Simon Amstell: 'Dysfunction is my career'
Put downs. Piss takes. Come backs. Simon Amstell can hand it out, but can he take it? Simon Hattenstone talks to the presenter-turned-standup about celebrity, upsetting his family and whether he's got any material left for his therapist
The Guardian, Friday 9 March 2012 23.00 GMT
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| Simon Amstell: 'All comedy comes from pain, but it should eventually be funny. I don't see the point of doing it unless it comes from pain.' Photograph: Nick Ballon |
Simon Amstell made his name as a rude boy in TV shows such as Popworld and Never Mind The Buzzcocks by taking the piss out of pop stars. He then tired of that, went away and remade his name as a neurotic boy – the star (and co-writer) of a TV sitcom, Grandma's House, about a young man called Simon who makes his name on TV taking the piss out of pop stars, gets tired of it and is desperate to find his soul and make it as an actor. Grandma's House is self-referential post-modernism gone mad. It's also very funny – with its multiple Yiddishisms, the mother who gets such nachus from the celebrity her son despises, the adulterer father who might or might not have had sex with a lover in a canoe before finding God and becoming a frummer, and an extended family of whingers and fruitcakes.
Around the same time Grandma's House came out, Amstell did a standup tour. What is most noticeable about watching them is how similar they are. It's hard to work out if the standup was a dry run for the sitcom or vice versa. In both he complains of existential nausea ("People congratulate me for being mean"); his self-loathing is matched only by his self-love ("I am officially a claustrophobic narcissist"); he is obsessed with skinny, screwed-up men ("I'm a big fan of Jesus Christ; there's no one more thin or vulnerable than Jesus Christ"); and he relates the times he mooned at his grandmother and the compassion course he went on to help him understand his family better. What seems indisputable is that both his stage show and sitcom draw heavily on his life.
We meet in a vegan cafe in north London – his choice. It's a cold day and Amstell, 32, looks perfectly Amstellish – unlikely bonnet, woolly jumper, formal trousers and shoes, his own brand of geeky cool. He orders us falafel and salad, and I ask whether it really was self-loathing that made him leave Never Mind The Buzzcocks. No, he says, it was boredom. He knew the format, guests knew the format; they waited for him to be rude, he'd be rude, and that was that. It became formulaic, safe. "The problem was it had stopped being shocking. I would say to a pop star, so you've got a new song out, and they'd sit there saying, 'Go on, what you going to say? What?' And at that point you have to leave the show, don't you, because they were just waiting for the jokes. Whereas before I was sneaking them in and they were like, 'Oh my God! Why are you saying this?'"
He sneaked in any number of classics, such as, "Jordan's third favourite tit and second favourite twat – it's Peter Andre!" or, "Preston appeared on Celebrity Big Brother then married the winner, Chantelle. Preston was worried it would alienate hardcore Ordinary Boys fans, but luckily neither of them were in the country – or existed."
Amstell was inspired by Mrs Merton and Dame Edna Everage, characters who interviewed celebrities, often ridiculing them in the process. In a way, he says, he regarded himself as a character or construct, and that's why he found it easy to diss his guests. The confrontation with Preston ended with the singer walking off the show when Amstell started quoting from Chantelle's memoir.
Ever since he was 13, Amstell had wanted to go into telly. He grew up in Essex, his father ran a courier and minicab firm, and his mum dreamed of singing. As a teenager, he and his brother turned a spare room into a DIY studio where they'd make their own shows and act out being professionals. "I loved The Big Breakfast. I loved seeing floor managers and clipboards and earpieces; when I got my first job, it was such a thrill to be wearing a microphone and have an earpiece!"
In 1993 he made his first TV appearance, as a contestant on the C4 gameshow GamesMaster; he popped up again in his early teens doing a Dame Edna impression on Good Morning With Anne And Nick, and as a budding magician on Family Catchphrase. By 18, he was presenting on children's TV station Nickelodeon – from which he has said he was sacked for being "sarcastic and mean to children" – and by the age of 21 Amstell had established himself as the irreverent interviewer on Popworld. "The way to do it was to be the opposite of whatever the pop shows were at the time. Pop shows were bland, and I did not want Popworld to be another bland pop show."
Was he also inspired by Dennis Pennis, the character created by Paul Kaye who was fabulously rude to celebrities? Amstell balks. Oh no, he says, they couldn't be more different. "He just sort of stabbed them and ran away. I'm more into stabbing them, then just smiling and seeing the reaction. Stabbing them and seeing them bleed, then smiling as if it wasn't me." He knows his butter-wouldn't-melt face helped. And the more experience he gained, the more innocence he feigned. "I think I learned on Buzzcocks that something more angelic and less spiky is actually funnier and cleverer. You can take the piss in that 'Oh gosh, I don't know what I'm saying, I do apologise' way, you can be flirty and funny and sweet and lovely."
And yet the character Simon in Grandma's House hates the fact that he became famous for mocking people. Did it really not bother him in real life? "No, what bothered me was seeing people on television pretending to like each other and fake smiling and all being polite and telling each other how great they all were. All anyone wants is the truth, right?"
I'm not sure I believe him when he says his reputation didn't bother him. I ask whom he offended most and he becomes rather defensive. "I don't know. Haha!" He laughs like a hyena – particularly when he disagrees with you. "I don't think I upset anyone. They're all fine." But Preston was horrified by his treatment. "He's probably all right now. It's been four years. He must be fine now."
I bet he's still in therapy.
"We're all in therapy… What's nice now is that all my output is self-deprecating. Nobody is getting upset apart from me."
I'm not too sure about that, either. His family, as portrayed in Grandma's House, would certainly have cause for complaint – that's what makes it so funny. If the sitcom is anything to go by, they all seem a good sandwich short of a picnic. Ah, Amstell says, it's easy to assume that art directly reflects life. In fact, he explains, things are always more complicated, and this isn't a literal representation of his family.
OK, then. Is his mother as loudly proud of him being on telly as his fictional mother? He looks sheepish. "She does like to see me on TV a lot, yes." Does she like the show? "She found it slightly weird but was thrilled with it." Did his dad really have an affair and leave his mother? Yes, he says, there might be some truth in that. And did he really become ultra-orthodox? He nods again. "He's about as religious as you can be."
In Grandma's House, after Simon has been on his compassion course, he invites his father round so he can apologise for blaming him for destroying the family. Did that really happen? No, no, no, not at all, he says – well, not quite like that. But yes, as it happens, he did go on the compassion course. "They get everyone between the ages of 18 and 26 to stand up, and then they say, look at these vulnerable kids who've just stood up; that's probably the age your parents were when they had you. And you blame them for everything in your life. Well, look at them; they're just stupid, fallible kids; just kids. The idea is you then think, 'Oh, I've been quite harsh to them' and they encourage you to phone them and apologise for blaming them."
The wonderful thing is, he says, that for all their past problems, and for all that his comedy focuses on the negative side of their relationship, his father enjoys it. "It's amazing that, with his religious belief, he can come and watch me do standup and watch something on television that depicts elements of him."
It's great that your mum and dad like Grandma's House, I say, but I have read that your aunt (the insufferable whinger) is no longer talking to you. He looks genuinely shocked. "No! That's not been written anywhere, has it? No. I spoke to her a while ago. She's, er, yeah…"
How does she feel about it? "The aunt in the sitcom is based on a few different people." How many sisters has his mum got? "My mum has got one sister," he concedes. Did his portrayal of her cause any issues? "None that weren't already there." So she was upset with him? "What if she was already upset with me?" Why was she so upset with him? "Haha!" he hyena laughs. "Through writing this sitcom, I've realised when you write something and people relate to it, the greater good of, 'Oh my God I have an aunt like that and to see it was healing' is more significant than upsetting someone who was already quite upset. And when I am writing this, it is a fictional world, and I am in control of it, and if we can be bold enough to call it art, it's art… And this is an interview where I'm promoting a couple of things and it feels tacky and unfair to talk about real people in a way that it doesn't seem unfair to fictionalise certain elements of characters. That's the difficulty in answering your questions as honestly as possible."
Amstell points out some of the crucial differences between the series and real life. In the show he's an only son, whereas in fact he's the oldest of four kids with three half-sisters. And there's his financial situation. "In the new series I have to sell my flat and move in with Grandma because I wouldn't take on any presenting work, and I'm desperately trying to be an actor." So he's still got his flat? "Yes, in real life." And is he doing any presenting work? "No." And would he? "Not at the moment. There are occasions when I miss interviewing people." Like now, for instance? "Yes, this is no fun at all. I want to ask the questions. I want the tape recorder."
The poor thing is visibly squirming. One of the most surprising things about Amstell is that his introverted, self-flagellating sitcom and standup character is so different from Amstell the insouciant TV host. The Amstell I meet today appears to be an uneasy mix of the two – one moment confident and incisive, the next twitchy and diffident.
He says both sitcom and standup have been a form of therapy. In writing and performing the material, it has forced him to look at himself, and in doing so he has shed much of his neurosis. "Part of the funniness of me in the sitcom is this anxious, non-confrontational, lost human being who doesn't know how to assert himself, and because I'm aware now that guy is funny because he's an idiot, I don't want to be that guy any more, so as soon as we finished filming I had a bit of a haircut and I was able to be a bit assertive about something. Now I just want to be able to exist in the world in a relaxed, non-neurotic way and to be able to use my neurosis in a performance."
Which sounds great, in theory. But he knows there's a problem with that. If he becomes entirely functional, he's worried the well of his comedy might dry up. "Dysfunction is also my career, so what I need to do is make the dysfunction a choice. It can't just be a constant… I want being funny to be something that I can just use rather than something I need."
One review of the live show said that for comedy it made painful watching. "Well, it all comes from pain, but it should eventually be funny. I don't see the point of doing comedy unless it comes from pain." Is he worried that he'll run out of angst? Has he got enough problems? He smiles. "Yes, I've got enough problems."
But you seem quite together today, I say.
Now he looks petrified. "Do I? No, I'm still working through some stuff." Such as? "I'd like to… I'd like to…" Then he decides to keep it to himself. "When we finish at 4pm, I'm going to my actual therapy session. So maybe I should save some of this. Well, my new [standup] show is called Numb because it's about wanting to feel more. There's a scene where I just scream at the mother character, 'You've made me numb!' It's about a feeling of disconnectedness, a feeling of wanting to love more, wanting to exist in the moment, not perceiving things from the outside but being in them and fully engaged. And wanting to connect with people fully and not put up a wall. Part of my defence mechanism is humour, so sometimes when I'm being funny, it's just as a way of stopping people from getting in."
He tells a story about running along the Champs Elysées with a group of people at 3am and how everybody else is having a fantastic time while he's just thinking this will make a good memory. "I need to get from that guy who's thinking this will be a good memory, I must take a photo of this, to just being there with those people."
That inability to enjoy things for what they are sounds like classic depression, I say. He looks disappointed, and does exactly what he's just talked about – masks his feelings in a joke. "Oh, no. Does it have to be classic depression? Can't it just be a tiny little bit of depression?"
One of the things that makes him most miserable is the thought of repeating himself. Hence his early retirement from Never Mind The Buzzcocks in 2009 and his fascination with acting. It's fresh, and he doesn't understand the rules. As with presenting, he says, he has learned that when he tries too hard, it doesn't work. It's hard to tell how good (or bad) an actor he is when he's just being his mumbling, emotionally-constipated self in Grandma's House. He certainly can't compete with the rest of a brilliant cast of comic actors, including Linda Bassett, Rebecca Front, Samantha Spiro, James Smith and Geoffrey Hutchings, who died in 2010 just after making the first series. When Caitlin Moran reviewed the show, she said that although she had always wanted to marry Amstell, despite him being gay and teetotal, he was guilty of probably "the worst acting yet done, for cash, on British television".
He bristles when I mention it."Haha! Wow! Well, we make all these jokes in the first series and in the second. In the trailer for the first episode of the first series, Tanya, the mother, says, 'What are you going to do, leaving your job?' and I say, 'I might act or write a bit' and she says, 'You can't act.' Yeah. So we'd already made that joke."
Does it hurt when somebody else says it? "I kind of wonder what do I do with it. I think I become numb to it because it's always so extreme; either, 'I love you' or, 'I hate you, I hope you get cancer.' You can't really get into either of those. Hahahahaha!"
He tells me how much he enjoyed and learned from his recent appearance as a psychiatrist in the British film Black Pond.
I didn't like you in that, I tell Amstell.
He looks at me, surprised.
Actually, I say, I thought you were rubbish in it.
"Really? Haha! Wow! You're just going to say that out loud in a vegan restaurant." It's a great comeback from Amstell, but he does look hurt, so I apologise and ask if he thought that was horribly rude of me. "I suppose it is quite rude, but maybe you think because I've been cheeky in the past to people, it's all right."
In his recent writing, Amstell has left no area untouched – from the acting ambitions to his love life. One of the funniest bits of his shtick is his constant search for the impossibly handsome, dangerously skinny actor with soul and gravitas and, if possible, the words "high art" striped across his heart. I ask whether he has a boyfriend. "I don't know how to answer this question, either, because I talk about it very openly and honestly on stage, and talking about it in an interview feels like the sort of thing celebrities do because what they do artistically is not interesting enough, so they have to talk about their personal lives."
But Simon, you are a celebrity. In Grandma's House, your mum loves the fact you're a celeb who takes the piss out of pop stars for a living.
"No, but that's an inaccurate perception."
But it's one that obviously weighs heavy on you?
"I'll talk about it on this tour. Come and see me do some standup. I'll tell you all about my love life. The various problems."
Have you got a boyfriend at the moment?
"Why is this important? I feel it's only valid once there's some artistic value to it, once some laughter has been added to it. Otherwise, it's just tittle-tattle. It's the sort of thing I think a celebrity answers with no qualms. I'd rather leave it. In the same way I don't Twitter because I'd rather save things up till I've got a show. I'm not interested in giving it away for free."
It's time for Amstell to go to his therapy session. I think he'll have plenty to talk about. As we leave, the waitress walks up to him. "Hi," she says sweetly. "Could I have your autograph? I'm not used to meeting celebrities." He signs her paper graciously, and looks utterly crestfallen.
• Simon Amstell's 2012 tour Numb starts on 5 May. For details, go to simonamstell.co.uk, or visit Simon Amstell Gets Connected at the Guardian.
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