Comedy of the Week - Gary Little: At Large

Episode Date: May 6, 2024

Stand-up comedy from Glaswegian comedian Gary Little, who hilariously shows there’s always two ways of looking at things.Growing up in the second poorest area of Scotland, Gary’s life seemed inevitably set to be marred by depression, addiction or incarceration.The violence and social deprivation in Glasgow’s Springburn boiled down to survival of the fittest, where Gary’s honed wits kept him alive and prosperous.But dodgy childhood deals led him to darker places - selling drugs to his friends, then their friends, and then… everyone’s friends.In this episode, Gary reflects on the lies he swallowed as a child, including Uncle Elvis, and how being a people pleaser ultimately led to trouble he couldn’t talk his way out of, and eight years inside.More true criminal than true crime, this series gives a different perspective on life before, behind and beyond bars.Written and performed by Gary Little. Produced by Julia Sutherland A Dabster production for BBC Radio 4.

This is the BBC. This podcast is supported by advertising outside the UK. BBC Sounds. Music, radio, podcasts. State your name for the court. Gary Littall. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth? And nothing but the truth. Yes, Your Honour. Yes, Your Honour. CHEERING AND APPLAUSE

Yes! Just turned 60, which a lot of you doesn't sound that old. I mean, you try to tell people that, those middle-class, healthy people, and they go, 60 isn't old. You can't be reflective at the age of 60. But coming from Glasgow, in the east end of Glasgow, the life expectancy's 68. I mean, right now in Glasgow's a man who's 71

who's known as the Wise One. And people travel from miles around to ask him questions like, where can you get heroin on a Sunday morning? The answer is anywhere. But as I reflect in life, I realise there's always two ways of looking at things. I mean, some of yous might look at me and go, 60-year-old, living in my own house with two dogs and my rescued chickens in the garden. Monroe Bagger, antique watch collector, with a successful career as a stand-up comedian,

who now has his own show on Radio 4. On the other hand, I'm a scary looking, wild bearded, six foot two skinhead ex-convict. So I guess it depends on your perspective. I should be clear though, the skinhead is not a choice. I'm just bald. But the one thing I know for sure is we all lie.

We lie to the people we love, we lie to strangers, and we lie to ourselves. And when do these lies start? They start as soon as you understand words. I've never had children, right right but I've been a child so I'm totally aware of the lies that every parent in here tells their kids. It was mostly my mum Vera that would tell the lies. I remember I was a wee boy and we're walking about and me and my mum was seeing this wee boy with a massive head and my mum

went would you look at the size of that wains heed. And this older woman went, excuse me, that's my grandson you're talking about. My mum didn't even miss a beach, went, aye, be heathsuit's a big heed. Back when I was a wee boy, it was totally acceptable to send a six or seven year old on a one mile hike to the shops but obviously I never ever wanted to go to

the shops but my mum she could play me like a wee fiddle she would go like Gary go to the shops for me. I'd be like Mum. She'd be like try and beat your record. Oh as soon as she introduced a competitive element I was like yes. She'd be counting me doing five, four, three and then I'd be off two steps at a time down that tenement, out the street, up the road, crossing busy roads, into the shop, getting the messages. Then I'd bounce up those stairs, get the front door open it. Vera didn't even miss a beat. 46. Yes!

Shaved two seconds off my personal best, right? It was only several years later when I watched the Olympics for the first time. I was thinking, why are they growing up taking about four minutes to do that mile? At that time, I was doing 38 seconds. I mean, like...

But one of the longest lies lasted until I was 12 years old. It started in 1970. I was seven. And my wee pals were talking about holidays. And I'm like that to my mum. Where have I been mum, where have I been? She went, oh you've been to Spain Gary. I went, I can't remember.

She went, you were too young to remember. But she didn't just leave it at Spain, I'd also been to Australia and Disneyland. I lived in a one room and kitchen tenement in Maryhill. My mum and dad and my three sisters, now, they slept in the alcove in the kitchen. We slept in bunk beds head to toe and with an outside toilet that was shared with six other neighbours.

Now, at the age of seven, I didn't have the self-awareness to think, I've been to Australia, Disneyland, in Spain, yet I live in a shithole with an outside toilet. Not all I thought was my mum prioritised family holidays over basic sanitation. So fast forward five years and I'm watching a holiday programme

with one of my sisters and it's about Spain so I'm like I've been there she went no you've not I went yes I have and then she hits with that line that everybody's used as a child she went prove it prove it sounds childish doesn't it we've all used it as a kid I I've actually even used it as an adult in five court appearances and even though and even though every time they proved it right but even but even though it'd be several years before I set foot in a courtroom I was like, that is it, I'm calling my star witness.

I'm like, Mum, Mum, haven't I been to Spain but I was too young to remember it. And my mum started laughing. And I knew this wasn't a good sign. She went, oh son, that was just a wee bit of shite we told you to impress your pals and even though I saw I knew the answer I went what about Australia? She went son you've not been at a Glasgow and I ran out the room crying because I was all confused why is she lying to me I've got three sisters pick one of them. Why is she like her only son? And as I ran into the bedroom, I was sitting at the edge of the bed

and as the tears were running down my face, I just looked at this poster where I had Elvis thinking, I bet you're not even my uncle. You couldn't get away with that kind of lie these days. If you told a child that lie, they would just go on and unnet. But back in 1975, we didn't even have a C-fax. So the fact my mum had told me that my cousins, the Presleys, had left Glasgow four years before, well just like Australia, I believed it. Having to share an outside toilet at that age

was a terrifying experience for a wee boy. I mean, it wasn't even a full door. It didn't have a latch on it. So the only way you could tell people that somebody was in was by singing the song, somebody's in, somebody's in, somebody's in. Somebody's in. And you'd be sitting there and you're literally shitting yourself, right?

There was also the issue of toilet paper. Back then, we couldn't afford Andrex moist with aloe vera and vitamin C. No, we had newspapers, right? That me and my sisters, my dad would hand us a bundle of newspapers and say, crunch him. Right, so we'd just be crunching him to make him softer. They became softer but you still had the headlines all over your arse. School times were great for me.

I was the designated class clown. The girls, they all hated me. Said I was immature. Of course I was immature! I was 12! As I neared the end of my school days, I'd also became known as someone who bought and sold stuff of people. One of the things I did sell was pirate cassettes, live recordings. I remember one guy, he was demanding his money back because of a gig at the Apollo. He said, you can hear somebody shout,

move your head, you dick. And I went... I said, but that is the live experience. While I was still at school to boost my earnings from selling pirate cassettes I used to help out at the local butcher's then I'd go home stinking of meat In 1979 at the age of 16 when I left school I didn't know what I wanted to do Duncan the butcher offered me a job for a couple of weeks

Just until you get something decent I ended up there for four years stinking of meat All my pals had apprenticeships. They were joiners, plumbers, electricians, things like that. So they always get a homer. You know, they always get extra work. The butcher wasn't getting a homer. Until once. Once, right. I remember it was a Sunday morning,

and I was at my mum's, and the phone went. He went, you're a butcher, aren't you? I cannot tell you how excited that made me feel. Can you cut up a sheep? Damn tootin' I can cut up a sheep, right? Then I realised though, where I was, I was in my mum's, right? She's no get butchery knives and stuff.

She's no get the equipment. So I went into the old kitchen drawer, you know where the carpet scissors are and there was nothing. So I had an apple corer. Right, I took that, a bread knife. I went down to the pub right. The sheep was lying on top of the pool table. Right, so I was thinking how am I going to get away with this? How am I going to bluff my way through this with the implements that I have? I'm prodding it with apple core and that and I'm looking, I feel these guys staring at me and then I remembered where I was, right? I just asked, I went, has anybody got a blade?

Within seconds, five various sized blades were produced and a machete. But being around dangerous people like that and doing something that clearly wasn't legal, it just didn't faze me in the slightest. It's just what you did. I guess it had just become normal to me by then. It was around this time that I started trying drugs for the first time. Going to gigs with pals. speed would be the thing. One of my pals always got some from his brother. But one night he couldn't.

There was a guy in every housing scheme that sold drugs. And so I asked my guy for four grams for me and my three pals. If you buy a quarter ounce, he said, that's seven grams. I'll do it for £50, and that way you'll get two free for yourself. And even if I didn't have a brain for maths, I thought that sounds like a bargain. So that's how I became a drug dealer. But to be clear, I never set out to be a drug dealer.

I was just trying to help my pals out. I'm a people person be a drug dealer. I was just trying to help my pals out. I'm a people person. I mean, that's... That's another lie I told myself. Little did I know at the time how that one night and that one decision would seal my fate. But I suppose in my mind, all the criminal activities I was getting into back then,

I genuinely saw as opportunities to make money and give people a good deal on a bit of escapism. Especially when life seemed pretty bleak otherwise. Or maybe I'm just trying to justify things again. Another wee lie. Another thing that was happening around this time was videos. Videos had just come out at that point. Everybody had one or wanted one and the video shots were time. It was videos. Videos had just came out at that point. Everybody had one or wanted one and the video shots were thriving. It wasn't long before I had four video recorders linked up. It was make my own copies. Because it was word of mouth, people would tell me to go to their pals

and I'd go there and then you get people asking almost apologetically, do you do Betamax? And then you get people asking almost apologetically, do you do Betamax? I'm sorry, I would say. I don't anymore. I know there were angry dads throughout the scheme who were adamant Betamax would win the format war. Look son, it's better quality than VHS. We're not getting another video player.

Let's just watch Rambo again. As my video run get bigger and bigger so my drug dealing get bigger out of hand and that's how I ended up in jail for the first time. Again there's two ways I looked at it. I saw myself as a purveyor of joy, a bringer of happiness. The judge thought I was a menace to society. I'd certainly never been very good at thinking about how my actions might have a negative impact on people or society. I never considered the consequences, but now I was facing them and they were dire. While I was waiting sentencing, I had a couple of friends praying for me.

Now I'm not a religious person myself, but when the shit hit the fan, even I was praying. I wasn't here looking for miracles. I knew I was going to wait, but please God, five years are under. I can do that. The judge sentenced me to eight years. Eight years! Where's your God now? There's a lot of time to think in, Gilles.

A lot of time. And in the next episode, I'll tell you what I learned in that time and how even as I was thrust into a dangerous and hostile environment, I realised quite quickly it wasn't that different to life on the outside. with. Thanks for listening to the Comedy of the Week podcast from BBC Radio 4. If you want more check out the Friday Night Comedy podcast featuring the news quiz, the Now Show and Dead Ringers. From BBC Radio 4, Scott Lidster, you've directed another terrible film, The 15th in as many

years. When are you going to stop? No room. As soon as they told me that they were setting up a commission on race and ethnic disparities I said well, as long as Tim, Tim, Tim, Tim and Tim are on the team, you'll have everything sorted before the tea and biscuits arrive. No room. Jack wasn't familiar with my Bafta award-winning style

of walking around my guest's house before the interview starts and saying uncomfortably forced and awkward boring things. Michael Spicer, No Room. It's a sketch show with lots and lots and lots and lots of Michael Spicers. Listen on BBC Sounds.