Matt Millz, page 12
He took out his phone but as he was about to dial 999 the door to the spare room started to swing slowly open. Matt peered through the crack. There in front of him, wearing only boxer shorts and headphones, was the sweaty figure of Ian bashing away at a huge drum kit. The headphones were connected to an old-fashioned cassette tape player. The wailing noise was Ian’s idea of singing! He had his eyes closed and hadn’t noticed Matt coming in.
Matt crept over and flicked the cassette player off at the plug socket. Ian opened his eyes and seeing Matt, let out a yelp. ‘Aargh! You scared the life out of me!’ he said.
‘Likewise,’ retorted Matt. ‘You got the drums out, then!’
‘Yeah!’ said Ian. ‘I forgot how much fun it was!’ He had a twinkle in his eye and an energy about him that Matt hadn’t seen in him since the Dachshund Five had won first prize in the musical category at the Berlin dog show.
Matt shook his head in disbelief. ‘I was just about to call the police, I thought we were being burgled!’
‘Yes, well, I admit I’m a little rusty …’ said Ian.
‘Good job I didn’t. They could have arrested you for crimes against music!’ laughed Matt.
‘Steady! It may sound a bit a ropey but I’m really enjoying it!’ said Ian. ‘Where have you been, anyway?’
‘Rehearsing,’ said Matt.
‘Well I’m afraid your dinner’s stone cold,’ said Ian.
‘No change there then!’ said Matt.
*
A little later Matt lay on his bed contemplating the day’s events. It was all pretty unbelievable.
He started going through the material he planned to do at the gig tomorrow night at the Cavendish that would hopefully become his T Factor set list.
His phone vibrated into life. It was Kitty. ‘Hi, Matt, I’m just checking that you’re all set for tomorrow?’
‘Hi, Kitty. I think I’m OK, I mean I know what I’m planning to do … but my main worry is they’ll take one look at me and think I’m too young to be a stand-up,’ said Matt.
‘Yes I know, and it’s really important you look older – especially for The T Factor, which is why I’ve got a plan for that,’ said Kitty cryptically.
‘A plan? What plan?’ said Matt.
‘Meet me at the DMC after school tomorrow and all will be revealed. You should be feeling good about tomorrow, you’ve worked really hard this week.’
‘Thanks. I’ve just got to get on with it now. I think I’m funny, you think I’m funny … so the chances are, I’m probably funny. So relax. I’ll be fine – hey, I feel funny!’
It was true, he thought as he hung up, he did feel funny – but not funny ha-ha, funny peculiar.
Matt selected the selfie he’d taken of the two of them outside the Apollo and forwarded it to Kitty with the caption ‘The past – and the future in one photo!’
He was asleep in the time it took for his head to hit the pillow.
29
The DMC Salon
When he got to the DMC Kitty was waiting for him. Next to her was a full-length mirror and a length of material hung up to form a makeshift curtain.
‘What’s going on, Kitty?’ asked Matt suspiciously.
‘We need to sort out your look, Matt, so this morning I’ve invited in a couple of experts.’
‘Hello, darlin’!’ A large woman of about thirty-five popped her head round the curtain and broke out into a broad grin. ‘I understand you liked what I did for my Neil!’
The curtain opened a little further and standing next to her was Neil Trottman.
‘Hi, Matt! It wasn’t my idea,’ he said, with a half-hearted wave.
‘No, it was mine,’ said Kitty. ‘Mrs T has very kindly agreed to fit you up with a new suit.’
From behind the curtain Mrs Trottman wheeled out a rail on which hung an array of suits of all different colours and sizes.
‘Neil’s auntie has a stall in the market so she gets some nice discount,’ said Mrs Trottman. ‘Come here, son, let’s get you kitted out.’
They spent the next hour trying out different combinations of suits, jackets and trousers. Matt and Kitty eventually agreed on a sharp electric-blue suit that wasn’t a million miles away from one he’d seen Eddie Odillo wear on his live stand-up DVD. Mrs T expertly turned up the trousers and took them in so it was more or less an exact fit. As Matt looked at himself in the full-length mirror he felt like a million dollars.
‘Thanks, Mrs Trottman!’ he said.
‘I told ya, call me Angela!’ she said with a smile. ‘Right, Neil, help me load the rest of this stuff back into the van.’
After they’d gone Matt turned to Kitty, who was looking at her watch.
‘You know, I feel a lot more confident in this suit but I still look too young.’
‘I know. That brings me to the second part of the plan. I’ve got someone coming to give you a makeover!’ said Kitty, barely able to contain her excitement.
‘A makeover!’ said Matt, standing back in amazement. ‘Who …?’
At that moment the door burst open and in walked Magda Avery, dragging a small suitcase on wheels behind her.
‘Hi, Kitty, sorry I’m late. Dave’s motorbike broke down half a mile from school. I tell you, that contraption is a right pain! Actually that’s probably the last trip I’ll be taking on it. Anyway, I’m here now, that’s the main thing. Where do you want me?’
‘Don’t worry, Magda, I’m just really glad you could make it. Matt, this is Magda Avery—’
‘I know who this is!’ said Matt. ‘But what are you doing here, Magda?’
‘It seems Magda is a bit of a make-up expert,’ continued Kitty. ‘She’s going to make you look a little older.’
‘You know I’m into make-up!’ she squealed. ‘Now come on, Benjamin Button, let’s have a look at you!’
Magda unzipped her suitcase to reveal brushes, combs, hairdryers, all manner of gels and sprays and – rather worryingly for Matt – wigs.
‘My mum let me borrow some stuff from the salon. Take a seat, Matt,’ she said, pulling up a chair, ‘and let’s get you sorted.’
Matt sat down warily.
‘I love The T Factor,’ swooned Magda, as she started combing Matt’s hair.
‘You told her about the gig!?’ said Matt, looking accusingly at Kitty.
‘I had to, Matt.’
‘Oh don’t worry about that, I can keep a secret,’ said Magda, selecting a long black wavy wig from her suitcase. ‘Simon’s my favourite judge – the strong silent type. Mind you, I wish I had Amanda’s money, although I’m not sure I’d spend it at the same places she does. You see some of the get-ups she was in last year? Half the time she looked like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.’
She put the last finishing touches to the wig, gave it a couple of bursts of hairspray and stepped back. ‘How about that?’
Matt turned and looked at himself in the mirror. He now had black wavy hair sticking out from his head, and lots of it.
‘I look like Russell Brand after he’s been strapped to the front of a jumbo jet and flown halfway round the world!’ exclaimed Matt.
‘No?’ said Magda without the slightest trace of disappointment. ‘No problem, we’ve got lots to choose from.’
She dipped back into the suitcase and took out a blond curly wig. She gave it a shake and stretched it on to Matt’s head.
‘Whoa! Now I look like Taylor Swift after she’s wrestled Russell Brand on the front of a jumbo jet that’s flown halfway round the world!’ he cried, whipping the wig off and tossing it back into the suitcase.
‘No?’ said Magda. ‘No worries, plenty of time, let’s try something else.’
This time she tried a wig made of tight ginger curls. Matt started laughing.
‘Hi, my name’s Ed Sheeran, hello, Wembley!’ he joked. ‘This is crazy!’
‘Well, it’s getting the right reaction,’ said Magda. ‘You’re laughing, aintcha?
‘They’re the wrong sort of laughs!’
‘OK, let’s start again. In my book on stage make-up it says a little bit of talcum powder put on the hair can give it a grey effect,’ she said, shaking a tub of talc over Matt’s hair. Unfortunately, whoever had used it last hadn’t put the lid on properly and the entire contents landed in a pile on top of Matt’s head and cascaded down his face.
‘Merry Christmas, everybody!’ chortled Matt.
‘Whoops!’ said Magda.
‘I look like a corpse with a dandruff problem,’ laughed Matt.
‘How about a pipe or a bit of facial hair?’ said Magda, brushing the talc off as best she could and ramming a pipe into Matt’s mouth. She then peeled the backing off a self-adhesive moustache and plonked it on to Matt’s top lip.
‘Now I look like Ahmed’s dad!’ cried Matt. ‘Tell her to stop, Kitty!’
‘Ahem!’ said Kitty, approaching Magda cautiously. ‘I think we need to go a bit more … well … subtle, Magda. It’s probably more about a slightly more mature hairstyle than wigs as such. It needs to look natural.’
‘Well why didn’t you say so?’ said Magda, rolling her eyes. ‘I thought it was for a comedy sketch! I can do natural no problem!’
She delved into her bag, retrieved a tub of some sort of gel and started to apply it to Matt’s hair. Then she grabbed a pair of scissors.
‘Whoa, what are you going to do with with those?’ said Matt.
‘Look, Matt, my mum’s got her own salon, OK?’
‘So?’ said Matt.
‘So you’re just going to have to trust me,’ she said, flourishing a comb. Matt looked at Kitty, Kitty nodded and Magda got to work.
*
Thirty-five minutes later Matt emerged from the DMC Salon and Makeover Centre with a new look. Magda had cut his hair short at the sides and slicked his fringe back over his crown. He had to admit he looked pretty cool and possibly now might even pass for sixteen.
‘Not bad,’ said Magda as she and Kitty watched Matt make his way across the playground. ‘He’s quite fanciable! But it’s his mate I prefer.’
Kitty rolled her eyes and called after Matt. ‘See you at the Cavendish at half past seven!’
Matt turned. ‘You betcha!’ he shouted. Then under his breath he whispered, ‘Let’s do this thing!’
30
It’s Up to You, Frittledean!
The next day Matt woke up raring to go. He’d spent the week honing his act and the ‘workshops’ in front of friends had gone pretty well, most of the time. In short, he felt match fit and couldn’t wait to try out his set, his suit and his haircut in front of a paying audience. He felt he’d learnt more about stand-up comedy in the last week than he had in all the years leading up to it.
His only real difficulty now was getting to the gig. Frittledean was completely off the beaten track. ‘The last form of public transport to travel to Frittledean had stone wheels and was pulled by a woolly mammoth,’ he joked. ‘It makes Biddleden look like Piccadilly Circus!’
‘There’s nothing for it,’ he said to Neil Trottman as they stood at the bus stop at the end of a particularly long day. ‘We’ll have to hitch-hike.’
‘We’ll have to what?’ said Neil, looking confused.
‘Hitch-hike. We stand by the side of the road and stick out our thumbs, and hopefully somebody will stop and give us a lift.’
‘I’m not sure my mum would like me doing that,’ said Neil. ‘I’m only ten!’
‘Well, we’ve got no choice,’ said Matt.
‘You have got a choice actually,’ came a voice from behind them. They turned to see the man-mountain that was Mr Gillingham. He was dangling his car keys in front of them.
‘Frittledean, right?’ he said.
‘Erm, yes!’ said Matt. ‘How did you …?’
‘I live there,’ said Mr G. ‘The village is plastered with Rob’s posters for “A Comedy Night” starring “Matt Millz” and “Winner of ‘Anglebrook’s Got Talent’ Neil Trottman, plus special guests”. I’m assuming Toxic Cabbage aren’t on the bill?’
‘No, sir!’ piped up Neil. ‘I think the hotel manager’s wife is going to sing a couple of songs.’
‘Sounds like quite a night,’ said Mr Gillingham with a smile. ‘You’d better hop in.’
They followed him to his battered old Volkswagen Beetle and climbed aboard.
‘Right then,’ said Mr G, settling his huge frame into the driver’s seat. ‘Frittledean or bust!’
He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. He tried again. No sound was forthcoming – the engine was as quiet as the toilet on a hospital constipation ward.
‘Bust then,’ deadpanned Matt.
‘OK, gents,’ said Mr Gillingham, completely unperturbed. ‘Out you get, and start pushing!’
*
Once they’d managed to jumpstart the car, the trip to Frittledean had passed without incident apart from having to put up with Mr Gillingham’s singing.
‘Blimey, you make Magda Avery sound good, sir!’ said Neil.
‘Now, now, Neil, she was trying her best – as am I! You’re very quiet, Matt, everything all right?’
Mr Gillingham was right. Matt was concentrating on his set list for the gig.
‘Yes, sir, just a bit nervous, that’s all.’
It wasn’t long before they were pulling up the drive to the Cavendish Hotel. Matt could see the diminutive figure of Kitty Hope directing a big man in a suit up a stepladder as he tried to hang a large PVC banner printed with the words ‘Comedy Nite’.
‘Up a bit your end, Barry, please! No! Too far, down a bit!’
‘How’s it going, Kitty?’ said Matt.
‘Wow! You look great!’ said Kitty, admiring his new threads.
‘Oh, you know this slave driver, do you?’ said the bloke up the ladder.
‘Er … well, she’s …’ stuttered Matt.
‘If I appear bossy it’s because it needs to be just right, Barry!’ said Kitty sternly. She turned to Matt. ‘There’s good news and bad news, I’m afraid. Which do you want first?’
‘Um, the good news, I guess.’
‘The good news is we’ve sold half the tickets.’
‘Half? So that’s …?’
‘Sixty-eight – which is a perfectly good crowd for a room this size.’
‘And the bad news?’
‘The bad news is half of them haven’t turned up.’
‘You’ve still got forty minutes till show time,’ said Barry, climbing down from the ladder and shaking Matt’s hand. ‘Barry Wonsall, hotel manager. I’m guessing you’re the comedian I’ve heard so much about?’
‘That’s right. I don’t know what Kitty’s been saying, but I’m Matt Millz and yes, I’m hoping to be—’
‘Not hoping!’ barked Kitty. ‘You are one – say it!’
‘I am a stand-up comedian!’ said Matt rather sheepishly.
‘According to Kitty here you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Who’s your friend?’ he said, indicating Neil.
‘This is Neil, who’s a … er … how do you describe your act, Neil?’ said Matt.
‘I’m a body-popper!’ said Neil, stepping forward and shaking Barry’s hand.
‘Hm, well, you’d better pop both your bodies backstage and check everything’s to your liking. I’ll MC the gig. My wife Tanya’s going to sing a couple of hits from the films, then we’ll bring young Neil on and then the floor’s yours, Matt. After that there’ll be the usual disco. To be honest, that’s what most of ’em come for. A chance for a bit of a boogie.’
At that point there was a rumbling noise and the hoot of a horn. The assembled group all turned round to see a big coach making its way up the drive to the hotel. As it came to a halt a couple of yards from them the door swung open, revealing a man dressed as a penguin holding a half-empty bottle of beer.
‘Is this the right place for the comedy night?’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ said Barry. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Pingu!’ said the penguin. He then promptly fell down the steps of the bus and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor, still clutching his bottle of beer. ‘Cheers!’ he said, taking a swig from the bottle. He staggered to his feet and shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Come on, boys! Stag party starts here!’
Out from the coach piled twelve very drunk men, all in various outrageous fancy-dress outfits and clutching half-drunk bottles of beer. As they half walked, half fell up the steps to the hotel past Matt, Neil, Barry and Kitty, they broke out into a bawdy rugby song, peppered with four-letter words.
Matt put his hands over Neil’s ears to protect him.
‘Hmm,’ said Barry. ‘Things have just started to get very interesting!’
31
The Gig from Hell
Barry wasn’t really cut out to be an MC. His idea of warming the crowd up was to get them all singing ‘The Hokey Cokey’. That might have worked at a children’s party but at the Cavendish Hotel it only served to encourage the audience to think they could be a part of the show. Add to that the high alcohol content of the stag party and no matter how well the room was laid out or how good the lights and sound were (and they were good – Kitty had made sure of that) the odds were always going to be stacked against any form of entertainment other than the disco.
Barry’s wife Tanya was on first. She was a nice lady with a reasonable voice but as she stepped on to the stage there were wolf whistles and catcalls and shout-outs. She was shocked and as she sang a livid red rash crept up her neck and quickly enveloped most of her face. The taunts didn’t let up. She’d planned to sing five numbers, with another held in reserve for a possible encore. She ended up singing one and a half before Barry stepped in to save her.
‘Now, gents!’ he shouted over the ensuing hullabaloo. ‘Can you please show a little respect to the acts tonight and allow them to be heard? I don’t mind you heckling me …’
‘Get lost then!’ shouted a man dressed as an orc, from deep within the safety of the stag party.
