Frank Skinner

Frank Skinner

Skinner's journey to millionaire entertainer has been one of rags to riches - a story told in his 2001 autobiography.

Born Chris Collins in the West Midlands suburb of Oldbury, his destiny appeared to be a life working in one the region's many factories,

Indeed, he was expelled from school at 16 over a money-making school meal scam. As he admits: "All I did was find where they Dumped the old meal tickets and sold them on cheap to other kids. I'm not ashamed of it, it seemed like an honourable, Robin Hood kind of thing to do."

True to expectations, he moved on to the local foundry, but decided it wasn't for him. "We hammered lumps of metal into shape," he recalls. "Everyone there was deaf and had three fingers."

So he sought an escape through education - enrolling at night school for A-levels, an English degree, and finally an MA - and by making his first tentative forays into showbusiness.

"I entered a John Wayne impersonation competition at a Midlands nightclub called Samantha's," he recalled. "And I won. Mind you, the other entrant's impression consisted of getting on stage, baring his arse, and shouting 'Birmingham City: Kings of Europe.'"

He also sang in a Stones-style band called Olde English, and punk combo The Prefects.
But he says his 'Road to Damascus' moment came during a 1986 visit to the Edinburgh festival, which inspired him to begin a career as a stand-up.

It was a life-changing time. It may not fit with the image of a comic, but he also abandoned alcohol and renewed his interest in the Catholic church.

His first gig, in December 1987, was at the Birmingham Anglers' Association. "I died on my arse," he recalls.

And, as actors' union Equity had another Chris Collins on their books, the fledgling comic had to choose another name. He stole the moniker Frank Skinner from a man in his dad's pub dominoes team.

A four-year slog through the circuit, financed by a string of day jobs, led to Skinner establishing his own club in Birmingham.

And all the work paid off in 1991, back in Edinburgh, where he won the prestigious Perrier Award ahead of some seriously talented competition, including Eddie Izzard and Jack Dee.

The prize gave him some hard-earned recognition, and landed him a host of TV roles to supplement his constant live work.

It was on the stand-up circuit - at Jongleurs in Camden - that Skinner met and befriended David Baddiel who would become his flatmate and, later, collaborator.

The partnership led to the best moment of Frank's life, hearing the Three Lions anthem they co-wrote being sung by fans at Wembley.

In 1997, Skinner moved out of the Hampstead flat he shared with Baddiel since 1992 and into his own place - 100 yards down the road "I lived by myself for seven years and I quite liked it," he said. "I used to like eating baked beans out of a tin and sitting naked watching Sergeant Bilko. You can't do that if you share a flat. Other people's nakedness, unless you're in love with them, is a pretty off-putting thing."

The duo continued to work together, and in 1998 took their Unplanned show to the Edinburgh fringe.Anticipating audience cynicism about the loose idea, they set the ticket price at just £2. "People loved it," he said. The show proved such a success, that it transferred to TV and the West End.

While working with Baddiel, Skinner also developed his solo career, working on his stand-up and becoming an accomplished chat show host on BBC1 - a show that transferred to ITV when the corporation would not stump up the seven-figure sum he wanted.

In 2007, he returned to stand-up after a ten year absence, in a show that was nominated for best theatre tour in the 2008 Chortle awards.

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Frank Skinner: 30 Years Of Dirt in the West End

Review of the comic's show at the Gielgud Theatre

To deploy the cliché ‘he makes it look effortless’ can’t do justice to how instinctive the mechanics of stand-up are to Frank Skinner.

Brilliantly spontaneous crowd work seems to arise as naturally as breathing, which he weaves seamlessly into his material. Without ever seeming to break out of natural conversation, he will build a story with pithy turns of phrase and a perfectly timed symphony of pause, build and release to have you snorting with laughter.

He plays down his status, billing himself as a ‘once-great comedian’ or telling us ‘I used to be fucking massive’ all in the way of suggesting he isn’t now. He lies, but he needs to be on the level of the ordinary bloke, even in the field of stand-up, where he could rightly claim a place in the pantheon.

His worldview is tainted by a touch of cynicism, but of not of the corrosive kind. He’s being the realist, accepting that a long-term relationship inevitably loses its passion (and its blow-jobs) and that he never really fitted in with the rarefied world of celebrity, more at home in the dodgy Smethwick pubs of his youth than finding himself getting an MBE from Princess Anne.

Oh, and he also came into the orbit of the theatrical royalty that is Sir Tim Rice. This encounter is a truly priceless yarn, glorious in its befuddling absurdity. It certainly cracked me up, even though I’d heard it before, when Skinner premiered this show at last year’s Edinburgh Fringe.

There, where these things are supposed to matter more, the  hour had a stronger theme about him trying to clean up his act at 67, though that’s diluted now with the longer running time. But if there’s any comic who doesn’t need to prop up his material with the grand architecture of a high-concept show, it’s Skinner. Besides, it would be anathema to his perfectly naturalistic style.

Needless to say, he has spectacularly failed to beat his compulsion to being drawn to the knob gag. This show includes the phrase ‘Kim Jong Un’s sweaty little erection’ and a story about some DIY veterinary work he once did on a dog’s anal glands, to name but two examples. 

Like that other great West Midlands comic, Tony Hancock, Skinner’s ambition for artistic sophistication remains forever thwarted – an unpublished novel that tried to stretch out a decent one-liner to an 80,000-word story or the critically mauled play he took to the Edinburgh Fringe. 

But of course they are. In his stand-up, he cannot be too big for his boots nor have any whiff of pretension – even if in real life he’s written well-received books about poetry and prayer, and has a rare command of his chosen artform. 

Analogies are a particular forte – whether on unfruitful audience interaction or Ronaldo’s chiselled abs. His imagery is powerfully vivid – often to a worryingly detailed extent, wherein lies the gag.

One extended fairground metaphor contrasts the blunt-force, alpha-male stand-up scene of the 1990s with today’s more delicate sensibilities. Skinner flourishes in both, wielding the scalpel as masterfully as the bludgeon, and moving with the times. He’s certainly no whiney ‘anti-woke’ critic complaining of what you’re no longer ‘allowed’ to say. In fact, he has the perfect riposte.

After a relentless battering of hilarity, Skinner does take his foot off the gas in the home straight of Thirty Years Of Dirt  (at least before the encore), though he’s done more than enough to earn that right, both in this show and over his career that far outstretched the titular pun.

For there’s no shortage of proper punchlines here – even a brilliantly twisted image of a damaged, deranged boyfriend going off the rails has one, adding a powerful tag to the powerful laugh he gets from the absurdity.

That said, he’s not too proud for a groanworthy gag. But it will always be an excellently crafted one. At such moments, he likens himself to a blacksmith, the master of a dying craft toiling away at the anvil of comedy to hammer out a robust joke. 

When most of the laughs seem to emerge so naturally, it’s a reminder of the graft that goes into that artful illusion.

Frank Skinner: 30 Years of Dirt is at the Gielgud Theatre until February 17, before going on tour in March. Frank ​Skinner tour dates

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Published: 7 Feb 2024

Agent

We do not currently hold contact details for Frank Skinner's agent. If you are a comic or agent wanting your details to appear here, for a one-off fee of £59, email steve@chortle.co.uk.

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