Opinion
The Sean Hughes I Knew
In the light of at least one disparaging article and several obituaries that had dabs of gloss atop a smudgy undercoat of a tortured and torturous subject who underachieved and grew bitterly resentful about that, I would like to write about the Sean Hughes that I knew.
No, you're right, I didn't know Sean Hughes. I met him once. I was 15 years old and I queued for his autograph after a gig at Portsmouth Guildhall. It was February 1994 and I would argue that this was the true height of his fame and success. The second series of "Sean's Show" had barely finished airing, the finale featuring bashful icon Robert Smith and the rest of The Cure mistaken for Sean's biological mum and aunties and Sean Hughes was an alternative comedian's alternative comedian at the age of only 28. That night, he made his entrance in front of 2000 people, in zeitgeist 'comedy is the new rock and roll style' enveloped in smoke and lairily wandering on to the stage pelvis-first. He was beautiful up there.
No, you're right, I didn't know Sean Hughes. I met him once. I was 15 years old and I queued for his autograph after a gig at Portsmouth Guildhall. It was February 1994 and I would argue that this was the true height of his fame and success. The second series of "Sean's Show" had barely finished airing, the finale featuring bashful icon Robert Smith and the rest of The Cure mistaken for Sean's biological mum and aunties and Sean Hughes was an alternative comedian's alternative comedian at the age of only 28. That night, he made his entrance in front of 2000 people, in zeitgeist 'comedy is the new rock and roll style' enveloped in smoke and lairily wandering on to the stage pelvis-first. He was beautiful up there.
Yes, yes, yes, I had an adolescent crush of course - It was difficult not to find the sexual appeal in that Cookie-Monster-cum-Kahluha voice, those dopey great morning-sky eyes and the way clothes hung from him liked even they'd rejected him, (plus I was a teenager - some days I'd have to cover dining chairs in cardigans in order to stop my thinking about romancing them.)
But it was more than that. Because crushes die. Crushes die long before the object of them does and mine did, but I still loved him. And why?
Sean Hughes, the act, was disenchanted, disconnected, at odds with the every little thing. He was a tired, ancient soul in a young, hibernian nutshell. From my perspective, he proffered genuine wounds sutured with his own crooked smile. He often used his own atheism as a punchline but so as the audience could feel the ache in the denial of a God who had been all-imposing in formative years. In Mr Hann's article, he refers to an unnamed source quoting Sean as saying "What I do is above comedy". In the context of this article, he comes off as a right dick. But actually, if you ever see a Sean Hughes performance not in the backdrop of a panel show, I would invite you to argue with that statement. What he did was not comedy as you would recognise it from other performers; though it includes a routine spatula slap of pathos on every weave, it's not just that either. The contributor proceeds to interpret this quote as a result of Sean "[falling] for this dark, lyrical poet stuff" which is a skim-read of his back catalogue.
He referred constantly to Beckett in the first series of Sean's Show, who would ring him up and speak his own sadness over the toddlers' telephone. And when Morrissey would play on the radio, Hughes would mimic the drunken ballet of Moz with just the right degree of hyperbole, but with such fervour that the casual viewer would think "Omergaw, he like SO wants to BE Morrissey". And he would say his own lines as if he were aware that one day, they would be carved with a penknife on to someone else's tombstone and filled in with plum lipstick in the middle of the night.
Yes, all that "poet stuff". The implication seems to be that Hughes was more interested in being a poet, playing at being a poet than he was in poetry. 'Falling' suggests that he was somehow clueless as to the reality of life, of comedy.This, in my view, is unfair. Moreover, Sean Hughes may just have known more about comedy than anyone since Peter Cook, Like Cook, he was noted for his brilliance at a hurtfully young age and like Cook, his relationships, his unfulfilled potential and his sad and lonely demise have been clucked and flapped over in the 7 days since he died. Also like Cook, he was not for everyone. "Sean's Show" has moments of clear pain that are sieved through an incontinence-provoking humour. In a flash of worrying that he is turning into his father, Hughes's face stretches and gurns as he bawls "MMMMMAKE THE TEEAAAA!". When he is ousted from a pub because he hasn't got a real girlfriend, an unseen football crowd choruses "Sean will always walk alone". It might sound drab and wanky written here, but revisit it (The first series is available on All Four and the second you can find on youtube, posted by Hughes himself) and watch it turn to gemstones in his hands. The "poet stuff" remark is actually accurate for this is a man who turned what haunted him into something beautiful. This beautiful thing was laughter and in that respect, yes what he did was indeed above comedy.
"Never Mind the Buzzcocks" watered him down and cynicised his public persona. When we saw Hughes positioned next to the savagery of Mark Lamarr*, his hitherto fairly gentle stage and screen persona was bound to harden and he often came off as a little bit sneery. However, there were also moments when he shone as a strangely disjointed presence that could pinpoint the absurdity of panel shows and popstars, for instance noting that Phil Jupitus' team had appeared one night dressed as the German flag or his obsessive delight at the unmoving effigy that was "Number 3" in the lineup. Buzzcocks wasn't his ideal forum, but when that fledgling gameshow began, he added a degree of prestige that pulled comedy fans to it. It may have bought him his house, but it also would not have been the success it was without his presence as a team captain. Much as I adore Bill Bailey, I could never quite watch an episode after Sean Hughes left. Once, he was gone, there was an all-important element missing - the heart.
This heart is something that is dug crudely out of his legacy with the publishing of lemony, barbed words after his death. There have been gnashing references to his playing a shark because kids' shows had made others a shitload of money. However, if you see the Richard Herring podcast on which he guests from a few years back (and I strongly advise it), you will notice Hughes talk about this show and his own hungover audition for it with affection and enthusiasm and it clangs not of a man investing himself in soulless projects just for the cash sack.
I saw him live one more time, in 2013. There was nothing missing, apart from the huge venue and filled seats; I saw him in The Cellars at Eastney, a now extinguished and much lamented public house that saw many fine acts perform in its huddled bar. He was extraordinarily funny, effortlessly arcing over the pissed up woman shouting at him from the front row and thereby six inches from his knees to reach a devoted audience. His set ended with a typical Sean Hughes yarn that spoke of his struggle with the trust of a shopkeeper over a simple loaf of bread, that he ultimately and triumphantly held aloft to the thunderous cheers of a pocket crowd. To the garishly sloppy Snow Patrol tune, he then tossed slices at us. Through this parody of an uplifting moment, he thus created an uplifting moment, through which he then walked, stopping to cuddle willing members of the audience. I was too shy to stand up and embrace the hero that I had had for the last twenty years and I regret not doing so. (Shyness is nice etc....)
But I always will remember meeting him as a teenager. On that night, he was dutifully signing his name, he looked tired and his hair had recently been hacked at in an unusually aggressive manner. But he was a hero and he looked at me and he asked my name. Nothing more. As I left, he told me and my sister to "Take Care".
I can't pretend to understand him. I didn't know him and if I did I wouldn't understand him. I don't understand many people. I don't think many people understand many people. I don't think many people pretend to understand many people pretending to understand them. I would like it if people stopped trying to understand. Give feeling stuff a go instead. Watch some Sean Hughes and forget understanding. You might find he is not for you, that's fine, but you might just feel something and that is what art is for. That's what Sean Hughes was for.
And Sean? I love you. In fact, Jelly Pop Perky Jean, I love you-oo-oo, oh dontcha know?
* Incidentally, I saw Mark Lamarr back in 1994 aswell and he remains to this day, to my mind, the greatest adlibber, the quickest comebacker, one of the funniest full stop, on a comedy stage ever.
But it was more than that. Because crushes die. Crushes die long before the object of them does and mine did, but I still loved him. And why?
Sean Hughes, the act, was disenchanted, disconnected, at odds with the every little thing. He was a tired, ancient soul in a young, hibernian nutshell. From my perspective, he proffered genuine wounds sutured with his own crooked smile. He often used his own atheism as a punchline but so as the audience could feel the ache in the denial of a God who had been all-imposing in formative years. In Mr Hann's article, he refers to an unnamed source quoting Sean as saying "What I do is above comedy". In the context of this article, he comes off as a right dick. But actually, if you ever see a Sean Hughes performance not in the backdrop of a panel show, I would invite you to argue with that statement. What he did was not comedy as you would recognise it from other performers; though it includes a routine spatula slap of pathos on every weave, it's not just that either. The contributor proceeds to interpret this quote as a result of Sean "[falling] for this dark, lyrical poet stuff" which is a skim-read of his back catalogue.
He referred constantly to Beckett in the first series of Sean's Show, who would ring him up and speak his own sadness over the toddlers' telephone. And when Morrissey would play on the radio, Hughes would mimic the drunken ballet of Moz with just the right degree of hyperbole, but with such fervour that the casual viewer would think "Omergaw, he like SO wants to BE Morrissey". And he would say his own lines as if he were aware that one day, they would be carved with a penknife on to someone else's tombstone and filled in with plum lipstick in the middle of the night.
Yes, all that "poet stuff". The implication seems to be that Hughes was more interested in being a poet, playing at being a poet than he was in poetry. 'Falling' suggests that he was somehow clueless as to the reality of life, of comedy.This, in my view, is unfair. Moreover, Sean Hughes may just have known more about comedy than anyone since Peter Cook, Like Cook, he was noted for his brilliance at a hurtfully young age and like Cook, his relationships, his unfulfilled potential and his sad and lonely demise have been clucked and flapped over in the 7 days since he died. Also like Cook, he was not for everyone. "Sean's Show" has moments of clear pain that are sieved through an incontinence-provoking humour. In a flash of worrying that he is turning into his father, Hughes's face stretches and gurns as he bawls "MMMMMAKE THE TEEAAAA!". When he is ousted from a pub because he hasn't got a real girlfriend, an unseen football crowd choruses "Sean will always walk alone". It might sound drab and wanky written here, but revisit it (The first series is available on All Four and the second you can find on youtube, posted by Hughes himself) and watch it turn to gemstones in his hands. The "poet stuff" remark is actually accurate for this is a man who turned what haunted him into something beautiful. This beautiful thing was laughter and in that respect, yes what he did was indeed above comedy.
"Never Mind the Buzzcocks" watered him down and cynicised his public persona. When we saw Hughes positioned next to the savagery of Mark Lamarr*, his hitherto fairly gentle stage and screen persona was bound to harden and he often came off as a little bit sneery. However, there were also moments when he shone as a strangely disjointed presence that could pinpoint the absurdity of panel shows and popstars, for instance noting that Phil Jupitus' team had appeared one night dressed as the German flag or his obsessive delight at the unmoving effigy that was "Number 3" in the lineup. Buzzcocks wasn't his ideal forum, but when that fledgling gameshow began, he added a degree of prestige that pulled comedy fans to it. It may have bought him his house, but it also would not have been the success it was without his presence as a team captain. Much as I adore Bill Bailey, I could never quite watch an episode after Sean Hughes left. Once, he was gone, there was an all-important element missing - the heart.
This heart is something that is dug crudely out of his legacy with the publishing of lemony, barbed words after his death. There have been gnashing references to his playing a shark because kids' shows had made others a shitload of money. However, if you see the Richard Herring podcast on which he guests from a few years back (and I strongly advise it), you will notice Hughes talk about this show and his own hungover audition for it with affection and enthusiasm and it clangs not of a man investing himself in soulless projects just for the cash sack.
I saw him live one more time, in 2013. There was nothing missing, apart from the huge venue and filled seats; I saw him in The Cellars at Eastney, a now extinguished and much lamented public house that saw many fine acts perform in its huddled bar. He was extraordinarily funny, effortlessly arcing over the pissed up woman shouting at him from the front row and thereby six inches from his knees to reach a devoted audience. His set ended with a typical Sean Hughes yarn that spoke of his struggle with the trust of a shopkeeper over a simple loaf of bread, that he ultimately and triumphantly held aloft to the thunderous cheers of a pocket crowd. To the garishly sloppy Snow Patrol tune, he then tossed slices at us. Through this parody of an uplifting moment, he thus created an uplifting moment, through which he then walked, stopping to cuddle willing members of the audience. I was too shy to stand up and embrace the hero that I had had for the last twenty years and I regret not doing so. (Shyness is nice etc....)
But I always will remember meeting him as a teenager. On that night, he was dutifully signing his name, he looked tired and his hair had recently been hacked at in an unusually aggressive manner. But he was a hero and he looked at me and he asked my name. Nothing more. As I left, he told me and my sister to "Take Care".
I can't pretend to understand him. I didn't know him and if I did I wouldn't understand him. I don't understand many people. I don't think many people understand many people. I don't think many people pretend to understand many people pretending to understand them. I would like it if people stopped trying to understand. Give feeling stuff a go instead. Watch some Sean Hughes and forget understanding. You might find he is not for you, that's fine, but you might just feel something and that is what art is for. That's what Sean Hughes was for.
And Sean? I love you. In fact, Jelly Pop Perky Jean, I love you-oo-oo, oh dontcha know?
* Incidentally, I saw Mark Lamarr back in 1994 aswell and he remains to this day, to my mind, the greatest adlibber, the quickest comebacker, one of the funniest full stop, on a comedy stage ever.
