's a tempting habit to fall into, I should imagine. Once you've learned that people believe your lies, it becomes hard not to because it's so much more convenient."
As a writer, Dee is enjoying the evolution of Lead Balloon as minor characters such as Magda the housekeeper take on bigger roles. "I really didn't want it to be a comedy based on me surrounded by a bunch of people who are just ciphers for whatever I want my character to say that week." Sitcoms, he goes on, can often develop in unexpected ways. "Once you've put the idea together of a character and handed that on to an actor who has created it, it's very exciting. They do create their own destinies to some extent and their voice becomes very much more audible in the writing process. It means the characters are strong enough to be telling the writers what they are going to say next." Dee, however, sticks to one rule as Lead Balloon develops: "I think the thing to avoid is the trip abroad."
He won't be coaxed into saying anything grandiose about his ambitions for the sitcom, although he obviously hopes for a third series. Nor will he join in any whither-the-British-sitcom? wailing. "The state of sitcom in this country is very healthy really. We've got some great stuff coming out all the time," he says. Apart from Woody Allen and Tony Hancock, Dee's favourite influences are largely drawn from the 70s and 80s golden age - The Likely Lads, Fawlty Towers - but his tastes include The Office, The Royle Family and Alan Partridge.
Compared with the gilded "alternative" Cambridge set who also emerged in the late 80s, or the later Bristol generation of comedians and comic actor/writers such as David Walliams and Simon Pegg, Dee is a comedy loner who doesn't crop up in pals' sketches. After struggling to get a poor set of A-levels, Dee entered the catering trade, first taking to stand-up at an open mic night at the Comedy Store one evening when he had finished his shift at a pizza restaurant in Covent Garden.
Is he secretly part of an incestuous comedy clique? "No, I hate them all." It's difficult to tell if he's joking. "I'm not really part of any group or clique or gang because that's always been my nature. Maybe they don't like me." I think he's joking. Comedians, he explains, are workmates: "I love mixing with comedians when I'm working with them, but when I'm not I don't feel the need to hang around with them."
The success of Peter Kay's autobiography last year led to a hoo-ha over Dee's life story. There were rumours that his agent was seeking the "biggest ever" autobiographical advance - in excess of the reported £1.6m paid to Julie Walters - for the story of his obscure beginnings and struggle with alcoholism. You can picture his agent in despair as Dee now gloomily talks it down: he has not signed a deal, he has not wrote anything and he is decidedly unenthusiastic about baring his soul. "Maybe it's something I would think about doing when I'm older but to be honest I've got such a bad memory I wouldn't be able to put it together," he says. "I can't imagine who would want to read it either."
The tabloids have rarely intruded into Dee's personal life, although he points out that he never invites the media into his home or puts his four children in the spotlight. "I'm not a very interesting celebrity either - I'm married and I've got kids and I don't snort cocaine and wear women's underwear. So there's nothing really to know. Even my crazier stuff is very lame," he giggles. The only personal detail that repeatedly surfaces in interviews is his relationship with alcohol. He has said various things over time: sometimes it is reported that he is a recovering alcoholic; other times he has denied being an alcoholic and claimed he simply abused alcohol as a young man. "Probably the reason for that is I've felt differently about the past at different times," he says now. "Alcohol abuse just came as part of my life at one stage. There have been times when it's crept up on me again but I sort of knock it on the head because I can't be doing with it. Probably just by that definition I'm not a proper alcoholic because I stop it when it becomes a nuisance. I don't think it's a primary problem for me."
There are some acting offers in film and TV to consider but at the moment Dee has banished all thoughts of film roles and a return to stand-up (sometime in 2009, he reckons) for his sitcom. Curiously, his interest in sitcoms was probably triggered when he joined Chris Eubank, Vanessa Feltz and Anthea Turner on the first ever Celebrity Big Brother in 2001. His dry humour and down-to-earth refusal to show off made Dee a popular winner. Looking back, he believes he played a role. "I remember at the time thinking, 'This is almost like being in a sitcom,'" he says. "It's funny how that presence on television caught everyone's imagination. Maybe we've caught a little bit of that with Lead Balloon as well - it's about someone at odds with what's around him."
The night I sank the Sea Monster (so it's lucky she changed her name back to Jo Brand) Jack Dee
10th October 2009
My first paid engagement as a comedian was at a place called The Square in Harlow, for which I got £10. It was a long, slow haul to reach the point where I could make a living as a comedian, and at times the struggle seemed hopeless. I remember going to endless packed gigs on the promise of a door-split (a share of the takings, but not including the bar, which was always the proprietor's), doing a great show, and then being handed 30 quid, usually with the words: 'Is that OK?' I wish now that I'd turned round and said: 'No, it isn't OK, you parasite. Give me my money.'
Besides, stage-time was far more important than financial gain back then, and I was starting to do well. Not that everybody opened their arms to welcome me. The Hackney Empire's comedy night was a gig I wanted because the place boasted of its reputation for promoting new talent. I rang and asked if there was any chance of a try-out.
'Not really,' said the woman on the other end, in a drab, right-on voice. 'Oh. Any reason for that?' I asked. 'I just think there are too many of your sort around.' 'What sort?' I asked. 'You know, white, middle-class males,' she droned. 'Generally, or on the circuit?' 'I think you know what I mean.' I asked if I could send her a tape of a recent show. 'You can, but I'll probably just put it in the bin,' she said.
I was saddened, but I needn't have worried. About three years later I received a call from the same woman. She had either forgotten our conversation, or had attended a racial equality enlightenment workshop and decided my career in comedy should no longer be blighted by her hatred of fellow white folk. Anyway, she wanted to know if I could do a benefit to help with the upkeep of the theatre. 'It's a chance to give something back,' suggested the familiar nasal voice. I thought that was nice of her.
A few weeks after my Hackney Empire rejection, I got a call from Captain Fracas (I forget his real name). He and his partner, Bubbles La Touche, invited me to join a gig in Bradford with the Crisis Twins and the Sea Monster. I knew Fracas and La Touche from doing spots at the club they ran, the Ealing Comedy. Uncharacteristically, they had got themselves organised and hired a minibus. So it was agreed I'd meet the Sea Monster outside Baker Street station and the charabanc would pick us up. God, I'm glad Jo Brand ditched that name, the Sea Monster. I dare say she is, too.
That gig was the first traditional working-men's club I ever played. In its heyday it was, no doubt, the vibrant hub of the community's social life. But now it was a dismal room with 20 or so punters who could have walked straight out of a Mike Leigh film. The floor was covered with threadbare carpet tiles now tacky with old bitter and troddenin crisps. Two men played darts. A large woman was hypnotised by the fruit machine. Others looked on in silence, tapping their cigarettes into burn-marked ashtrays.
In fairness, a dotty, eccentric double act like Captain Fracas and Bubbles La Touche was never going to thrill on a night like this. One old boy at the front hurled some abuse, more out of disappointment than anger. He had expected what he and his club had always known: a man in a dinner jacket telling jokes about his fat wife, a couple of Irish fellows looking for a job or a Pakistani who goes into a pub. Crude, yes, racist, sexist and every other -ist, very probably. But it was reliably funny to the audiences of its day.
I recently bumped into Jo Brand and told her I was writing about the Bradford gig. She reminded me that the man who ran the club had said, come what may, he always turned the lights off at 10.30 pm. My act was well received and I started to improvise with the old guy at the front. It was only when I came off that I realised it was 10.27. I had overshot my 15-minute slot and left Jo with only three minutes before the plug was pulled. As a penance, I drove the bus most of the way home to London.
Shortly after that gig, Captain Fracas called to suggest I take over running the Ealing Comedy for a couple of weeks. I agreed. My wife, Jane, helped and set up a till with a float and took the money. There were about nine people in the audience, which is obviously less than ideal. Even less ideal was that none of the acts bothered to turn up. The showbiz rule has always been that if the audience outnumbers the acts, then the show must go on. Well, I'd like to say: 'So I went on and did a two-hour show, and in the audience was the head of Channel 4 and he came up to me afterwards and...'
But that is not what happened. I chickened out because I felt it would be more honourable to give everyone their money back. As I cleared away, Jane counted the float back into the tin. 'That's weird,' she said. 'I'm down by £4.50 from what I started with.' We sat on the bus, glumly wondering who had robbed us. Then it dawned on us: everyone had got the concessionary ticket price for being unemployed. But on the way out, they'd all mysteriously got jobs and asked for a full refund.
The late comedian Lenny Bruce once said the audience was a genius. Well, sometimes it can be a bastard as well.
Don't tell me to cheer up! Jack Dee on being a borderline alcoholic and living with depression By Jenny Johnston
16th October 2009
What's the worst thing you can say to Jack Dee? 'Cheer up!' is a contender, possibly because it reminds him of being at school, and being relegated to the corner. 'No, I don't have a smiley face, and that was my undoing at school,' he agrees, when we are discussing his marked lack of facial sparkle. As if to make the point, he is looking as if he might cry at any moment.
'There were a few teachers who just did not like me because of my face. Once, I was told to stand in the corner until I cheered up. The attitude was, "Oh, for God's sake, what's the matter with him?" But it's just a natural expression. 'I might be in the best possible mood, having the happiest thoughts, and I'd still look like this. It's not my fault. It's just how I was made.'
Jack, 47, widely regarded as one of Britain's most talented stand-up comedians, can smile, of course. He pulls up the corners of his mouth to prove the point, but the effect is more demonic than delightful. One imagines that, as a young man, he probably spent more time than most grinning into the mirror. Mercifully, in his mid-20s, he discovered that, when on stage, people laughed at his routines, despite the long face. Indeed, his hang-dog expressions only added to the audience's mirth.
As is de rigueur with celebrities these days, Jack has just penned his autobiography. Intriguingly, it ends in his mid-20s, just when he has broken into the comedy business and, as he puts it, 'found my vocation in life'. His account of getting to that stage is tragicomic, in typical Jack Dee style. He spends much of the book documenting his increasingly desperate search for a job - or, more accurately, a way of life - that would satisfy. Despite the humorous tone, however, the book raises issues such as his depression and alcoholism. It was only when writing it that he realised how much of his youth had been quite miserable.
'I have had issues with depression all my life, and it's probably true to say there was a tendency towards it even when I was very young, during my schooldays. There was often - and this is quite common with comics - a sense of not feeling as if I belonged anywhere. At school, I never really fitted in. At the time, I probably blamed the school, but I realise now that it was more likely to be me. It would have been the same in any school. After school, things were a bit grim for a while. I was really lost at one point. I always had this feeling that there was this strong sense of vocation, if you like, I just didn't know what it was.'
The quest to find this 'vocation' led him to work as a chef at The Ritz in London (an often hilarious experience, though he admits it didn't always feel that way at the time). It also took him rather closer than he would have liked to complete alcohol dependency.
'I call that my lost time. It was seven or eight years of really searching and working hard to try to find my way in life. It's not that I was bumming around; I was not a slacker. If I worked in a restaurant, then I wanted to be the best waiter there, and so on. There was a sense of desperation.'
Then he discovered stand-up and 'all the pieces of my life seemed to slot into place. It was as if I'd discovered exactly why I was here. It was the only thing that made sense.' His whole professional life since has been spent tapping into that feeling of not quite belonging, and getting laughs because of it. 'In many ways, not fitting in has been a comedic asset and a comedic resource,' he says.
He talks about his alter ego - the character Rick Spleen in the BBC sitcom Lead Balloon, a disillusioned stand-up comedian, whose life is plagued by let-downs and embarrassment. Rick was created and is played by Jack, and, yes, based on him too. 'Or, rather, an exaggerated version of me. I think of it in terms of Rick being the person I would have been if I hadn't had the breaks I did. He's someone who would like to belong but does not. Personally, I think that premise is more naturally comedic than someone who is just a rebel and does not give a damn. It's something that has informed quite a lot of my comedy - that idea of someone who is always trying to get in there with the right crowd, always trying to be a certain type of person and never managing it.'
Great escape: Jack Dee on Celebrity Big Brother in 2001, alongside Keith Duffy and Anthea Turner
A loser, basically? 'Yeah. But I realised quite a while ago that the way to stop yourself being a loser is to laugh rather than cry. If you are the sort of person who puts a shelf up, only for it to fall down again, you can go either way.'
Obviously, if you can then make a living out of telling people how rubbish you are at putting up shelves - making entire comedy routines about such subjects - then you have made quite a breakthrough. But was it all happy-ever-after when Jack experienced his on-stage epiphany? Well, not quite. Two decades on he has experienced mainstream success, but he'd be the first to admit that he is still stalked by depression.
'I started having therapy when I was in my 20s because there was no other way forward,' he says of that painful time. 'I was too low. I had tried medication and did not like it. I felt numbed by it, and knew I couldn't live like that.' He also attended Alcoholics Anonymous sessions, but has never really believed that he is a classic alcoholic. 'I think my issues have always been about depression rather than alcoholism. I was drinking too much because I was depressed, not depressed because I was an alcoholic. Once I addressed the depression, the alcohol side became easier to handle.'
Still, some will be surprised to discover that he is still having therapy. He says that staying on top of mental health has to be an ongoing process. 'The kind of therapy I do isn't about 'solving' anything, or raking over stuff from childhood. It's not about digging deeper and stuff like that. It's just about moving on and recognising the repeating patterns. I don't like to talk about it too much because I think it's a personal thing. I've been approached by charities to talk about it, but I'm uncomfortable with that because I don't think one sort of therapy is better than another. It's like saying to someone, "You should try my chiropodist." People have to find someone that suits them.'
Big hitter: Team captain Jack poses with the rest of the Shooting Stars regulars
He also 'works through things' in his work, pouring his worries, insecurities and grievances into comedy. Although he can - and does - take large swathes of time off to spend with his family, when he does get into a project, he approaches it with almost manic enthusiasm.
Jack admits that this doesn't always make for a happy home life. He met his wife, Jane, in the mid-1980s, when he was at the height of his angst, and he says that she and their four children - Hattie, Phoebe, and twins Miles and Charlie - have sometimes had a heavy burden to bear. 'When I'm in work mode, it's hard for them. I think you wilfully allow your mind towards what I call the infidelity of writing. You are not thinking about your family. In fact, you are absolutely, completely, focused on the subject that you are writing about, and it is very hard to switch off from that. Jane always knows when I am in one of those states of mind. Even if I'm at home, thinking I am getting away with it, she will say, "You are just not here are you? What are you thinking about?" But it's not a thing you can switch on and off. It's not as if you are working at a lathe or something.'
He's getting perilously close to describing himself as a 'tortured artist', and laughs when I point it out. 'I've always viewed it like that in a way, actually. For me it's about 'controlled explosions'. When I get like that, I take myself away. I write in an office at my production company, not at home. I have a little room with nothing in it, not even a sofa. White walls, no pictures. People keep coming in and saying, "Would you like some cushions in here? Some pictures?" I say "no".'
DID YOU KNOW?
Struggling with depression and a succession of dead-end jobs, Jack embraced religion to such a degree in his 20s that he considered becoming a priest. He admits that when he's in such a state of mind, even his family can seem something of an irritation. 'You know, at times when I'm at home, I have thought, "I could really do without this", and think I would like to indulge myself at my desk for two hours, but actually I have to take someone off to netball practice or rugby. It's good because it's just the normal stuff and it stops it all being about me, too. I think it's healthy, to lack the time to be self-absorbed.'
Real depression shows no mercy for time available, but he has ways of coping with the 'low level'. 'It can still happen, and you know that it still needs to be dealt with, but I am a big believer that you have to keep busy and active. But it is difficult to live with, because these things aren’t just jolly little appendages to your personality. They are especially hard because they impact on the kids.'
Such personality 'quirks' also have the potential to land people in serious trouble. He tells me that, even to this day, he still has a tendency to put his head in the sand about things. 'Bills, for instance. I don't know if it's harking back to the days when I worried about paying the gas bill, but I have this avoidance strategy, to the point that I let the post pile up for months on end. I'll even squash the envelope and go, "Oh, there is some red writing in there", and then put it away, waiting until they send more with red writing on the envelope.'
Such things might sound funny, but have they ever resulted in the bailiff banging on the front door? 'Oh, it has happened,' he admits. 'Over my VAT. I had to get organised after that. Thank God I have an accountant now to keep me on track.'
With his depressive tendencies, it was brave - foolhardy, even - to sign up for Celebrity Big Brother in 2001. He famously won it, becoming a bona fide national institution rather than just a comedian and panel show host in the process, although his time in the house is mostly remembered for the fact that he made a bid for freedom during the 'ordeal'. He admits that he's the least likely Big Brother contestant ever. 'If I'd ever watched the show, I'd probably not have done it, but the truth is I was kind of bullied into it because it was for Comic Relief.'
He has never allowed the footage of his Big Brother appearance to be rerun, and is scathing about what has happened to the programme since. He is delighted that Big Brother will soon be no more. 'In recent years it has become unkind, deliberately choosing people who would suffer in some way, and I did not find that comfortable to watch.'
As one of the biggest hitters in the British comedy business - he was recently on our screens as a team captain on BBC2's Shooting Stars and is working on a new series of Lead Balloon - you'd imagine that his professional success has helped him rid himself of the demons that have plagued him for most of his life. He says it has, but only up to a point. 'In this game there's always a feeling that you are going to be finished by Tuesday. I don't think you ever fully let go of that insecurity, but what happens is that you get more and more comfortable with the fact that if it is all over by Tuesday you will cope.'
Or at least know how to laugh about it? 'Absolutely,' he says, smiling. Sort of.
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I didn't realise he'd blocked the showing of the Celebrity Big Brother he was in - maybe I should post it just to get up his grumpy old nose!
I always thought Dee stood for dunce now I know it stands for dyslexic Jack Dee on why it’s only now he's realised why his schooldays were so miserable
Jenny Johnston
16th April 2011
Heard the one about the comedian who, on being told one of his children had dyslexia, painstakingly tapped the word into Google? ‘It came back, “Do you mean DYSLEXIA?”’ says Jack Dee. ‘Turns out I’d misspelt the word and I thought, “Uh-oh, that’s interesting”.’ So he took an online test and discovered that he, too, could be dyslexic.
Were Jack the sort of comic to turn an interview into an impromptu stand-up show – and so many are – you might roll your eyes and wait for the punch line. But he’s not, and there isn’t one. In fact, the striking thing about spending time with him is the realisation that he hasn’t told any jokes at all.
‘I’m not one of those comedians who has to be “on” all the time. In fact, I find that really embarrassing,’ he says. ‘I’m probably a big disappointment to people who come round for dinner, expecting to be entertained. I don’t do that, never have.’
Lasting scars: Jack Dee would be the first to admit that his rather disastrous school day, where he left with just four O-levels, have left their mark
Anyway, his research into dyslexia was slow (‘I’m not a great reader’) but fruitful. ‘I think I’m an honorary dyslexic. I think I probably would have been diagnosed when I was at school, but I’ve no real interest in finding out for sure. It’s not as if it will make a difference now.’ No, but it may well be an intriguing personal find for him – the final piece of a jigsaw that has taken his whole adult life to piece together.
Now you might imagine that a man known for his sharp and sardonic wit, and consistently in demand on those take-no-prisoners panel shows, might have a rather superior view of his own intellect. Not so. Jack would be the first to admit that his rather disastrous school days – he left with just four O-levels and, worse, a gnawing feeling that his brain simply didn’t work in the normal way – have left their mark.
‘I think you never stop trying to compensate for that,’ he admits. ‘I’ve got so many friends who had very good schooling and academic careers. I’m surrounded in this business by people who did very, very well and went to very good universities, and I always feel that I’m trying to catch up.’
We’re still on the subject of dyslexia when he tells me he never goes to sleep at night without learning a fact or doing a cryptic crossword. I ask if he also attempts to plug gaps in his education by reading about history or science. He says he prefers audio books. ‘It’s not like I left school unable to read and write. I was just a bit on the slow side. It’s not an enjoyable process for me, nor a terribly good way of absorbing information.’
In demand: Despite a slow start at school Jack Dee, known for his sharp and sardonic wit, is consistently in demand on take-no-prisoners panel shows such as Never Mind The Buzzcocks
Despite his dedication to learning, Jack wonders if it’s possible to be too clever for comedy. ‘You don’t want to be a smarty-pants on stage. If you get someone who presents himself as a highly intelligent comedian, it can present quite an obstacle. For me, humour doesn’t come from having all the answers. It comes from having no answers at all.’
However, he wishes he’d been to university. ‘Absolutely. I think it’s terrific. You get three years of meeting like-minded people and sorting yourself out. You’ve got the luxury of some time to spend and if you get into drama or something at university it’s a unique time in your life to do that.’
While his contemporaries were ‘sorting themselves out’ at university in their early 20s, Jack was having one of the biggest crises of his life. He has talked openly about his tendency to depression. The years after school, when he worked waiting tables and in the kitchen at the Ritz, sound downright miserable. He says that even then he had a searing sense that he had a calling for something else, and wondered if he’d go mad before he found out what that was.
Today, he likens it to ‘being on the wrong train, but with no idea whether to get off at the next station, or just keep going’. Bizarrely, to everyone but him, he toyed with the idea of the priesthood. Instead, he visited London’s Comedy Store after work one day and decided to enter the open-mic night. It gave him a platform, an audience and, in a way he hopes doesn’t sound too poncey, a form of salvation.
Future plans: Jack has just finished filming a new series of Lead Balloon, a comedy about a failed comic called Rick, who he claims is 'an unsuccessful version of me; a loser, basically' ‘When I first stepped on stage and got a laugh, I went home thinking, “Well, that’s what’s wrong with me – I’m a comedian. That makes sense to me.” Comedy is what, for me, translates the world into a language I can understand and speak.’
Future plans: Jack has just finished filming a new series of Lead Balloon, a comedy about a failed comic called Rick, who he claims is 'an unsuccessful version of me; a loser, basically'
He’s very serious about his work, pointing out that comedy is not just about jokes – ‘If it was, anyone could do it’ – but attitude. And application. It all sounds like a slog, to be honest. He locks himself in a room containing little more than a desk to write. ‘What’s funny is that I have learned the discipline I lacked at school. I still need a deadline, but I can force myself to do it now, to concentrate.’
He’s just finished filming a new series of Lead Balloon, the comedy about a failed comic called Rick. He plays and created the character of Rick and concedes he’s ‘an unsuccessful version of me; a loser, basically’.
Jack admits his worst fear was being a loser. Or – it might be more accurate to say – not being a winner. He talks about being an ‘all or nothing’ person. ‘I used to have this thing where I’d take up swimming and in a few months think, “Should I train for the Olympics?” Of course, I was constantly disappointed. But when I started in comedy, it was one of the few things where I had no ambition to get to the top. All I wanted to do was get my name on the blackboard outside the Comedy Store.’
He has four children, all teenagers, who don’t find him either funny or interesting. ‘I’m just Dad. I’m an embarrassment to them really. Embarrassing is the only word I ever hear.’ Seriously, though, he’s chuffed they’re talking in terms of university, rather than vague showbiz careers on Dancing On Ice. ‘I’m always a bit surprised by how much they like school, and they like studying. They are the complete opposite to me. That’s possibly due to the fact that they’ve grown up with me. They don’t seem to have this burning desire to be known for something. They don’t see it as something that is cool or necessarily desirable.’
His family life sounds remarkably stable, considering his own tendencies and his choice of profession. He met his wife, Jane, when he was in those troubled 20s, and they worked in the same hotel. She has always encouraged him to confront his depression, rather than try to hide it. ‘Jane kind of monitors it. I think she’s become quite good at letting me know when I seem to be going in a downward direction. She picks it up before me, and is quite good at getting me to do something different to take myself out of that, whether it is to exercise, sleep, or just do something different for the day.’ He still has professional help too, though, in the form of regular hypnotherapy sessions. ‘I find it useful. I see it as being a kind of brain massage. It sort of reboots the brain.’
He says he would love to go back to school, knowing what he now knows about himself, to see what he could have achieved. But, in a way, school has come to him. ‘The thing about having teenage kids is that you can’t escape the homework,’ he says. Or the cold sweats when faced with questions that kids assume fathers know. ‘I seem to spend a lot of time saying, “I could tell you, but let’s Google that question together, so you will learn better”,’ he says. ‘I don’t think they’ve sussed me, yet.’
The new season of Lead Balloon starts on BBC2 on May 23.
Jack Dee: The little ray of sleet who gives way to a smile As his comedy series takes to the air for the final time, Jack Dee tells Bryony Gordon that, behind his image as a malcontent, he is a happy, 4x4-driving church-goer.
Bryony Gordon
25 Apr 2011
telegraph.co.uk
Who knew that Jack Dee had such an infectious laugh? Who knew that he had a laugh at all, that his mouth was capable of curling upwards or that he could emit anything other than a sarcastic drawl? When he appeared on Radio 4’s News Quiz recently, Jeremy Hardy called him a “little ray of sleet”, such a good description that I lunged for my notebook to write it down. A little ray of sleet sums up this man who has earned his living making mirth out of his own misery.
Sure enough, I find him in a corner of the Groucho Club looking comically grumpy, a rain cloud over his head despite it being unseasonably sunny out. He greets me with all the enthusiasm of someone being introduced to the Grim Reaper. I suspect that he was born this way; that instead of coming out of the womb kicking and screaming, he just looked a bit miffed. Being deflated seems to be his default setting.
We are here to talk about the new series of Lead Balloon, in which he plays failed comedian Rick Spleen. This will be the last series, despite its critical success. “I don’t want to do much more of it,” he says flatly. “It’s six months to write, three months to make, and two months of arsing around with editing, which I can’t bear.”
Dee reminds me of the teacher who isn’t angry with you, just disappointed. And oh, how much more scathing that disappointment is. “But I am terribly misunderstood,” he says, letting out a WAH-HAH-HAH-HAH that takes me by surprise. He laughs! He smiles! Praise be!
For an hour Dee reveals so many unexpected things about himself that I wonder if he isn’t playing an elaborate trick. Does he hate interviews? He tells me that it would be rude if he said that, “but I do suffer afterwards from post-disclosure syndrome, where I agonise over what I have said”.
Comedians tend to be up on stage and down in person, but the very opposite is true of Dee. He is – and I can’t believe I am writing this – delightful company, the antithesis of the morose and melancholy man who has in the past admitted to having a problem with alcohol. He has suffered from depression, but he is terribly breezy about the subject when I bring it up today.
“I was on various anti-depressants, but not for long – I didn’t function very well on them. I felt sort of flattened out. Plus I found another way…” He trails off. And that was? “Hypnotherapy.” Hang on. Airy-fairy hypnotherapy? “It’s very good. I mean it’s only really talking. I always think of it as being a bit like a brain massage. It just sort of resets you. Sometimes you have to switch the computer on and turn it back off again. I try and do it once a month and no more, because you can end up depending on things. I don’t want to come off stage and think I did a good gig just because I was wearing red socks. Life would become intolerable.”
He has been married to Jane for 22 years and they have four children; two girls, 18 and 16, and twin boys who are 13. Are they interested in performing? “Not especially. I mean the boys perhaps a bit more than the girls. The girls are rather averse to it. One of them is quite scientific.”
They sound like quite a secure little unit. They go to church, “mainly because one of my sons is in the choir”. He once considered being a priest – “a completely misguided idea. But I like going to church. If you’ve been brought up in the Church of England, it feels like visiting an elderly relative. And I think it’s important that part of the kids’ education is knowing about the Bible.”
They are privately educated, for which Dee makes no excuses. “I did try to get my daughter into the local state school but we couldn’t manage it. Anyway, I can afford it, and that’s what I spend my money on.” He isn’t an Eddie Izzard type, banging the drum for socialism while earning bucket-loads. “I’ve always avoided being associated with one party. I don’t really want to help any of them.” During the last general election he was approached by Labour “to go along and be in some advert” but he said no, because he finds the idea of a bloke who won Celebrity Big Brother – as he did in 2001 – lecturing the public “really boring”.
“I don’t think it’s funny to bang on about people with big 4x4s.” Does he have a 4x4? “Actually, I do, but again I must stress that I am terribly misunderstood” – Wah-hah-hah, he goes, before composing himself – “because it has six seats and we are quite a big family. I mean, it’s not as if I drive round Wandsworth [where he lives] in a Hummer.”
Radio 4 is another passion – he is a News Quiz regular and thinks that the BBC Trust should “leave it [Radio 4] alone. All the talk of getting younger listeners. If you’re young, you shouldn’t be listening to Radio 4.” We wah-hah-hah-hah together. Anyway, he says that he likes to be a bit Right-wing on the air. “I don’t go foxhunting, nor do I mind or have a problem with it.”
He thinks that being right on is predictable. “You’re just preaching to the choir. It’s not as if it’s going to be a surprise. What’s funny about being right? When someone says 'Oooh, he’s a racist bastard’, I think 'Yeah, well spotted. And what is your point?’” He pauses. “Oh no. I can see the headline now: 'Jack Dee is a racist right-winger’…”
He’s not. Well, perhaps a little right-wing. But is he an alcoholic? He once worked as a waiter and was regularly off his face, ending up at AA. He still drinks regularly. “Just not during the week because I pile on weight and feel ill all the time.”
Is he a middle-class binge-drinker? “Ha. I suppose I am. But I seem to have steered myself into the world of adult self-control.” He has been offered cocaine, but he has never taken it “because I know I would probably quite like it”.
What does he do when he isn’t being professionally miserable? “I really like rustic mediterranean cooking. And I like trying out curry takeaways.”
This takes us to holidays in south-east Asia, and a trip he took with his wife to the exclusive Raffles Hotel in Singapore, where they had their own butler. “Mr and Mrs Dee ordered two teas but the butler came up instead with two bits of cheese. Just two bits of cheddar.” Dee actually giggles. “Anyway, I find pampering really irritating. I don’t like the implication that I am somehow being treated. How do they know I don’t live like that? I’d like them not to make such assumptions, thank you very much.” A small frown. A-hah. That’s more like it.
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I think I'll stop posting stuff about middle-class comedians. The very idea is a joke in itself because they will never question the real problems of society.
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