Kay Town: Stage Fright

Ho­w is it I don’t fear standing up in front of a crowd – or do I?

I spend more than half my life standing up in front of either an audience or a TV camera – and I feel no fear. It was not always so. For years and years I dreaded having to put myself in that kind of exposed position; I would feel nauseated, sweat and tremble at the very thought of it. School events were a nightmare, I could do a bit in a school play but nothing with more than a few lines, or I would freeze. Not so now. On the contrary… the problem is getting me, once I have hit my stride, to shut up.

The fear disappeared when I was about 18 and went to Chelsea School Of Art. There, I joined a madrigal group. I had always liked singing and I could read music so it seemed like an ideal way to meet people.

Pretty soon I could warble my way with the best of them; Dowland, Byrd, Palestrina, Monteverdi, Mozart, and later on bits of 20th Century stuff that certainly kept me on my toes.

We didn’t perform as such – an occassional party with friends but little more – but it did kill the fear and when, two years later, I won a scholarship, I was able to put that fear firmly to rest.

In those days, Thames Television gave out a clutch of travel bursaries and I was lucky enough to win one. It was enough cash to take me to circus school in London and Paris, and there the fear of looking like a fool was turned into a love of playing the fool.

I could get up in front of strangers and act, as my mother would describe it, the ‘giddy goat’. I loved it. I loved the make-up and costumes, I loved the trickery, the silly gait, the buzz of seeing just how far you could push things and the desperate scramble back to safety and/or dignity when you pushed too far.

“I was sorry, I am still sorry…”

I guess that I use that trick to this day, pushing the boundaries to see how far I can go and how much I can get away with. It’s fun, so why not?

Well, there are reasons why not, as I found out over the weekend. I was on stage once again, presenting a live show and having fun with my guests and the audience. In doing so I made the statement that, as an out-and-out fatty, I could never be described as being… well, best not to repeat the reference for fear (once again) of offending. I had offended, though, and I was truly sorry. I had gone a step too far and an apology was required. I repeat that apology here. I had not meant to offend; sincerely not meant to. It was simply a case of mouth engaging before brain.

The moment my faux pas had been brought to my attention I apologised in person, only to be told that my apology was not wanted. I suppose the offended person has a right to say that, but it did leave me somewhat adrift of what to do. I was sorry, I am still sorry – but no amount of me saying that can actually change what happened or what had caused the offence.

I apologise that my tactless humour, a device that I used to take the mickey out of myself, touched so raw a nerve. In future, I will just describe myself as being a fatty.

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