Guide Adam and Steve: A Gay Young Adult Romance

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I have, to some degree, inherited it as a character trait, and I hate it. I am a product of my Catholic upbringing, my Irish roots, my lower-middle-class background. Of the north, of suburbia, of the grammar school system and the television generation.

Our house was a colourful, noisy environment. Quiet contemplation was saved for church on a Sunday. When I was a teenager, my parents fostered a series of kids because they took the view that, if you can look after yourself, then you should look after others less fortunate. Mum and Dad came from working-class backgrounds, but were socially mobile, aspirant. Education was the way to a better future; knowledge was something to be acquired and appreciated.

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My dad decided to buy the Encyclopedia Britannica, which meant that knowledge could be accessed without a trip to the library. My parents brought us up to be respectable, to be kind to people, to take personal pride by contributing to society in a traditional way. I discovered I could mock myself through my characters and that as long as I was the architect, playing the fool gave me a certain sophistication.

I was playing a trick on everyone: by being profoundly uncool, I ended up being the coolest person in the room. When I told my English teacher I wanted to go to drama school, he shook his head. I auditioned for all the London drama schools and was knocked back by every one, apart from Rada, who offered me a recall. My A-level results were disappointing. He asked me to join and I left school, abandoning the resits. We took it around schools and showed it to six- and seven-year-olds, who laughed at me playing the bogeyman.

Andy knew I had to stand out. He suggested starting with two standard speeches — typically Shakespeare, followed by a modern piece — and ending with Duncan Thickett doing a bad audition. Duncan was, at this stage, a nascent character, a little voice that had started out in my head and grown into an inadequate fool. I used to do him in rehearsals to make Andy laugh. He was, I suppose, my first foray into the comedy of embarrassment.

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Then I left the room, knocked on the door as Duncan and asked if I had come to the right place for my audition. I walked back in with my papers and dropped them all over the floor. Flushed with excitement, I went home and told my mum. But I still had the Rada recall to come. Again I did the formal pieces followed by the Duncan Thickett routine, curious to know how they would respond.

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I remember they sat rather formally in a line, looking at me with poker faces. The high of being offered a place at Manchester Poly did not, inevitably, last. I went, and still felt out of place. I tried to be enthusiastic, even signing up for yoga and buying special blue tights. But there was no escaping the fact that the southerners who got on to the theatre course with me were fellow London drama-school rejects who had more confidence than talent. Most of the other students had a pompous love of theatre that left me cold.

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They read all the books on the syllabus; I read none. Although I had got on to the course on the basis of my impressions, I was then widely regarded as being lowbrow for doing voiceovers for Yorkshire Bank. The late Geoff Perkins , a producer on the show, showed me around the studio.

It was strange to see Neil Kinnock and Roy Hattersley lying deflated on a shelf alongside several puppets of Thatcher. All the news at drama school would come via the payphone in the corner of the canteen. I returned to the table and sat down with my student friends. Edinburgh festival in the summer of was a real eye-opener for me.

Sandy asked Frank Skinner to support me at the Pleasance theatre. Frank had put in the hours. He was the better act, and so the audience responded to him much more than they did to me. Frank was always a gentleman, but it was a bit awkward. The phone was always ringing. It would be a TV producer whom I knew and who knew me — and who always wanted Frank. There were good times to be had in Edinburgh that summer, but I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I was having a fling with an older comedian and Paul Merton was hanging around her Edinburgh flat. Compared with heavyweights like him, I felt slightly naff. It was his first time at Edinburgh, and he became the youngest ever winner.

He looked like a pop star and women adored him. In the summer of I spent far too much time imagining what it might be like to be him — and I probably got the crumbs off his table in terms of women. Edinburgh was as much about sleeping around as being funny. On and on it went. I thought I was Byronic.

Sex is just sex. If I was still shagging around now, it would be a bit grim. Contrition has been shown and apologies made to those affected — and I will say that I can still count as friends all the women I ever had a relationship with. In the late 80s and early 90s, however, it was a big adventure.

I decided to skip it and take the show when it was right. Instead, I did a residency in a resort in Rhodes. You got your flights paid for, a few days in the sun and a few hundred quid. So I found myself standing by a swimming pool, trying to make largely uninterested holidaymakers laugh.

There are kids around this pool. One afternoon I sat alone on my narrow bed and read a copy of the international Guardian. The first thing I saw was a story about Frank Skinner winning the Perrier award. And here I was, in a room with no view in Rhodes. While I was feeling sorry for myself, Armando Iannucci had come up with the idea of a spoof news comedy programme called On The Hour.

He invited me to join them. It was an extraordinary collection of people, all in their 20s, and, best of all, I was in their gang. I was more aware than I should have been that they were university educated, while I had been to a poly. I felt like I was punching above my weight. It was all in my head. Once On The Hour had been commissioned as a series, Lee and Herring wrote a brilliant, incisive sketch about a sports reporter. It became increasingly surreal and there were no punchlines, but it was incredibly funny.

The voice was very different from the way Alan Partridge now talks. Lee and Herring wrote some original scripts, but none of the comedy was character driven. It is sometimes said that they invented Alan Partridge. Let me be clear: they did not.