...‘Thank you, Hugh, for those few kind words. And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I am about to perform something that has only been attempted once, and never successfully achieved in human history’. The tension mounts to an almost unbearable crescendo as the crowd falls silent. The air is thick with anticipation. My time to shine. ‘Just be sure you don’t miss, the last thing we want after all our hard work is a repeat of Moscow ’83.’ ‘Thank you Janet, I am well aware that the press would have a field day were we to repeat that catastrophe, and, as such, I have no intention of allowing it to happen’ I hissed scornfully into the mic at the pessimistic and frankly off-putting voice echoing through my head. I knew the drill, knew I had only one shot at deliverance. I had spent too long in the wilderness to jeopardise it all now. Eighteen years I had waited for my chance at redemption. Eighteen years of working cabaret circuits and comedy clubs, playing second fiddle on the bill to such luminaries as Jolting Joe and the Jamborees and Dave Knight’s Kickass Komedy. Do you know how that feels? Do you? To be truly, absolutely and completely out of the game, stranded in the stagnant backwaters of your profession, gasping for air, hoping it’ll all blow over. Do you?
I was better than this. I was huge, or at least I had been. I had been: ‘Everybody’s favourite live act’ (The Sunday Times); ‘The supreme tour-de-force’ (The Arts Review);‘The greatest showman to grace this earth since Houdini himself’ (The Guardian). But I had done things poor Harry wouldn’t have even dreamed of, scaled heights no-one had ever achieved before or would again. I had played in the world’s biggest venues, sold out Wembley Stadium in ten minutes, had higher viewing figures than all of Ali, Tyson and Holyfield’s fights combined. I was the most recognised and universally adored face on the planet (I hesistate to use the word ‘celebrity’, since its recent total defamation has inverted its intended meaning). Then came the gig that was to corrupt my career and the rest of my life. I was witty, charming, erudite. Now I’m a total wreck, my confidence and ability sapped in that one, mind-numbing, bloodcurdling, spine-chilling second in Russia’s behemoth city.
Moscow, 19th May, 1983. 10.48pm. A moment I return to time and time again, one I can never escape. Each night it haunts me in my sleep. Each day I am reminded of it as I trudge about my daily existence, drinking to forget, and praying for salvation from my living hell, knowing that to end it all would be to vilify myself and abolish my legacy.
What follows is a lesson in life, and a guide on how to lose your family, your friends, your sanity, your wealth, your freedom, your faith in humanity, and everything else you hold dear. And all of this in the space of a single second.
What happened, you ask?
Well, in Moscow, on the 19th May 1983, at 10.48pm, live on stage, in front of a worldwide audience numbering in the billions,
I killed a man.
