Bill Bailey
I once played in a tiny little school hall in a tiny little village called Drumnadrochit, on the shores of Loch Ness. After the gig, the manager came in and said the audience were refusing to leave. When I asked why, she said they were all expecting a raffle. So I had to go back out and conduct the raffle.
You don’t get that kind of thing with arena tours, where all the venues look the same. Those tours can quickly get out of hand, too. I remember looking out of the dressing-room window when I played at Newcastle Metro Arena and there were nine trucks, two support vehicles and another couple of vans. “Who’s that for?” I said, imagining it was some gigantic rock band, and they said: “You!”If you spend too long in your hotel room you go crazy, so I always insist on everyone going out together wherever we are. We mainly take boat trips, go rambling or mountain-biking. We do a lot of birding, too. It’s amazing how many crews have got into bird-watching. Some of the baddest looking, most tattooed and pierced roadies will sidle up to me and say: “Er, Bill, I think I saw a green woodpecker today.”
Of course, touring can get you down. I missed my son’s birthday once. Stuff like that can really get to you. Just to amuse myself, I once tried to outsmart my minibar. You know those robotic ones where an item is automatically charged to your bill when you remove it? Well, I really wanted a tube of Pringles so I looked for something of equivalent weight that I could replace it with very quickly. A balled-up pair of socks worked a treat.
Shappi Khorsandi
It can be awkward touring with other comedians who are doing better than you. I remember doing a gig in Brighton with Alan Carr and he asked me for lunch. I had no disposable income. I remember handing over a tenner to pay and thinking: “That’s half my food shopping for the week.” The next day, he texted me to ask me out for coffee and I made the most bullshit excuse. I said: “I’m really into the book I’m reading.” And it was The Da Vinci Code!
Today, every time I walk into a coffee shop, I remember what a luxury it is to grab myself a soya latte. When I started out, I couldn’t even afford trains. I’d get the bus up and down the country. I remember being heavily pregnant with my son and travelling from London to Birmingham or Bristol and waddling around.
I get very lonely in hotels. If I can, I stay in friendly B&Bs with my kids. They always come on stage with me if I bring them on tour. They’ve got to earn their keep. The moment he could talk, my son would come up on stage and do a turn. My younger daughter’s different – she’s four and not as calm. She’s the sort of kid that once you get her on stage, you can’t get her off.
I also stay with friends, or friends of friends. I’ve even had friends’ parents put me up. It’s not a skinflint thing. If I can be with people who will have a cup of tea with me, I’m so much happier. That’s why I love doing all the small venues in market towns, especially if they’re run by volunteers. You get amazing hospitality, the venues are packed out, and the audience all know each other.
Last autumn, my daughter did an impersonation of me that broke my heart. She went: “Bye bye. Love you. I’m late. Gotta go. Bye.” That’s when I decided to do I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here! – because it’s bought me bedtimes with my kids. After this current tour, I’ll be able to take a few months off.
Once, I was playing in Salford. I accidentally booked myself into this hotel that is notorious among comedians – bouncers on the door from 5pm. I walked out of the lift and disturbed a couple in the hallway. When I say a couple, I think they’d met fairly recently. He was in a suit and she was on her knees. Did they stop? No. And I was the one who felt rude. How British is that?
I was in the attic room. There were no windows, so they’d drawn a window on the wall with bushes in a forest. If it had been accurate, it would have had people shooting up. I felt so sorry for myself. “I’ve left my children,” I thought. “I have to sit up in this garret with rats after my beautiful sold-out show.”
I went on Facebook and asked if anyone could recommend a cheap and cheerful place. The comedian Jason Manford got in touch. He said: “I’m not home, but I’ve got a house really near your venue. My mum will leave the keys for you. Go in, help yourself.” I knew Jason through the circuit, but he wasn’t a bestie or anything. It was such a kind thing. So I stayed at his house on my own, like a weird little burglar.
Dane Baptiste
Before I started touring, I thought places outside London were full of Brexit voters and people who would sooner throw a banana on the stage than listen to me. But I’ve been everywhere from the Lake District to Farnham and the audiences have always been great – except at Brunel University. They hated me before I even came on. I’ve never bombed so badly. I found out later that most people were only there for the party afterwards. As far as they were concerned, I was just delaying it, which meant I was the biggest cockblocker on campus.
I’ve had great experiences outside the UK as well. Estonia was great. And the audiences in Latvia were really clued up, although I ate an egg and burger that was not nice. The egg was rarer than the meat. After that experience I started eating Haribo for breakfast and existing on the holy trinity of McDonald’s, KFC and Burger King.
There was a show in Amsterdam where I’d eaten a Chinese takeaway, McDonald’s at the airport and then Haribo. The hotel I was staying at had bedbugs and my skin broke out. My manager was so appalled that she took over, and these days it’s all green tea and mineral water for me.
I once tried to do a mid-tour detox by booking into a hotel and spa in Telford. But it was overbooked and they ended up sending me by taxi to another hotel miles away. It was like the hotel from The Shining. Mainly because of the decor, but also because of the voices in my head that kept telling me to kill everybody there.
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