The label ‘satirist’ is too grand for what I do. I’m a comedy writer who sometimes does politics. Satire to me is bigger and well above my station – it doesn’t only critique the world, but also offers answers. I’m afraid to say I have no solutions.
I left school at 16 with mental health problems instead of qualifications. I was a happy child until 11, on our south London Peabody estate, but at my secondary school it was only football and fighting that were valued. I gave up and became socially phobic. I was put on medication for anxiety and depression.
I nearly died in an old Smithfield meat market van. As a teenager I played gigs at working men’s clubs with a friend. His dad bought a van from work caked with animal blood and rust to lug our equipment. We were going at some speed down a hill towards the West Ham supporters’ club for a show when the brakes cut out and we crossed a busy junction. We only survived because he mounted the kerb.
It cost me £2 to turn my life around. At 18, desperation drove me to enrol on A-Level evening courses. They were only a quid for the unemployed, so I could afford it. I couldn’t stand the thought of a future just watching The Sullivans on my parents’ sofa. Finding a way out is my proudest achievement.
David Copperfield helped get me into Cambridge University. I was poorly read when I arrived for my interview at Churchill College. Thankfully I knew some Dickens, and it just so happened the bloke interviewing me was also a fan. Writing [the screenplay for] The Personal History of David Copperfield with Armando [Iannucci] had a real resonance – for me it changed everything.
The pram in the hall is supposed to be the enemy of creativity, but having kids inspired me. Ours never slept, they were total shits, so I became determined to use what little free time I had wisely. There was a Radio 4 sketch show – Week Ending – where the public could submit ideas and be paid. My first bit was on air in 1997; two years later I was a full-time writer.
People say The Thick of It was a cynical show, but that’s the opposite of how I saw it. It’s easy to hate politicians, to say you’d never kiss a Tory – and I’m not sure I would – but I hoped by seeing someone human reacting to the pressures and scrutiny of the job, a viewer would empathise and think maybe they’d make the same mistakes in that position.
Pessimism is in my genes. My parents were terrified of the world, always worried the worst would happen. When I was nominated for an Oscar I thought I was dreaming, but Mum’s reaction was, “Oh dear.” She was immediately anxious about all the things that might go wrong. Their attitude was batten down the hatches in case you might die. If you don’t die then fine, but watch out: you might tomorrow.
My parents died within eight weeks of each other. Dad had been ill, although we weren’t expecting it. Two months later Mum sat down and never got up – I rang the funeral director and asked for the usual. As a writer, when something unpleasant happens, you think: “What can I take from this?” It’s a truly awful trait, but there’s been a lot of death in my work ever since.
We’ll all miss the BBC when it’s gone – even people who say they don’t like it. I’m a supporter of the licence fee and love what the Beeb does, but they’re under attack from all sides, and often don’t help themselves. I owe them a lot, but I’m just not sure how it can continue as it is.
Watching politics for the last three years has made me grateful I’m no longer writing about it. With The Thick of It and Veep were found comedy in the gap between the illusion of competence and the chaos underneath, but with Brexit and Trump that facade fell down. I don’t know where the laughs are now. What you can you write that is more bizarre than what’s actually happening?
Stand on the bridge, not the concourse, while waiting for your platform announcement at Paddington station. That way you’re closer to the train and more likely to get a seat, in prime position while the other buggers are running.
Breeders starts on 12 March on Sky One and Now TV
