So A Comedian Walks Into Church

by Paul Kerensa

  These good people are easily forgotten, especially by the secular world. I know many comedians and others alike who would hear the word ‘Catholic’ and think only of anti-abortion, anti-contraception and cover-ups.The Catholic Church has got a bad reputation in the big wide world.

  I see a Church full of good people, with, yes, some bad apples that are rotten to the core. Those who covered up and put the bad apples back on the shelf are culpable too of course, but the danger is then that the entire institution is pilloried. The same happens whether it’s the Catholic Church or the BBC - those who are against such institutions throw everything at them.They must look inward and ensure that such things can never happen again and then, hopefully, they can move on.

  I would urge people to look beyond the stereotypes and guessing games. Yes there are wrongdoers, but I’ve seen generous, holy people committed to God and committed to a life of charity, and they should be more visible. In the meantime the Catholic Church may take some years to shake off its bad press among the unchurched, but then that’s something it knows a lot about: penance.

  25 ‘I don’t know, how do you put down a vicar?’ ‘Erm, this should be a punchline.’

  26 ‘The Pope’s astronomer’ sounds as if it should be a euphemism, to go with, ‘Who’s “she”, the cat’s mother?’ and ‘I’m going to see a man about a dog’.

  27 A reminder that astronomy is not astrology. He’s into planets, not horoscopes. Although the Pope does have 12 astronomers, so maybe they double-up with a star sign each. Perhaps His Holiness summons them one by one each morning to tell him that Capricorn Catholics the world over are going to have a lucky day.

  28 Apart from perhaps chaplain to the International Space Station.

  29 It’s also the mosque road, but that’s not a famous album cover.

  30 Just their fingers - not a full body dip.

  5

  A Coventry Carol

  Seeking Salvation Army

  ’Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the land,

  All the clubs were a-thrivin’, and work dos were planned.

  Cabbies and shoppers drove their cars over salt,

  And in Coventry outskirts, I ground to a halt.

  I was here for the weekend, for three days of shows

  Bringing ‘Ha ha ha ha’s, plus some ‘Ho ho ho’s.

  The audience at Christmas are an unruly bunch:

  Mostly work parties who have been drinking since lunch.

  While the Edinburgh Festival gives creative fun summers,

  December’s our penance: gigs of ninety-odd plumbers.

  There’s heckling and boozing, and free Santa hats

  And through each performance, the loudest of chats.

  This club wasn’t central but out in the sticks:

  An industrial park just off the M6.

  Our hotel was in need of a nice lick of paint.

  I won’t say its name, though I ‘lodged’ a complaint.

  But parking was ample, and between every show

  I could drive somewhere else ... if it weren’t for the snow.

  For as I arrived, the ice started forming

  And the cold winter sun didn’t do any warming.

  So my weekend was stuck here - sounds pretty rough, eh?

  A Burger King,Tesco, a Pizza Hut buffet,

  Then Laserquest, bowling, an attempt at Tex-Mex,

  And a digital ten-screen deluxe multiplex.

  So Tesco provided all presents that year:

  F&F clothing, cheap chocolates, cheap beer.

  And after my shopping, to screen number eight,

  With Vince Vaughn in Lapland I’d now hibernate.

  The cinema warmed but the movie was rough

  And credits soon rolled, just not soon enough.

  Before heading outside to see new snow a-falling,

  I made for the Gents, because nature was calling.

  It was totally empty, being Thursday, four-thirty.

  So I went for a cubicle once I found one not dirty.

  The main door then opened and in burst a fellow,

  And through my loo door, I heard him say ‘Hello?’

  I like to be friendly; I hate being mean.

  But this wasn’t the place, with a door in-between.

  ‘Hello?!’ he repeated, with minimal tact,

  Which left me a quandary: do I say hello back?

  Or do I ignore him, which doesn’t seem right?

  I’m British (reserved), yet British (polite).

  Politeness won out, so I answered, quite shocked.

  ‘Hello?’ I exclaimed, glad the loo door was locked.

  Cubicles vacant, he was spoilt for choice,

  And I knew no one here, let alone knew the voice.

  So why was he talking? We all know the code.

  You don’t speak to strangers while on the commode.

  ‘So what are you doing?’ He continued to speak!

  Do I answer again, though I’m feeling quite meek?

  Do I give him a number, a ‘one’ or a ‘two’?

  How can I get him to leave me and my loo?

  I ought to reply to his question, I reckoned,

  So I said, ‘Nearly out, just give me a second!’

  I wished I could vanish, prevent our confronting.

  But then I was curious to what he was wanting.

  Maybe a cubicle’s what he desired,

  But with four others empty, that thought soon expired.

  Perhaps he left something before in this stall?

  But no, nothing here, even ... oh. No loo roll.

  ‘Get a move on!’ he said, as I imagined him pacing.

  Enough then, I thought - I’m going out to face him.

  I eased back the lock and it turned from ‘Engaged’

  Back to ‘Vacant’, and I readied to see him, enraged.

  I creaked my door open in order to finally

  Glimpse the strange man ... who was at the urinal. He

  Hadn’t been barking at my toilet door:

  He was standing just near it and I instantly saw

  Why he’d uttered such strangeness, because I hadn’t known

  That all of this time he’d just been on the phone.

  ‘Hello ...What you doing...’ he’d said to his mate ...

  ‘Get a move on!’: He’d phoned him because he was late!

  His chat hadn’t been aimed at me, like I’d feared

  He was just unhygienic, not overly weird.

  I moved to the sinks, both relieved and ‘relieved’,

  But he was still glaring, I’m sure I perceived.

  ’Course while he’d been checking his friend’s whereabouts,

  I’d answered him back from the loo with my shouts.

  He wasn’t the weird one, like I’d thought inside.

  No, I was the weird one, cos I had replied.

  I had to save face, so cool as a cat

  I sneaked phone to ear, and continued my chat.

  ‘Yeah, watching a film,’ I said to my phone,

  Pretending I wasn’t just talking alone.

  That would explain why I’d seemed to reply.

  ‘Good movie,’ I told my fake friend (one more lie).

  Cos there wasn’t a friend and the film had been bad,

  But at least he’d not think I was stark raving mad.

  And so there we stood, two phone-calls a-taking,

  One of us real, the other one faking.

  Then all of a sudden while I spoke to fake mate,

  I felt in my hand my phone start to v
ibrate.

  Quick as a flash, before ringtone alerted,

  I swiftly pressed ‘cancel’: call and problem diverted.

  The chap hadn’t noticed - I could finally relax,

  So I left for the foyer, hearing festive soundtracks.

  Kirsty MacColl serenaded The Pogues

  As the door to the gents pneumatically closed.

  But slowness to close meant sounds weren’t just musical;

  Also I heard, ‘There was this bloke in a cubicle,

  He was having a chat on the phone while he sat!

  Disgusting, I tell you - how filthy is that?!’

  The door simply closed, I heard no more talk,

  And Kirsty and Shane sang of choirs in New York.

  So next time a stranger says ‘Hi’, do not spoil it,

  Whether you meet in a street, lift or a toilet;

  Respond at your peril: without further ado

  He’ll be telling his mate that you phone on the loo.

  ***

  ’Twas a few minutes later, and I trudged through the snow

  With still several hours until my next show.

  The other comedians had said, ‘Let’s get food!’

  I’d had buffet and popcorn, but a ‘no’ would be rude.

  So I crossed the white car park, and my pizza I planned,

  When I heard unmistakeable sounds: a brass band.

  I dwelt more on toppings, on ham, and salami,

  And then there were: the Salvation Army.

  Cold, bold as brass: a trombone and a tuba.

  Each puffed with chilled air like a sub-aqua scuba.

  A flugelhorn, tenor horn - a midwinter’s dream -

  And a cornet: the instrument, not full of ice cream.

  The band were in uniform, all upright and dapper.

  As they drew to a close, I was the lone clapper.

  They nodded a thank you and stopped for a rest,

  And some now regretted not wearing a vest.

  I engaged the trombonist in some light conversation,

  Wondering what links brass bands to salvation.

  ‘It goes back to our founder, one William Booth.

  He’d take to the streets, not just to preach truth,

  But largely to help folks, in practical ways,

  So he’d focus on addicts, the poor, waifs and strays:

  The ‘undesirables’ not welcomed in church.

  So he’d go sit with them, not high on a perch.

  Booth and wife Catherine, they’d go and they’d listen,

  And they founded this group called the East London Mission.

  The daughter of William then moved to the States;

  Her wagon would transport inebriates

  To refuges, to stop guzzling ale by the flagon,

  And hence the expression we use: “on the wagon”.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said I to trombonist,

  ‘So is there a link between brass bands and homeless?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he replied. ‘See, the Booths preached no booze,

  And the old Sally Army would steal the pubs’ queues.

  Landlords weren’t happy with custom less merry

  So to bring down the tension, one night in Salisbury,

  Charles Fry and his sons had a brainwave: try music.

  Because each had an instrument, and knew how to use it.

  They just started playing, the rowdy crowds calmed.

  Cos we all love a sing-song, even when armed.

  Booth said, on hearing how music communes,

  ‘Why should the devil have all the best tunes?’

  It seemed rather apt hearing tales of sobriety,

  With a boozy gig later, I had cause for anxiety.

  It’s good that at Christmas, among the beer barrels,

  The Salvation Army continue with carols,

  But also their work that’s often not seen:

  Helping the homeless get fed or get clean.

  The three things you get from this Santa’s grotto

  Is ‘soup, soap, salvation!’ - so goes their old motto.

  He asks me the time, saying, ‘Well it’s quite cold,

  And we’re due to be finished by now, we were told.

  ‘I don’t mind of course, but my horn-playing friend,

  She’s off to the cinema, might catch the film’s end.

  Her boyfriend’s been phoning, the movie’s commenced...’

  At this point, I panicked.Was it him in the Gents?

  I made my excuses, thought best not find out

  If I’ve met her boyfriend and his toiletary shout.

  So I left them to choose which song to play last

  As I dashed away, dashed away, dashed away fast.

  The dinner was pleasant, the gig full of cheer,

  And now I head south to the sound of Chris Rea.

  As I drive home for Christmas, here’s that old sound bite:

  A Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight!

  6

  Snow Joke

  Kneeling with Neo-Charismatics

  I have mixed feelings about snow.

  The day of expectation is exciting, when it doesn’t quite snow but we’re told it might. The day of wonder is magical, when it does fall and we stand at the window singing Dean Martin and judging,‘It might settle, it might you know,’ like we know what we’re talking about. The day of play is a delight, when we wish we’d bought a sledge and instead rush outside with a tray from the kitchen.

  The dog days of snow are less thrilling. It either persists and we panic about being snowed in: newspapers report Snowmageddon, and shops run out of bread so we resort to fruitloaf or crumpets. Or it turns to slush and your dad phones about what a death trap the roads are, and did you ever buy that rock salt he recommended.

  By January’s second week of this, the word ‘York’ had been staring up from my diary for some time, more of a threat than a promise of work. It had the menace of a gangster:‘Heating on full, is it? You want to pay those bills, you get up that M1 if you know what’s good for you.’

  The M1 is surely so named because like the number, it boringly goes straight up with all the swervy exciting bits to its left. The road is long, and maybe the odd winding turn might brighten things up a bit. It’s not anyone’s favourite motorway (that’s the M40), it doesn’t contain anyone’s favourite services (that’s Alderley Edge in Cheshire - a lake and a farm shop!), but it does get you from A to B - or more precisely from the A406 to the B6157.

  In bad weather you want local work, or even no work at all. It’s not the time to cross the country, changing accent zones at every service station. ‘Easy in the snow, guv,’ gives way to, ‘Look after yerself, m’duck,’ and eventually, ‘Fettle ye careful-like on t’roads’.

  The Met Office journey-o-meter had its needle pointing to ‘essential only’. Did a two-hundred-pound gig in York count as essential? It was bill-paying work, so I guessed yes. On the comedy circuit, three or four times a week you ask yourself, is it worth the travel for that money? My old housemate Danny, also a comic, used to put it like this: If you told a non-performer that you’d left an envelope for them containing a couple of hundred pounds in a bar, a five-hour drive away, would they bother to go and get it? Maybe, maybe not. Comics not only decide yes, I will go, but when there we’ll spend half an hour trying to get the attention of a roomful of strangers. Odd.

  I set off early on the Saturday to face the best chance with the weather.The snow had cleared a little around my house, but then Surrey is nearer the equator than York. As I applied the hand brake in the fast lane of the motorway, I knew it was going to be a long jo
urney.

  I, like a lot of comics (and I’m sure circus performers, travelling salesmen and any other hard-to-insure working drivers), have person- alised my driving experience in an individual, yet I’m sure, quite pathetic way. If you spend so much time in your car, you have to. I know a comedian with a shoebox under his passenger seat full of favourite sweets, a toothbrush and a change of underwear. I’ve passenged in cars where the back seat has been stocked full of crisp packets, novels and Diet Cokes. One comic I know never travels more than two hours without an apple, an orange and a banana on his passenger seat, to halt his temptation for road snacks and fast food. We all perform a sort of geeky, comfortable version of Pimp My Car Interior.

  Allow me to introduce you to the Kerensamobile ...

  My Satnav has been programmed to moo like a cow whenever I’m within five miles of a Harvester. Chain restaurants provide the best mix, I find, of value for money and staff who’ll leave you alone for three hours while you write jokes on a laptop, plus unlimited visits to the salad cart.

  In the pocket behind the passenger seat - easy reaching while driving - you’ll find energy drinks and bottles of Actimel (winter only, to keep them fridge-cold).

  Between front seats, in the container for change or keys or no one knows what, you’ll find Polos,TicTacs and Softmints, because you never know what mint you’ll be in the mood for.

  My glove compartment has last year’s edition of the National Trust handbook (because this year’s is always in the house).

  The iPod is chock-full of cheesy 1980s power ballads - often marketed as ‘Drivetime’ by the music PR people, but called ‘Porous’ by me, on account of it being very soft rock.

  Prising myself away from the M25, I worked out that it would have been quicker to walk this far. The M1 felt like a giant step nearer my destination. I was glad that I’d planned ahead to book a hotel for the night. After some faraway gigs I’d gladly turn around and drive straight home, but not tonight.Tonight I looked forward to a midnight welcome at the finest M1 Travelodge that nineteen pounds could buy.