Little Me. Matt Lucas

that we were singing songs from Oliver!, that this must surely be the great Lionel Bart himself.

      I was wrong. I later found out it was actually Jeremy James Taylor, the co-writer of The Roman Invasion of Ramsbottom (which I will just call Ramsbottom from now on because I clipped my nails earlier with rather too much gusto, my index finger is a little tender and it pains me to type).

      Sometimes you just know. You just know. And this time I just knew. I didn’t run to the house corridor. I didn’t need to. I sauntered over to the noticeboard, where a group of boys were studying the cast list.

      And there in black and white . . .

      ACCRINGTON STANLEY – MATTHEW LUCAS

      I didn’t know who Accrington Stanley was and it didn’t matter. Details weren’t important. I had been cast in the Haberdashers’ Aske’s Junior School play. I was in The Roman Invasion of Ramsbottom. (Yes, I know I said I was going to abbreviate it from now on, but honestly I felt at that moment it was important to really sell it, do you know what I mean?)

      I turned to Andrew, triumphant. His expression told a different story. He hadn’t got a part. I offered what words of consolation I could muster. He started to cry and wandered off. Unsure whether to be happy or sad, I decided in that moment it was okay to be both.

      Rehearsals took up a lot of time. I was told by Mr Wilson, the Junior School Head, that I was not to let the academic side of things slide just because I was in the play. Actually, my confidence at a high, I started to do a little better in class. I made more friends. I had even joined Weight Watchers shortly after my bar mitzvah and was losing weight. Everything seemed to be coming together.

      Accrington Stanley wasn’t the lead, but he was the star comic character, a boisterous, hearty Northerner. I had Brian Glover in mind when I played him. He didn’t appear in the first half at all, but in the second act, set in the pub, he had plenty of jokes to crack.

      He also had a solo number. Eek. I was terrified at the prospect of singing solo. During music lessons in the first year I had sung very badly on purpose, on the advice of my street-smart older brother Howard (at the same school), who had warned me that any boy with any semblance of being able to sing in tune would be coerced into the school choir, which often rehearsed on Saturdays, which meant one less lie-in and missing the Arsenal match. Bugger that.

      So I had avoided the choir but in the process had convinced myself that I couldn’t sing. Now I’m no Alfie Boe or even Alfie Moon, but I can hold a tune. I just didn’t know that then.

      The musical director of the show was Mr Barker, a kind, diligent teacher who would call me Matthew during rehearsals and Lucas again during lessons. A few weeks earlier I had set my friend Jake Moore the challenge of looking at Mr Barker and thinking of a potato without laughing. He had failed in his endeavours, as had all of my classmates. Now I too was so distracted during these one-on-one rehearsals with him that I found my face creasing at regular intervals. To make matters worse, Mr Barker had decided that I should sing the song in falsetto, which was perhaps his revenge.

      I bottled it. Blamed it on my voice breaking. Michael Bourne sang it instead. Beautifully.

      I loved rehearsals even more than I had enjoyed drama lessons at school. There was a purpose, an end result – the world’s eyes would finally see the glory of the coming of the Matthew.

      And then, one Sunday afternoon, as we rehearsed in the main hall, we were each handed a photocopied letter, explaining that the National Youth Music Theatre – of which Jeremy James Taylor was in charge – was taking a production of The Roman Invasion of Ramsbottom (again, it just felt right, sorry) to the Edinburgh Festival that summer. According to the letter there was a chance that one or two kids from our cast might be invited to take part.

      Well now, this was something else. Suddenly the school play became a sideshow. I had my eyes on a bigger prize. From that point on I could think of little else. Even though I had never heard of the National Youth Music Theatre before, it sounded VERY IMPORTANT INDEED.

      ‘Hi, Jeremy,’ I would say, in as casual a voice as possible, ‘um, hey, just kinda checking in about that Glasgow . . . Edinburgh thing you guys might want me to do. I’m kinda interested, but you know summer’s coming soon and we’re thinking of booking a family holiday so I just thought I’d throw that out there, you know. Because I’d really hate for your people to come to me and then it’s too late.’

      We were not thinking of booking a family holiday. The last family holiday we’d been on was five years earlier, when my parents were still together.

      One afternoon, a week before the school production was to open, I dropped JJT my customary hint. He had been waiting for it. He led me out of the main hall and into one of the music rooms. I sat next to him at the piano as he played those familiar opening chords to ‘Consider Yourself’ and sang my bestest singing.

      ‘Jolly good. You’d better come to Edinburgh then, old chap.’

      I gasped.

      But first, the small business of the school production.

      I paced backstage, listening intently to the first act, and then waited onstage behind the curtain during the interval.

      The band started to play. The curtains opened and I was born.

      And now I would like to take this opportunity to apologise wholeheartedly to anyone else who may or may not have been in the show with me, because I didn’t see you. I saw only my glorious reflection in your eyes. And I didn’t hear you. I heard only my voice and the audience’s laughter. I trod on lines, jokes, feet and bits of the set. I stood where I fancied. I gurned and grimaced and improvised and ignored pretty much everything we had so studiously rehearsed – and just had the time of my life. It was selfish and innocent and wonderful, and again I’m sorry. It was the only time in those first two years at that school that I felt good enough to be there. And the audience played their part perfectly, indulging me at every turn.

      As we came offstage, I was blissfully unaware I had done anything wrong. In the changing room, packing my bag to go home, JJT quietly took me aside.

      ‘Well done, Matthew. Well done. Very good indeed. Wonderful. Can I give you a note, love? You’re going eighty-five miles an hour and you really only need to go seventy-five.’

      A kind, smart note. But not one I was able to hear or understand, because I was now a star. Move over, Judy Garland.

      There were two more performances. Ego swollen and voice a little tired from so much onstage shouting, I actually tried to convince an older boy who was looking after the technical gear to give me my own radio mic.

      ‘I’m only allowed to give them to the people who have solo songs,’ said poor beleaguered Shaun, whose father happened to be Alvin Stardust.

      I considered this grossly unfair. I was, after all, the money. But my diva demands fell on deaf ears.

      My family was full of praise. My mum, in particular, was thrilled for me, gushing to all and sundry about her marvellous son in the way only a Jewish mother can. We call it kvelling. I joined in too, instructing my friend Mark Weston, who went to Highgate School, to let Barry Edwards know how fantastic I was. In my mind Edwards would be lying in bed at night, kicking himself. ‘Damn! Damn! The one that got away!’

      Other pupils were now stopping me in the corridors and saying nice things. I oozed charm in return, getting whatever I could out of it – usually a Nerd, some Scampi Fries or a bite of someone’s rock-hard Wham bar.

      As the term ended, school was but a distraction. My focus now was on my career. Next stop: the Edinburgh Festival, to rehearse and perform the show all over again, this time as part of the National Youth Music Theatre.

      The cast (including four of us from the Haberdashers’ production) convened at King’s Cross station one Sunday in July 1987 and caught the train together up to Edinburgh.

      Arriving at Heriot-Watt University, where we were all going to be living, I set my bags down