‘LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL ONE MINUTE AND THEN HORRIBLE THE NEXT’

From Tiswas to Comic Relief, Sir Lenny Henry has been a familiar presence on our screens for more than 40 years. But life now is about more than just laughter, as he tells Ella Dove

So says actor and comedian Sir Lenny Henry

Sitting in a west London hotel, I hear Sir Lenny Henry before I see him. His familiar, gravelly voice booms down the corridor, frank and unhindered. I expect a jovial greeting; perhaps a spot of banter. He is, after all, one of the nation’s best-loved comics, a stalwart on our screens for over 40 years, known for his characters and catchphrases. But the man who shakes my hand is far more serious than I imagined, guarded despite his smile. ‘The thing about being a comedian,’ he tells me, slathering butter and marmalade on to crunchy white toast, ‘is that people expect you to be funny all the time. But if you’re with your daughter walking to the soft play place, or you’re with your mates or you’re in Tesco arguing with your partner over what meat to

buy and someone comes up to you, sometimes it isn’t convenient. I get it – I’ve been in their living room, people feel like they know me. It’s part of the job. But that doesn’t stop it from being weird sometimes – and a bit embarrassing.’

After bunking off school aged 16 to audition for ITV talent show New Faces in 1975, Henry’s formative years were spent in the limelight, with five years in The Black And White Minstrel Show before appearing in Saturday morning children’s show Tiswas with Chris Tarrant, followed by Three Of A Kind and The Lenny Henry Show. In 1985, he co-founded Comic Relief with Richard Curtis – he’s now an honorary life president of the charity. Of course, he was also a regular on the stand-up circuit.

However, in recent years, he has been trying to shake off his funny-man image. ‘I’ve done comedy since I was 16, and I’m very proud of the things I’ve achieved,’ he says. ‘But I had this thing, this feeling where I’d climbed to the top of the ladder, looked across – and realised my ladder had been against the wrong building this whole time. Because I’m not just a comedian. I’m an actor, a writer, a broadcaster.’

And it seems the shift is working. In 2009, he made his Shakespearean debut, taking on the title role in the Northern Broadsides’ touring production of Othello. Since then, his acting career has graced both stage and screen – from the BBC’S 2015 fictionalised account of his childhood, Danny And The Human Zoo, to the Theatre Royal Stratford East’s acclaimed production of King Hedley II in June this year. He’s made us laugh, he’s made us cry, and he has the knighthood to prove it – although he’s ‘sort of a bit embarrassed’ by that, explaining: ‘My mum always said, “Don’t confuse honour with achievement.”’ One thing, though, is for certain: he has never been out of sight.

‘I grew up in front of everybody,’ he says. ‘So every time I went out, I had people wanting photos, people shouting my name and then pretending they hadn’t done it, people buying me drinks at discos. I found myself adept at making new friends wherever I went. But there was this weird, protective casing around my heart, where I knew this was Acquaintance World.’ He says this last phrase in a booming American accent; he is prone to dipping into impressions even now. ‘It’s like Carpet World, but for acquaintances. They’re friendly, but they’re not really your friends. And when you’re 19, that’s great, you don’t care about people’s motives. It takes a while to distinguish real

‘PEOPLE EXPECT YOU TO BE FUNNY ALL THE TIME’

friendship. I was always reminded when I went back to Dudley [his home town] of who my real friends were.’

His accent still bears a trace of the West Midlands, the roots that he cites so often as the key to who he has become. ‘Origins are great,’ he tells me. ‘I like Batman, year one. I like Spiderman, year one. I think it’s good to see where somebody came from, to find out why and how they ended up taking on the basic tenets of how they live their life.’

It’s no coincidence that we are here today to talk about just that. His new autobiography, Who Am I, Again? spans his early childhood up until 1980. A new tour based on the book is also planned for this year.

‘It felt like a good time to look back,’ he says. ‘I’m 61 now – a good-looking 61, I hope.’ He gives me a grin and the protective mask cracks, a more fun and frivolous side peeking through. ‘I focused on my early years because the beginning of things are often a story within themselves, you know? If they’d have told the whole of Star Wars in one film, you’d have been like, “Damn, that’s a long movie…’’’

Growing up as one of seven children in a busy Jamaican household, he certainly has a lot to write about. He describes his mother, Winnie, as ‘the Jamaican Wonder Woman, who had worked very hard from a very young age’, ‘a gifted storyteller’ who ‘laughed a lot, but mainly in the confines of the house’, and who was not averse to disciplining her children

– with belts, shoes and, at one point, a saucepan. ‘It was very strict,’ he remembers. ‘I grew up hating confrontation. I was quite shy, and rubbish at fighting.’

His ‘papa’, Winston, was a ‘strong, silent guy who read the paper and only ever wanted to watch cricket on TV’. It wasn’t until 1968 that a young Henry discovered that his birth father was in fact a man he knew as ‘uncle’ Bertie, who his mum sent him to visit every Friday for 18 months to help out with odd jobs. ‘I have dad issues,’ he admits now, folding a piece of toast in half and shoving it into his mouth. His manner is casual, but his tone is thoughtful. ‘So I think as a result of that, I went out wanting structural help, seeking father figures wherever I went.’ He cites Chris Tarrant, his first manager Robert Luff and Three Of A Kind’s producer Paul Jackson, as three such people. ‘They helped me to push my way through the business – you only realise that when you look back and connect the dots.’

Henry’s own daughter, Billie, is now 27 – adopted when she was just two weeks old by Henry and his

then-wife, Dawn French. So how has he handled fame and fatherhood? ‘That’s a good question,’ he muses. ‘They always used to ask my ex-wife about juggling being a mum, but they never asked me. I think I did my best. I think I was a bit blokey in that I was very work orientated, because work is structure and life is chaos. I’m also a nonconfrontational dad. I want everything to be calm. Sometimes I wasn’t the ideal father, but then look at the example I had. Neither of my parents were very huggy or kissy, neither of them said ‘I love you’ very much. So my daughter was told it a lot. I was very tactile. I was better than my parents – and that’s all you can hope to be, right?’

I ask if he and Billie are close. ‘Yes. She lives in Cornwall. I see her as much as I can. But I don’t want to talk about my daughter too much.’ He and Dawn remain good friends but, understandably, he’s not keen to go into detail on the subject. In their 25 years of marriage, the high-profile couple drew a lot of unwanted attention – at one point, a photo of their house was even printed on the front page of the Daily Mail. ‘When [the press] wanted a story, they went for it,’ he says. Indeed, he writes in his book that ‘sustaining relationships of any kind [became] problematic due to interventions by the public’. And that’s all he will say.

However, his eyes light up at the mention of his current partner, theatre producer Lisa Makin. After initially meeting when he was in Othello in 2009, the pair have now been together for six years. ‘After I got divorced, there was a hiatus,’ he says, carefully. ‘But my life has changed now: it isn’t so much about being in a media couple. Lisa is… she’s great. We get on very well.’

When I remark that he’s clearly learned to keep that side of his life private, I’m met with an emphatic nod. ‘I used to just say everything and anything in interviews,’ he says. ‘It’s almost like they were fun therapy sessions for me. But I think as you get older, you develop a sense of “think before you speak”. And there still is that now.’ And yet now that Lisa has been brought up, he can’t resist peppering our conversation with little mentions of her. I learn that they live together, that ‘Lisa says there are too many books’ in their home, and that she was ‘very moved’ by his autobiography, despite having ‘a lot of corrections’, he laughs. ‘Lisa says I’m very interested in courses,’ he tells me when I bring up his educational accomplishments: he’s completed a BA in English literature from The Open University, an MA in screenwriting for TV and film and a PHD in media arts, both from Royal Holloway, University of London. ‘I nearly quit three times,’ he confesses with a smile.

‘It just went on for years. It wouldn’t stop!’

But with age has come perspective. ‘For a long time, work was my saviour, and I felt like if I just relaxed for a moment, I might lose it. But I don’t think that any more. I want to make more time for family and friends. I like holidays. I go to the gym, I read comics. I try to read a book a week. And I’m grade four piano; I’m trying to make time to do grade five.’ Even within his leisure time, I observe, there is an element of challenge. ‘I like to think, “Let’s see if I can do this,”’ he agrees.

Henry has had his fair share of obstacles. ‘I learned early on that life is beautiful one minute and then horrible the next,’ he says, with characteristic eloquence. ‘You’re playing with your mates one minute, and then suddenly you’re being racially abused by some guy.’

Racism is something he’s had to contend with throughout his life. ‘For quite a long time, I was sort of Teflon Len,’ he says. ‘Like, “Hey, I have a thick skin, I’m indestructible.” But, every so often, things would hurt.’ Diversity and inclusion have remained close to his heart ever since. In fact, even today, he’s paired his blue chinos and white trainers with a black T-shirt depicting the prison mugshot of his favourite comedian, Richard Pryor, from when he was arrested in Pittsburgh in 1963. The slogan on the back reads: There is no justice, just us.

‘People want there to be change, and that’s great,’ he muses. ‘In the entertainment industry, people tend to go, “Yes, we’re being inclusive, we have these people in vision,” but I’m interested in institutions. Who is making the decisions about disability, or race, or gender or sexuality? People say we’re pushing against an open door, but if it’s open, why am I still pushing? What is in the way?’

Does he think it’s got any better? ‘We’re doing okay,’ he says, ‘but we’re in a fight, and this is only round one. Whoever’s at the top of the ladder needs to reach down and pull somebody else up. Then, when we’re at the top of the ladder, we can help the next person. And as long as everybody remembers to reach down, we’re going to be living in a more inclusive world.’

Sir Lenny Henry brushes toast crumbs off his lap, lifts his tea and grins. ‘If you ask me, it’s everyone on the bus or no one on the bus. So buckle up, and let’s drive.’

‘I FELT IF I RELAXED FOR A MOMENT, I MIGHT LOSE IT’