Born in 1957 in West Bromwich, near Birmingham, Frank Skinner is a comedian and broadcaster. His standup career began in 1987; four years later he took home the Perrier award. With David Baddiel, he hosted the TV series Fantasy Football and Baddiel & Skinner Unplanned, as well as writing the 1996 football anthem Three Lions with the Lightning Seeds. He has presented an award-winning Absolute Radio show, a poetry podcast and published two memoirs. Skinner is touring his standup show, 30 Years of Dirt, from 5 August to 1 December.
This would have been taken on my sister’s Box Brownie camera. I was trying to recreate the cover of Elvis in Blue Hawaii, where he’s holding a ukulele, but didn’t quite judge how wide I needed to open my mouth for singing. It just looks like an awkward smile. I was more of an Elvis and Stones fan, but the Beatles had a domestic level of fame that transcended individual taste.
Several women over the years have said to me: “I know you comedian guys – you’re all brokenhearted clowns, aren’t you?” I’ve always thought: “Sure, if that’s what you want.” But I’m not, I grew up around a lot of love. I have the most unfashionable of celebrity origin stories, in that I had a happy childhood. There were still times I was lonely; at school I was the life and soul – the one to make everyone laugh, but I never managed that in my own community. Summer holidays were a solitary time.
Mum was a quiet woman with a nuanced humour of her own, while Dad was the extrovert and a heavy-drinker. They would have blazing rows, and Dad would end it by singing her a song. One time, Dad wanted Mum to put on a bet for him, but she couldn’t as she was busy. My brother couldn’t do it, either. In the end, the horse won. Dad went ballistic. He dragged our two sheds into the middle of the garden and set fire to them in a rage. The heat was so intense, Mrs Weston next door said her lace curtains singed. Dad was lovely, though. Wild, but lovely.
I shared a room with my two brothers in our house in Oldbury – a double bed for me and Keith, and Terry was on his own. Because we had an outdoor toilet, there was a bucket in the corner of the bedroom for urination purposes at night. I once picked it up, and because they’d both been drunk, the bucket handle was wet. It slipped from my grip and dropped and splashed like a tequila slammer. Only it was a bowl of urine.
Alcohol revolutionised my life. I discovered it when I was 14 and suddenly I’d made a million friends. I loved the white heat of happiness and the adventures. There was never any consideration of consequence. I still occasionally see a bunch of blokes, sitting on a bench, passing around a bottle and think: “I really do understand the lure of that.”
Between 1986 and 1987 my life completely changed. I got so ill with the flu that I couldn’t keep anything down. On the fifth day, I realised abstaining from alcohol was something I should continue; and that’s how I stopped drinking. I was someone who had to drink five pints to muster up the courage to join the local library, and suddenly I was sober. It was as if I had 36 hours in my day. Those extra hours I spent on comedy.
I was teaching A-level English when the school’s drama teacher asked me to come up to Edinburgh to play a hardbitten copper in a play he was doing. Until then, I’d only ever watched Bernard Manning live. I had no idea that alternative comedy existed. Within 10 minutes of arriving I realised I wanted to be a comedian. It was there I saw David Baddiel for the first time – he was in another double act. When I got back to Birmingham, I used the £418 I had in my bank and booked a room for the next festival. I hadn’t even written a joke.
My first gigs were nightmarish. I just said stuff that had made people laugh in the pub or at school, but it didn’t work on stage. I did Birmingham Anglers Association and tried some “bloke-went-into-a-pub” stuff, but that went down even worse. I thought, well, if I’m gonna die, I’ll die by my own sword. I went to an alternative comedy night in Birmingham and did some songs, billing myself as “the rockabilly Charles Hawtrey.” That night I absolutely stormed it, and realised that was where I belonged.
Comedy became an obsession. I had found something I loved, and was good at it. One night I was driving back from London at 2am on an empty motorway, and I physically punched the ceiling of my car with exhilaration, because I had discovered this thing.
For all the continuing joy I get from standup, the experience of the ascent was unbeatable. I went through this fabulous honeymoon period where everything that was written about me in the press was basically praise, and I won the Perrier. It wasn’t until I hosted the Brits [in 2002] and had a tough time that people thought: “Oh, hold on, maybe he’s not as good as we thought.” I started to have a few doubts as well. I am terrible with criticism in general; I don’t handle it very well. It hurts and nags at me, so I usually avoid it. On one level, I seriously believe I am the funniest person on the planet. But I also think: “What if the bird flies away? What if I go out one night, and it’s just gone from me?” My self-belief is very black and white.
At the height of my fame, I went to everything I was invited to. People thought I was always pissed, because of the atmosphere of Fantasy Football, but I wasn’t. In one of the low-rent lads’ magazines, I was voted “party animal of the year”, which now, considering my lifestyle, feels absolutely ludicrous. There were all these pictures of me with my arms around a bevy of beauties, some of whom I knew and some were just people who said: “Can I have a photo with you?” That being said, I really liked being famous – I felt noticed for the first time in my life. But at some point it has to end. I was at a party, cradling a glass of Vimto and standing next to the actor who played Tricky Dicky in EastEnders when I realised that the initial “ta-da” had faded.
Now, one of my favourite things to do is go to watch bands with my son, Buzz. This summer we’ve been to see Green Day, AC/DC and we camped at Download for four nights. I might have been lonely as a boy, but with Buzz it’s like I’ve grown my own friend.
Like that boy in the photo, I’ve retained a sense of joy about the world. It’s as if I have a cork interior that has kept me buoyant throughout the dark periods. There were many brightly lit days, but there were times – being so drunk I saw spiders on my ceiling – that were less fun. And yet I can’t imagine desolation. My partner, Cathy, thinks I’ve got high serotonin levels: she once saw me jumping up and down in front of the oven because I could see sausages cooking. As a Catholic I could say it’s a gift from God. I could equally argue it’s just a chemical imbalance. One that works quite nicely.
