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It’s a little known fact that the Icelandic word for celebrity is nafntogaður. In all the worlds languages, including the widely spoken pig-latin, the noun ‘celebrity’ refers to a widely known person a social celebrity; the heroes of science; a theatrical luminary; a big name in sports; a notable of the concert stage; a personage in the field of philosophy. I am none of these things (I perhaps fall on the cusp of theatrical luminary but that’s another tale for another time). I am not a hero of science, although I did invent the shoe horn. I am not a big name in sport, even though I have the muscular legs of a champion darts player. I am no notable of the concert stage, yet I do play a mean solo on the jazz kazoo. I am not classed as one of the ‘great minds’ of philosophy, however my thoughts and ideas are as deep and meaningful as the river Thames in a Dickens novel. I am a man. A man who dabbles in the art of comedy. This is not to be confused with a comedian. I am not fat and I do not tell jokes (like all the great comedians of the 20th century). My name is Julian Barratt and I am one half of the surreal comedy nugget known formally as The Mighty Boosh. This televised hot chipolata of a show, best taken in a 30minute dose once every week with a pinch of salt and a spoonful of sugar, is on the critically acclaimed TV channel BBC Three (the ginger step-child channel put fourth by the British Broadcasting Company) at a time in the night when only drunks and animals are awake. That, my friends, forms the basis of my ‘celebrity’ status.
Like most British ‘celebrities’ I live in the fabled town of London. Although I was born and raised in the mystical land known as Yorkshire. Many of the greatest people to walk this earth have been produced in Yorkshire:- Joseph Priestley, chemist and discoverer of oxygen, James Henry Atkinson, inventor of the mousetrap, Emily Brontë, writer, author of "Wuthering Heights", Jeremy Clarkson, broadcaster and genius and of course Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. Yorkshire was also home to both Gareth Gates and Robin Hood when they were tykes, running around playing football and spray-painting garage doors. I live in London as it is convenient for work – I cannot ride my Velorbis Churchill traditional gentlemans bicycle to work every day from Leeds.
People often ask why I never appear between the glossy pages of the high-brow and very exclusive Heat magazine. You see my on screen sidekick Noel is often gracing the pages of this publication (even though its highly dangerous for him to do so as one day is pointy face is going to rip the magazine clean in half and people will sue, looking for compensation for punctured eyes and slashed cheeks), I on the other hand like to stay at home in my real life thee dimensional flat in Camden with a some Horlicks and a nice leather bound book. People may think I am boring because I like corduroy and jazz, but that is a common misconception. There is nothing more exciting than a fast paced game of scrabble, when your hands a sweating, your heart pumping and the terror is running through your body as you look down at the tile marked Z or QU. That is real life. You cant buy that. (Well, you can buy scrabble, its available from all good high street retailers for around fifteen English pounds but I was referring to the rush.) Scrabble is better than Heroin. That is a fact. And if anyone would like to challenge me to a match – I shall be more than happy to oblige. Be warned though my trusted friends;- I am from Yorkshire and I WILL bring it on like a fiery biscuit from the depths of Hades lair.
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