I never felt bored growing up. We lived above a launderette in Hounslow. We had no garden. In the winters, we’d decamp to one room to keep warm. Quite introverted as a child, I was a TV addict and loved reading books – I loved storytelling. I’d make up stories for my sister. There was a degree of escapism. That’s where my imagination started.
I was five when I realised I was treated differently. The late 60s and early 70s were politically charged for people of colour. I remember my dad having to paint over a swastika on our front door. Racism was more overt then.
Humour and irony give you a different perspective. When you’re overwhelmed with fear, anxiety, love or grief, humour can help. It makes the overwhelming thing a bit silly and ridiculous.
My mum is the nicest person I’ve ever met, and my sister is a close second. Mum is relentlessly kind and emotionally intelligent. I get my humour and compassion from her. From my dad I inherited a sense of duty. He had to lock the case on his dreams of working in film to provide for the family.
Life of Brian is one of the best films ever made. I’ve seen a lot of hypocrisy in people who practice religion and the movie exposes that. My parents were religious – my mum still is – but I’m not. It’s too political, divisive.
I’d dreamed of performing since I was very young but my dad discouraged me because there was no one like us on TV: it wasn’t a viable option.
I failed my A-levels. I retook them and did a degree in business and marketing at Hatfield poly, which I didn’t want to do. But then I met Nitin Sawhney, who changed my life. He gave me the confidence to perform comedy.
Meera [Syal, Bhaskar’s wife] and I were friends for 10 years, which is not a bad basis for a relationship. Love is about constantly finding solutions to problems together. Also it should be fun. I just really enjoy hanging out with her. We laugh at things, find the funny even when it’s difficult to find.
I’d be a lesser person if I wasn’t a parent. There’s no greater reminder that life isn’t all about you. It’s an extraordinary privilege. The highs are the fun, pride and privilege of seeing a child put the building blocks of life together. The lows are the anxiety and fear you have for them.
I’ve never believed the heaven and hell scenario. You float around with wings and sit on a cloud? Or get poked up the bum with a pointy pitchfork? I’m not sure I believe that. It may just be that you switch off and that’s it, and the only thing that counted is what you did in this life.
The joy I get from what I do hasn’t worn off. I’d dreamed of performing since I was five but my dad was very discouraging because of his own disappointment and there was no one like us on TV: it wasn’t a viable option. I still have a bit of incredulity. I’ve become friends with my heroes. The fact Paul McCartney will have a conversation with me is still mind blowing.
I look for jobs I can engage with. It’s not always the size of the part. I mean, sometimes it’s just to pay a bill.
Apocalypse Slough: A Murder, They Hope Mystery is on 26 September at 9pm on Gold
