Lights, Camera, (twenty years go by) Action!

To paraphrase a quote from my favourite movie - and arguably the greatest film of all time:

“As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be an actor.”

To the film buffs who spotted the reference to Goodfellas - congratulations! The original line, of course, is:

“As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster.”

The moment I saw that movie - at the (probably too young) age of twelve - I fell completely in love with cinema. Not just cinema, but Martin Scorsese films in particular. I wanted to be on set, wearing loud suits in garish colours, shouting “you muddafucka!” as I whacked someone for talking out of line - before burying the body and heading off to eat some incredible pasta with my buddies.

I worshipped the actors in Scorsese’s films, especially Robert De Niro. He personified a glamorous, hard-edged masculinity that was incredibly appealing to a small, prepubescent boy who lived in constant fear of being picked on by bullies. DeNiro didn’t seem to have those problems. He moved through life like a shark: calm, unbothered, coldly menacing. No one dared mess with him. To me, he embodied everything I wanted to be as a man.

That’s when I decided to become an actor. I wanted to be Robert De Niro. I was going to be the next great star in all of Scorsese’s movies.

Sadly, Leonardo DiCaprio just edged me out.

Not only did I fail to fulfil that dream - I couldn’t even get into drama school. For years I tried and failed to get a place at RADA (the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art). After four consecutive rejections, the game was up. I needed a job.

The moment I gave up on my dream is still burned into my memory: twenty-three years old, crying into my pillow, still living in my parents’ spare bedroom, utterly heartbroken because I had failed at the only thing I ever truly wanted to be. Every drama school audition led nowhere. I’d run out of money, time and optimism. So, like many failed actors before me, I became a drama teacher.

What followed was a brutal and relentless parade of humiliations, teaching and traipsing my way around London in some of the worst schools imaginable. I couldn’t bear to hang out with my actor friends anymore - they were auditioning for major roles, working with famous directors, performing at the RSC, living the life I wanted. It was too painful. So I walked away and threw myself into teaching, desperate to make a success of it.

Eventually, I became a stand-up comedian and started a YouTube channel with my co-host Konstantin Kisin, which turned out to be very successful. These are dreams for many people, and I’m incredibly lucky and grateful to be able to live them. I’ve had experiences most can only fantasize about. I’ve interviewed some of the finest minds on the planet, opened for comedy royalty like Eddie Izzard and Jeff Garlin, and performed at the legendary Comedy Cellar in New York.

And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Those tough, formative years teaching in rough schools taught me never to take any of this for granted. If anything, they remind me that I need to keep working hard so I don’t lose it.

But I still love acting.

You never forget your first love, and I’ve always had a deep desire to return to the camera - to step into someone else’s skin and live in their world. A few weeks ago, my friends Jonathan Kogan and Daniel O’Reilly asked if I’d like to play a tiny role in their new film Sessions.

It was literally a one-line part: a sleazy pawnbroker.

I said “yes!” before they even finished the question. And so, last Sunday evening, in a grim warehouse somewhere outside Manchester, I made my film debut. I promised myself I’d make my character unforgettable - that even with just one line, he’d be a memorable, vital part of the story.

Sitting in the character’s chair on set, I felt totally at ease. I improvised the role - perched the glasses on the end of my nose, practiced a leering grin, and delighted in playing someone utterly amoral, with no compunction about screwing customers over for a better deal. It felt like coming home. I couldn’t have been happier.

At the end of the scene, my final improvised line got a huge laugh from the cast, and Dan O’Reilly shook my hand enthusiastically and said, “That was brilliant, mate.”

I was ecstatic.

It wasn’t Scorsese - but it was a movie. And it’ll be in cinemas.

So what’s the moral of the story? Is there one? I suppose it’s this:

Life has a habit of surprising you in the simplest, most beautiful ways.

If you’d told me a few years ago that I’d be acting in a British indie film, I’d have laughed in your face. But if you keep working, keep grinding, keep believing in yourself - then occasionally, just occasionally - you’ll be rewarded.

As for my acting “career”... who knows?

Martin Scorsese, if you’re reading this: I’m available.