Sarah Millican: When I was asked to do Desert Island Discs I was thrilled—and alarmingly prepared
"Pride and Prejudice won’t tell me the best way to drink my wee and which parts of a lizard are the tastiest"
I think life is full of moments. And it’s important to remember those moments. Take a mental snapshot if you can. For me, they are either when I feel truly happy or a standout moment in my career. For the former, that could be lying on the grass in the garden dozing with my husband, sparring with my funny family, watching my cats play, chatting in a café with a group of brilliant friends, picking up a frog, taking a cake out of the oven. For work, moments are either amazing or bonkers. So, me and David Mitchell being handed a massive trophy by the Cheeky Girls, being on Who Do You Think You Are?, explaining letting one go during sex to P Diddy, being on stage at the Royal Variety Performance, weeing on Bette Midler’s toilet at the Royal Variety Performance, standing side of stage in a theatre watching a full, excited audience before my show, resting a boob on Lee Mack’s head. I’m sure you can work out which I consider ridiculous and which make me swell with pride. One thing I recently ticked off my WOW list and added to my “swell with pride” photo album was Desert Island Discs. I just corrected myself from typing Desert Island Disks, which would just be me holding some floppy disks containing the film reviews I wrote when I was 17, with no way of accessing them. I’ve been a fan of DID since they released their back catalogue onto podcast and for someone who drives a lot, they are a godsend. Podcasts can entertain you in a traffic jam and stop you dying when driving a bit tired. Some favourites would be Kathy Burke, Len Goodman, George Michael, Stephen King, Liz Smith... so many fascinating lives told through music. So when I was asked, I was thrilled. And also, alarmingly prepared. I think when you listen to it, you can’t help work- ing out what your choices would be. I was convinced that my luxury item would be tweezers for those errant hairs. But then when it came down to it, if there aren’t any mirrors, other people or Twitter, I could grow a beard. In the end, I chose notebooks and pens as writing is living, to me. In the run up to the recording, I thought seriously about what I’d be like on a desert island and came to the conclusion that I’d be a do-er. Sure, I’d have a few days of sleeping and eating melons, but then I’d be surviving and trying to get home, so my list became songs that would keep me “up” and motivate me. And my book was a survival guide. I’m not an idiot. Pride and Prejudice won’t tell me the best way to drink my wee and which parts of a lizard are the tastiest. 1. Chocolate by Snow Patrol — it’s very rousing, good to stomp about to. 2. Wake Me Up before You Go-Go by Wham!—I can never hear this too much. Good to pop on repeat when building my shed/grass house/boat/bridge. 3. We All Stand Together by Paul McCartney and the Frog Chorus — seems a daft song but the lyrics are simple and strong. 4. Home for the Holidays by Perry Como — the song that, for me, signifies Christmas with family. That and... 5. Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel will remind me what I’m working towards. 6.Thunderbird from the soundtrack to Thelma & Louise — an inspiring Hans Zimmer piece from my favourite film. 7 Happy by Pharrell Williams — to lift my mood. I’ll be dancing to it in my nightie for a long time yet. 8.The theme from Superman by John Williams. Always makes me feel I can handle anything. What an honour to be asked to do this. With the added bonus that I feel quite ready to be abandoned on a desert island. For a weekend or so, with an iPod dock and a generator, of course.
Sarah Millican on the terror of Live at the Apollo and trying not to fall over on stage
Everyone told the comedian her third time at the Apollo would be as easy as riding a bike. The problem was, she can't ride a bike...
You’d expect the third time you do Live at the Apollo to be easier, easier peasier, a doddle. Like riding a bike. Except I can’t ride a bike so that analogy has always been lost on me. “Oh, it’s like riding a bike.” What? Something I’ve never been able to do. Something I never learnt as my mam is disabled, my dad worked shifts and the man round the corner who offered to take me out was on the list my mam gave me of people I wasn’t allowed to walk home from school with. That list basically said: “EVERYONE, even the man round the corner who you know.” “Oh, don’t worry about doing the Apollo. It’ll be like riding a bike.” What? I will fall off and hurt myself, won’t I? Turns out that is a genuine worry. When you’re watching at home and see the comedian walk out all confident under the fast-moving glittery Apollo sign amidst a Bonnie Tyler’s worth of dry ice, you have no idea what’s going through our heads. I can’t speak for all comics, obviously. I’m sure some of them are super confident and come strut- ting out thinking: “This is going to be great”. I, on the other hand, have one thought – DON’T FALL OFF THE STAGE. You hear your name, get the word from the stage manager while standing in an area backstage marked off with tape as a safety box (the only place something won’t clank on your head), and out you walk, waving, smiling but not being able to see a bloody thing – and realising that at some point, the stage ends and the albeit soft and squashy audience begins. On the way back in, at the end of the show, you turn and do a wave so as not to crack your head on the Apollo sign. counted it out in rehearsal, maybe this is what being nearly 40 means. Ten steps. Any more and I’m doing an involuntary stage dive. The building itself is iconic. And intimidating, but I kept telling myself that I've played here before, I've done two of these and many shows on my own. I paced backstage, had 74 last sees and stood in the safety box, licking my lips and going through my set. I came out, DIDN'T fall off the stage, and had a wonderful time. The audience was on great form and I was ok, too. I introduced two of my favourite people, Joe Lycett and Russell Kane, who both had a grand time. Such lovely, funny comics. We had a lot of fun posing for the pre-show photos. Will they go with there of us side by side,m or the one with two of us back to back? In that shot, we looked like a band in the X Factor over-25s category. I hope you enjoy the show and indeed the series. It was a fantastic experience. Again. Maybe the next time I need to do something scary, someone will say: "It's just like doing Live at the Apollo," and I will worry less. Live at the Apollo is on tonight (Wednesday 19 November) at 10.35 on BBC1
Surviving The Island with Bear Grylls? Bras and KitKats are the key, says Sarah Millican
I was intrigued to watch The Island with Bear Grylls but then the wi-fi didn't work. Oh, how will I survive?
Survival is something I’ve always managed. To be fair, my parents did the first 16 years without any input from me. I ploughed through many a KitKat, but it was their insistence on vegetables and coats that kept me alive. The way it works in my family is as follows: they first loosen their grip at 16 when you are encouraged to get a Saturday job. I was clamouring to start earning and had been doing cleaning jobs around the house for small amounts of money for years. In our family, when you have a part-time job you are then responsible for non-essential clothing. Glittery tops, skirts with tassels, clompy patent leather shoes that are the sensible girl’s version of stilettos. They look pretty, but you can still run away from weirdos. My parents covered the basics – shoes, bras and glasses. The parts of you that are still growing and changing. Then, when I started working full time, I took over these three. Bras and glasses were paramount, I needed both to stop me tripping up. Shoes went a little by the wayside as I replaced Clarks with shoes that came on a hanger. Food and shelter are clearly key to survival. I’ve had ups and downs on both of these. There was a time when I lived in a flat so damp I permanently had a cold and my boss made me sign a document that said, “Sarah endeavours to eat more oranges”. Money was tight and an old work colleague said to me, “I think everything I eat comes out of a tin or an egg,” and I was the same. But I survived. I didn’t want my mam to worry, and only put blusher on instead of full make-up so she thought I was healthier. Things are clearly better now, but I’ve still got that need for KitKats and a tendency towards shoes that come on a hanger. Though thankfully my tasselled-skirt days are over. So I was intrigued to watch The Island with Bear Grylls to see what obstacles they were facing. I saved up two episodes to watch back to back on my device (that always sounds iffy to me) while on the road. But then the wi-fi didn’t work. Oh, how will I survive? Wow, things have changed. Then I thought, I bet 3G is rubbish on The Island and they’re all having to wander about to find a spot that works. Maybe there are tins but no tin openers. I sadly have no idea how they’re getting on. I’m assuming they’re all still alive and catching fish with their hands and drinking their own wee. As least, I hope that’s what is happening. In proper bras and shoes, of course.
Sarah Millican: Twitter was a pin to my excitable Bafta balloon
"I thought I had been invited to such an illustrious event because I am good at my job. Putting clothes on is such a small part of my day"
I am a comedian. You may or may not find me funny, but the fact remains, that I am a comedian. This feels like a defensive start to a column but you will soon understand why. Last year, I was nominated for a Bafta. Me. The quiet girl at school. The awkward girl at college. The funny woman at work. A Bafta. And in a genderless category too. Alongside the entertainment greats: Graham Norton, Alan Carr and Ant and Dec. It felt ridiculous but I was thrilled. I’ve been nominated for awards before (even won a couple) and it really is the best. If winning is chips and gravy then being nominated is still chips. Lovely, lovely chips. BAFTA TV AWARDS 2019 How can I watch the 2019 Bafta TV Awards? Who is nominated? Who missed out on the shortlist? Who is nominated for must-see moment? On the run-up to the ceremony, plans were made. This here smashing magazine asked me to present an award, someone asked if I wanted my hair and make-up done, my fella took the night off to accompany me, my friend asked if she could come shopping with me for my dress. Yes, yes, all of this, yes. My friend and I danced into John Lewis knowing that a) they have lots of mini shops in there, and b) I can fit it into most of them. Fancy expensive designer shops are out for me as I’m a size 18, sometimes 20, and I therefore do not count as a woman to them. We knew which one was the right one as soon as I swished back the curtain and both my friend and I oohed. At the till, when asked, I told the lady it was for a wedding as I was too embarrassed to announce I was off to the Baftas. On the day, my fella and I drove to London, parked, I had my hair and make-up done while he read his book nearby. We got changed into our glad rags in the toilets of the spa. I don’t have any interest in shoes so just popped my comfy black patent leather ones on. He helped me with my new necklace and off we went to the Baftas. The red carpet is very intimidating, although I garnered a few laughs when I replied to the “Who are you wearing?” question with “John Lewis” and the “Where did you get your dress?” question with “The Trafford Centre”. I had a few awkward photos taken by the wall of paparazzi. Awkward as I’m not a model (I’m a comedian), have never learnt how to pose on a red carpet (I’m a comedian) and I have pretty low self-esteem. My husband wasn’t asked who he was wearing, which disappointed him. Mainly because he was dying to tell ANYONE he was wearing an Asda tux. Not one of the cheap ones, as he likes to point out, it was £60. The ceremony itself was a wonder. Everywhere I looked were the best in the business. Writers I’d admired, actors I’d cried to, comedians who’d made me laugh so much I got a headache. Amazing people being applauded for being bloody good at their jobs. I’d heard the phrase “knees knocking” before but didn’t know it was an actual thing until I presented the Radio Times Audience Award. It went OK, I don’t think I messed up and I went back to my seat. After the ceremony, we had a lovely meal (apart from one of the courses that had soil on it, intentionally) with the RT lot and then I bullied Stephen Mangan into introducing me to Matt LeBlanc. Night made, we went to the car to drive home. In order not to dilly-dally, my husband did the first stint of driving while I got out of my dress at various traffic lights in central London. Driving clothes on, I checked my phone. Loads of friends and family had texted the expected “You were robbed”, which I wasn’t but they’re my friends and family so they’re supposed to think that. Then I went onto Twitter and it was like a pin to my excitable red balloon. Literally thousands of messages from people criticising my appearance. I was fat and ugly as per usual. My dress (the one that caused ooohs in a department store fitting room?) was destroyed by the masses. I looked like a nana, my dress was disgusting, was it made out of curtains, why was I wearing black shoes with it. I cried. I cried in the car. And that wasn’t the end. The next day, I was in newspapers pilloried for what I was wearing. I was discussed and pulled apart on Lorraine. I’m sorry. I thought I had been invited to such an illustrious event because I am good at my job. Putting clothes on is such a small part of my day. They may as well have been criticising me for brushing my teeth differently to them. Yes, there were lovely messages from my fans between the hate but the hate was dominant and made me upset at first and then furious. Why does it matter so much what I was wearing? Why did no one ask my husband where he got his suit from? I felt wonderful in that dress. And surely that’s all that counts. I made a decision the following day that should I ever be invited to attend the Baftas again, I will wear the same dress. To make the point that it doesn’t matter what I wear; that’s not what I’m being judged on. With the added fun of answering the red-carpet question, “Where did you get your dress?” with “Oh, it’s just last year’s, pet”. And so I was invited back to the Baftas. Nominated again, indeed. But sadly I am working that night. But if you have tickets to see my show in Buxton on 18 May, you may see me making my point anyway. The Sarah Millican Television Programme – Best of Series 1 & 2 is available to buy on DVD at radiotimes.com/dvdshop Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: Fantasy is just like sci-fi with more boobs
"In order to control the lady alien, they used a Lady Thor, I think, who had armoured boobs and was pretty handy at jumping. I’m wondering why they didn’t just round up any gay men who would make short shrift of her seduction techniques and get her arrested in no time"
I’ve never been adventurous. I like films with stories and stories that are set now. I’m not brilliant with the past – I can handle as far back as the 1970s – and I’m only happy with the future if it’s pretty much like now, but with faster washing machines and we each have a small robot butler. But I’ve realised that my viewing is rather limited, so I’ve decided to dip my toe in areas of telly that I wouldn’t normally go near. The genres I usually avoid are too numerous to mention. It’s easier to list the genres I like – sitcom, cooking, singing and dancing (including Glee), animals and some panel shows. The categories I’ll have a go at in the coming weeks are hospital, crime, the news, military drama and legal. This week, much to my smiling husband’s pleasure, I asked him if we could watch something vaguely fantasy or sci-fi. I can’t tell the two apart. From what I can gather, fantasy has more boobs in it. Having vowed to never watch Games of Thrones again, I did. Oh and I know it’s “Game” not “Games”, but I enjoy annoying nerds. One of my favourite games with my husband is to bring up my argument that the Bee Gees were as good as (and this is the killer), if not better than, the Beatles. I’ve never seen my massive Beatles fan of a husband’s eyes do the weird thing they did when I once asked why there were so many people on the cover of the Sgt Pepper album when there were only five of them in the band. The Famous Five, I said. That was a fun car journey. Nothing like winding each other up on a long drive to stop tiredness kicking in. He said I was welcome to watch this week’s Games of Thrones with him as long as I didn’t talk. And I didn’t talk, though he did have to keep pausing it when I showed him kitten pictures off the internet. Within the first five minutes, a lady had been torn to pieces by dogs and by the end characters I’d only just learnt the names of were dead. I was genuinely impressed by the actors, though. As I said to my husband (during an ad break), “The actors are doing very well, considering everything they’re saying is gibberish.” Next we tried Agents of SHIELD, which my fella summed up as “the police that help the superheroes”. I imagined that I was about to watch some middle-aged copper do admin. But again, it was so complicated it made me feel for the actors. “Oh no, the kleeglebinder has been sproingifiched.” I find I only understand the small words in any sentence. No one says, “What’s for tea?” or “Guess how much the parking was?” or “This shoe? Or this shoe?” I miss normal talking. During the episode that I watched, a lady alien/space person was controlling all men by talking to them and touching them. I know women like that. I had no idea they were aliens. In order to control the lady alien, they used a Lady Thor, I think, who had armoured boobs and was pretty handy at jumping. I’m wondering why they didn’t just round up any gay men who would make short shrift of her seduction techniques and get her arrested in no time. I'm digging fern's show Is it sad that I'm excited about Fern Britton's The Big Allotment Challenge (Tuesdays, BBC2)? Do I care if it is? Nope. The Sarah Millican Television Programme – Best of Series 1 & 2 is available on DVD at radiotimes.com/dvdshop Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: I love a joyous day of monkey business
"BBC1's recent series Monkey Planet felt like going to the zoo, only with fewer vending machines and no gift shop"
I'm currently a little over two-thirds of the way through my mammoth tour. I'm not touring mammoths, though I leave it so long between leg shaves and dental appointments that at the end of the tour I may meet one in the mirror or the window of Waterstones. Tours are busy, but there are gaps. In addition to readying myself for shows, doing shows, travelling back to hotels after shows, there are other fun things we do. We (my tour manager, tour support and I) eat. We enjoying the eating. It’s only on tour that I have a proper breakfast. At home the kettle goes on and the biscuit jar comes out. Then I’ll have a guilty banana or apple as elevenses to balance things out. But on tour, we have eggs and fruit and they have granola and I generally make a comment about what lies on the floor of a rabbit hutch. We sometimes shop. We were disappointed recently to discover that a cheapo kitchen shop we fell in love with two and a half years ago on the last tour had closed. But you can’t spend all your spare time in various branches of John Lewis. Most of it, yes, but not all. After department stores, my next favourite place to kill time is with animals. Zoos, aquariums – we haven’t been to a safari park yet as we’re using a hire car, though some would see that as a better option than using your own car. A few weeks ago, we were in the neighbourhood so we ventured to Monkey World in Dorset. What a joyous day. We saw macaques, gibbons, the little ones like the one Ross owned in Friends and, confusingly, a deer. We watched a group of chimps argue and fight and calm it down and go off in a huff, all the while doing Johnny Morris-style voices for each of them. It was like a BBC3 documentary on Saturday night in a pub. But with more poo on the floor. BBC1’s recent series Monkey Planet felt like going back there only with fewer vending machines and no gift shop (I heart tat). But what he lacked in massive pencils, Dr George McGavin gained in actual insight by watching the primates in their natural environment. The programme was fun, too. No one can replace David Attenborough, of course, and it was odd to see another man sitting among apes, but Dr George’s show had a sequence where they sped up some baboons picking grass and popped some rhythmic Mumford and Sons over the top. Smashing. If the DVD of the series has among the extras a comedy voiceover where everyone sounds like a Geordie monkey, I’m on board. In Monkey World, I watched an ape sit like a human, pointed him out to my friend Tom and expressed incredulity that some people still don’t think we’re related. Just then another monkey came over, picked its bum and smushed the results on the glass, at which point a third monkey started kissing it tenderly for ten minutes. Yes, we stayed for ten minutes. I’m not sure any of us will get over what we saw. I feel changed. But yes, they’re totally like us, right? Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: I love familiarity - except at home
"We’ve been to Paris three times. Not because Paris is wonderful and romantic. We went the second and third time because we’d been the first time"
When I was a kid, I had a friend who went on holiday to the same place every year and I never understood why. My ten-year-old eyes always wanted new things to look at – new branches of WH Smiths to look for Sweet Valley High books in, and different campsites or self-catering cottages to explore. My friend must have had such a boring time knowing where everything was, knowing that there was a hairdryer where they were staying so they didn’t have to take one, knowing the way to the chip shop and what time it shut. Awful. Hmm. Now, that’s all I need. We’ve been to Paris three times. Not because Paris is wonderful and romantic and I just hadn’t seen enough the first time. I happen to think Paris is just OK. I had definitely seen enough the first time (walked up the Triumphant Arc then spotted the lift, saw the skellingtons at the catacombs and was given a rose by a stranger under the Eiffel Tower, who then ran after my fella for 15 euros). No, we’ve been to Paris three times because we knew a nice hotel, how to get to the Eiffel Tower from there and also one good restaurant. Basically, we went the second and third time because we’d been the first time. I love familiarity. A place I’ve been a fair few times is the Lake District. It has the edge on Paris in that it’s ace. It’s the sort of place I show off to my Aussie mates like I made it or own it or something. I love that I know where to park, where there's a choice of 30 ice cream flavours, where you can fall asleep on the grass while your friends go for a walk. The first time my friends and I went, we discovered that food is only served between 12 and 2 and then 6 and 8. If you walk into a pub at 9:10pm, like we did, asking if they are serving food, you might as well be wearing a badge saying “City Mouse”. These places are wonderful, but they are small. Everyone knows everyone else and they all laugh at the middle-aged women who are hungry when the cookers are turned off. Idiots. The small town-ness of the Lake District is part of the problem in Sky's forthcoming sitcom Trying Again, from the tappy keyboard of ace writer Simon Blackwell and starring Chris Addison and Jo Joyner. They play Matt and Meg, who are giving their relationship another go after she has had an affair. I am intolerant of infidelity, so the storyline is testing me, but I’m fascinated to see where it goes. The writing is lovely and it made me laugh loudly on a train in the quiet coach. Luckily, the lady who barked a “Shut up!” at a man on his phone is more lenient with laughers. How do you start again when everyone knows your past? I’d hate to live where people knew my history. I love familiarity on holiday but not at home, as I’m sure my neighbours would testify – if I’d ever met them. Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican on ra-ra skirts, 90s music and The Big Reunion
“I’m not sure why I want to be transported back to a golden era of going out drinking whisky in a multicoloured chiffon blouse, tassled skirt and chunky heels”
I’m addicted to Sara Cox’s show Sounds of the 80s on Saturday nights on Radio 2. And it’s not just because she’s brilliant and the songs are awesome. It’s the titbits of history she gleans from her listeners. The mere mention of a ra-ra skirt will have me clapping. Scrunchies, legwarmers, National Health specs, perms. You can keep your pottery cups and old spoons, Time Team. This is the history I’m fascinated by. In those days, Pods were something that went on your feet, not a bit of metal full of records. A small glossary for the youngsters: Ra-ra skirts: multilayered skirt that everyone had at school. EVERYONE, Mam. Scrunchies: chocolate bars you put in your hair. Legwarmers: we all did a lot more dancing back then. And cold legs snap. National Health specs: the most unattractive glasses it was possible to have. It was sexier to squint. Perms: I think this was Kylie’s fault and the reason why most women now in their 30s can’t get their hair totally straight. Pods: shoes. There were real ones (very expensive) and fake ones. And small leather “pod men” that you could hang off the buckle to prove authenticity. I had fake shoes and real “pod men”. Ha. Most people cling to the music of their youth. I love seeing an old man with a quiff. A Septuagenarian teddy boy. To be fair, it’s only good friends that stop me wearing my “Frankie Says Relax” T-shirt now. I got it when I thought it was about an uptight man. I’m counting down to when I’m an acceptable age for another perm; 62, I think it is. I love 90s music, too, because that reminds me of my late teens and early 20s. Though I’m not sure why I want to be transported back to a golden era of going out drinking whisky in a multicoloured chiffon blouse, tassled skirt and chunky heels, then spending my taxi money on a McChicken sandwich. Of struggling with maths A-level and fancying a boy in my German class who kissed everyone in Oz (the nightclub) apart from me. Of the Saturday job I had where I harrumphed beside magazine readers (not buyers) in a highly flammable brown skirt. Actually, reading back, what awesome times! Drinking whisky in a tassled skirt. That boy in German clearly didn’t have eyes. Proper, actual palpitations, then, at The Big Reunion (Thursday ITV2). The boy bands and their fights, between not-the-lead-singer and another not-the-lead- singer. The girl bands and their wine-fuelled chats about why one of them was never allowed to sing lead vocals. And the mega-band made up of some two-hit wonders. I can only assume Chesney Hawkes had his phone on silent that day. It’s the kids today I feel sorry for. What are they going to cling to? Remember when phones took photos but couldn’t drive cars? Remember onesies? I’d love to mention some music, but I have no clue what’s in the charts. I’ve just downloaded Frankie by Sister Sledge. Nine is the magic number Inside No 9 (Wednesday 10pm BBC2) is excellent. I will watch anything the League of Gentlemen boys do. The Sarah Millican Television Programme — Best of Series 1 & 2 is available on DVD at radiotimes.com/dvdshop Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: I was a daytime TV virgin...
"Today I watched it. For you. You're welcome"
Try as I might, I cannot fall asleep before 2am. I sometimes try, putting tea towels over the clocks and forcing myselt to go to bed at 12.30am. I never win. For someone who is rarely on time, my body clock always knows when it’s too early to go to bed and I just lie there in the dark like I’m hiding. This is understandable when you remember I work evenings and rarely get home before midnight, often much later. As a result, I get up at about 10am each day. Our little cat comes for a snuggle, then the big cat mews for a stroke and moves a few paces, then another stroke, then another few paces, until we realise he has mewed us into the kitchen where their food bowls are. So they eat, we eat, and then we get on with our days. The first time I stop for any telly would be 3pm when we have lunch. Yes, meals are all knocked out of whack, too. I’ve eaten stew and dumplings at 3am. Oh I’ve lived. I thought I’d get up early (for me) and sample morning telly. What a bunch of moaning minnies are on the telly of a morning. On BBC1 was a show where a family had moved to have a new life abroad and, rather than properly discuss her unhappiness with her husband over a cup of tea and phones on silent, she did it on the telly. I don’t even know what that show was called. The Grass Isn’t Greener or Crying Abroad. But I suspect that it’s a show specifically designed to prepare you for the horrors of Jeremy Kyle over on ITV. Like the verruca pool at the swimming baths. Or a verruca pool before a big pile of verrucas. To say I’ve never seen The Jeremy Kyle Show would be a lie. I once woke up too early in a hotel and put the telly on low to help me drift back off to sleep. Then woke up to such loud shouting that I thought the place was on fire. Nope, just some teenagers who can’t remember who they’ve slept with. Today I watched it. For you. You’re welcome. The following things struck me: When Jeremy was repeatedly shouting at a bloke to tell the truth, I was momentarily transported into the courtroom drama A Few Good Men, where the forgetful philanderer was played by an angry Jack Nicholson. It was a welcome break. When Kyle recommended I join him after the break, it was scary enough for me to say, “OK! OK!” aloud, even though I was alone. The question after the break, “Why have you got scratches on your neck if you haven’t cheated?” can be answered thusly: a I cuddle my cats too tightly when they’re being cute. b My cats don’t like being cuddled. c I have eczema d I scratched my own neck with a snagged fingernail. e I caught it on something f I had a fun fight with a child I know. g I’m having an affair. I knew it. With a small, bitey insect. Oh. I also watched a smashing episode of See Hear on BBC2, which featured a follow-up on some hearing-impaired bairns and how their schooling was going. Interesting, sweet and inspiring. Then there is the balm of This Morning, like your first Creme Egg of the day. Holly and Phil move seamlessly from unlinked item to unlinked item, smiling and serious-facing where appropriate. On the show I watched, I found out that people can be scared of piercings, that you can polish your hob with baby oil and that Katie Melua is rubbish at ironing. My favourite segment was Guess the Gadget, which is especially good if you sing it to the tune of Stop the Pigeon. Next time, I’m going to get up even earlier to see if there’s telly on at 8am! Crazy. Bright side of the Moone Hooray for the return of Moone Boy (Mondays 9pm Sky1). Of all of my DVDs, it’s the one I’ve lent to friends the most. And it always comes back with big smiles. The Sarah Millican Television Programme — Best of Series 1 & 2 is available on DVD at radiotimes.com/dvdshop Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: I’m an armchair ski jumper
"I enjoy watching people do things I would never have the bottle to do"
I’ve never been skiing. For a number of reasons, I suppose. Firstly, that’s not the sort of holidays we went on growing up. Mostly we went camping or to Devon/Cornwall (the locals hate when you do that but it is essentially the same place) for walks and pasties and the excitement of knowing there was a barn owl nearby. My dad and I would scour the high street for someone, ANYONE, with a carrier bag from a book shop, ask them for directions and then plant ourselves in front of the train books (him) or the shelves of Sweet Valley High adventures (me). Books and nature. That was me as a kid and nothing much has changed. I still “Ooh!” when I spot a fox. And clap at a hare (mostly at myself for knowing it’s a hare, not a rabbit). Other reasons I’ve never been skiing are: it’s a sport; it’s cold; I don’t drink so wouldn’t even like the bit where you get drunk afterwards; it’s really cold. My friends will tell you how warm I like to be. They call it “Nana Hot”. My luxury at home is having the heating on whenever I like. I’ve sometimes avoided the houses of those people I know who have rules about not having their heating on between April and November. My cats sometimes try to unzip their fur. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t watch a show about 12 celebrities having a bit of a ski. I don’t ballroom dance or eat crocodile buttocks and I still watch those shows. So I was actually quite looking forward to Channel 4’s The Jump. I enjoy watching other people do things I would never have the bottle to do. When the contestants are interviewed saying “I like trying new things”, “I love a challenge” or “I’ll try anything once”, I think No, No and I’ll try any chocolate bar once. Apart from ones with nuts in. My favourite bit so far is just before they do their race. As it’s filmed in Austria, the countdown is in German – “drei, zwei, eins” – but just in case anyone doesn’t understand it, there are also people shouting “GO! GO! GO!” straight afterwards. Mam to all celebrities Davina McCall is predictably good, and I welcome the addition of Alex Brooker as her sidekick. I love him in The Last Leg. I hope they follow the rules of this type of show and introduce them with jokes based on their names or jobs. Let’s see Marcus take “stock” of how he did today. Will Melinda make a “boob” of herself. Nicky Clarke found that “hair” raising. Oh, Ritchie Neville just came close to losing one of his fingers. He no longer has... Some of them are easier to joke about than others. Give it a go, though. It’s a fun game. It does look cold, though. The last time I was in snow like that was when I recorded Who Do You Think You Are? in Canada and we looked in two different countries before we found salopettes that would fit me. I told them, if you want to film me crying, just join me in this fitting room. We eventually found some that would zip up in a shop in Toronto called Hogtown, which is frankly a bit rude. Let’s do the warp again I keep losing time to Shane Richie’s Saturday evening game show Reflex. It’s like I’m being abducted by aliens. I tune in for five minute then lose a good half an hour and can remember nothing of it. The Sarah Millican Television Programme — Best of Series 1 & 2 is available on DVD at radiotimes.com/dvdshop Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: Why don’t people in films and TV shows concentrate on driving?
“Any time an actor is looking at his or her passenger too much, I assume they’re all going to die.”
I only started driving lessons because of comedy – before that, there’s be no need. There was a bus from where I lived to where I worked and I had a very obliging, mobile sister. I did once go out with a nice bloke because he drove (he was nice, too, but not nice). Not because I was impressed by is dad’s Volvo, but because it meant I could get home from the art-house cinema in Newcastle. Art is my reason for using a man. Judge me. I dare you. ART. Being a comedian is harder if you can’t drive. You can’t take last-minute gigs as easily, because the on-the-day train ticket is your whole fee, if not more. Getting a lift off someone you’ve never met is normal, but still odd. What if they’re a bad driver, or smell, or don’t like Heart FM? I learnt to drive via three instructors, in two different towns over two years. I passed the second time. The first time I drove into oncoming traffic. That’s bad, as I found out. The second time, I chatted all the way around, super-confident and a good driver. I passed. Since then I’ve driven between 20,000 and 50,000 miles a year for the past six years. I have no points, have contested two parking tickets, and have been pulled over by police three times – once for a taking a junction incorrectly, once for having my fog lights on (I didn’t and argued) and once to tell me to get out of the way because criminals were in front of me (how exciting). So therefore I get incredibly annoyed when I see people in films and on telly not concentrating when “driving”. Yes, I know it’s magic and they’re really on the back of a truck with a faceful of cameramen, but any time an actor is looking at his or her passenger too much, I assume they’re all going to die. And am annoyed when they don’t. I have seen Sleepless in Seattle more often than I’ve seen some of my family members, but when Meg Ryan is listening to Tom Hanks on the wireless while driving, she does not look at the road once. Wistful Middle Distance the whole time. Wistful Middle Distance driving is a shortcut to dead. What did I learn from that film? Not that there is someone out there for everyone. Not that radio phone-in shows can be an unexpected route to love. Not that Tom Hanks is the only man who can rock a bubble perm. I learnt that Meg Ryan is a bad, BAD driver. I hope she’s better now. I hope she’s learnt from Downton’s Matthew, who was so happy about the birth of his son and so full of love for his wife that he drove his car while looking up at the sky. DEAD. As he should be. I loved him, but the man drove like an idiot. Biscuits on the brain I’m really enjoying ITV’s Weight Loss Ward. Amazing stories, plus North East accents. My favourite bit was when one inspiring fella described to his children the holes made in his stomach during his operation: “about the size of a Jammie Dodger”. His brain was on the fast-track to health, but his heart was still in the biscuit tin. The Sarah Millican Television Programme — Best of Series 1 & 2 is available on DVD at radiotimes.com/dvdshop. Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: Sherlock has just the right amount of smugness for me
Splash! and Dancing on Ice were also on the menu as Sarah Millican spent some time off grazing the TV buffet
Some people just have picky teas at Christmas. You know the sort of thing. Pickled onions, beetroot, various meat, crisps designed to scoop as much dip as possible, cursory salad that will be ignored apart from sticks of cucumber that have only got into the party by telling the doormen that they are also good at shoveling dip into gobs. I love these kinds of teas. Very little prep, no cooking unless you have to warm something through. One of my friends uses paper plates, which increases the party feel without having to invite children or a clown. This has also been my recent approach to telly watching. As I write, I’m taking a little time off work – which is bloody lovely. Imagine me jumping up an down on a bed while holding a tub of popcorn like Kevin in Home Alone. Or imagine me eating a flake in the bath, dropping it and chasing it around, catching it in the cup I use to rinse my hair and eating it anyway. Imagine me dozing in front of a fire, still in my nightie, smelling of yesterday. Bliss. Time off means a scattergun approach to telly, too. When I’m time-limited, I often scale it all down just to the basics – Pointless, Glee and The Walking Dead. The holy trinity. But when I have time on my hands, I’ll dabble in all sorts. My buffet of choice recently has included Splash!. I like Splash!. It’s easy watching and there’s always the chance of an ouchy belly flop, or someone who couldn’t be bothered to get waxed and is letting it all hang out. I’ve popped in and out of Dancing on Ice, too, mostly watching for any more gold from Todd Carty. To be honest, Phillip Schofield keeps me tuned in anyway. He could present a daft game show about a see-through box and I’d watch it. Oh... I’ve brought the IQ level up a little with Sherlock. So well written, smart and very funny. Clever enough to make me concentrate and put Twitter down, but not enough to make me dismiss it as “up its own backside” while quietly seething that I didn’t get it. Sherlock has just the right amount of smugness for me. Beautifully written and acted. Benedict Cumberbatch still makes you love Holmes even though he’s a bit of a tool. And Martin Freeman’s performance saved me from wanting to flatten him while he was faffing for HOURS in The Hobbit. Recently I even watched a documentary, though it was about men who wear rubber lady suits and then go clubbing with their cracking knockers and creepily still faces. I’m pretty sure that C4’s Secrets of the Living Dolls would have been an eye-openeer even for Cliff Richard. The Sarah Millican Television Programme — Best of Series 1 & 2 is available on DVD at radiotimes.com/dvdshop Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: Why isn't Friends still on TV?
"I’m sure the cast from Friends have the odd Nando’s together"
It really isn’t fair when your favourite programme ends, is it? Like why isn’t Thirtysomething still on as Fiftysomething with the same annoyingly catchy pan-pipesy theme tune? Or why aren’t we still watching Manimal (my absolute favourite show when I was eight) where the grandson of the original fella is solving crimes by turning into meerkats? Sure, some programmes seem to never go away – Emmerdale; the news – while other just disappear. Do you know that there are people alive who think Magnum just made fancy choc ices? Poor buggers. In the 80s, a lot of women would have happily treated themselves to a Magnum. It was the ’tache and chest hair that did it. Why isn’t he still solving crimes (if indeed that’s what he did. I just remember the loud shirts and the hair)? We know he’s alive. We saw him kissing Monica a few years ago. Which brings me to the reason for these thoughts. Why isn’t Friends still on? When I watch the repeats, I am now older than most of them. I feel like the only one who can’t find the elixir of youth in John Lewis. It’s in the perfumey section, which always makes me flustered as I march straight through it to the toilets. I saw Jennifer Aniston on The Ellen DeGeneres Show dismissing a Friends reunion even though the audience were giddy at the prospect. Apparently co-creator Marta Kauffman has put the final nail in the coffin by saying it’s never going to happen. Booo! At first I thought that it was selfish considering how many people they could make happy if they did get back together for one last show. Then I remembered what reunions are. I’ve never been to a school reunion. Mainly because I’m still in touch with my two friends and after them, I only really liked the teachers. I’m pretty sure no one invites teachers to school reunions. And yes, I do meet up with some of my old colleagues from when I worked on a till, on a popcorn stand, in a Job Centre, in an office and in a recording studio. We meet up. We talk about old times. We discuss the hideous uniforms and the time only two of us dressed up on Christmas Eve. Our theme was “bad taste” and no one noticed we were dressed up. CRAZY, CRAZY TIMES. So yes, I do meet up with them. As I’m sure the cast from Friends have the odd Nando’s together. But it would take a lot more than a baying crowd at Ellen’s show to get me back behind that till in a ponytail and a nylon skirt that caused sparks as I walked. Or chipping the cheese off the walls in the cinema in a T-shirt that smelled of hot dogs. Some things you just shouldn’t revisit. I’ve never done fancy dress since. Just in case no one notices. Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican invites her favourite guests for a fantasy festive feast
"Miranda will be in charge of carrying the plates and the jug of gravy. I’ll get the mop ready."
The lovely people at RT have asked me to write about my fantasy Christmas dinner. Surely Christmas dinner is quite a fantasy already? Try describing it to an alien or small child. “It’s like a Sunday dinner, but better and with more food... I know. You’re right. It is awesome. Consider this: there’s MEAT wrapped in other MEAT and that’s not even the main MEAT! And, aside from the food, there’s a small-scale strongest-man contest where the winner gets a plastic ring and a crown that tears very easily. Yes, I bet you will win that... Our leader’s televised message? Is that the Queen or the Prime Minister? Oh good, it’s Clare Balding!” And presumably, as it’s a fantasy Christmas dinner: 1. I can be ten years old so that my only responsibility is folding the serviettes into poorly swans. 2. My granda can be there. (He died when I was 16, but the Christmasses with him were some of the best I’ll ever have.) 3. I win all of the crackers and they’re the old, cheap ones with false fingertips and moustaches inside, not the posh ones with tiny pointless salt and pepper sets and miniature nail clippers. 4. I have 19 cats and they all want to sit on my knee. I cry because I’m so loved (needy). 5. Everyone leaves promptly. It’d be awful to have to hoover around celebrities to get them out. Along with my fella, mam, dad, sister and late granda, I’ll have eight guests – not seven, as Len Goodman is on the list and those who love him try to avoid that number. He needs to save his sevens for work. My kitchen table isn’t big enough, so some will have to eat on trays in the living room and I might have to put one in the car. I reckon Dave Allen and my granda will get on and it’ll give my dad a chance to tell the story of how Mr Allen once bought him a whiskey. It’s a good story. Len Goodman can twirl my mam around the living room while my sister and I queue up for the next dance. Stephen Fry and Richard Osman will do well against my fella in the quiz. Sample question: Name a newsreader. No, it was Moira Stuart. My money’s on my fella. You get bonus guests of Terry Wogan and Ronnie Corbett when inviting Rob Brydon, though we’ll let him be himself for a few minutes too. Miranda will be in charge of carrying the plates and the jug of gravy (no boats her, a proper jug). I’ll get the mop ready. And the Carrs (Jimmy and Alan) will keep us entertained, which is a good job as no one will want to watch themselves on telly so we’ll miss all the best shows! And they’ll all leave promptly in the early evening after Richard has loaded the dishwasher, Jimmy has taken out the rubbish and Miranda has performed her trademark breast clap. Please no one ask Len what time it is. Merry Christmas, you lovely lot! Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: Look! That mouse is sharing a sleeping bag with that lion
"Liz Bonnin’s Animal Odd Couples is like someone rubbing your back"
We all need a big cushiony telly show to fall back on. Like the pair of slippers after you unexpectedly went Christmas shopping in your work shoes. Like the cup of tea when your deadlines are making you cry. Like the hug off someone who matters when it’s cold and you wanted to look nice, not warm. When I was a bairn (if we count 28 as still a bairn), I used to watch Disney films when I was ill. Not all of them. Pinocchio still gives me the willies and some of the newer ones are “too new” with the characters wandering about with low-slung trousers and mobile phones. No thanks. But Cinderella, Snow White (speeding past any scenes with the wicked queen/old hag fruit lady), The Jungle Book plus Beauty and the Beast and The Little Mermaid from the more recent ones did the job nicely. When I was ill (cold, flu, pretending a sprained ankle is worse than it is), my mam wouldn’t allow me to stay IN bed. I had to sit ON the bed and not in pyjamas, either. She said you feel better if you’ve showered and put on clothes. She was right. She usually is. But I know that Baloo the bear and Sebastian the crab and whatever interchangeable princes were on offer would cheer me up, too. These days, I normally resort to Friends. It’s always on Comedy Central. I have a backlog on my recordy box and a few years ago my fella bought the whole lot for me anyway. It’s short, familiar and makes me laugh. And it’s like having actual friends around but without having to brush your hair or put things into piles (tidying). But I now have a new show that warms my cockles (if I’m just in a nightie and they’re cold). Liz Bonnin’s Animal Odd Couples is like someone rubbing your back. It’s like all of the clips you normally watch on the internet – LOOK! A dog likes a cat. LOOK! That badger is friends with that dolphin. LOOK! That mouse is sharing a sleeping bag with that lion. LOOK! Those chimps are holding hands. ON SWINGS. WHILE SINGING. Sorry, I love the internet. Since I got my cats, I don’t look at clips so much. Like a teenage boy with a real live girlfriend. But I am always sucked into clips of unlikely animal friendships. And Animal Odd Couples is just that. I’m surprised I heard any of Liz Bonnin’s chat at all, above all of the “Aaaaaaaaaahhh”, “Oh my” and saying, “Look...” at no one. At the end of the show, I picked up my cats and hugged them tight. They wriggled free and I know that’s because even the best of friends don’t squeeze each other while crying. The Sarah Millican Television Programme is available at radiotimes.com/dvdshop Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican on I'm A Celebrity, the British Comedy Awards and catch up TV
There are certain shows that have to be missed while on tour, but Millican confesses to getting rather caught up with jungle life this year
When I’m on tour, telly-watching happens at unusual times for me. After a hotel breakfast, I generally catch up on Homes Under Hammer and This Morning, while replying to emails and dozing slightly. A full belly will do that to a woman. I try to cover three food groups at breakfast. I see that as a licence to eat rubbish for the rest of the day. Touring equals a lot of sandwiches. Then I might dabble in a Cagney and Lacey or Pointess if I’m not travelling in the afternoon. After my show finishes, I either treat myself to some terrible phone-in-quiz cack or retire to the laptop for catch-up telly. I’m working every evening so I have to watch online all of the shows people are talking about. The shows that are on a lot tend to fall by the wayside for a while. EastEnders, for example, is on too much for an evening worker. I can’t keep up. So I’ll clock back into Albert Square in time for whatever Christmas wedding/murder/murdery wedding they have planned. I’ve stupidly got into I’m a Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here! which is on – as I’ve discovered – every day. If I don’t watch it though, what will I have to talk to hairdressers and other chatty strangers about? It’s a really great opening gambit as, like Strictly... and The X Factor, it’s something everyone has an opinion on, whether they watch it or not. People who don’t watch Strictly... usually say that Brucie should retire. People who don’t watch The X Factor think Simon should come back, and people who don’t watch I’m a Celeb... think Ant and Dec are the best thing on it. And they’re not wrong. Ant and Dec are hilarious, cheeky and a little bit dishy. They provide the laughs while the celebs provide the rest. I was in a restaurant the other day and my friend ordered whitebait. For the uninitiated (like I was), this entailed a small basket filled with loads of little complete fish. Complete fish. Not battered either. Just lying there staring at me and my soup. To get over the sight of my friend eating fish heads, I pretended I was watching I’m a Celebrity... She won her challenge and had a normal main course, but I was so focused, she could have had koala penis risotto and I’d have applauded at the end. I love, too, how the show helps you see the real people behind the celebrities. I like all of this year’s group so far, but my favourite had to be Joey Essex. He’s adorable. I haven’t really watched The Only Way is Essex (I’m more of a Geordie Shore type) so I’ve only really heard stuff about him being not that bright. But he’s like a bairn. A lovely, sheltered, innocent bairn. And an open book. Even if it is mostly pictures. It’s the British Comedy Awards this week — 9.00pm Thursday on Channel 4 — but sadly I can’t go. I’ve been nominated three years in a row and the only time I won was the year I couldn’t attend. Who knows if I’ve been nominated this year, but the fact that I’ll be on stage in Wolverhampton might be a good sign! Sarah’s stand-up DVD, Thoroughly Modern Millican Live, is available at radiotimes.com/dvdshop Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: Watching young people’s telly is a bit like watching porn
"I’ll watch for a couple of minutes until either someone walks in or something happens that I don’t understand"
I’ve just realised that I lean towards telly that features people of a similar age to me. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it? I watch soaps with casts of all ages because there are at least three or four people in my age band. Somehow it’s fine if they’re a murderer as long as they’re not a young one. In Bake Off, Mel and Sue are in my gang. At least two of the X Factor judges would tick the same age box as me on a form. And if you add together the ages of Tess and Brucie and divide them by two, it’s probably me. I’ll dabble in shows starring older folk – Last Tango in Halifax, New Tricks, Question Time – but never really commit. Like I’m flicking through a catalogue of plates with the Queen on but not looking at the prices. Which is odd given that I give myself so fully to the slightly pensionery lifestyle: slippers, cardigans, no hard toffees. Whenever I stray into “young people’s telly”, it’s a bit like I’m watching porn. I’ll watch for a couple of minutes until either someone walks in or something happens that I don’t understand. I tried Hollyoaks the other day and couldn’t get past the opening credits. Mainly because they were so long. I remember when Hollyoaks started. I was the right age to watch it and could remember the names of all six cast members. And you could tell people apart in those days. The opening theme now must be on a 12-inch single as probably 60 attractive people with only two body shapes and four faces blow kisses or point fingers at the camera. It felt like I’d flicked through a Kays catalogue. I tried Fresh Meat again because, even though they’re at university, I remembered there’s one older one who’s a bit weird in glasses. Maybe Howard is my ticket. And I love it. It’s funny and smart and the characters, while young, are well rounded and believable. I might not want them in my house but I like them on my telly. I love Drifters, too, Jessica Knappett’s new sitcom about three friends who are post-uni and pre-happiness – that odd middle bit where you don’t know what you want to do but it definitely isn’t this. Who can’t relate to that? I was there for ten years. It makes me honk with laughter and it’s so great to see a show with three female leads and no apology. How young can I go, though? Is Cheggars Plays Pop still on? Sarah's stand up DVD Thoroughly Modern Millican Live, is available at radiotimes.com/dvdshop Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: Phillip Schofield has always been my primary crush
"People say, don’t meet your heroes. I’d agree, but add, 'unless it’s Phillip Schofield'," says Sarah
Phillip Schofield has always been my primary crush. Sure, I danced in front of the telly when Shakin’ Stevens was on Top of the Pops, but that was because my rudimentary grasp of how telly works made this five-year-old think she could be seen by him. So that was less love, more showing off. But when Phillip Schofield (I remembered the spelling difference between him and my dad Philip by the following saying, “Two ls for Schofield, one for my dad”) entered the Broom Cupboard on Children’s BBC, he introduced me to so many wonders of children’s telly. And he was the only one to do so, as we were discouraged from watching ITV. No idea why. It knocked me out of so many conversations about Tiswas. He was lovely and enthusiastic and smiled a lot and immediately went on my wall. Often the bits between the shows surpassed the programmes themselves. Like Ant and Dec’s links on I’m a Celebrity... Get Me Out of Here! So my pocket money was spent on Schofield memorabilia. Athena – not the Greek god, but the shop specialising in “arty” posters of men in their pants and forgetful women playing tennis – got a large percent-age of my money. WH Smith’s got the rest, their magazine pages chock-a-block with clippings and pictures. I even wrote to the man himself a few times. I took a photo of my bedroom, covered in pictures of him, and sent it to him. He signed it “a true fan” and sent it back. Over the years, I received a few replies from him, all in shiny BBC envelopes. They’d drop on the mat and I’d get so giddy that my mam would make me run up and down the hallway to get some of the adrenaline out of my system. I’d stop, out of breath, and open the envelope. He said my name aloud on the radio once when I’d sent him a birthday card, too. So you’d think, doing bits of telly like I do, that I’d have met him before now. Because I’ve never made any secret of my crush on him – he was aware of it and we followed each other on Twitter. He waved at me once across Brian Cox’s lecture theatre and the 12-year-old inside me did a surprisingly adept backflip. I’ve always been more athletic in my heart than in real life. Excitingly, we secured him for the Christmas special of the third series of my TV show (which will air this December), but due to his filming commitments, we only met via a screen. Until yesterday. I met my hero yesterday. I appeared on This Morning and was more nervous beforehand than I was for any of the recordings of my show. Even the one where I had to dance with the man off Glee. My childhood idol wasn’t horrified when I showed him the photo of my bedroom (when I was ten, not now – that would be weird). He was lovely and enthusiastic and smiled at me. And I beamed. I daren’t watch the show back as I have no idea if I said anything at all. It’s very surreal to meet someone you used to idolise. And a joy when they prove to have deserved it. People say, don’t meet your heroes. I’d agree, but add, “unless it’s Phillip Schofield”. Picture rights: Sarah Millican Laughter guaranteed Cardinal Burns is being repeated at the moment on Channel 4 on Mondays ahead of a new series in January. It’s the best new sketch show I’ve seen in years. Sarah’s stand-up DVD, Thoroughly Modern Millican Live, is available at radiotimes.com/dvdshop Follow @RadioTimes
"Like Big Brother used to be before it became a goldfish bowl full of tap-dancing children desperate for the love of a nation"
I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I love watching telly. I write this column about it and have made three TV series about it, too. The telly’s almost always on. It’s how I wind down after a show. It’s how I relax on a rare night off. It educates me, entertains me and makes a hotel room feel a lot more cosy. One I was in the other day had a speaker in the shower so I could listen to This Morning’s Phil and Holly while hosing myself down. I also have a canny knack of positioning doors and mirrors so I can see the telly from the bath/toilet. I’ve stayed in a lot of hotels. One thing I love and miss when I’m on the road is company when sitting in front of the box. I love watching telly with my fella. We currently have an episode of The Walking Dead, one of our favourite shows, waiting for us on the recordy box. That’s one of the shows that puts us literally on the edge of our seats. We watched it in the daylight the other day and it wasn’t the same. I love sharing the jumps together. We do watch each other’s programmes sometimes, but often we keep things to watch when we’re alone. I watched the episode of Glee dedicated to the memory of Cory Monteith on my own as I knew I was going to wail from start to finish, and I did. I’m sure it’s the same reason my fella kept back the last series of Game of Thrones. Blub. I made my friend (I’m quite the pusher) watch the Emma Thompson film of Sense and Sensibility the last time it was on the telly. She’d never seen it, so I refused to let her leave my house till it was over. Predictably, she loved it. How could you not? I filmed her reaction – with her knowledge, I’m not a creep – to the Elinor/ Edward scene at the end so I could show her later. Shock, joy and a few tears. Wonderful stuff. Which is why I love Gogglebox. Channel 4 have struck gold with the cast and the idea. It’s human life. Like Big Brother used to be before it became a goldfish bowl full of tap-dancing children desperate for the love of a nation. There’s very little makes me happier on the telly at the moment than watching how a diverse group of people react to current television programmes. DVDs of this should go in those time capsules they do on Blue Peter, alongside (I was going to name some item of clothing that is currently fashionable, but have realised I don’t know any)... a onesie? My highlights so far include: Sandy and Sandra and the whip; Stephen and Chris discussing Britney; the son of the Michael family overhearing his parents’ views on foreplay; the posh man, Dom, pouring champagne into a glass held on his wife’s head; and the wonderful insight into the world of Leon and June. It’s laugh-out-loud funny, but the emotions change depending on what people are watching. How amazing that what appears to be fluff has shown how a programme like Coronation Street has made families up and down the country discuss cancer and the “right to die”. How real and moving to glimpse others doing what we are also doing ourselves. Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: Who says telly is bad for kids?
"I once kissed a boy at my first job because he offered to record the Oscars for me," says Millican
I'm old enough to remember the days when you actually missed your favourite programme. Missed it. And cried. Possibly because you were a child, but not always. Then came video recorders, but being the youngest and smallest person in the house gave you very little clout when discussions as to what would be recorded came up. But then as you got older and video recorders became cheaper and not always the size of a dining table, parents would inevitably upgrade and first your sister and then you would get an old giant grey top loader full of possibilities. We had never figured out how to set the timer on this one, but if you had a four-hour blank tape, you could record the whole night on long play and watch the fuzziness with glee whenever you like. Or not at all. I was obsessed with films as a kid and so recorded as many as I could. I spent all my pocket money and any money earned by doing extra chores on blank videos for my burgeoning cinema. I tried to group the films together, so Douglas Sirk films were on one tape and Westerns on another. Three Men and a Baby had been purchased as it was a classic, obviously. I also had tapes full of episodes of Cheers (Woody and Rebecca era as I couldn’t abide Coach) and everything Phillip Schofield had ever done was recorded for future viewings. My new bed had drawers underneath that were built with bedding storage in mind. Mine were full of videos recorded off the telly. Alphabetised and labels facing out. They’d been moved from the shelves above my head when they’d collapsed with the weight. I was underneath them at the time but had managed to escape unscathed – just reminded that I had recorded An Affair to Remember as it landed on my head. The drawers under my bed struggled with the weight too and invariably came off their rollers once I’d decided which film I’d watch. And had to be lifted back on and slid in. Who says telly is bad for kids? It gave me good arm muscles from the age of ten. Thank God recording things is easier now. And that I have access to more channels. I once kissed a boy at my first job because he offered to record the Oscars for me. It was on a cable channel at daft o’clock in the morning and he suggested he start recording when he went to bed with a four-hour tape on long play. I was jumping when he handed the tape back and got all the way through it until the final award for Best Picture. And the winner is: click, whirr whirr whirr of the tape rewinding itself back. Three Of The Best Three of my favourite television programmes are on right now: Downton Abbey, Strictly Come Dancing and The Great British Bake off. The Sarah Millican Television Programme is on Tuesday BBC2 at 9.30pm. Sarah's stand-up DVD, Thoroughly Modern Millican Live is available at radiotimes.com/dvdshop.
Sarah Millican on bullies, boobs and Educating Yorkshire
"The programme does not remind me of my school days at all. For a start, we all had eyebrows"
While channel-mooching (I do not hop) the other night, I fell across a repeat of Educating Yorkshire and bloody loved it. I'm a fan of the fly-on-the-wall-type documentary, even if I'm not particularly interested in the location of the wall. For someone who is not a fan of babies (noisy, ruddy poo machines), I have cried my way through One Born Every Minute. For someone who is squeamish enough to put ointment on by feel rather than by mirror, I will happily watch people being stapled back together on 24 Hours in A&E. The common thread is people. I am fascinated by them and Educating Yorkshire has its fair share of characters. The programme does not remind me of my school days at all. For a start, we all had eyebrows. I loved and hated school in equal measures. I loved learning and homework and teachers. I was hated. By the other kids. Not by the teachers. They really liked me which, if anything, added to the problem. I remember my dad once said – it’s in the Dad Handbook along with getting an extra turn on any screwed-in screws and taking hoovers apart on kitchen benches – “School days are the best days of your life”. This during a time when I was the only girl without boobs in my whole year. I once made a dramatic announcement to my parents that I was the only one who didn’t have a ra-ra skirt and guilted my parents into getting me one. For boobs, alas, there was no quick fix, though these days I suspect things are different. My dad's statement filled me with terror as to what lay ahead if these days of keeping my head down and ignoring bullies were the best of everything. Watching Educating Yorkshire, I realised I still prefer the teachers to the kids, just like when I was at school. Though now it makes more sense, of course. The kids are a hotchpotch. Bullies, tell-tales (I have no problem calling us grasses, either), quiet ones, gobby ones, ones with all of Rimmel plastered over their faces, like a scary, drunk, 35-year-old hen party has got lost in a school. And then there’s Ryan. Adorable little old man Ryan, with his smart views on the world and old-school politeness, sticks out like a wonderful thumb. Headmaster Mr Mitchell is a good man, dealing with all that school throws at him with aplomb. But if he and his colleagues give us faith in the education system, Ryan gives us faith in kids. The Sarah Millican Television Programme is on Tuesday at 9:30pm on BBC2 Follow @RadioTimes
From naps to knickers: behind the scenes of The Sarah Millican Television Programme
Before you see her on the box, Radio Times columnist Sarah Millican needs some slap and a nap... being funny takes a lot of work
It always feels a bit ridiculous referring to The Sarah Millican Television Programme – it’s not too far from saying “Sarah has finished her dinner” or “Sarah would like to book in some sexytime please”. But calling it my show is equally wrong. There are literally millions of people involved in it. All of the obvious ones who’ll cry if I don’t mention them: producer, director and the assistant floor manager who at my behest before every recording says to me: “Don’t be s***” . But also all of the studio crew who make sure it’s properly recorded and not just a lovely play. And the whole production team, guests, audience and lots of technical people who are vital but so skilled I don’t even try to understand what they do. These people could be chancers, of course. We’ll never know. So I generally refer to it as TSMTP. The new series is seven episodes long: six and a Christmas special. It takes about four months to make: two months of pre-production, a month in the studio and then I believe some people have to edit it all. I mocked producer Mark (Barrett, new to this series and a joy to work with) for keeping the scripts after we’d finished recording – I assumed for nostalgic reasons. He said, “No, I have to edit them all now.” Oh yes, I should remember that – while I’m skipping out of the school gates happy my term has gone well, some poor devils are doing snippy snippy summer school. My favourite days are the recording days. I’m always happiest before a crowd. Unless I’ve just slipped on a pasty and slid down into painful splits bringing someone’s nana with me because she was the closest. I mean being intentionally funny in front of a seated audience. Two months to go... Before the recording days, the shows are planned, the guests are booked and the jokes are written and tried in front of audiences at comedy clubs. Then the recordings begin. Ready to roll... 10.45am For me, a typical recording day starts when I rock up to the studio with more bags than I actually need (“Why doesn’t she just bring a case?” “She thinks this is better.” “Oh.” It is better.) Generally one of the assistant producers will meet me at the door, as studios are all like brightly painted rabbit warrens with pictures on the walls of celebrities when they had hair. Because of that, and because I’m a chatter, I never really pay attention to where I’m going if I’m with someone who knows the way. I have an app on my phone to help me find my car. Really. Refining the script, 11am The script meeting involves me, producer Mark, one of the assistant producers, our Comedy Dad Graham (Graham Stuart, our brilliant executive producer) and Jim, who is the Oracle (Jim Pullin, a hugely experienced comedy writer/producer whose brain we pick every day). In this meeting, I read the script aloud and, as we usually have too much stuff, we cut anything that we can lose. It’s also in this room that I try to keep as many swearies and rudies as I can. The others are usually a pushover because they like swearies and rudies, too. Fuel injection, 1pm At dinner time, one of the lovely runners comes in and asks us what we’d like to eat. Runners are our link to food so we’re always super nice to them. I always have the same meal. I think some people think I’m superstitious, when really I’m just a fussy fanny and fear change. Keep out, 2.15pm The meeting ends, we eat and then I curl in to a ball for 15 minutes for a post-dinner nap. The runners put a sign up that says “Keep out”. They are the providers of our food and guardians of our naps. Togs time, 2.30pm Next I go down to wardrobe to see Marcia who, alongside Kat in make-up, is in charge of making me look lovely. Marcia usually has a few things for me to try on, either a dress we need to see if I’m fat sitting down in, or sometimes a hand-made latex nurse’s outfit that we need to make sure is the right amount of slutty. Checking my moves, 3pm There is no audience for the rehearsal in the studio, so I do as few jokes as possible – the whooping of a few production staff isn’t enough for this ego. This bit is to run through a sketch we might be doing, but mostly about where I’ll be walking and standing. It’s surprisingly necessary. I never rehearse with the guests. I meet them to say hello and thanks, but I like to keep my powder dry, so to speak. If something funny happens off-the-cuff in a rehearsal, it’s near-impossible to re-create it later. On with the slap, 6pm The make-up room, like the wardrobe room, is quiet, the doors are locked, the women are wonderful and only last-minute tweaks to the script get through those doors. It’s a lovely, relaxing place to focus before the show. Warm-up, 6.45pm My brilliant warm-up man and friend, Jonathan Mayor, gets the audience going. He really sets the bar and I always hope to match it. At 7pm I get taken for my last wee by Andy, the assistant floor manager. I’d go alone (I do it all the time at home), but I don’t want a repeat of when I came backstage to change into my Downton Abbey outfit, nipped for a wee and, without my pass, got stuck between doors, eventually banging on the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra’s bit until a nice man let me through. In all my petticoats and everything. Action! 7.15pm Then we record the show. All of the work everyone has put in shows its worth and our audiences are, without exception, lovely. Generally there will be a few retakes when I’ve forgotten where I’m supposed to be walking. Think how bad it would be if I hadn’t rehearsed. Off we pop, 9.15pm Once we’re done, we have a debrief with the gang, then an actual debrief where I take all the knickers off. Comfy clothes back on and upstairs to the hospitality suite for a glass of pop and some crisps with the guests and production team. Then a lovely satisfied drive home to flop asleep on the sofa within minutes. I believe I have a dressing room, but I never see it. From the paperwork, I know that it’s Star Dressing Room 2. I once asked who was in Star Dressing Room 1. The answer: no one. Then why am I in Star Dressing Room 2? “To give you something to aim for.” The Sarah Millican Television Programme is on Tuesday at 9:30pm on BBC2. Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: 20 things that make me happy when watching telly
"A lot of these are about me being smug, I’ve realised that..."
1. When the ad break comes on and I realise I paused the programme at the start to have a wee so can speed through them. 2. When a trailer comes on for the new series of something I LOVE (Downton, Bake Off) and it says Coming Soon. Oooh, mysterious. 3. When there’s no one else in and I can turn it up really loud whenever they start singing in Glee. 4. When other people are there and I can passively aggressively pause MY programme when people are talking. The pause button might as well make this noise “hm”. 5. When my Sky+ box won’t come on and then I pull the plug out, put it back in, exercise patience and tada! My evening is back on track. And I feel like a smug electrician. 6. Recognising my things on the telly. I clapped when my duvet cover appeared on the film Looper. I’ve also seen my top on Mo Butcher and my mixer on Bake Off – though to be fair, I copied both of them. 7. When the person I’m watching telly with falls asleep and I can turn over. 8. When the person I’m watching telly with picks something boring and I can have a nap. 9. Getting any Pointless answers. Especially if I get a “Well done” from Richard. 10. When I remember to record a programme I know my fella will like. I’m going to earn well on that. 11. When the local traffic report comes on and it’s horrendous but I’m not going anywhere. 12. When an actor pops up on a show and no one else can remember their name but me (a lot of these are about me being smug, I’ve realised that). 13. When Jaws is on again and I haven’t missed the eyeball hanging out of the man’s head bit. 14. When I’m in control of the knobs (that’s what we call the remotes, honestly) 15. When we found the DVD remote that had been lost for about two months. It was in a carrier bag with an apple. Apple was totally still edible. Didn’t though. Obviously. 16. Watching Britain and Ireland’s Next Top Model while eating chips. 17. Watching Jamie Oliver’s “Healthy Healthy Health Health” while eating biscuits. 18. Watching “Britain’s Fattest Man” while eating a takeaway Greggs. 19. Watching something my partner chose and exaggerating how much I don’t like it, so I get to pick two programmes next time. 20. When someone comes round and I remember to sit in my seat really quickly so they don’t think all of the seats are up for grabs. Follow @RadioTimes
Sarah Millican: MasterChef judges are dinner bullies
"I’d feel much more comfortable with The Great British Bake Off's Mary and Paul ogling my rum babas than Gregg and John sighing around my aubergine tartlets"
Catching up with Celebrity MasterChef last night, it occurred to me how different it is to The Great British Bake Off. Sure, it’s a cooking competition just the same, but I’d feel much more comfortable with Mary and Paul ogling my rum babas than Gregg and John sighing around my aubergine tartlets. The latter are dinner bullies. There’s a quiet malice about their compliments. They SEEM to like my coq au Sprite but as soon as my (sweaty) back is turned, they’re sniggering into their Agas. But they hadn’t banked on Janet Street-Porter. I love the woman and am particularly enjoying how she shouts back at the chef in a kitchen, or explains to Gregg that as long as it’s edible, it doesn’t need to be pretty. I’ve lived my life (and my cooking) by that rule. I am very new to cooking. At school, our home economics lessons were very poor. We were told to pick a recipe and then cook it. So no actual teaching involved then. It’s the cooking equivalent of being thrown in a swimming pool and expecting “not wanting to die” to help you figure out how to swim. The lessons were themed. For the one where we had to make breakfast, I prepared Frosties. For dessert week, I made a fruit salad, as I knew I could cut things up small. I borrowed my sister’s wicker cookery basket, which had an uneven bottom. My parents’ casserole dishes and mismatched lids never quite fitted, so by the time I’d walked home from school, the fruit salad was bone dry and I’d left a trail of juice like a health- conscious Hansel and Gretel. So I feel for the celebs. Bad enough to not really know what you’re doing but to then be criticised by people who do it for a job! Only last week my cooking was judged. My boyfriend actually complimented me on a little chorizo chicken thing that I’d knocked up (from a recipe). He said, “This is bloody lovely.” All good so far. Cue lots of twirling in a pinny from me. Then he said, “Much better than what you made last week.” NEVER COMPARE ME TO ME. Compare my cooking to a microwave dinner. Heck, if you’re expecting any further culinary treats, compare me to a restaurant, but never compare me to me. Not sure I could ever hack MasterChef. I had to quietly google “endive” last week in a restaurant to make sure it wasn’t a type of fish or cheese. And I couldn’t think of the verb “to marinate” so said I popped my chicken thighs in the fridge overnight “to fester”. But I do, like proper cooks, have an oven burn on my arm. I ran it under the tap for a couple of minutes but then the biscuits I’d made were cool enough to eat and I had to make a choice. Tiny scar and full belly it is then. Lost in Albert Square Watched EastEnders the other day. I have absolutely no idea who anyone is. Which feels curiously good. Sarah’s stand-up DVD, Thoroughly Modern Millican Live, is available at radiotimes.com/dvdshop
"His little light has barely changed from black to red to green... This is what happens when we get A SUMMER"
I feel bad for my telly this week. His little light has barely changed from black to red to green. Aside from Saturday when a vomity migraine positioned me in front of him, curtains drawn, while Joey and Chandler whispered their jokes and I braved toast, he’s mostly been ignored. This is what happens when we get A SUMMER. Of course, by the time you read this, our summer may be over, but for now I can’t waste it. I have a garden for the first time in my adult life and in between driving to gigs and writing jokes, I have tea breaks with choc ices on the grass. I fell asleep in the garden the other day. No need to worry about sun burn, I was face down. Though I inhaled my fair share of ants. I even bought a Swingball. I’ve gone summer-mad. It’s like I have a summer twin who wears leg-baring dresses even though she still doesn’t know how to get out of cars in them, so holds a handbag to prevent pant showage. She makes drinks with ice – but they’re in beakers as she smashes glasses too often to be trusted with one. She wears sunglasses on her head – but still has glasses on her face. Summer Sarah has outside activities now. And not just Swingball on her own (much easier) and super-soaking plants. Her greenhouse is no longer empty and a reminder of hobbies she hasn’t started yet. There is food and flowers growing from seeds and the local wild rabbits are stuffed full of her strawberries and pansies. So much so she’s considering planting some Gaviscon seeds for them, poor buggers. And all the while, amid the girly giggling because Summer Sarah can’t quite work a sprinkler without making her feet look like she’s wet herself, the telly is dormant. It’s stockpiling programmes for when all this glorious sunshine reverts back to looking for gaps in the clouds that might dry your washing. For when we all come crawling back, ruddy faced and stripey footed, full of a year’s worth of Soleros and a Mini Milks you found at the bottom of your freezer underneath all of the bread you never defrost because it’s only really good for toast. For when we bin our plimsolls because we can smell them from anywhere in the house, stop having to declag our underboobs with kitchen roll hourly and pop the telly on to see the summer we missed. Oh, and you can still eat Magnums in the house, you know. I tried it and nothing happened. Apart from the fact that I was very happy. The Sarah Millican Television Programme is repeated Monday at 10:00pm on BBC2 Sarah’s stand-up DVD, Thoroughly Modern Millican Live, is available at radiotimes.com/dvdshop
Sarah Millican: Just the words Long Lost Family make me do a little cry
"They don’t even have to be in that order. “I’ve lost my long family (pack of HobNobs)” works too, though the loss of any biscuits is always upsetting"
Just the words Long Lost Family make me do a little cry. They don’t even have to be in that order. “I’ve lost my long family (pack of HobNobs)” works too, though the loss of any biscuits is always upsetting. “The Long family are lost (in Swindon)” can also elicit tears. Poor things. Even when my family whinged at how long an episode of Lost was, my lip was wibbling. Such is the power of Long Lost Family (Monday, 9pm ITV). I defy anyone to not experience even a small amount of eye leakage when Davina McCall tells a lady that they’ve found the daughter she fought against giving up and that she wants to meet her mam. Oh, I’m going again. This programme, by the way, also highlights how crappy it was for women in the 1950s and 60s. The “good old days” only really refers to Elvis and skirts you could twirl in. My favourite bit is when Nicky Campbell and Davina drop each of the relatives off at Downton Abbey so that if they have nothing to say to each other, at least they can admire the manicured lawns and chat over which scone to have in the tea shop. I’ve had dates like that. I love seeing two family members sussing out their similarities. Sometimes you see the resemblance instantly. Sometimes they’re both adorably keen to spot a likeness: “You like tea. Our mam liked tea. Eeeeh, you’re like peas in a pod” or “Our dad always used to wear jeans.” I like the update at the end of the show: “Margaret and Edith have met up twice and are planning a holiday with both families”. I don’t ever want more than that. “Margaret and Edith clashed in Malaga when Margaret accused Edith of being a bad drunk. Just like their mam used to be.” Or “on his second visit to see his biological mother in France, Terry realised she was a bit of a cow and went home and hugged his adoptive mam instead”. Your family is your family after all. There could definitely be a spin-off game show for Davina, where she shows a panel of contestants an episode of The Secret Millionaire and whoever doesn’t cry gets through to the next round. Round two is an onslaught of One Born Every Minute and the final round is every episode ever made of Long Lost Family. No one would ever win The Million Pound Teardrop. Sarah’s stand-up DVD, Thoroughly Modern Millican Live, is available at radiotimes.com/dvdshop
Sarah Millican: I'd be good in a zombie apocalypse
"The frustration of an unopenable jar of jam can tip me over the edge, but at least I could use it adequately to cave in the heads of the undead"
Of all of the genres of horror (ghosts, zombies, monsters, beasties and bad men), zombies are the only ones I actually like. I have no idea why. Perhaps because they are predictable, slow, easy to kill. Put it this way, I don’t worry about a zombie apocalypse. Mainly because it’s unlikely, but also because I think I’d be pretty good in that type of emergency. I’m not good in all emergencies. The frustration of an unopenable jar of jam can tip me over the edge, but at least I could use it adequately to cave in the heads of the undead. I have to like one of the horror genres. My fella likes them so this way we have a little crossover. Zombies and comedy... and The Apprentice ’cos it sometimes feels like a cross between the two. Cinema visits are often a compromise. My fella said he likes to see a film he doesn’t know anything about. Because that way, “you don’t know if it’s a monster or a man with a sword”. Or one of the many other types of film, of course. We’ve watched The Walking Dead from the edge of our sofa from the start. It’s excellent television. They have just the right balance between the fascinating formation of a new community and “Ooh, no, there’s one behind the door!” So with intrigue, we tuned into The Returned (Sundays C4), the spooky French drama about people coming back from the dead. But these zombies are not the usual, shuffling, poorly looking brain-munchers. They just look like French people: stylish and dismissive. Forgive me but I’ve been tutted at in Paris a fair few times and I still don’t know if it’s because I was wearing Asda jeans or had the temerity to order food in a restaurant. The Returned requires a little concentration (don’t dare look down to load up your spoon as you’ll miss the subtitles and be lost for ever – we eat our tea, THEN watch it), but it’s expertly done. The music, the acting, the writing are all so good, you almost immediately forget that you can still remember eight French words and are crossing your fingers that they go to a boulangerie soon. Compared to recent cinema release World War Z, for example, which is relentless from the get-go and the zombies are all fast and teeth-chattery, The Returned is very still and creepy. The sort of programme that makes you put all the lights on when you go for a wee in the breaks. But having someone you love return from the dead is a great idea for a show. I’d opt for my Granda, given half the chance. A kind man who made bread and made us laugh. Sarah’s stand-up DVD, Thoroughly Modern Millican Live, is available at radiotimes.com/dvdshop
Sarah Millican on having a telly in the kitchen
“When I used my hand blender, I missed all of the boardroom scene so just had to watch for who Alan pointed at”
I don’t have a telly in my bedroom. I think the bedroom should be saved for more appropriate things, like sleeping, eating biscuits, sorting through your knicker drawer and, of course, the thing that should only be done with someone you know really well – naps. You can’t nap with just anyone. It’s weird. I can honestly say I’ve only napped with six people. Separately, obviously. It wasn’t some kind of nap orgy. I do, however, have a telly in my kitchen. It wasn’t my idea. It was on the wall when I moved in and while I may have done some terrible things in my time (dumped someone by letter, had rude thoughts about Darth Vader after we met him downstairs in Binns department store, eaten a croissant out of a bin), I have never got rid of a television. I like to think that I listen to Classic FM while domestic goddessing and, truth be told, I often do, but you know sometimes classical music can get a bit hectic and I just want to turn all the violins right down. That’s when I pop the telly on. Tonight, I baked in my kitchen for three hours and had the telly on the whole time. First, I made a cake with Britain’s Got Talent. Not just any cake. My own birthday cake. This time last year I wouldn’t have known how or even had the time. I had to concentrate so barely looked at the screen, which meant a fair few acts just seemed to be music, but I suppose they could have been dancers. Then I made madeleines to The Apprentice. I’m new to baking and this was my first attempt at madeleines. I’d bought a mould during an excitable wander around Lakeland and I felt the French were mocking me from the cupboard. Who knows why they’re always harping on about madeleines. They’re just little cakes. At the start of The Apprentice, one of the contestants said they knew Dubai like the back of their hand. Oooh, destined to fail from the start. It’s going to be a good one. If I was on that, I’d never say I knew somewhere like the back of my hand. I’d be reluctant to even say I knew the back of my hand like the back of my hand. Old-lady knuckles and not enough hand cream, at a guess. The only slight problem was that when I used my hand blender, I missed all of the boardroom scene so just had to watch for who Alan pointed at. EastEnders works very well with any kind of chopping. If you’re a lifelong fan like me, you can recognise all their voices anyway and just imagine the drizzle and fluorescent puffa jackets while keeping your digits intact. THE “JETS” WIN MY VOTE I enjoyed Clare Balding’s documentary on the suffragettes. It reminded me that a friend at school wrote an essay calling them the “sufferer jets” the whole time. Like out of West Side Story. Sarah’s stand-up DVD, Thoroughly Modern Millican Live, is available at radiotimes.com/dvdshop
Sarah Millican: I am intelligent. I've been on QI...
"I had this feeling that people looking at me could tell that my education was limited. Like when you think people can tell you’re a virgin."
I’ve always had a chip (mmm, chips) on my shoulder about university. It wasn’t really an option for me as there wasn’t much spare cash and my dad was already working seven days a week, 50 weeks a year and to be honest, I think that’s enough. I was the only kid in my year to not fill out the UCCA/PCAS form. Even those falling way below every pass mark were encouraged to fill in the “form of hope” with everything crossed that their next three years would be full of boozing and cooking badly and trying to be cool. (I was already pretty good at the first two and the third had been a pipe dream since my flip-up prescription sunglasses aged 12). I got a job and did an HND in film and production that was doomed when the European Social Fund withdrew their funding. (Cheers, now we’ll never know how that terrible split-screen romantic short film will end.) So I wrote. While working full time, I wrote a column in the free paper (film reviews for the price of a cinema ticket), I wrote spec letters to anyone I thought could help (film production companies, Ken Branagh), I wrote short plays (and had them read in a theatre) and film scripts (and made short films with pals from part-time video classes at Gateshead). And ten years later, I wrote stand-up comedy. Until a few years ago, I had this feeling that I’d missed out. And that people looking at me could tell that my education was limited. Like when you think people can tell you’re a virgin. Which of course they can because you blush every time they mention sex and just say “Yeah, me too” after any stories about conquests and one-night stands. And your “What are men like?” conversation input is limited to your dad, and he’s pretty awesome. So the first time I was asked to be on QI, I panicked. Have they seen my CV and that it stops at A-levels, even though there’s a bit at the bottom about hobbies (reading, spending time with friends and – ha! – aerobics)? My boyfriend, aware of my massive deep-fat-fried-square-cut-university-based-potato wedge, sat me down and told me that education and intelligence are two different things. I am intelligent. There. I said it. Not Stephen Fry intelligent, but who is? I recorded my fourth ever episode of QI last night and walked on set with my head held high. Hoping that no one can tell that I’m a virgin. Sarah's stand-up DVD, Thoroughly Modern Millican Live, is available at amazon.co.uk
Sarah Millican: over in Australia they let you swear on telly with bare legs
"I expected some sort of reaction. Maybe women covering their children’s eyes. Or at least all of the men crying. No one noticed. YAY!"
So it’s 1.30am in Melbourne and I’m eating a steak pie in my nightie. Tonight I did a spot at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival Gala, an annual gig at the start of the festival that, to the (huge) audience, is a way of seeing lots of comedians do short spots, thus helping them choose who to see during the next four weeks. Plus they’ve donated to Oxfam by buying a ticket. To the comedians, it’s a test. A fun test, but a test nonetheless. Firstly, it’s a test of your bowels. Will they be a team player? Will they gurgle so loud they’ll be picked up by your microphone? Secondly, it’s a test of your material. You have four minutes to make a massive, full theatre love you. And laugh. And clap at the end. While loving you. And laughing and clapping. And loving. Please. I’m so used to wearing not much make-up these days that I had temporarily forgotten how heavy it needs to be for telly. Oh yes, did I mention that this show will be watched by millions of Aussies who will cross you off angrily or add you tentatively to their list. Like a testy Santa. If they go for a big wee, they won’t even know you exist. My face fully loaded, my chest colour then didn’t match my face colour, so I had to be painted (I called it knocker bronzer). They looked at my arms. There wasn’t time. They needed a sheep dip. For the first time ever on telly in my seven years as a comedian, I didn’t wear tights, leggings or trousers. Just a dress with bare, slightly bruised, bristly legs. I expected some sort of reaction. Maybe women covering their children’s eyes. Or at least all of the men crying. Such are my long-held feelings about my legs. No one noticed. YAY! My favourite part of the process was asking the producer which swear words you can say. Things are a lot more relaxed in Australia. (Bare legs! No one pulled me aside with a pack of opaques or anything.) I had one swear word that would never have been sanctioned for UK telly. I can’t say what it was here, so let’s call it Blank. Which it actually rhymes with. They said yes. Of course they did. Bare legs and swearing on the telly. It’s been a helluva night. The good news is it went well. And while the other comedians are drinking beer and winding down from a stressy day, I’m here, talking to you in my nightie having polished off my steak pie bought in especially for if the gig went well – or if it hadn’t. I’m not a partying type, so thank you for the excuse. Sarah's stand-up DVD, Thoroughly Modern Millican Live, is available at amazon.co.uk.