Free Look who it is! by Alan Carr Page A

know.
    We followed the hunchback, and he was right. There was a man, shirtless, hanging off the end of the pier in a godawfulblustery gale, wailing, ‘I want to die! I want to die!’ I instinctively thought the show wasn’t that bad, but we decided to help nevertheless. I ran straight over; Lionel tap-danced. The man hadn’t been in the audience (thank God, I thought – I might look confident, but my ego is as fragile as a porcelain figurine), he was mentally ill (hooray!).
    Lionel dashed straight over and said, ‘I’m Lionel Blair off the telly.’ The man stopped mid-wail and looked up, totally bewildered. Then I popped my head over and said, ‘Oh hello.’ He looked dumbstruck, so while his brain tried to compute what Lionel Blair and Alan Carr were doing at 10 p.m. on the end of Blackpool Pier, we both pulled him off (not like that) and the police turned up and took him off our hands.
    Did they give us a Community Action Trust Reward? No. Did we get any thanks off the man? No, all that Lionel and I were left with was a wonderful anecdote that we could hawk about at parties like the whores we are. We were even more buoyed up now; not only had we finished our pilot, we’d saved a man’s life, so we went to Funny Girls and celebrated. We told the Drag Queen and asked for a dedication – Blondie’s ‘The Tide is High’ – but the drag queen didn’t get it. Ahh!
    We spent the summer of 1990 up in Blackpool; we were totally supportive of our father and really wanted this move to work. But even he would admit the excitement at living by the seaside began to ebb away slowly, especially when we ended up living above a launderette. I don’t think it ever stopped raining. The stacks of rain-soaked deckchairs looked a sorry sight, framed by the Golden Mile which through the rain looked the colour of baby poo. Plus the view outside thewindow of a flickering pelican crossing wasn’t the illuminations that we’d been promised. The Chairman, Owen Oyston, sensed our disappointment and soon had us installed in a room at the Imperial Hotel, which sounds fabulous, but when you’re 14 do you want to sleep with your family in the same room? It’s Blackpool, not the fucking Blitz. However, we persevered with the weather, the cramped conditions, and everyone keeping schtum about the fact they weren’t really enjoying this experience; this was Dad’s job, and the family that sleeps together sticks together, if you see what I mean.
    The job wasn’t really going as Dad had expected either. The Blackpool fans, unlike the loyal Cobblers ones, didn’t really take to him and he’d started receiving abuse. Abuse from people who’ve chosen to live in Blackpool – now I’ve heard everything. Sometimes it takes something totally unrelated to snap people out of a situation. Ours happened one morning with Dad coming through the hotel door, dripping wet, white as a sheet, holding Minstral in his arms like Superman did to Lois Lane.
    ‘Why are you wet?’ asked Mum. Minstral had fallen off the end of Blackpool pier and thankfully the tide had been in. Minstral in a panic was doing the doggie paddle (what else?) to get back to the shore, but instead due to the waves was getting pummelled against the sea defences. Dad dived in. Just like those people in the paper that you tut at for being so stupid who dive in to save their beloved pets and they end up dying whilst the pet swims quite happily to the other side thinking it’s a game.
    Yes, in a split second Dad turned into one of those have-a-go heroes. Minstral was saved and spent the rest of the day inshock lying meekly in his basket, although Mum was certain he was ‘just being dramatic’. Surely the dog was too fatigued to be giving my mother dirty looks. This dramatic moment brought it all home to us, and we all agreed that none of us was enjoying this at all, and now even the dog agreed with us. We all decided that this was shit.
    In November we were put out of our misery;