Roy Chubby Brown pdf Common as Muck!

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Common As Muck!: The Autobiography of Roy Chubby Brown pdf

Roy Chubby Brown pdf

‘YER FAT BASTARD!’Blackpool, July 2003. I’m on me home turf, the North Pier. It’s a glorious dayand I’m passing through the amusement arcade at the start of the quarter-milewalk along the boards to the theatre at the end of the pier. I’m enjoying the warmsummer sun and looking forward to the evening ahead. The show doesn’t startuntil seven-thirty and this is six o’clock, but I’m always in my dressing roomearly. It gives me time to soundcheck some songs and to rehearse a few newgags. Keith, my mate, is scuttling along beside me, carrying a Tesco shoppingbag with a few cans of lager for before the show, when my good mood isshattered by a Glaswegian bellowing at full tilt.Now, I know I’m a fat bastard without anyone telling me. After all, it’s mycatchphrase, one that, in less than two hours’ time, more than 1,500 punters willbe chanting as I come on stage. But some people go too far.‘Oi, you! Yes, you!’ It’s the Glaswegian again. ‘You big fat cunt!‘I turn around. There, in the dead area between the hot-dog stall, the gift shop,the rock shop and the stall selling T-shirts with plastic tits on them, a lump ofshite is sitting at a table. Nearby, there’s a gang of lads who’ve got tickets tocome and see me. They’re standing at the bar, downing a few jars, gettingblathered before the show and starting to take an interest in the rude fuckershouting his mouth off.I can see he is what us Teessiders call a hacky get – a miserable, filthy wasteof space. But he’s a hacky get with a family, so I know to behave. There’s hiswife and his three little kids to consider. They’re about nine, eight and six, I’dguess, and I don’t want to upset them.I haven’t had a proper fight in more than ten years. I’ve learned to keep myhands to myself. I don’t want to reawaken bad habits, so I ignore him and keepwalking, my eyes fixed straight ahead. Roy Chubby Brown pdf
‘Oi! I’m talking to you, you big fat bastard,’ the Glaswegian hollers again. Iturn around and stare him down.‘Why don’t you just grow up?’ I say. And I keep walking.‘Ah, fuck off!’ The Glaswegian is obviously not going to give up easily.I stop walking and slowly turn around, my temper rising inside me like akettle coming to the boil. From the way that he’s carrying on, it’s clear to me thathe’s got no respect for his wife or his kids. He’s certainly got no respect for allthe people around him. Every table in the bar is taken and they’re all staring ourway, wondering what’s going on. I want to give the lanky lout a bat, show himthat I might be fat and I might be old enough to be his grandfather, but that Iwon’t be spoken to like that. But instead I ignore him and head for the door.Just as I pass through the door he shouts again. ‘Fuck you, you fucking fatcunt.’It’s too much. ‘I’m not putting up with this,’ I mutter to Keith.‘You what?’ Keith replies.‘I said that sackless nowt’s taken a right fucking lend of me.’ And I turn on myheels. ‘I’m gonna have to ploat that cunt.’I walk up to him. ‘Have you got something to say to me?’‘Ahh, you’re a big cunt!’For a moment I don’t know what to do. This kind of thing happens to mealmost every day and it’s a finely judged thing to get it right. Do I take offenceor do I let it wash over me? After all, most of the time it’s harmless. Just acouple of fans who don’t know what to say and think it’s okay to be rude.Because I swear and talk about tits, fannies and cocks on stage they think thatthey can insult me in the street. Like the little old lady who stopped me in mytracks on Blackpool South Pier fifteen years ago. She was in her early seventiesand with a man I assumed was her husband. They looked like any other elderlycouple, enjoying the sea air and taking in the Golden Mile.‘Eeeh,’ she said. And she put her hand on my chest to stop me. ‘Eeeh, you fatbastard.’So I stopped walking. ‘Yes?’ I said, smiling.‘Eeeh, you fat bastard,’ she said again. Then she giggled. ‘Hee hee, youfucking fat bastard.’ By now, the shock element had gone. I was looking at thiselderly woman and thinking two things. First, that’s a foul mouth you’ve got onyou, especially for a woman of your age. And second, what are you going to saynext? I know I’m a fat bastard. Right?After the fifth or sixth ‘fat bastard’, I said: ‘Now you’ve recognised me, whatdo you want?’‘Eeeh, I think you’re fucking great, you fat bastard. Eeeh, you fucking fat
bastard.’I walked off, half in despair and half in frustration. What else could I do? If Ihad said owt, she would have thought I was the rude one. I couldn’t win.And it’s not just old ladies. One evening, on the way to work, a little girlwalked up to me. With blonde hair and blue eyes, she was no more than six orseven years old and absolutely gorgeous. If you ever wanted to paint a picture ofa perfect little girl, she would have been it.‘Hello,’ I said, smiling at her and glancing at her parents standing nearby.‘Hello,’ she replied bashfully. ‘You’re a fat bastard, aren’t you?’‘Am I?’ I said.‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re a big fat bastard.’ And she looked around at herparents, who were smiling, beaming with pride at their daughter’s cheek. Whatkind of parent tells their six-year-old child to go up to a complete stranger andinsult them? If I had ever sworn in front of my father, he would have lifted me sohigh the weather would have changed by the time I got back down.Now I can’t tell people how to lead their lives and most of my fans are justgreat. But there’s always the idiot who thinks it’s fine to shout ‘Hiya, Chubby,you big fat cunt’ down a supermarket aisle when I’m doing my shopping. Itmakes me cringe with embarrassment as all the other shoppers stare at me. I cansee what they’re thinking: if he wasn’t here, we wouldn’t be hearing that. Ormaybe they think that I’m the kind of person who sits in a restaurant and orderstheir food by saying to the waiter: ‘I’ll have the steak and chips, cunt face’. ButI’m not and I never have been. And now, standing in the North Pier bar atBlackpool, I’ve had enough.‘If you are gonna say sommat to me, will you say it to me outside the bar,please?’ I say.The muscles in the Glaswegian’s face tighten as I grab him by his T-shirt andwrap my fist around it. I pull him off his chair and drag him thirty feet to thedoor.‘I’ll fucking kill you, you fat bastard,’ he screams as I skid him across thesticky floor. ‘I’ll fucking glass you.’‘Yes, I know you will,’ I say. The bar is silent. Everybody is watching. Thecustomers in the gift shops stop in their tracks and come out of the shops to havea stare. People eating ice creams stand open-mouthed, watching what is goingon.‘Now what are you gonna fucking say?’ I snarl as we get outside and I pullhim to his feet, pushing him across the boardwalk to the edge of the pier.The Glaswegian is unsteady, so I see the swing of his fist coming towards melong before it’s within range. I dodge the punch, turn him around and dig him
once in the ribs. He goes down like a sack of shite, then jumps up.‘I’ll fucking kill you!’ he shouts as Keith grabs him. ‘I’m gonna kill him. I’mgonna fucking kill the fat fucker,’ he shouts, kicking Keith at the same time.‘You’ll kill no fucker, else I’ll throw you over the fucking side, you twat,’ Ishout. And I mean it. I want to give him a lacing, but Keith has him pinned downon the floor as three security guards come pounding down the pier and grab thelanky Glaswegian. With Keith and the bouncers between us, the Glaswegiantries to throw a few punches but he can’t get near me.‘I wouldn’t if I was you, mate,’ Keith says. ‘I wouldn’t.’The Glaswegian is carted away and I head for the theatre. An hour later, I’mon stage. The show’s going well. It’s always a buzz to play Blackpool and I’mmore pumped up than usual, the adrenalin from the earlier aggro sharpening mytiming and delivery. I leave the stage to a standing ovation and close the door tothe dressing room. The first few minutes after any show are always the hardest.The silence after the noise and the adoration of the crowd is particularly lonely.Mulling over the performance, over-analysing the audience’s response to newroutines, I sip a cup of tea while the punters file out of the auditorium and intothe night.There’s a knock at the door. Probably Richie, the tour manager, I think.Letting me know that some fans are waiting for an autograph at the stage door.Or maybe some friends have come backstage and want to say hello.‘Mr Vasey?’ says a voice on the other side of the door. ‘Could you please openthe door.’Two policemen are standing in the corridor. They charge me with commonassault and require me to appear at the police station. The next morning I amarrested, fingerprinted, relieved of the contents of my pockets, my belt and myshoelaces, and led down to the cells.The Glaswegian, the coppers tell me, is a heroin addict. He’s in Blackpool atthe council’s expense for a weekend’s rehabilitation with his children and wife,who had previously had a court order against him because of his violentbehaviour. He provoked me and threw the first punch, yet I am being charged.A month later I am in court. The police have dropped their charges, but I amfined two hundred pounds and ordered to pay seventy quid costs and eightypounds compensation to the Glaswegian for ripping a T-shirt that looked like itcost no more than a fiver. I am recovering from recent throat-cancer operationsand my wife is expecting our second child in the next fortnight, but that’s nottaken into account by the magistrates. My reputation goes before me and I haveto face the consequences.I am not particularly proud of what I did, so why do I mention it? Because it’s
what this book is about – what it’s like to be Britain’s rudest, crudest, mostcontroversial comic, and what it’s like to live with the consequences of thatreputation. But most of all, it’s about where that rudeness, crudity and appetitefor controversy came from. I’ve come a long way since I grew up in the toughestof Middlesbrough’s grimmest neighbourhoods, but Grangetown still runsthrough me like the lettering in a stick of Blackpool rock and I can’t escape it. Inthe end, I suppose, it’s about how you can take the lad out of Grangetown butyou can’t take Grangetown out of the lad. Grangetown is why I became Britain’sfoulest-mouthed comic. It drove me to escape a dead-end no-hope future. A hardlife on its streets made me fearless. And if you come from where I did, it doesn’ttake much to change your opening line from ‘Good evening, ladies andgentlemen. I’m the son of a bricklayer’s labourer. My mother had to take any jobwhen the war was on’ to ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My wife’s gottwo cunts and I’m one of them.’ Roy Chubby Brown pdf

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