However my memories of the Viz are slim. It's not like I'm not a fan, just when it was in its mid 90s prime I was too young to form part of their readership. That didn't stop me nabbing Dads copies for a sly read. Memories include Spoilt Bastard getting a kicking off the Teletubbies, Cockney Wanker getting his black cab license and overcharging tourists, a readers competition to find any Man United fans actually from Manchester (some numpty angrily wrote in stating that indeed he was, but giving his address as Rochdale - he was promptly told 'Dale has a professional club). And then came my Billy the Fish Football Yearbook and his tales of fish like goalkeeping genius, lethal strike force of Shakin' Stevens and Mick Hucknall, and buxom squaw Brown Fox with her geet massive chebs.
It's with these thoughts in mind I'm in a Durham pub, trying to recall more Vizzy goodness from memory, mainly so I've got some ammo at hand in I'm case quizzed later. If questioned then at least I'll not be judged as some kind of non Viz fan fraud by the stereotypical die hard comic book nerds that'll no doubt be in the audience, literally, by the dozen.
As the drinks flow me and my pal remember our joint favourite Viz moment, although it was actually post Donald years. Flashback 2010, we're coming back from a Hartlepool away fixture, coincidentally at Rochdale (for any confused Mancs, Pools played Rochdale, not Manchester United), and he bought a copy of Viz at Piccadilly. Now we're on the Northern rattler trying to keep our heads down as it's full of Leeds coming back from wherever they've raped, pillaged and picked up nil points that Saturday afternoon. Only we're laughing like drains at some random bits and pieces, it's only a matter of time before one of West Yorks Neanderthal grunts for the time and once we reply in deep Durham tones we'll promptly have our teeth removed. We're drawing attention to ourselves but we care not a jot for our fate, because we're lost in mirth at the sheer mental daftness on print. Like I say it was post Donald era but I'm sure he'll be happy his legacy is living on in belly laughed guffaws on a delayed train heading north, with football tensions rising...
It's strange that the directions to the People's Book Shop should be turn right at Waterstones. The "proper" bookshop in all its corporate splendor on the main road, the one we're heading to through a blink-and-you'll-miss-it coffin sized tunnel/alley giving alternate route to the cathedral. Up some creaking, sloping wooden stairs and we're in at close quarters with Mr Donald himself. A unique venue, an icebox laden with Stella Artois (donations welcome), left-wing literature strewn shelves and tough metal seats as sharp as the wit as the man we've come to see...
Donald explains about the hi-tech equipment dotted around. He's recording us for his audiobook. Straight away we're part of this, we're in competition with bigger, better venues and the people of the People's Bookshop will not let our hero down. That's not to say, of course, we're over generous with the laughter - when we giggle and guffaw it's warranted. And there's plenty of laughs to come throughout the night...
Donald recounts autobiography paragraphs with witty results. Some quality coming of age schoolboy japes to pissed up heckling when denied a rigged magazine award. And most memorably when noticing the singer Robert Plant slipping off towards the toilet, Donald quizzed him at loud volume if he was going for one of his famous tunes - Hey Robert, are you going for a Big Log?
Heart warmingly Donald feels the need to over explain things from a certain era, for the younger members of the audience. Given that this is exclusively me and my mate Paul, we feel personally addressed by our hero as he looks over at us, although he's probably sussed us as the stealing dads' Viz types...
Interval. Donald mingles with the crowd given there's no dressing room (or stage curtain (or stage in fact)) to chill out, so is telling jokes and sharing past times with those who remember. It would be nice to listen but I need a wee. Back down the creaky lopsided stairs to form a queue outside the only wash closet. And then I get the aging Comic Book Guy trying to suss me, stating the loaded "the thing with Viz was it was a game changer". Shit. I don't need this. There's a few pints of pre-match Carlsberg swilling round, two bottles of Stella nipping the back of my head, I'm trying to think of what gems I can remember from Mellie's Profanasaurus Rex to fend him off, erstwhile thinking I'd rather be facing those Leeds fans again. Thankfully we're interrupted by someone re-entering the building, triumphantly announcing he took a piz in Varsity across the street. I do the same.
Second half. This mainly consists of FAQ that turn into some hilarious and compelling anecdotes. One such about Viz plots being that the best and funniest tales are based on truth. Donald sitting in a kebab shop at closing time in Toon, Two drunkards are troughing their boxes of death, one peels a string of kebab and starts rubbing it on his neck...
- Heearr, can yee smell porfume on me nek?
Mate, sniffs - Aye I can
First chap (rubs more kebab like a cheap aftershave advert) - worra bout noo?
- Nae lad ah cannae
- Fank fuck for that. Wor lass is like Shorlock fuckin Holmes
It went in Sid the Sexist.
Other memories include Donald's dark days with the newspapers, which he elaborates extensively on his encounters with the gutter press, but also of other celebrities (shall remain nameless) plight. Although not quite what I was expecting, it makes for fascinating listening. I then realise the atmosphere has shifted - this is not longer a stand up comedian doing a gig, we're mates now, he's having a chat amongst friends. Made possible by the intimate venue and the handful of kindred spirits present...
Full time. After bringing the house down with a goal for Pele (won't explain this - buy the book) and a highly amusing North East version of The Wheels on the Bus, we notice two 45 minute sets have spiralled into almost three hours of comedy and quality yarns. Then it's down to the bread and butter of book signing for Donald, no, Simon - we're friends now - with Sid the Sexist Tits Oot for Ian, a shameless photo opportunity with a celeb and a handshake.
A truly unique experience, fun had by all concerned and, most importantly, a new favourite Viz memory.
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