Famous as much for his distinctive hairstyle as his deadpan delivery, Mick Miller, 74, was on the TV talent series New Faces in 1976 before becoming a regular on The Comedians. In the 1980s he co-hosted The Funny Side on ITV with Cheryl Baker and the late Mike Smith, and made guest appearances on 3-2-1, Seaside Special, Blankety Blank and the first series of Peter Kay’s Car Share. He still tours and is on TikTok and YouTube. Miller was born in Liverpool and now lives in Poulton-le-Fylde, near Blackpool, with his wife, Wendy.
How much is in your wallet?
About £120, plus some dollars and euros. I don’t use it, just keep it in me wallet till the next trip. I’m more scared of being scammed than mugged. Abroad, you go into a restaurant and they take your card then bring it back. You never know whether you’ve been scammed. So I always feel better off with cash for coffee or a meal. Petrol and stuff I put on a card, but anything under £30 I use cash. For the first 20 years of my career you always got paid in cash. At working men’s clubs if you’d bombed you’d go to the steward at the end of the bar and he’d pay you out in cash. So people queuing for beer would know how much you were getting and say, “I work all week for ’alf o’ that. And I’ve seen him and he’s not even funny.”
Which cards do you use?
Credit, debit, I have about four, all with the same bank. There’s one for petrol, expenses and hotels, and the other three are just back-ups.
What was your first job?
I was a pro footballer. At 16 I was signed by Stanley Matthews for Port Vale. I’d left school, I wasn’t very academic. I was a goalkeeper and did two years as an apprentice. It was like slavery because you had to clean boots, clean the pitch and dressing rooms. My wage packet was £6 a week and I got £4 11 shillings after tax, plus they paid my digs which was £6. They got retired ladies to look after the lads with a big breakfast and dinner. When I arrived — my real name’s Michael Lawton — she was introduced as Mrs Lawton and she lived on Lawton Street. So in the words of Harry Hill, “What’s the chance of that happening?” But I wasn’t tall enough for a goalkeeper, I was still 5ft 9in at 20.
Back in Liverpool, I went on the dole and took whatever jobs they gave me. I humped bags of cattle food, did a few gags, was a railway crane driver on £9 a week. My cousin was a bluecoat at Pontins. She said, “Why don’t you come and be a sports host?” So I went to Camber Sands in 1972. I got involved with the Bluecoat Show, I perfected the gags, did a second season and ended up with a 20-minute act. That’s how it started, at 22. I got an agent while living in Bournemouth as a bingo caller. So I went on the road, signed a contract for January till November. It was hand to mouth because you’d get your expenses, digs and 15 per cent commission, sometimes making just enough to get to the next week’s work. The mileage we did was incredible, say, from south Wales to the northeast. It was like being Eddie Stobart.
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Are you a saver or a spender?
Spender. I did like nice stage clothes, which were expensive. They lasted a good while and I could claim for them on my tax.
Are you better off than your parents?
Yes. My mum and dad worked for the Co-op in Liverpool and I had a great childhood in a two-up, two-down near the docks in Dingle. We didn’t have a lot of money but they did look after me and my sister. My father was upset when I got the sack from football, and when I came into showbusiness he said: “That’s not the thing to do.” But he mellowed. He became a steward of a Catholic club. One day I told my parents: “I’m at the London Palladium. I’ll get you a nice hotel and two tickets for the show.” He said: “When is it?” I told him and he said: “Oh I can’t come. It’s a big bingo night at the club.” When he retired — he did like a pint and a bet on the horses — I’d always bung him a few quid, £20, but I’d give my mother £40 because I knew she’d save it.
When did you first feel wealthy?
Not wealthy, but after I got on The Comedians there was a lot of pressure because you were doing gigs where people were coming to see you specially. And your money went up to £250 a show. I did Batley Variety Club with Chuck Berry, a week with Tommy Cooper for £600. After that you’d get a summer season, my first South Pier in Blackpool in 1978 was £600 a week for 18 weeks.
Have you ever struggled to make ends meet?
Lockdown did me in. Being self-employed we got nothing off the government and what we’d saved up was gone. The two years became two and a half years because people wouldn’t book entertainment. But I’ve got back to it. I do cruise ships for £2,000 for two weeks. I know many entertainers who found other jobs and haven’t come back.
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What’s your most lucrative work?
I did the ITV series Last Laugh in Vegas for £10,000. We were out there for two weeks and had to pay American tax on it. They wanted to cut my hair. They didn’t realise that was my gimmick. But my best gigs, when you get the most satisfaction, are for the troops. I did three trips to the Falklands, the first Gulf War and then Bosnia — not for a lot of money because you’re doing it for the lads, basically.
What’s better for retirement — property or pension?
I’d say if you had a couple of properties probably and rent them out. I’ve paid the mortgage off on my house near Blackpool, where I’ve lived for 28 years.
Do you invest in shares?
No. I once did and got stung. I did a summer season in Jersey in 1982 and this guy said: “There’s this great thing coming up, an oil well in America, called Owl Creek.” I put in £500 and it went down the pan. I don’t know if it was a con.
What was your best business decision?
In this job there are three things you want to do: the London Palladium, the royal command performance and Las Vegas. I’ve done them all, so it’s like living a dream.
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And your worst?
I stayed with a manager for too long in the Eighties and Nineties. We parted ways because I was doing the same gigs all the time. I went with another manager and we’ve been together for 22 years. He got me on the royal command, four series of Ideal that I did with Johnny Vegas, acting, and Car Share with Peter Kay. So he opened a few more doors.
What’s your money weakness?
I like a flutter now and again. When I was filming Last Laugh in Vegas in 2018 we were doing the Orleans Hotel & Casino. They’d come to your dressing room at lunchtimes and ask what you wanted. And they’d give you those horrible menus full of fried rubbish. I said, “I can’t eat anything off there. I’m going to go to the buffet,” because the buffets in Vegas are tremendous. They said, “Well you’ll have to pay for it yourself.” I said, “I think I can stand $15.” So I went to the buffet and it was beautiful. I had a lobster, crab claws and salad, $14. On the way back — I still had an hour — there was a roulette table. So I got $50 out and put it on my favourite number, 20, and it hit it. He paid me out $700. Then I realised I’d left my bet on by mistake, and he hit it again. I got another $700; and then he hit it a third time. So I said, “Three spins, that’ll do. Cash it in.” I picked up my $2,100 and went back to the dressing room — and it was just because I don’t like fried food.
What’s your best investment?
I had a six-berth static caravan as a holiday home for 12 years in the Lake District, in Bowness. I bought that for £25,000 and sold it for £10,000. So I had 12 years of holidays and it only cost me £15,000. You paid a ground rent. It was only an hour for me to get up to the Lakes, so when I wasn’t working it was nice to go up there and relax.
What lesson have you learnt about money?
Keep a bit back. I always make sure I’ve got enough in the bank to pay the taxman. A lot of people do gamble in this business, because if you’re staying away for a week in digs and mainly work at night, you’ve got all day to yourself. So a lot of them went down the gambling route, especially now when it’s so easy with your phone. I don’t do it myself. But you can see how you can get on a gambling site and just press a button to bet £50 on a horse. It catches up with you.
How much did you earn last year?
I wouldn’t know.
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Your most extravagant purchase?
A week before lockdown I bought a brand new Toyota Land Cruiser for £40,000 that sat on the drive for two and a half years.
What if you won the lottery?
I’d look after friends and family and still do what I do. I love my job. In showbusiness you keep working till that phone stops ringing. Ken Dodd was the best one to talk about money. When he got done by the taxman, after his trial — he was found not guilty — apparently Ken said: “Well, when tax came into existence in this country it was a penny in the pound. I thought it still was.”
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