David Mitchell: Back Story

David Mitchell: Back Story

David Mitchell

Language: English

Pages: 336

ISBN: 0007351720

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

David Mitchell, who you may know for his inappropriate anger on every TV panel show except Never Mind the Buzzcocks, his look of permanent discomfort on C4 sex comedy Peep Show, his online commenter-baiting in The Observer or just for wearing a stick-on moustache in That Mitchell and Webb Look, has written a book about his life. As well as giving a specific account of every single time he's scored some smack, this disgusting memoir also details: * the singular, pitbull-infested charm of the FRP ('Flat Roofed Pub') * the curious French habit of injecting everyone in the arse rather than the arm * why, by the time he got to Cambridge, he really, really needed a drink * the pain of being denied a childhood birthday party at McDonalds * the satisfaction of writing jokes about suicide * how doing quite a lot of walking around London helps with his sciatica * trying to pretend he isn't a total **** at Robert Webb's wedding * that he has fallen in love at LOT, but rarely done anything about it * why it would be worse to bump into Michael Palin than Hitler on holiday * that he's not David Mitchell the novelist. Despite what David Miliband might think

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doesn’t matter. What an absurd way to judge people. Why take a tiny minority of a group of teenagers, put them in charge of supervising the lunch queue and then talk about them as if they’re the next generation of world leaders?’ Some boys did have that insight and, to them, I must have looked like a twat. I was made a prefect, by the way – which is marginally less tragic than having wanted it as much as I did and not been. So I was able to swagger around the school as if I was a winner. But I

to live a normal life – who won’t take the Tube in a normal way, shop normally for pants, go and get a normal haircut, quite normally pay a hooker to fellate me – but I’m so self-conscious about it, maybe the battle is lost? It doesn’t count if I’m bloody-mindedly still getting the Tube as a sort of performance – I’ve only properly kept my feet on the ground if I find it a useful means of transport which I get on without thinking about it. ‘Without thinking about it’ is the key phrase. I hardly

reasonably big cheese on the small cheeseboard of Cambridge drama, I was doing this job with Jon Taylor, an actor, writer and future coiner of the term ‘FRP’, who’d graduated the previous summer but had popped back for the weekend. It was the interval and we were standing in the bar in our theatre T-shirts drinking a couple of pints which, strictly speaking, we weren’t supposed to do on duty. But, you know, everyone did. We weren’t flying a fucking airliner. Anyway, a stranger came up to me and

didn’t really have horns on their helmets, but I can’t help feeling that’s their mistake, not ours.) What does the Queen go as, when she’s asked to a fancy dress party? That must happen all the time – aristocrats love masked balls and other eccentric events that show breeding and conceal inbreeding. But she’s got a problem. She’s basically in fancy dress her whole life. She has to go to everything as the Queen. On a normal day, she’ll be head to toe in canary yellow, salmon pink or frog green

unhealthy, as if I was missing opportunities. And my private life was a mystery to me. The reason I say that is, in autumn 2001, I’d briefly had a girlfriend. Within days of the relationship ending Ellis was already characterising my whole attitude to relationships as ‘tried it, didn’t like it, so I stopped’. I suppose that was a reasonable summary. A very nice girl, a friend of friends, had come to see The Mitchell and Webb Clones. I don’t know whether to tell you her name. It probably won’t

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