He's a face known by millions: a comedian so iconic, so beloved, that it's
hard for him to walk down the street unmolested. You've seen him in sitcoms,
in adverts, in gossip columns. Now, after years away from his calling, he is
returning to the stage to headline the first night of The Ten Best Stand-Ups
in the WorldEver season in London.
He's a star. No question about that. We just don't know which star he is. The
season's organiser and host, the comedian Stewart Lee, isn't letting on. All
his publicity blurb offers is that his first bill will feature Simon Munnery
and a Mystery Star “so famous he cannot even be named, like some kind of Old
Testament deity, or government assassin”.
Lee would rather have named his guest. But when his star turn asked for
anonymity, he complied. “I completely understand why the Mystery Star wanted
to be the Mystery Star,” says Lee. “He's not done stand-up for a while and
he didn't want to bear the weight of responsibility.” And Lee suggests that
the night will be better off without people drawn in by television fame
alone. “The Mystery Star,” he says gnomically, “is much better than the
people who like him.”
The Mystery Star himself gives us his own anonymous views elsewhere on the
page, in a Q&A session conducted by e-mail. But even without an identity
he has proved to be quite a draw. Of the rest of the season, only the Harry
Hill night has sold faster. “People would rather see a mystery guest than
some of the acts I've booked,” Lee chuckles.
But while Mystery Stars don't normally headline 500-seat theatres, there are
more and more of them about. On any given week, two or three London clubs
might be playing host to a Mystery Guest, A Very Special Guest Who Can't Be
Named, or even A Comedian Too Famous To Be Listed. Appearing as part of
regular club nights, their identities won't be revealed until they arrive on
stage. But you'll know them when you see them.
“The unnamed act thing has really caught on for the top-tier acts,” says
Hannah Chambers, a comedy manager, whose roster includes Jimmy Carr and
Frankie Boyle. And Tim Arthur, the comedy editor of the London listings
magazine Time Out, is happy to go along with the ruse. “I know people who
make a point of going to these gigs,” he says, “who embrace the lucky-dip
nature of it.”
According to the promoter Christian Knowles, whose London comedy nights
include the Monday Club, mystery guests “put bums on seats”. Jack Dee,
Graham Norton, Dylan Moran, Daniel Kitson, Lenny Henry and Lee Mack are some
of the acts who have appeared anonymously for him. “They know it'll be an
informed comedy crowd and they can take some risks,” he says.
So is that why they do it? To reconnect with their comedy roots? Partly. The
most common reason is because they are preparing new material for a tour and
want to do it on the quiet. “It's about managing expectations,” says the
comedian and TV host Dara O'Briain. “If you've been away from the circuit,
you're not match fit. And you never know if something's funny till you say
it out loud - the amount of stuff for this tour I've had to ditch when I
found it wasn't as funny as it had been in my head.” O'Briain did a dozen
club nights of varying degrees of hairiness as he got ready for his current
show. “Once the tour starts, you've got to be ready,” he says. “No one pays
£20 to be on your side as you work through some stuff.”
But it's not always an easy fit. The comedian Ed Byrne, the biggest selling
act on the Edinburgh Fringe in 2006, is currently working on the follow-up.
He's back in the clubs. But he prefers to do no more than ten minutes at a
time. And that can be difficult if your name - or lack of it - is a selling
point. “You can't turn up with a notebook in your hand if you're headlining
the club,” he says.
Which is why some acts won't be a mystery guest but will turn up unannounced
in the middle of a bill. The comedian Ardal O'Hanlon tries out new ideas in
this way at his local club in Dublin, the Comedy Cellar. “It's a real
leveller,” he says. “You've got everything to lose, it's a banana skin. But
it's essential.”
Part of the awkwardness, suggests the Father Ted star, is that you're bound to
be rusty - that's why you are there. Meanwhile there will be club comedians
on the bill who are performing every night of the week. “It's very
competitive,” he says, “you want to be better than the others. When I go on,
it's quite exciting for people. But it quickly turns to disappointment when
you are just another bloke saying a bunch of stuff.”
There are other ways of going under the radar. Perrier Award-winner Jenny
Eclair is about to go back on tour after taking six months off. She wouldn't
dream of doing a club date: “The risk of going on the bill and being shown
up by some 23-year-old makes me puke,” she says. “And I'm not a proper comic
anyway. I'm an actress and I'm vaguely amusing and I know how to perform,
but I'm not a proper club comedian.”
So earlier this month she did her show at the Hen & Chickens pub theatre
in North London, without putting it in any listings: “It just goes up on the
blackboard like a special dish,” she says. (Actually, it goes on her website
and the theatre's too.)
She filled the 70-seater and got a chance to reheat her old material and have
a stab at 15 minutes of new material. Without risking devaluing her tour.
“The reason agents don't like acts advertising these sort of appearances is
a commercial one,” Chambers says. “You don't want anything to compete with
your touring show.” If you've got an act playing a 2,000-seater at £20 a
pop, you want people to see them there, not in a 100-seat club for a fiver.
Not that it's a like-for-like deal. O'Hanlon also did some shows at the Hen &
Chickens before his tour last year. He charged £9, compared with almost
twice that a few months later at the Arts Theatre. But there was an unspoken
contract, was there not, between him and his audience? That what they were
gaining in intimacy they were losing in polish? “Absolutely,” he says. “They
know it won't be as good as it will be in three months' time.”
Put simply, the mission of a mystery guest is to try out material without
damaging their reputation. Byrne recently saw the American comedian Chris
Rock - arguably one of the best comedians in the world, certainly one of the
most successful - do an unannounced set at the Comedy Cellar in New York. “I
love Chris Rock,” he says, “but he was basically just thinking his act
through. It was 45 minutes without a joke in it! And that's also kind of
unfair to the new guy who's got to finish the show.” And O'Briain can't
quite shake the memory of seeing a “legendary” Irish comedian play a
surprise set. “The place went mental when he went on,” he says. “They gave
him a huge ovation. Then he did an hour of largely pedestrian stuff. He
didn't exactly die on his arse. But he left with, let's say, a recalibrated
sense of appreciation.”
So if you are going to be a mystery guest, you need to know your limits.
Perhaps most importantly, you need to know if you deserve to be a mystery
guest at all. Chambers suggests there are only about a dozen acts famous
enough to get away with it. Eclair has a pretty good idea that she's not one
of them. “It's a very risky thing, and I certainly don't have the ego to
risk it,” she says. “You know that moment in the theatre when they announce
that the understudy is going on? That communal huff? I really don't want to
be on the receiving end.”
And how about Lee, the man who has brought the mystery-guest phenomenon to the
West End? Later this year he'll be trying out material for his first solo
television series, for BBC Two next year. He may not be famous like Lee
Evans - often to be found trying out material at the Comedy Store - but he
is one of the most revered comedians in the land. Will he risk his good name
on new jokes?
“If I came out unnamed,” he says, “25 per cent of the audience would say, ‘Oh
great, it's him', and 75 per cent of the audience wouldn't know who I was
and would bitterly resent me.
“If you are the act that cannot be named, you've got to be great.”
The Ten Best Stand-Ups in the World Ever season begins at the Bloomsbury
Theatre, WC1 (020-7388 8822), on Friday.
MEET OUR VERY OWN MYSTERY STAR, WHO ON FRIDAY WILL DELIVER A FULL STAND-UP
ACT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YEARS
Hello, Mystery Star, whoever you are. Why did you want to appear
anonymously for this one-off show?
I decided to appear anon for a number of reasons: 1) not to hinder ticket
sales with the inevitable backlash of comedy aficionados claiming that my
best years are behind me; 2) to prevent people booking tickets based on my
television persona, rather than my often disturbing live performances; 3)
most importantly, so I can cancel at short notice if nerves kick in.
Is there any risk of a let-down when you walk on stage on Friday?
The sense of let-down will be undeniable, and the huge number of walk-outs
inevitable. The stench of disappointment will hang heavy in the air, broken
only by the sound of the tearing of tickets and mumblings of “my mate knew
the bloke who knew a bloke who swore it was gonna be Danny Kitson”.
Have you worked incognito before? If so, why?
I have. I had a stalker... life was good. A femme fatale who obsessed about me
- me! So I appeared as a mystery guest for a while, but she'd already
photocopied my work diary, so it was an exercise in futility. “I love you
and we'll be togetherFOR EVER!!!” is a tricky heckle, especially when you
know they're carrying a Taser gun.
Does your name work for or against your comedy?
There was a time when it raised expectations, but that's why you strive to
improve at what you do in the first place, so it's odd to carp about it. If
you start to think your name is working against you, then it's become a
career and ceased to be a passion. When that happens, get yourself into a
successful advertising campaign and call yourself an agoraphobic visionary -
it worked for me!
How does a man as famous as you avoid hassle in public?
I've never considered people wanting to compliment you on your work or
strongly needing to tell you what a tosser you are a problem. My Dad worked
his arse off every day of his life and never had anybody stop him in the
street and tell him what a brilliant job he'd made of a staircase or fitted
wardrobe.
I have to stress that my C status in Showbiz Land really doesn't deserve the
title of Mystery Star. It's just been a while, and I'm nervous.
If you were stripped of your name and had to start again from scratch,
could you do it?
There's a frightening sense of “do as you are told or we'll find somebody else
who will” in this business. If they threaten to take it all away, then let
them. Find something else to express yourself through - art school taught me
that. Strive to be original and stick by your convictions - or set a really
high corporate rate for gigs and lay low presenting awards ceremonies till
it all blows over.
Is comedy better in smaller spaces?
I always enjoyed gigs where you could see your audience. But I don't think
there's any creative superiority between that and playing an arena gig.
There's a craft in creating a show that will entertain people in their
thousands live. It just never really appealed to me back in the day of my
own comedic relevance. I liked being able to see who I was tormenting.
Finally, to help us guess your secret identity, please answer this
rapid-fire round.
If I were a bird, I would be a... filthy needy pigeon.
If I were a character in EastEnders, I would be... f***ing miserable.
If I were a book, I would be... Screams From The Balcony by Charles
Bukowski.
If I were a Bond film, I would be... The World is Not Enough.
If I were a Perrier-winning comedian, I would be... richer.
If I were Eddie Izzard, I would be... taller and bilingual.
If I were a TV host, I would be... Jeremy Kyle with a loaded shotgun in
my mouth.
The identity of our Mystery Star will be revealed in times2 next Monday and at
timesonline.co.uk/comedy from 10pm on Friday.
