Born in 1978 in Chichester, West Sussex, Alex Horne is a comedian and co-host and creator of Bafta-winning gameshow Taskmaster. He is also the bandleader of the Horne Section, a comedy music sextet featuring trumpeter Joe Auckland and drummer Ben Reynolds, both childhood friends. As well as playing live, the band regularly appear on comedy panel shows and their own sitcom, The Horne Section TV Show. Their children’s book, Make Some Noise, is out now.
Alex
This photograph was taken on Ben’s birthday. I have no specific memories of the day. Probably some pass the parcel, pin the tail on the donkey.
Our childhood was spent in Midhurst. We were mostly outdoors, and there were a lot of marbles and bicycles. We’d cycle up to the woods with a bucket and spade, and dig tunnels like rabbit warrens. Once a year, the bigger boys would trash the tunnels. I was a super-nerd and I don’t remember any of us having girlfriends, although there was one girl hanging out with us for a bit. I can’t remember why. Essentially we were late developers.
I left the local primary school when I was 10 to go to a private school – which I now fully embrace, but was embarrassed about for many years. I didn’t worry about being left out of the group: no one thought much of me leaving. We were still down the tunnels at the weekends, and when we became teenagers we were all in the same pubs.
Joe, Ben and I started doing comedy together 15 years ago. All of us were struggling. My comedy was doing fine, their music was doing fine. But not brilliantly. Harnessing our two skills worked. As soon as we started, it clicked.
We did our first Edinburgh festival fringe in 2010 and it was ridiculous. Jimmy Carr and Tim Minchin joined us on stage. One year, all our mums came and we did a gameshow called Show Me the Mummy, where the audience had to guess whose mum was who. There was never any planning or proper production, it just happened organically.
In fact, we’ve never really had a meeting. Everything about the Horne Section setup is unprofessional. Five years ago, we went to stay in a windmill in the hope we might get some ideas down, but we didn’t end up discussing anything important.
We’re not ones to open up. I have three emotions: sleepy, happy and hungry. I’ve never really been sad. We went away with the three families this spring; Joe wasn’t there but his partner was. I probably spoke about Joe’s emotions more with her than I ever have with him. That’s not to say we aren’t supportive: if there’s a breakup or something, we’ve sorted it out by going to the pub. We’ll talk about it briefly, and it becomes a joke pretty quick. We also hug; I’m not a repressed public school boy, but our dynamic is generally lighthearted and cheerful. As a group, there’s not a lot of political chat; there’s not much deep thought. Maybe it’s because we haven’t got sisters. We are just three men from three boy-heavy families, brought up by mild-mannered parents.
Birthdays are still spent together. I have a gathering at the same pub every year along with the comedian Tim Key, whose birthday is close to mine. I wear the same shirt and I have to drink anything that’s given to me. It’s just a small tradition. I also have to rip up everything that’s handed to me. I’ve got in real trouble for that. Ripping books. Cash. There’s no cake and no Happy Birthday song, but we do have a Thai curry.
In many ways, we went straight from being boys to being dads. Ben and Joe still live on the same street, with kids the same age. Both my careers – the Horne Section and Taskmaster – are an extension of playing. The fact I do it with my friends makes it even better.
Joe
We spent every one of our birthdays together. After the cake there would have been the birthday bumps, back when they were still a thing. They’ve probably been banned now. Too bad for your back.
All three of us had a wholesome, privileged upbringing. Not that we were rich, but we had a nice time and our parents got on well. We always loved music – at school, Ben and I would go into the music room and play along to Iron Maiden. We had one band called Matryx and another called Hell Fire.
Our childhood was mostly spent digging a massive underground network of tunnels between my house and Ben’s. We’d take candles down there, and emerge at the end of the day covered in mud. There was also a disused brickworks with fun stuff to do nearby – conveyor belts we could use as a slide, and lots of diesel engines and flammable stuff around.
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Ben and I have lived together a lot – at college, and when we bought a house together. There was loads of decorating to do, so we set aside some concerted time to get it done. But then I got a ticket for a football match at Wimbledon and went out drinking instead. Ben, meanwhile, spent all day painting the house. To say sorry, I gave him chocolates and flowers in a carrier bag.
The three of us have always shared a love of comedy – stupid Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer stuff rather than humour with a heavyweight message – so it was amazing to do something silly at the fringe. Our shows would go on so long with no break, so we’d have to run out the fire escape to do a quick wee in a bush outside.
Our shows felt exciting because it was people like us taking a swing at the bigger acts: take our first year, when Mark, our sax player, had an argument with Jimmy Carr on stage. Jimmy had asked him to play heavy metal on his saxophone, which Mark said he couldn’t do, and it ended up in an awkward standoff that nobody would back down from.
Compared with the boys in the photo, we’re still as emotionally undeveloped. We go on these trips together and when I get back, my partner will say to me: “So, what’s going on with everyone? How are their families getting on?” I have to reply: “I don’t know. Absolutely no idea.” Rather than providing useful advice or any kind of deep conversations, our support comes in the form of just being around, being there – even if nobody asks for it.
Ben
The mums definitely cut our hair during this era; the styles all look quite similar. It was bowls back then, definitely not a barber.
Our three families were best friends; each had three sons, and me, Alex and Joe were the middle ones. Alex’s dad was our GP when I was growing up. He’s seen it all – he even removed one of the moles on my back.
Joe and I loved music, but at this age we were still absorbing our parent’s collection – the Frog Song and Queen mostly. We were all very geeky, but not clever. Our music teacher would let us come in before school and during lunch breaks so we could use the instruments.
The early Horne Section shows were brilliant. Comedians would come on and we’d underscore their story with music. One standout memory is of Joe in his pants, sitting on Tim Key’s shoulders as he did some poetry.
We’re very aware that we’re lucky to do what we do. We’ve taken the child version of our lives and tried to make it into an adult one. There’s nothing I could ever moan about.
We still spend our birthdays together, when we can. There was one year where I drew a card – an intricate portrait of Tim and Alex. Before Alex even opened it, he’d ripped it up. Mark went: “Alex, you idiot, what are you doing?” I never found out why. But there’s no hard feelings. If I could keep working with my friends for the rest of my life, then I’d be happy.
