Masturbating Zombies and Michael Bublé

When I first toured as a stand -up comic in the early nineties I would stay in a lot of bed and breakfast hotels.


These places made me almost give up comedy.


Often the beds were unbelievably uncomfortable and the landlady was often untrusting of comedians who checked in late after the gig. It was like being a 15 year old under the watchful eye of a strict aunt.


One of the biggest inconveniences was having to collect the key before the gig.  Often the shows were on Friday night in somewhere like Northumberland. It would take 7 hours of heavy traffic to get there. So the last thing I needed on arrival was being lectured about house rules: ‘no girls in the room and breakfast will be at 7.00am prompt’.

On one occasion I was touring with Stewart Lee.  It was a university gig somewhere in the middle of nowhere and we were running very late.


We had performed the show and had not picked the keys prior to the gig. Oh dear. We dared to turn up on the doorstep past the 9pm curfew.


We were armed with a business card with the name of our landlady  ‘Quality B and B Proprietors: Mr and Mrs Freach’.


We timidly knocked on the door  Lights came on all over the house and the door was answered almost immediately. 


“Hello?” we said apologetically  “Mrs Freak?”


“It’s Freach!”


“What time do you call this?  And we don’t allow musical instruments in here!”


The scene was reminiscent of an episode of League of Gentlemen.


I stayed in a succession of these places: on one occasion finding a porn magazine behind the headboard on which a travelling salesman  had scrawled: ‘please replace after use’


I toured for years like this with my accompanist Gareth  ‘Axe Man’ Rowan.


The low point came in Portsmouth where we shared a room and were kept awake all night by the flashing neon ‘Massage’ sign from the adjacent building that lit up the room every couple of seconds.


As my career progressed, the accommodation improved. I would get to relax in a suite at Clivdon Hall or The Savoy. The B&B years seemed long behind me.


So in 2004, I got booked to support Michael Bublé on his 13 date UK tour.


The deal in my contract with Clear Channel stated that my fee was all-inclusive.  Out of my budget I was to provide my own accommodation.


The thought struck me.


To B or not to B and B?



Now, Michael Bublé had two large tour buses. One for him and his tour manager and one for the crew.


He probably had a recording studio in the back and double beds upstairs too.


I really wanted my own tour bus. 


So …I hired a camper van.


It was like something your parents would rent for a weeks holiday in Aberrystwyth.  There were pictures of wildlife and flowers adorning the side. The complete opposite of Bublé’s rock n roll monster.


I had my own personal tour manager too - my wife Laura who reluctantly agreed to join me.

The gigs we played were mainly in large venues like the Cardiff Arena and the Royal Albert Hall.    Parking on site during the show was fine. The problem came when we had to park up overnight as unsurprisingly, campsites are never open in November.


We asked to park overnight at the arenas but the ‘jobsworths’ working there didn’t let us. We would try to find a place to stop in the quiet residential streets, but parking restrictions in the cities often made this near to impossible.


We found ourselves strangely homeless.  We had a bed - just nowhere to sleep in it.


So, each day we would roll into the next city, slightly exhausted from hours spent the previous night looking for a place to park.

We would arrive two hours behind the Bublé mobile, whose inhabitants would look fresh and well rested.

One of the shows we did was at the Newcastle City Hall.

The gig was packed, and after a great performance everyone left on a high.

We returned to our ‘tour bus’ and set about finding somewhere to park up for the night.

A few miles out of the city we found a very pleasant rural parking area with beautiful views of the countryside.


It seemed perfect. Hardly any passing traffic and only a couple of other cars with which to share our idyll.  We couldn’t believe our luck.


It wasn’t long before we noticed a torch starting to flash through the windows of our camper van.

We ignored this at first, but after a few minutes of repeated flashing light it became quite annoying, so we reached into the front of the van to switch on our headlights and see what the commotion was about.


At this point, one of the cars parked nearby flashed it’s headlights at us.


“What an idiot” we thought, and flashed our headlights back.


This was a mistake.


In the side mirrors of the van, we saw that we had become surrounded by people in a manner similar to a zombie attack.


But one or two of these zombies were masturbating.


One of the masturbating zombies suddenly appeared close to the window of the van, and excitedly shone a torch inside.


His excitement wasn’t diminished by seeing us fully clothed listening to ‘Book at Bedtime’ on Radio 4.


Thoroughly startled, we sped off in the van and the zombies scuttled back into the hedgerows.


We had unwittingly parked at a dogging site, where the flashing of headlights is the equivalent sign of a Masonic handshake in dogging world.

So, it was back to circling the residential streets of Newcastle looking for a parking space.


Perhaps we should have asked the doggers if they could recommend a nice bed and breakfast for the night.

Keep Going Until It No Longer Hurts

Today I answered the door dressed in my tuxedo. I was on my way to a gig, so was dressed in the suit that I wear in my comedy act. The man at my doorstep was collecting for charity.  He didn’t seem at all surprised that I was wearing a tuxedo. I assume he thought that this is how British people normally dress when lounging around at home.  After all, this is Hollywood, where people conform to stereotypes.

 

Ive always enjoyed the stereotypical views that Americans have of the English.

Perhaps the most frequent remark people make is about the accent.

“You sound so intelligent”

“I feel so educated talking to you”

And this was just from me ordering a pizza.

Another misconception about us Brits is we have no teeth and that we are perpetually miserable.

I know at least two English people this doesn’t apply to.

Of course stereotyping can occasionally work in your favour. I recently got cast as an English Butler in ‘Californication’,  so I can’t really complain.

As Alfred the Butler in Californication

Being British in Hollywood is a big plus.  That’s what my manager said.

If you are a comic in the US you have a manager. They are supposed to give you advice on your career and for that service they take 15 –20% commission from your work.

Of course much of the advice managers give can seem slightly odd to an Englishman. 

Last week, I was chatting to some fellow comics backstage after a gig. One particular comic had been advised by his manager to ‘dye your hair and lose 20 lbs’ as he believed this would make him a funnier on stage.   The comic in question was seriously considering this as a reasonable piece of advice.

My wife didn’t agree with this and made the following point:

‘You don’t need to be good looking to be funny. Think of all the funny comics out there who aren’t. Him for one - (pointing at me).

The comedy business operates very differently here.

It is a hugely competitive environment.  Comics from all over the world come to LA and have a go at cracking it’s secret code.  The gigs pay little and comedy clubs make you jump through a lot of hoops before they even let you to onstage for an unpaid 5 minute set in front of 10 people.

When I arrived I had already been a stand up for over 20 years, I had a few worthy TV credits and a role in a Harry Potter movie. I was finalist in the US reality show Last Comic Standing too– the only overseas act ever make the final show. I went on to perform a 63 date tour in virtually every state in the US.  But in LA this doesn’t impress anyone.

I had to start over.

So I asked my manager at the time -Isaac Horne of Avalon Management  to get me some spots in LA clubs. One such venue was The Laugh Factory - a club I had visited a couple of times as an audience member and to me it seemed like the best room  in LA.

After waiting weeks.  Isaac informed me that he had failed to get me any spots at the Laugh Factory since I was “too old” and they were only interested in younger comics.

So I fired Isaac Horne.

I called the club myself and was told I would have to turn up at the venue the following Tuesday and line up outside just for a chance to perform 3 minutes material for the owner,  Jamie Masada.  If he likes you he will invite you to perform in front of the waitresses whilst they are setting up for the main show.

I arrived at 3pm, two hours before sign-in. and there were already a long line of comics forming ahead of me. This wasn’t looking good plus I had my huge double bass in tow and the 100F heat was making her creek and warp.

Eventually a Laugh Factory employee emerged and said she would take the first 15 comics.

I was number 16.

So I said,

“Any chance of squeezing me in? I’ve come all the way from London for this”.

“You’ll have to come back next week”

UK club Jongleurs was never as hard as this. Although I remember once Maria Kempinski the owner saying to me after  my umpteenth failed open spot  “You look like you are going to be funny but you never are”.

This kind of rejection paved the way for a future in the harsh world of comedy. Assisted by comic Dave Cohen’s reasonant words: “Keep going until it no longer hurts”. 

I assume he was referring to comedy..

After lining up two more times  at The Laugh Factory I eventually got seen. On walking through the door Jamie Masada said “I know who you are buddy, welcome to Hollywood”.

It was then I realised jumping through hoops is a part of the filtration process for comics in Hollywood.  Venues get bombarded with talent from all over the world – all of them waving their precious credits and referrals.

Jamie went on to say he was not aware of Isaac Horne and Avalon Management and he had never even spoken with them before.

Two years on and I'm now a regular headliner at The World Famous Laugh Factory. I see it as a kind of barometer of American comedy. Here I test out what works and what I have to ‘bin’ for my shows on the road.

My heroes occasionally pop in too, like Steven Wright and more recent names like Louis CK and Dave Chappelle.

Breaking Hollywood is seen by many as the ultimate test, but thanks to Jamie Masada, The Laugh Factory and a healthy amount of stereotyping, I am rather enjoying the challenge.

Chateau'd Dreams

Whenever I call my bank, phone company, doctor’s surgery, or any other service provider and I have to give my name - I ALWAYS have to spell it out for them. Tavaré.  T..A..V..A..R..E. acute! 

I have to spell it out at least twice, as the sequence of letters T..A..V..A..R..E seems to put most peoples brains into meltdown.  “Sorry, was that T.A.B.E.R.A?”.  “No. It’s pronounced Tavaray - rhymes with cabaret”.

The name Tavaré has caused much confusion over the years.  I have been introduced on the stage as Taveary, Tavarr, Tabernay, Travelodge and Tabernacle.

This is annoying.  But it was even more annoying when researching the family tree revealed that my name is actually Tavarez, and that no one has trouble spelling this.

After people get through the awkward Tavaré spelling/pronouncing ritual, I usually get asked where the name comes from.  So here’s the story…

Tavaré (or Nunez - Tavarez as it was before the family ‘simplified’ it to it’s current form) is a French Portugese name dating back to the 1700’s. The Nunez-Tavarez were wealthy Jewish merchants who escaped Spanish persecution and settled in Bayonne, France.

Over the years my father had thoroughly researched the history of our family, and he had several letters written to his Grandfather, which seemed to come from a relative living in Bayonne with an address, Le Marquisat.

We knew we possibly had links to an aristocratic French family because the name Tavarez appears in an obscure history book referencing the French Revolution.

So in 1995 my father and I decided to embark on a trip to Bayonne in order to further track down our family roots.

We arrived in the small town of Saint Esprit which we found was originally the Jewish quarter of town. We paid a visit to the Jewish cultural centre but in the great French tradition it was shut for lunch. We asked some locals if they knew the name Tavaré.  The answer was a resounding “Non”.

Next stop, the Jewish cemetery which appeared abandoned overgrown and vandalized but after a lot of rummaging about we found a headstone bearing the inscription: ‘Isaac Nunez-Tavarez’ then a few more ‘Tavarez’ headstones turned up. An elderly caretaker saw us and came over.  She told us she remembered the name Tavaré from her childhood days before the war. She recalled playing with a little girl of the same name in an old house owned by one of the original Bayonne families. She told us that the house was still there and inhabited.

No sooner had she given us directions we were off down the street and soon found ourselves at the gates of an 18^th Century chateaux. Called ‘Le Marquisat’.

We walked up a long winding drive and came to a lawned area. Sitting at a table was an elderly man, immaculately dressed sipping afternoon tea.   My fathers opening gambit was ‘I think we may be related’. 

He then plonked a bundle of letters on the table in front of the man making him spill his tea: The elderly Frenchman eyed us cautiously.

After briefly reading the contents of the letters he gently said “You had better come in” 

He introduced himself as Monsieur Fois and then lead us around the corner where we saw an impressive chateaux. We followed him into the house and into a large family room. Adorning the walls were several 18^th Century portraits all bearing the name Tavarez on the inscriptions.

One painting depicted The Dauphin dancing in the town square with a number of local luminaries including none other than my ancestor Isaac Nunes-Tavarez.

Monsieur Fois told us that Isaac Nunes-Tavarez had been a wealthy Jewish merchant who had built La Marquisat in 1750. It was the family home, and in 1814 had also been used as a look out point by Napoleons troops during the Peninsular War.

Around 1750, Isaac’s eldest son (and natural heir to the family estate) left for the shores of Manchester, England and started the present and surviving line of Tavaré’s.

During WWII the family still living in Le Marquisat fled to Spain and hid all the family paintings from marauding Nazi’s. The house was actually requisitioned and used as a German Military Hospital. When the war was over and the dust had settled, the family came back from hiding and reclaimed the property. Sadly, many other family homes in the area still lie abandoned and unclaimed since the war.

Ariel view of the vast Marquisat grounds 

Later that day we went to Bayonne library with the hope of finding deeds that would revert the house back to us.  After all, we still bore the name Tavaré and I was Great Great Great Great Grandson to Isaac Nunes-Tavarez. 

The eldest son who had defected to Manchester, England (my Great, Great, Great Grandfather) should by all accounts have inherited Le Marquisat.  However, because he had been residing in England for several years – we found that Isaac had left the house to the younger brother.

Sadly for us, the current deeds were most definitely in the name of Monsieur Fois, who it turns out is a descendant via the female line.

In other letters my father found, we discovered that in the 1930’s my Great Grandfather Alfred Tavaré tried to infiltrate into the French cousins family by moving into a bedsit around the corner from the property. He made many failed attempts to befriend the family in the hope that some of their wealth would drip in his direction. I imagine him going to great lengths to achieve this, perhaps disguising himself as a French maid in order to access the property. Think Inspector Clouseau and the drawbridge scene.

The letters we plonked on the old man’s table were replies written to my great Grandfather Alfred at a time when he constantly wrote to the family in France from his home in Tyneside. The replies all written in French seemed rather brief, but roughly translate to ‘No longer at this address’

That evening we got a call from Monsieur Fois inviting us to dinner at Le Marquisat

As we sat in the grand dining hall at a table similar in square footage to my house in London, Monsieur Fois announced “This would make a great book. The story of two tramps who turn up to the door of a rich family and try to trick them out of their wealth”

He went on to say he would never sell the property as it had much historical interest.

My father and I listened to this, knowing that we were more directly related to the ancestors looking over us from the paintings above than he was, yet reassured to hear that the home would remain in the family.

Fast forward 15 years, and I just nostalgically Googled ‘Le Marquisat’ Saint Esprit. It seems the historical grounds have been sold to developers, and where Napoleon once stood, a hideous apartment block now takes pride of place.

Maybe I’ll buy one, and have another look over those deeds…