Thanks for Nothing by Jack Dee

Author:Jack Dee
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Autobiography, Humor, Non-Fiction, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Actors, Comedy, Biography
ISBN: 9781409081432
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2009-10-21T23:00:00+00:00

23

DURING MY TIME in the Ritz kitchen I had gained the habit of slipping out after service, not caring for an afternoon of sculpting carrots into perfect little barrels or getting involved in the dreaded afternoon teas.

There was a subterranean staff-room with a stained pool table, a cigarette machine and some worn-out hotel sofas where you could kip or sit around, smoking and talking shop. I hated it in there.

Then there was Piccadilly to wander down; Jermyn Street with its shop windows to look in; the Royal Academy if I was in the mood, which was hardly ever. These hours became hard to fill without a heaviness descending upon me.

I acquired the habit of visiting St James’s Church on Piccadilly. There I would sit, read, pray or sleep, depending on how I felt.

In accordance with the emerging pattern of my life, any lull in activity usually ushered in a sense of numbing despair. I felt compelled to seek out spiritual answers, believing that maybe the sense of permanent restlessness I felt was a sign of some kind of metaphysical calling. When I had the time, I would go to bookshops and ‘research’ Christianity. My amateur theology extended to attending one or two talks at the same church, as well as occasional services.

The Church of England for me had always been like an elderly relative that I felt I should visit from time to time. I took religion much too seriously, however, and its overall effect, I have to say, was depressing. I would have really liked to discard it, but somehow I couldn’t.

I found it harder and harder to lighten up and just enjoy life. I’d suddenly break off promising relationships for no good reason and neglect friends for weeks on end. I’d fall into a silent inertia that would only temporarily be resolved by an AA meeting. It was a despondency that wouldn’t leave and could, at times, make me feel very panicky. I had a longing for ritual, something that I could cling to, a routine that, if adhered to, would make me feel well and contented.

I liked the idea of Catholicism. At least you get a rosary and some pleasingly convincing sacraments, like crossing yourself when you pray and regular Mass. Incense was another plus. Its authority, smothering you at the door like a cassock, could give a tangible feeling of the holy. But once again, I was in conflict with myself. Tradition and ritual make good hiding places for religious doubt, and for me that wouldn’t do.

Instead, I wanted to do battle with it all, to wrestle with God and all the inadequate answers that surrounded Him. It sounds pretentious. Perhaps it was, but I suspect it was more the symptom of a malaise that felt as though it was destroying me, bit by bit. At times I didn’t know if I was seeking God or trying to rid myself of the very notion of Him.

I continued to spend much of my spare time in bookshops,

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