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This is a taste of Lock’s train of thought, which he is taking around the country on his latest tour, the first for four years during which time he has enjoyed being at home with his two daughters, three-year-old Daphne, and one-year-old Maeve. Not that you’ll find any “bringing-up-baby” type gags in his stand-up routine. “I’m a hands-on dad, yeah, but I wouldn’t want to go on about it,” he says. “When I hear other people getting material out of their kids, something inside of me dies. I like people to be surprised by what I do. I don’t plough a predictable route.”
Ricky Gervais regards him as “quite possibly the most underrated comedian in the country”. Sean’s material—he’s written for the likes of Mark Lamarr, Bill Bailey and Lee Evans—and style have been described as absurd, sardonic, unshowy and dour. Take his thoughts on hunting: “If you permed a fox it would look a bit like the singer Mick Hucknall. I think it’d be kinder to perm them than hunt them. Then they’d be too embarrassed to go out and bother sheep.” Or David Cameron’s interest in the environment: “He’s trying to sell himself as the man who’s going to save the planet, and that doesn’t really fit with being Prime Minister, does it? Because they’re both quite big jobs. It’s like cooking and washing-up.”
“I’ve always been like that,” Sean admits. “Friends would say, ‘Oh Sean, you’ve taken it too far again. We were having this nice conversation during dinner, sharing a laugh, and you’ve spoiled it by bringing in all sorts of unnecessary imagery that doesn’t really help with the main course.’ But the fact is all comedians like to take over. They hog situations and grab the limelight, and some people get a bit annoyed with that. I don’t blame them. But I do it less and less now.”
His days of grabbing the limelight on construction sites ended in 1988, when he walked into a pub in Hackney, East London, saw an alternative comedian do his stuff and thought: “I could do that, I’m a loud-mouthed, cocky smart-arse.” A few weeks later he was given a five-minute spot in the same pub and soon hit the stand-up comedy store circuit.
In 1993, as the support act for Rob Newman and David Baddiel, Sean became the first comedian to perform at Wembley Arena, appearing in front of 12,000 people. His own television series, TV Heaven, Telly Hell, and the cult sitcom 15 Storeys High followed. And, when his current tour ends, he’ll get back to a screenplay he’s writing about comedians.
This successful comedy career once looked like a far-fetched dream to the Chertsey-born lad who used to earn pocket money reading the numbers at a Woking bingo hall. The grandson of a London cabby and the youngest of four, Sean left Brooklands sixth form college in Woking with one A Level (English) and went into his dad’s trade, building.
Early on, he earned the nickname Susan—along with a thick skin, which is useful for a comic. “I fell over when we were pouring concrete and had to be helped up, as I was covered from head to toe. From then on, everyone on the job called me Susan. One day I walked into work and the whole canteen of about 70 men were banging their tea mugs on the table and singing ‘If you knew Susie like I knew Susie. Whoa! Whoa! What a girl!’ They just wanted me to crack, and I did. I said ‘Stop calling me Susan!’ and I’ve never seen 70 men laugh so hard for so long.”
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