Interview with Noel Feilding & Paul Foot

Date: August 27th, 2010 Author: Andrew Doyle
Category(s): Interviews, WRITER: Andrew Doyle
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Noel Fielding, star of the hit TV comedy The Mighty Boosh, has directed Paul Foot’s new show at the Fringe Festival.  Andrew Doyle talks to them about comedy, fashion and fame…

Noel Fielding and Paul Foot are dangling from a lamppost.  “Is this the kind of thing you’re after?” says Paul, almost losing his grip as Noel clambers over him.  “I should be above you,” says Noel.  “I’m directing your show, so I’m more important.”  It’s not the sort of squabble you see on the streets of Edinburgh all that often.

For the photo shoot, I had suggested some casual shots of the two of them walking through town.  But they’re in a playful mood, and clearly enjoy each other’s company.  The lamppost wasn’t my idea.

Before long a cluster of people has formed and are taking photographs of their own.  I propose that we conduct the interview over lunch so that we can talk in private.  Noel thinks Pizza Express might be a good idea, but at this suggestion Paul’s face collapses in horror.  He looks like a vegan who has just discovered a sliver of human flesh in his nut roast.

“I can’t stand restaurants like that,” he says.  “If you’re going to dine out it should be either dirt cheap or lavishly expensive.  I don’t accept the middle ground.”  There’s a kind of eccentric logic to this idea, a love of extremes that is entirely in keeping with Paul’s personality.  I mention that there is a suitably posh restaurant at the Hotel Missoni, where Noel is staying for his few days in Edinburgh before leaving for Los Angeles.  After a prolonged, theatrical moment of deliberation, Paul nods in assent.

Both Paul Foot and Noel Fielding are critically-acclaimed comics, but thanks to the huge success of The Mighty Boosh, the latter has enjoyed a lifestyle closer akin to a rock star than a comedian.  Perhaps predictably, then, the walk back to the hotel turns out to be something of a social experiment on the impact of fame.  People stare at Noel as though he is some kind of deity.  They whisper behind cupped hands and point excitedly.  One little boy shakes Noel’s hand and almost bursts into tears.  It’s clear that for someone as famous as Noel Fielding, taking a quiet walk in public has become a thing of the past.

“Don’t you find all this a little ridiculous?” I ask.

“If you’re in a good mood, the attention can be quite fun; all the people wanting your photo, the girls chatting you up, and so on.  But it can drive you a bit mad.  You know like when you see little children at Christmas, and they’ve had too many presents, and you just find them slumped over their Christmas bike, their heads completely spun out?  It’s like that after a while.  Before long you start thinking, ‘I just don’t want anyone to look at me ever again’.

“When I go to LA it’s different.  It’s getting to the point where a few people know who we are, like it was here a few years ago, which is manageable.  The problem is when I go to places like Camden Market – which I love going to – that’s where all my fans go, and I end up having my photo taken all day.  Sometimes people keep me waiting while they adjust the settings on their camera, or delete other files to make room.  I’ve even had some drag me into the light to get a better shot.  It’s unbelievable.”

We reach the hotel and make our way up the stairs to the restaurant.  The waitress hands Paul the menu upside down, so he insists on reading it that way.  It’s perhaps an appropriate metaphor for the way he interprets the world.  Noel, meanwhile, has opted to read the menu conventionally, and so is able to order his grilled chicken and roast potatoes without any trouble.  While Paul is busy trying to decipher the inverted words, Noel tells me more about the experience of being a fully-fledged celebrity.

“Being famous is like having Alzheimer’s.  Most people you meet remember you, even if you’ve only met them once, because they’ve seen your shows and they admire your work.  But sometimes they unrealistically expect you to remember them too.  When we were at the height of the Boosh, performing to eight thousand people a night, we’d be meeting hundreds, literally hundreds of people a day.  And I’d find that some of those people would approach me years after the event and say ‘I met you once, do you remember?’  When I say ‘no’, they can get really annoyed, and I think to myself, ‘If I could remember you I’d have no space in my head to even pick up a spoon.  I’d be a vegetable man.’  And then I punch them in the face.”

By now Paul has finished ordering and, having only caught the tail end of Noel’s last comments, throws him a quizzical, almost reprimanding, look.  “Only joking,” Noel mutters, the ghost of a smile forming on his lips.

A different waitress approaches with a bottle of sparkling mineral water, followed by a waiter with a basket of various homemade breads.  During the course of this meal, I count six different members of staff waiting on our table.  I can’t help suspecting that this is because they all want the opportunity to talk to Noel Fielding.  My suspicions are confirmed when, in a period of less than five minutes, Noel is asked whether he wants anything else to drink by two different waitresses.  “I don’t know about you,” he says under his breath, “but I like to be asked the same questions twice by two equally attractive girls”.

I want to know how Paul feels about all the attention that Noel is receiving.  “I wouldn’t like to be famous,” Paul says, “but I would like my work to be famous.  It’s good to see the same faces again and again at my shows, because it means there are people out there who really love what I do.  Some of them want to talk to me afterwards, but some of them have no interest in me as a person.  All they care about is my work.”

“But that’s actually how it should be,” adds Noel.  “I saw Rolf Harris once when I was a kid.  I was on a ferry going to the Isle of Wight, and I said to my Mum, ‘Look!  It’s Rolf Harris!  Can I go and speak to him?’  But she said I shouldn’t because he was talking to somebody else.  Eventually she agreed that I could ask him for an autograph, but only if I was exceptionally polite and if I waited for him to finish his conversation. Back then, that’s how you were brought up.  But now the whole culture has changed.  Everyone thinks you’re public property.  People just run up and grab you, and they aren’t always polite.”

To illustrate the point, Noel tells me an anecdote about Richard Ayoade, star of The IT Crowd, who was on his mobile phone one day when a stranger walked up to him wanting to take his photo.  Instead of waiting until he had finished his call, the stranger signalled to him and mouthed the words “wrap it up, mate”.

So what exactly makes the public behave in this way?  Have we romanticised our celebrities to the point where they no longer seem human?  “There’s definitely something in that,” says Noel.  “For instance, when you’re on telly people construct this false idea of who you are.  They think of you as a millionaire being carried around in a golden chariot, living in a castle.  It’s ridiculous.”

I point out that Enya actually does live in a castle, which Noel mishears as “council estate”.  For a moment I enjoy the image of Enya in a cramped, formica-clad kitchen, laying down draught excluders to keep in all the dry ice.  “I think Enya is more fiercely popular than Paul or I will ever be,” says Noel, nibbling on one of the more elaborate homemade breads.

“I have no idea who you are talking about,” says Paul.  ‘Who is this Enya?”

“She used to be in Clannad,” says Noel, before singing the chorus of Orinoco Flow by way of illustration.  Needless to say, this rings no bells for Paul.  “I don’t know any music post-1950,” he says, clearly taking some pride in his ignorance of popular culture.  “I know Ella Fitzgerald, I know Elvis.  That’s as modern as I get.”

“And Busta Rhymes you like, don’t you?” says Noel.

For a second, Paul looks as though he might slap him in the face.  Noel turns to me conspiratorially and says, “Please write in the interview that Paul only likes Ella Fitzgerald, Elvis Presley, and Busta Rhymes.”

If you’ve ever met Paul Foot, you’ll understand how inappropriate this suggestion is.  He has a dandyish, vaguely aristocratic air about him.  His own website makes it clear that he eschews the term “fans’, preferring to call his admirers “connoisseurs”.  He’s the sort of old-fashioned English eccentric you could imagine enjoying a chilled glass of Chablis by the fireside of an evening, listening to a gramophone recording of Rachmaninoff’s Isle of the Dead.  It’s rather a stretch of the imagination to picture him cruising through Compton in a 1964 Impala lowrider to the strains of Busta’s Tear Da Roof Off.

“There are a whole host of famous people who I have no interest in whatsoever,” says Paul.  “And I’m very proud of not knowing who they are or what they do, so you mustn’t tell me.  I want to go to the grave without knowing.”  He leans forward and proceeds to list some of these names, counting on his fingers as he does so: Jodie Marsh, Sadie Frost, Paris Hilton, Lady Gaga…

“Sadie Frost is an actress, though,” interjects Noel, much to Paul’s obvious displeasure.

“You’ve told me now,” snaps Paul.  “You’ve ruined it.”

Perhaps sensing an imminent tantrum, Noel is keen to defend himself.  “But Sadie’s an actress,” he says.  “At least she’s doing something creative.  And Lady Gaga’s a pop star.  She writes her own songs, so she’s okay.”

Paul is not impressed.  This is unwanted information.  As though to placate him, Noel adds: “But Paris Hilton and Jodie Marsh, I’ve no idea who those people are.”  Paul smiles.  All is forgiven.

“Celebrities aren’t so enigmatic anymore,” says Noel.  “Hollywood stars used to be shrouded in mystery.  They were kept out of the way, untouchable.  There’s nothing exciting about the people you see in Heat magazine; you’ve seen their bikini lines, you’ve read about their liposuction, they’re so in your face that there’s nothing left to the imagination.  If Jordan walked in here now, why would it be exciting?”

“The sort of thing that I’d really get excited about,” says Paul, “is if I saw someone like Dame Gillian Weir in the street.  If I saw her I’d definitely rush up to her and say something.”

Noel and I both have to admit that we have no idea who she is.  With infinite patience, Paul enlightens us.  “She is arguably the world’s greatest organist.”

“I’d be excited if I saw David Hockney or someone like that,” says Noel.  “I love David Hockney.  I could listen to him forever.  I watched a programme about him the other day and he was just so amazing, and still such an incredibly talented painter.  And then Damien Hirst came on, and I just thought: What are you compared to Hockney?  What have you done?  You’re not even fit to talk about him.”

“But don’t you find some of Hirst’s work interesting?” I ask.

“It’s interesting,” Noel concedes.  “But it isn’t beautiful.  I like my art to be beautiful.  When I see Hockey’s work I get a physical feeling; his painting takes my breath away.  But Damien Hirst’s stuff leaves me cold.  I get what he’s doing, sawing a shark in half, it’s quite impressive.  But it’s very male, very aggressive.  There’s something very eighties about it, something almost businesslike.”

I feel obliged to point out that Noel is wearing a ring bearing what looks suspiciously like a diamond-encrusted skull, reminiscent of Hirst’s 2007 piece For the Love of God.  It’s a fitting accessory to Noel’s particular style; a look perhaps best described as gothic, cartoonish, heterosexual camp.  Noel recognises the irony of his Hirst-like ring, but is insistent that they aren’t real diamonds.  “I think we should make one with jelly tots on it instead.  The children’s Hirst.”

In contrast to Noel, Paul has a limited wardrobe.  In fact, he makes a point of wearing the same outfit whenever he performs; tight-fitting pastel trousers and shirt, with a white leather jacket and floral tie.  Suspended from one of his belt loops is a small padlock.  I ask him about its significance.

“I don’t know, really,” Paul confesses.  “I got it with a suitcase, and for some reason I decided I was going to wear it for the rest of my life.”

“Do you have a key for it?” asks Noel.

“No, there’s a combination.”

“So you change it whenever you change your trousers?”

“That’s right,” says Paul, conspicuously avoiding offering any kind of rational explanation.

“Is it symbolic?” says Noel.  “Is it like you’re saying that your penis is locked away?  Like a chastity belt?”

“Yes,” says Paul.  “A chastity belt.  That’s right.  And I’ll only give the combination away to worthy gentlemen.”

“But last night when you were drunk,” says Noel, “you wrote the combination on the wall of the bar in your own blood.”

“Well,” says Paul, shrugging his shoulders.  “After one or two wines, you know how it is.”

Paul rarely drinks to excess, and it just so happens I’ve caught him during one of his rare hangover periods.  It’s clear that he blames Noel for last night’s debauchery.  But can he blame him for the numerous embarrassing phone calls he apparently made after two o’clock in the morning, one of which was to a Michelin-rated chef whose dish he had particularly enjoyed the previous week?

“You don’t remember much about last night, do you?” says Noel, his face breaking into a satisfied grin.

“I do, actually,” says Paul defiantly.

“Do you remember getting dragged out of the bar by your manager?”

“Yes,” Paul says, nonplussed.  “And it was exactly the right thing to do.”

It’s obvious to me by now that these two have a warm relationship, and a similar sense of humour.  It makes perfect sense that Noel should be directing Paul’s new show for this year’s Edinburgh Festival.  I ask Paul how the collaboration came about.

“Well, we’ve known each other quite a few years, haven’t we Noel?  And we’d not seen each other for a while, but then we found ourselves performing in a show together in London.  Most of the audience had come along to see him, of course, but they all seemed to enjoy my set.”

“Boosh fans usually appreciate Paul because he’s unusual and original,” says Noel.  “We got talking that night, and I said I’d direct his new show.”

And what does the directing process entail?  “It’s not directing in the traditional sense.  Paul doesn’t need ideas, so I’ve just offered my opinions.  It’s been very loose, but my involvement will hopefully bring some publicity to the show.  Also, we haven’t seen each other properly for ten years, and we used to hang out a lot, so it’s been great.  I thought Paul was dead, to be honest.  Someone told me he’d been killed and put in a skip.”

Paul feigns shock, but cannot help but smile.

“I’ve always been a massive fan of Paul,” says Noel, as though to make amends for his morbid joke.  “He was brilliant when I first met him and he’s even better now.  Every time I go and see him I’m blown away by how good he is, and I don’t understand why he’s not a household name.  It’s a total anomaly.  It doesn’t make any sense.  Something’s gone wrong.”

Paul attempts an explanation.  “Perhaps it’s because of the way my career has developed.  When I started, I won all these new act competitions, and I was the big flavour of the month.  Before I knew it, I was thrown into all of these big shows on the comedy circuit, but at that point I hadn’t yet realised that I just wasn’t a club comedian.  So I had a terrible year back in 1998, after I’d won all those awards, having these on-stage ‘deaths’ all over the country.  I wouldn’t wish what happened to me on anyone because it was so hard, as a human being, to go through that.  I can handle the clubs well these days, but back then I simply wasn’t ready.”

“There are lots of comedians on the circuit who don’t like what Paul does,” says Noel.  “Mostly because it’s creative and because maybe it doesn’t work as powerfully in the clubs as typical, aggressive, joke-based stand-up.  They feel superior, but actually what Paul does is a million times better than all of those hacks on the circuit who are bitter and try to keep him down.  I saw Paul’s first performance this festival and I laughed out loud all the way through.  It was genius.  There aren’t many comedians I would go out of my way to see.  I love Greg Fleet for instance, and I love Harland Williams, but there aren’t many others.  So when there’s a real find like Paul, I think it’s a pleasure to be involved.  Directing his show hasn’t felt like work at all.”

As we leave the hotel, another young fan approaches us, his eyes wide with adoration.  Here we go again, I think to myself.  It comes as quite a surprise to hear him exclaim: “You’re Paul Foot, aren’t you?”  He shakes Paul’s hand vigorously, not giving Noel a second look.

“Let me give you a flyer for my new show,” says Paul.  “Flyer boy!”  He makes an elaborate gesture and Noel falls to his knees, holding out one of Paul’s flyers to the young man.  He takes it, thanks Paul, and leaves.  I try not to laugh until he is out of earshot.

“Basically, Noel, because you’re not famous enough you made me look like an idiot there,” says Paul.  “I thought he would recognise you and think ‘Oh that’s funny, he’s getting Noel Fielding to hand out his flyers’, but instead he just thought you were someone who worked for me and that I was treating you like shit.”

“It’s not my fault that he’s got no taste, is it?”

“No taste?  He likes me.”

“It’s not my fault he saw your mullet and nearly ejaculated,” says Noel.  “He probably thought I was just some idiot trying to copy Russell Brand.”

Sometimes, it seems, it’s even funnier if not everyone’s in on the joke.

Paul Foot – Ash in the Attic, is performed daily at The Underblly, Cowgate until August 29th.

More on The Mighty Boosh at The Velvet Onion