The Debut Performance

The compere began the night well; very chatty, and got the audience in the mood. Two established acts then performed, both of whom were very good. One struggled a bit due to the heckling (good natured, but I would imagine still off-putting) of three intimidating looking men in the crowd. Nerves began to set in.

After this the compere announced the ‘gong show’ was starting. The show works by comics performing 5 minutes of material. After this the crowd can decide whether to keep them on stage or vote them off (they can do this at any point after the initial 5 minutes). If the performer makes 10 minutes, he has beaten the gong.

I was on fourth out of six acts, giving me a chance to see how other people fared, and what the crowd were like. Some really good bits of material on show, and the crowd was friendly, occasional heckles from the group of three mentioned above, which, mindful of my own impending performance, terrified me, but the comics managed to keep on track.Soon my moment came. The compere whipped the audience up into a frenzy and I stepped up on the stage, nervous, slightly embarrassed and blinking in the spotlight.

I picked up the microphone, did a small joke about a stool that had been brought on stage, and I was in. Nerves meant I didn't stick to the running order I had planned, but I'd written prompt words on my hand (meaning I had to clap wrists when applauding the other acts) and referred to them at random. My confidence grew with the sound of titters from the audience at a joke referencing a local garden centre's urinals. From there, I moved onto some material on Wikipedia, and then an erroneous text message and its consequences. By the time I had finished, well and truly exhausting my small amount of material, I realised I had (just) made it to 10 minutes, beating the gong, perhaps a sympathetic gesture from the audience.

I was followed by the Preston comedian referenced in my previous entry, who was experimenting new material, and who also made the ten minutes. At the end of the night the compere called onto the stage the three of us who had beaten the gong, and announced that the winner of the gong show would be decided by that time-honoured method of voting, the 'clapometer'. To my lasting surprise, I won, to my lasting disappointment, there was no cash prize.

Fellow Prestonian and I celebrated in glamorous fashion, with a Snickers bar each on the way home.

http://www.royalcourtliverpool.co.uk/rawhide/Raw.htm

Fear and the Potential for Loathing in Liverpool.

To paraphrase Ian Brown, I've got the fear.

On Wednesday I will be performing stand-up comedy for the first time, in Liverpool, and I'm terrified.

I've been working on my routine since last year, and generally thinking about performing comedy for many years, but, as with many things in life (at least in my life), now that the moment looms I find myself underprepared and unconfident.

Performing comedy changed from just a pipe dream to reality when I met a local comedian at a comedy night he ran in Preston, in February this year. I sidled up to him after the event, offered congratulations, and blurted out that I, too wished to perform comedy. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed this eager, naive 'comic' infront of him.

"Do you do jokes about chavs?" He asked. My face dropped an inch or two.

"No I'm afraid I don't unfortunately, although I do do jokes about writing poems, and about ill-fitting swimming trunks, and about..."

"No, that's fine - everyone does jokes about chavs," he explained, and our relationship was formed.

The very next day I received a text, asking if I wanted to do a 10 minute spot in Liverpool, on Wednesday 2nd April. I said yes - it seemed ages away - and I had my first booking. Between then and now I have received numerous more invitations from my comedy guru, inviting me to perform elsewhere (usually at very short notice), but I have always resisted.

"2nd April. Liverpool. That is my moment." I have been thinking. Although now it draws near, I find I still haven't properly rehearsed, and am swiftly losing faith in my material.

But never mind. Liverpool is quite far away. I don't have to go back there soon. I can lick my wounds in peace, in Preston.

Kenan and Kel.

In my heady school days, it was common for rumours to reverb around the schoolyard. These rumours could be localised (a common theme was that two teachers of the same sex were co-habiting, or that a particular pupil was a test-tube baby) or international in scale.

The most ambitious and enduring form of the latter was the rumour that Kenan Thompson and Kel Mitchell, stars of a hit US television show called, imaginatively, 'Kenan and Kel', had been killed in a car accident in the late 90s.

This struck a chord with friends and I, as the show had been very popular with high school children. It operated on the simple 'dumb and dumber' format, with Kenan, a reasonably intelligent, overweight, constantly scheming teenager leading his less intelligent, and orange soda-addicted (a popular recurring sequence in the show was for Kel to proclaim his love for the soft drink) friend astray. I am unsure where the rumour started, but by the year 2000 most youths in the UK, myself included, believed our comedy heroes to be dead.

I mourned the duo for 18 months, only leaving the house in black, and avoiding orange-coloured drinks, before finding out their death had been a cruel hoax. However, I must admit, as the initial blow of their deaths had lessened with time, I found nagging doubts had begun to form.

The doubts weren't over the fact that the twosome were dead, but rather the manner of their demise. Kenan seemed to me to be more of a contender for coronary disease than dying in a car crash. My reasons for this were two fold - his excessive bulk obviously put him at risk of heart failure, but also, given that he could actually fit behind the wheel of a motor vehicle, his size would surely prohibit any car from going fast enough to engage in a serious crash.

Meanwhile, Kel's much vaunted dependency on orange soda would make him a surefire candidate for diabetes, which I saw as more likely to finish him off than any car related incident. As with Kenan, I also had doubts about his ability to drive a car, as his sugar dependency doubtless made him far too hyper-active to pass a driving test.

Poetry.

Studying English at university is a dangerous proposition.

Over-exposure to literature at a young, impressionable age can lead to one's feet being lifted from the ground, and fill a scholar's head with various notions of his or her own literary prowess. I speak from personal experience. Half way through my first year, and fresh from reading sonnets for two hours, (don't worry, it wasn't on taxpayers' money) I decided that I, too, could write great verse.

And why not? I got an A in English at GCSE after all. I considered myself intelligent. What is there to writing poetry anyway? I convinced myself that I was a natural poet, a gifted wordsmith, who need only threaten parchment with pen for my creative juices to spill forth, embellishing the page with literary flourishes and such epic language as had never before been witnessed. I studied English. I was a creative.

That night I shut myself in my room. I dimmed the lights to a suitably creative degree, and opened the bottle of wine I had secreted into my bag during my last visit home. I poured the vintage (Mateus Rosé) into my only wine glass, carefully took out my best pen (a Parker fountain). I was ready to write.

Two hours later, I sat back, spent. The wine was drunk, my ink cartridge emptied, the four pages of A4 I had set aside for my poetic indulgence filled. Curiously, my burning desire to right poetry sputtered after this, and was soon extinguished, as other matters (mainly night out matters) took priority. Eventually I cleared the sonnets I had so lovingly penned from my desk, packing them into an old briefcase, and quite forgetting the incident.

This very week, 4 years after my two hour creative spell, I came across these poems. I think it would be fair to say they fit the stereotype of an arts student; imagine a long-haired, houmous-eating, latte-swilling, tight-clothes wearing young man, and you've pretty much got the idea. Whilst there is nothing specifically wrong with this, there is plenty wrong with the poetry.

I selflessly include one here so that I may save others from falling into the same trap. Beware.

Sides

Two sides, hast I
One is shown,
One is shy.
One I own.
The other I do not.
It belongs to the public eye.
Forget me not,
For then I would die.

Indecent Exposure

In August, 2002, my family and I travelled to Lanzarote on holiday.

The trip coincided with the publication of my AS Level results, and as such my father had organised for the results to be faxed to the hotel for perusal.

Upon receiving the fax I was overjoyed with the results, as was my father, who made public his intentions to purchase alcoholic refreshments for a large group of youths my sister and I had befriended.

Having purchased the drinks, my father encouraged all recipients to pose for a picture, which he had commissioned my sister to take. There were roughly 15 of us, lagers raised, teeth glistening, with my father in the midst, resplendent in fading yellow flip-flops and ill-fitting speedos. My sister encouraged us to 'say cheese', and was about to take the photograph when she halted. Something had evidently caught her eye, for she now bore a horrified expression, whilst her face, already crimson from severe sunburn sustained on the first day, now turned purple as she struggled to stifle laughter.

"Dad!" she cried, "You're hanging out!" - words which were accompanied by animated pointing in the direction of my father's crotch. He turned to the group, as if for verification, and we were able to confirm that he was revealing himself, in a manner which I have since termed 'double testicle exposure'.

I was sent to the hotel room for a replacement pair of trunks, the photograph was taken, and the holiday continued without re-occurrence. The offending trunks remain integral to my father's holiday wear.

Oslo, Norway. January 2008.

Oslo, Wednesday 23rd January 2008. 9pm. Having just arrived in Norway's bitterly cold and icy capital, we set out in search of much needed nourishment.

My companion and I were immediately aware we did not resemble people local to Oslo; I, with city map crumpled in hand, was sporting a ski jacket, woefully inadequate Converse trainers, and a vacant expression as I panned my surroundings. Similarly, my companion was also dressed as if in defiance of environment and climate, adorned in a 'University of Liverpool' sweatshirt and shoes with all the warmth and support of a primary school gym pump. In short, we looked like tourists.

After a predictably short period of time, we became lost, and so, in the time-honoured tradition of couples in a stressful situation, we stopped and engaged in a prolonged, and heated, debate (argument) on exactly where we were. After many minutes' exchange of opinion, we decided to strike off in a given direction, myself slipping to the ground as we did so. We walked cautiously along the street, mindful of the thick ice and the two hazy figures heading towards us, trying in vain to affect the air of a calm, spohisticated couple out for an evening stroll. I was still struggling for traction, and struck a particularly ill-balanced character as I shuffled along the pavement, holding onto railings to support myself, whilst my esteemed partner still clutched the map, and scanned vainly from one side of the street to the other, in a vain effort to find out where we were.

It was this desperate, fish-out-of-water scene that greeted the two women approaching us, but, undeterred, they politely stopped us, and, in Norwegian, asked if we knew the location of a certain street. My partner and I looked at each other, disbelieving, and looked back at our inquisitors (I was convinced it was an incredibly sarcastic practical joke) but there was no hint of humour in their expressions. Within a split second, we both found the phrase guaranteed to relief oneself of natives across the world.

"English!" we shouted, in unison, which I reinforced by waggling my finger at myself and said companion, nodding my head vigorously. The Norwegians seeking directions vanished into the night, whilst we located our hotel, and, in further tribute to Brits abroad, its bar.

A Traveller's Tale.

A warning! This article, at over 500 words, is not for the faint-hearted. Please note this blog entry also marks my discovery of the 'strikethrough' tool, which I have utilised at various points to tone down, or up, this tale.

No, not the 'travellers' whose appearance in caravans and motorhomes can strike fear into the heart of any well-to-do middle class gent or dame.

Rather, the weekend traveller I have become since entering the 'serious' world of work 6 months ago. Regular readers will know of my recent jaunt to Berlin, where it occurred to me, not for the first time, that you can take the awkward posture and gait of a lifelong geek, and place it in ultra-cool, bohemian surroundings, but the pretence pretty much ends there.

The star of this piece, of course, 'tis I, the Baker Street Irregular. The setting, East Berlin, home to artists, musicians, 'bohos', punks and, last weekend, myself.

My natural ability to look uncomfortable in any situation is something I have come to grips with over the years, and dealt with accordingly; usually by avoiding trendy places like the plague. Unfortunately, on Saturday night in Berlin, I found myself isolated with two friends who relish any opportunity to immerse themselves in pretentious surroundings - Jin Smoth and Jan McCorthy, anagramise(?). Coming out of a bar at 4am, the rest of the bunch cleared off back to the hostel, leaving me, Jin and Jan to explore the area. Strolling down a street in the bitter cold, a gap was spotted in a wall (vague, I know). Beyond a repetitive banging could be heard that, I was reliably informed by my cronies, represented the strains of 'Techno' music. Jin and Jan, like hounds on the scent, quickened their pace, whilst mine slackened. We entered what was once an industrial estate, and in turn a particularly shabby looking warehouse, in a darkened corner of said estate. A curtain was swept back, we parted with one euro each, and we were in. Jin and Jan made a beeline for the dance floor, where Jin proceeded with his best Ian Brown impression (knees raised as if climbing a staircase, right hand clasped around the very base of a bottle of lager, prodding the air with the bottle's neck), whilst Jan opted for the finger pointing (which I pointed out would be considered very rude back in Blighty), a wiggling of the hips and a shuffling of the feet. Both looked instantly at home.

I stood awkwardly, then deciding to give the old dancing lark a try, adopted my tried and tested 'hands on hips, alternate shoulder thrusts' that may have been subconsciously inspired by Bucks Fizz. After a couple of minutes of quietly committed twisting, Jin McCorthy turned to me, mid-finger points, and looked me up and down. Smiling, I nodded towards him; two dancers appreciating each other's work. "Very noisy!" I bellowed, leaning over to him.

He brushed my comments off, with a look I now recognised as contempt. "Have you never danced non-ironically?" He inquired - ironically, non-ironically, if that makes sense. I drew a sharp intake of breath, and tried to mask the hurt I felt. "What do you call this?" I asked; nodding down at myself: I hadn't ceased my Bucks Fizz tribute, and felt it may have gone unnoticed.

Jin merely raised eyebrows, and fingers a-pointing, made his way through the crowd of rectangular-spectacle wearing, impeccably clad Berlin folk. To quote Joseph (he of the much-vaunted, and many coloured dream enhancing outergear), 'I was left alone'.So what does one do, finding themselves all alone, in a trendy club, a long way from home, with cheap continental lager readily available?

The answer for this intrepid traveller, was settle down in a comfortable sitting chair beside the dance floor, and fall soundly asleep, awaking 2 hours later, at 8:30am, to largely the same scene I was faced with before my nap.

Whilst this did my kudos no help in the eyes of Jin and Jan, and indeed gave rise to a vicious rumour that I slept in every nightspot we entered, I had something of the last laugh, stepping out into Berlin at 9am relatively sober, fully awake and ready for the day.

The End.