Keep Calm & Carry On?

I had my first gig for over a month last Wednesday, at Flix Movie Cafe in Hartlepool.  It's a place I'm very familiar with, that has a friendly audience with a laid-back atmosphere.  And still.... it didn't go great.  I got really nervous as soon as I got up, resorted to my cheat sheet far too early and then depended on it far too much.  Some of the new gags went down well, some didn't, but when I came off I wasn't too pleased with my performance.

Before the gig I'd seriously considered quitting stand-up altogether, and even afterwards I was still in two minds, although other people told me keep it going.  Now, the decision may be out of my hands.  I've just started a temp job for a well-known credit card company that has me working stupid hours and shifts and practically ensures that I won't have much of a social life.  Which also makes accepting and attending comedy gigs equally difficult.  So instead of being an office worker and aspiring comedian, I'll have to go back to just being an office worker.  Which sucks big-time.

I was considering a change of style too, as I have difficulty remembering so many jokes - almost 50 in a 10-minute set.  I did write a more traditional comedy routine, and rehearsed it in front of Yvette.  It got a few laughs but not as many as my rapid-fire one-liners did, so I abandoned the idea and stuck to what I knew.  I could probably have added more jokes in re-writes, but got cold feet instead.

So here it is, for those of you who are interested, the first draft of my alternative comedy routine. Not that it matters now.

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BUS ROUTINE

I take the bus a lot. 

Now, when people ask me why I ride the bus, I tell them it’s because I refuse to clog up our already congested road system with yet another gas guzzler.  I tell them that it’s because I don’t wish to increase my already significant carbon footprint by riding around in a tin box on wheels.  I tell them that it’s because I have no desire to rape the planet with a four-wheeled death machine!

I tell them that, but it’s not true.  I ride the bus because I’m poor.  And because I’m poor, my punishment is to ride the bus.  To travel around town in a metal coffin, populated by all forms of human life.   From the people lacking slightly in social skills, to the completely fucking insane.

I waste valuable man hours waiting in the freezing cold weather for buses that don’t come.   For the buses that are half an hour late and turn up with no apology or explanation.  For the buses that come in threes like the proverbial bad joke.  If I could be arsed, I’d perform the calculations and deduce that WEEKS of my life are lost in limbo waiting for buses.  That’s time I’ll never get back.  But I can’t be arsed.  If I could, I’d have the drive and motivation to get a high-level, well paid job that would provide me with the funds with which to buy a car and thus be able to avoid riding the bus.

The problem starts when the bus arrives and I’m forced to interact with the driver.  Bus drivers are, by law, the most miserable bastards on Earth.  And I say that as the son of a former bus driver.   I don’t know if they receive any special training in being miserable, or whether it develops over time, but 99% of them really couldn’t give two fucks.  They’d rather just prefer driving around town all day without the inconvenience of actually having to pick up any passengers.  

Actually, it must be a gradual thing, because when a new driver appears on the scene, he’s very friendly, very happy and willing to go that extra mile for his customers.   Get on that same driver’s bus two months later and he treats you like a piece of scum that is hell-bent on ruining his day and must therefore be treated with the utmost contempt.  Basically, he wishes you were dead.  Whenever possible I try to buy a weekly pass just so that I don’t have to talk to these people.

The next challenge is to find a suitable seat on the bus.  This is trickier than it looks and requires some forward planning.  It’s no good sitting right at the front, because you’ll just get forced out by coffin-dodgers and pram faces two stops later.  And it’s no good sitting right at the back, because that’s where the gangs of chavs sit.  That’s their turf, and if you encroach on it you get your fucking  face slashed.  And if you sit in the middle you end up sitting next to the smelly weirdo who tries to engage you in conversation.  

There’s only one good seat – it’s just past the middle of the bus on the left hand side where the floor first raises.  That’s the only good seat there is and if you don’t get to it in time then your journey is doomed to fuckery.  For the next twenty minutes you’ll be subjected to inane observations, inappropriate questions and innate desire to end your life or the life of the fuckwit sat next to you.

When this happens, I like to put myself in a state of trance so that I can reach a calm, almost-Zen like state of mind. I can tune out the senseless banter of the chattering classes by transporting myself to a whole new world in my mind.  I can imagine that I am a trusty knight, riding my steed across Medieval England to rescue some fair maiden.  I can pretend to be an astronaut, hurtling through space at a thousand miles an hour to seek out brave new worlds.  I can envisage being on another bus, with fewer people, travelling to a better part of town.  Sorry, I’m struggling for ideas a bit now.

But my ultimate journey during these flights of fancy, is to be on the Orient Express, travelling across an exotic country with some of the greatest  people the world has even known.  Oscar Wilde is sat besides me, regaling the nearby passenger with endless humorous and witty anecdotes.   George Gershwin is playing ‘Rhapsody In Blue’ on a piano in the corner.  Albert Einstein is in the next carriage trying to explain the Theory Of Relativity  to a group of ten-year-olds... and succeeding.   The temperature is warm and the beer is cold, and there is no war or hate, just peace and love and understanding.

And then... everything stops.  I open my eyes, come back to reality, and get off the bus.  But everything is slightly better now.  The colours are brighter, the noises a little softer, the people around me are slightly less annoying.  Because for one brief, shining moment, I left the harsh reality of the modern world around me behind, and went to a better place, a warmer place, a safer place.   And, if only for a moment, I am happy.  Truly happy.

And THAT’S why I ride the bus.  Well, that and because I can’t afford a fucking car...

I'm Living In A (New) Material World

Tomorrow I will be performing my first stand-up gig in over a month.

During the forced hiatus that my health issues imposed, I wrote a load of new gags for inclusion in my set.  Most of them made it in, some didn't.  Some of the old stuff got removed to make way for the new stuff, or because it was weak.  In fact, in the 6 gigs I've done so far, in order to make the material as strong as possible, each set has been somewhat different to the one before.

And herein lies the problem.  Every time I change my set, I need to relearn the running order, as well as the new material.  From day one I've struggled to remember every joke, and never managed to complete a gig without missing at least a few out.

I now have just under 50 gags to tell in around 10 minutes, and I'm frantically rehearsing the night before the gig to commit them all to memory.  To make matters worse, 12 of those gags are new, untested material.  I've put most of them at the end of the routine so I'll hopefully managed to avoid forgetting them.

I may have to take a cheat sheet on stage with me, but I'm hoping that I manage to get through one gig without forgetting a single joke.  I've kind of created a rod for my own back by choosing a rapid-fire, one-liner style of comedy.  If my material was more anecdotal or followed a pattern or story, it might be easier to remember everything.  But I can't write that sort of material, so I write random, standalone jokes that have virtually no connection to each other.

So tomorrow's gig is a test.  If I can remember all my jokes, great.  If not, I might just give up this comedy lark once and for all.

Anyway, back to the rehearsing...

The Case Of The (Not Quite) Killer Sausage Sandwich

Picture the scene, if you will.  It's Thursday evening, and I have just prepared, cooked and consumed a very nice sausage sandwich.  Hell, I've even washed up the grill pan.

About an hour later, I start to get a tight feeling around my chest and back.  Assuming it's probably just wind or heartburn, I shrug it off and go to my girlfriend's house.  I drink a beer to try and burp the bad gas out of my body.  The burping started as planned.  And didn't stop.  An hour later, came the vomiting, everything from water, to food, to acid to the point where I was still going through the motions but there was nothing left to give.

In the meantime, the pain around my chest and back is getting worse, like a tight band being pulled even tighter.  It was at this point, after much nagging, that I finally allowed my better half to ring NHS Direct.  It's a good job she did too, because after several minutes of questioning and hearing me slowly dying in the background, the operator suspected a possible heart attack (by now I was also very short of breath) and dispatched an ambulance, post haste.

In actual fact, two turned up - the rapid response team and the 'proper' ambulance.  After some more questioning and endless details-taking (we were literally sat in the back of the ambulance, NOT MOVING, for nearly half an hour while a fully trained paramedic took down all my personal details on a glorified laptop) we made our way to North Tees Hospital.

After spending several hours in A&E, several hours on an emergency assessment ward, and another half hour on my actual ward, I was admitted properly and permitted to go to bed (at around 5 a.m.), but not before I insisted on my painkillers that I'd been waiting seven hours for.

To cut a long story short, it wasn't a heart attack.  It was a massive stone in my gallbladder.  A gallbladder which was also infected. On top of that, the doctor said he'd found 'fatty tissue on my liver which may become a problem in 10 or 20 years if you don't lose weight and change your diet'.  Excellent.  After 2 days in the hospital, they let me go home.  I'm now enjoying a few days of bedrest and moving about gingerly due to the pain that still exists in my side.

Thanks to that pesky gallbladder, I've had to turn down free tickets to a comedy show, cancel my own comedy gig on Wednesday and delay our move to London until the New Year.

On top of that, I now have to eat bland, low-fat food, lose a couple of stone, and go back to the hospital next month to see if they're gonna whip the gallbladder out.

So I'm blaming the sausage sandwich.  That and the several thousand others I've eaten in the last thirty-odd years.  I guess the party's over....

A Tale Of Two Cities

When I say "cities" I mean "towns" - specifically Stockton and Middlesbrough.  And when I said "a tale" I meant "two gigs".  But Two Gigs In Two Towns doesn't make as good a blog heading, so I'm stealing material from Mr Dickens instead.

My last two gigs couldn't have been more different.  On Friday I played at the Arc in Stockton as part of a Gong Show.  For the uninitiated, this is where a lot of comedians do five minutes material each and try not to get 'gonged off' by the audience before the end.

I got to the Arc about 7.30pm, and was ushered into a very nice green room complete with free drinks and snacks.  One by one the other comedians arrived - 11 gong show contestants in all, plus a support act and the compere.  By the (bad) luck of the draw, I went on last, which meant just before 11pm, giving me plenty of time to tie my stomach into knots with my customary pre-gig nerves.  Fun stuff.

By the time I got on stage, the crowd were well watered and had already gonged several other comedians off.  I went on stage to an audience of around 300 - ten times more than I'm used to playing to - and told my first joke.  A joke that has always gone down well with audiences and comics alike.

Until now.  The joke got me practically booed off stage.  My second joke didn't go down much better, but my third joke had them laughing.  A few more winners and they started applauding.  This was one schizophrenic audience!  They went from one extreme to another over four and a half minutes before I was eventually gonged off.  So close and yet so far.  Still, I did quite well considering it was my fourth-ever gig, and some of of the other acts seemed quite impressed that I would take on such a challenge after relatively little experience.  It was the first time I'd had less than a positive experience on stage, but I think it toughened me up a little bit.

My next gig took place on Tuesday at the Walkabout pub in Middlesbrough, at the Wild Bunch Comedy night.  It couldn't have been more different.  Using just a tiny space in the corner of the upstairs room, myself and the other acts performed to literally a handful of people.  I managed to get myself the first spot (less time for the nerves to kick in) and although quite a few jokes worked (but bizarrely, not the ones that usually do) playing to a room of about eight people still generated more silence than I would have liked.  Pity there wasn't more people, as the room downstairs was packed with people watching football, and I know the promoter works hard to bring live comedy to Middlesbrough at a reasonable price.  Would have been nice if a few more customers had found their way upstairs.

Still, it's all experience (I got my first two reviews at these gigs), and a good introduction to the fickle world of stand-up comedy...

Making Yourself Heard

I once read somewhere that in a survey of people's fears, the fear of public speaking came higher than the fear of dying.  Which, loosely translated, means that at a funeral, most people would rather be in the coffin than delivering the eulogy.

I can relate to that.  I spent most of my 37 years on this rock actively trying to AVOID public speaking.

And then I became a stand-up comedian.  Probably the worst job in the world for somebody who hates speaking in front of people (not that it is a job - yet).  Not only do you have to talk to strangers (something my mother told me never to do, although I was only five at the time) but you actually have to make them laugh.

This is my worst nightmare.  So why do stand-up then, as more than one person has asked me since I started telling jokes.  Well, two reasons.  One, because you should always try to face your fears, whatever they are.  And two, because I love comedy and have wanted to do this for many years, I just lacked the courage to do it.

I learned the hard way that avoiding risk leads to an unfulfilled life.  I was stuck in rut, miserable, depressed and without hope.  And then I took the biggest risk of my life: I quit my job, sold my house, got rid of nearly all my possessions and travelled around Australasia on my own for three months.  Best thing I ever did.  While I was in Queenstown, NZ - the extreme sports capital of the world, mind you - I bungee jumped 47 metres off a bridge towards an icy river.  Second best thing I ever did.  And when I came home again, I was a different person.  A better person.

But I still hadn't conquered all my fears.  When the opportunity came along to try radio presenting, I shied away and stayed behind the scenes as a producer.  When the opportunity came along to join a comedy workshop which concluded in performing a five-minute set, I turned it down.  Everything that I desperately wanted to try, I was turning down because I was too scared of failure.

Then one day, I just said 'fuck it, it's time to give it a go'.  I wrote enough material to feel confident about, and despite being overcome with terrible nerves backstage, I did it.  And then I did it again.  Last night I did it for a third time.  I still get nervous, but I also enjoy being up there in the moment.

Last week I spent two and a half days on a training course for a job I never got (long story, don't get me started...) and most of it consisted of getting up and talking about myself, selling myself, etc.  It was still terribly difficult to do, even after performing stand-up twice, and I hated every minute of it.

I just hope it gets easier over time, and that the nerves will eventually diminish, if not disappear altogether.  Because if I'm still as nervous on my 50th gig as I was on my first, it's time to do something else.

And I have no bloody idea what that might be...

Like a Red rag to a Bull

Luke opened another can of energy drink.  It was his third that morning and it wasn’t even 9 a.m.   He would routinely down can after can of that shit like it was about to be made illegal.  Which, if the rumours were to be believed, might not be too far from the truth.

The caffeine backlash had begun in earnest some months back and had quickly gained momentum, like a giant snowball made up of overly concerned parents and healthcare professionals looking to get their mugshots on TV.  Get a grip, thought Luke, it’s just a fucking stimulant.  He didn’t smoke or drink, yet everyone from his mother to his boss was all over him to quit the caffeine.  You drink endless cups of coffee but I can’t have my bit of harmless fun?  We’re just trading vices, after all.

Luke took a big swig then belched long and loud.  An old woman tutted disapprovingly as she walked past, but he just smirked.  His stomach growled a little.  It had been doing that a lot lately.  Fuck it, mused Luke, I’m just hungry.  He ignored the pain in his belly and quickened his pace.

The late nights were beginning to take their toll, judging by the ever-increasing circles around his eyes.  The sleepless nights were fuelled by endless worry about his long-term future, and he needed at least three energy hits in the morning just to function like a normal human being.

Luke drained his can and threw it into the nearest bin.  That was the last of his stash.  Better get another case from the store when I get my paper.   Luke suddenly felt like running, and sprinted along the street like an Olympian.  For nearly thirty seconds.  Then his heart skipped a beat and he quickly had to grab onto a lamp post to avoid crashing to the pavement.  Bent double, Luke gasped valiantly for breath and eventually calmed down.  If that’s what exercise does for you, you can keep it.

He gingerly made his way to the store.  His heart was pounding, his mind racing and the nervous tension in his stomach was getting worse.  Maybe he should just get a small case of energy drinks this time.

Inside the store, Luke made his way to the drinks aisle.  One the way, he picked up his usual red-top Sunday newspaper.  The headline instantly caught his eye: ENERGY DRINKS PROVEN TO CAUSE MASSIVE HEALTH RISKS – TO BE RECALLED IMMEDIATELY.

Luke slowly digested the information, then looked up at the drinks cabinet and found it half empty, devoid of his favourite drinks.

Looks like the party’s over, thought Luke, and picked up a six-pack of Coke instead.

Can You See Our Bee?

The comedy-tragedy that is my life took another bizarre turn today.

I applied for a job in Middlesbrough on Tuesday for a temporary Data Entry Clerk.  The recruitment agency responsible for the contract rang me back to express an interest in taking me on.  So I went in on Wednesday to register my details, back in on Thursday for an interview with the client, and then once more this morning to start the job.

However, when I get there, I'm greeted by a small bunch of other unhappy temps and a grim-faced line manager, who asked me if I had a CRB background check.  I told him no, and he told me he coudn't hire me as it was a requirement.  At no point in the hiring process did anybody tell me I needed a CRB.  Just the opposite, in fact; the agency asked me the question and I replied in the negative.  And now the agency and the client are blaming each other for the mistake, and I'm back to square one.

It's not bad enough that I spent nearly £15 and over 6 hours on bus journeys, but I actually had to go to Middlesbrough three days in a row, which is a fate I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy...

The bigger question, however, is: why does a keyboard-basher need a CRB check?  Is it in case I've ever been convicted of data rape?

Stand Up And Be Counted

After months of writing and years of building up the confidence, I finally took the plunge and had a go at stand-up comedy.

I did my first gig at an Open Mic night at The Studio, Hartlepool a couple of weeks ago.  Despite nearly being so nervous I almost threw up a lung, my set went down pretty well - although the audience was largely made up of my friends, so it was an easy-ish introduction to the profession.

On the back of that I was invited to perform at The Studio again last night.  This time though it was with the Big Owl Comedy Club - which meant paying customers, and being sandwiched in between two professional comedians (not in a sexual way, it wasn't that kind of gig).  This, along with deciding not to use my 'cheat sheet' unlike the previous time and relying on memory, brought its own pressures.  This time nerves got the better of me and I forgot two of my best gags.

It seemed like a nightmare in my head from start to finish, but upon watching back the footage I seem to have just about pulled it off.

I took a risk by conquering my fear of public speaking, and it paid off.  Now I've got the stand-up bug.  I've got several more gigs lined up already, and I'm adding new jokes to try and take my set from 8 minutes to around 10.

With a bit of luck, this could take off...

Preview

A Hallmark State Of Mind

Whilst browsing through the racks of a certain low-budget card shop today, I noticed something I have so far been ignorant of - greeting cards for teaching assistants.

Yes, you read that right.

Whilst I can just about live with the cacophony of choices that the greeting cards industry forces upon us, for me this is a bridge too far.  Cards for teachers are bad enough (what's wrong with just saying "thank you"?), but do we really need to express our gratitude for teaching assistants in this way too?  And come to think of it, why do we even need teaching assistants?

I did most of my schooling in the Eighties, with classes of over 40 kids, all presided over by one person.  This person was called Teacher.  Are classrooms so bad now that they need tag-team learning?  Are students so unruly that authority figures have to go in two by two, like a scholastic Noah's Ark?

What's next?  Thank-you cards for paperboys?  Get-well-soon cards for lollipop ladies who get mown down by single mothers on the school run?

Here's an idea: let's just have cards for greeting card shop assistants, and cut out the middleman.  They can give them to each other whilst they're stacking them on the shelves and save the rest us of a lot of time and money.