by Paul Kerensa
When people think of the job of comedian being a lonely one, this is the nub of it. The long commute, the late night check-in, sometimes feeling like you’re the only car on the motorway at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday. The shows are social enough - the circuit provides you with a thousand friends and colleagues you get to know over the years.The onstage part of the job is an odd mix of highly social and yet incredibly isolating, spending half an hour with a hundred new acquaintances, spilling personal stories and spinning yarns so you feel you know each other in a fake, fleeting way. The time spent at home can be nicely social - yes the joke-writing is done alone at a computer, but there’s a good deal of tea-making and joke-testing on friends and unfortunate cold-callers. However, solitary travel is loneliness incarnate.
My car eventually crawled past Leicester. I looked at the clock. Still four hours till stage time, but at this rate I’d need every minute. The thought occurred that at this moment, a Yorkshire comedian was probably making the exact opposite journey to Surrey for a gig. I briefly considered designing a website where comedians could enter their upcoming gigs and swap them to avoid ridiculous trips like this.
The brake lights in front suddenly lit up, and it took a second to realise that was my cue to do likewise. I braked, the other car skidded, and I went to brake harder.
As I pressed my foot down, the words of my dad reverberated around my head ...
‘Son ... Son ...’
‘Get to the point, Dad! I’ve got some braking to do.’
‘Don’t brake hard on ice!’
‘You could have led with that!’
I caught my foot just in time and turned it into a light braking, then swerved to avoid the zigzagging car before me.
‘Oh, and don’t turn too hard on ice.’
‘Good point.’
My swerve became a gentle nudge of a turn, and Dad’s voice went quiet, which presumably meant any collision was avoided for the moment.
Skilfully, I thought, I rounded the car in front, which ground to a halt on the hard shoulder. I tried not to get too smug in case it was me next, but at the same time I felt a bit like Jensen Button.
I remembered my only breakdown call-out to date, which occurred not far from this very spot. A quirk of driving for a living is that I’m stingy when it comes to petrol, and I’ll gladly drive well out of my way for fuel that’s a penny or two cheaper per litre. On this past occasion I had scowled at the roadside services, with their crazy motorway mark- up. I’d planned to stop at a sneaky supermarket and fill up for at least 2% cheaper. Sadly my ambitions had exceeded the fuel capacity, and the car shuddered to a halt. I realised I’d have to call the RAC and tell them I’d run out of petrol. It was going to be humiliating.
I sensed the patronising tone of the operator’s voice, but it was a relief that it was less ‘You’re the first idiot to do this’ and more ‘We’ve got another one’.
After a relatively brief wait (I expected to be in the ‘eight hours minimum’ category), a geezer of an RAC man appeared and tried to hide his smirk as I needlessly explained the problem of the petrol needle on the dash pointing at the E instead of the F.
His solution was surprisingly old-fashioned - he just sold me some fuel for a fiver. It wouldn’t get me far, but the nearest services would do. I promised I’d go straight there, kicking myself that I’d have to pay motorway prices after all.
The most embarrassing exchange took place as the Knight of the Road started back down the hard shoulder to his orange steed.
‘Are you okay to rejoin?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I certainly will,’ I said. ‘End of the year, I’m signing straight up again, don’t you worry about it.You guys are great.’
Finally the smirk that he’d been burying for ten minutes spread across his laddish face.‘No, mate. Are you okay to rejoin the motorway?’ He wasn’t soliciting for my membership renewal; he was looking out for my wellbeing. Well, not any more. He just walked away shaking his head.
‘What a muppet!’ I heard in the distance, or it may have been the wind. It may be unprofessional of a company to call a customer a muppet, but even I could see that he was entirely correct, and fair play to him for not saying it sooner.
I replayed this experience in my head as I approached Donington Park services and promptly pulled in for petrol.
‘Rough night out there,’ said the assistant, taking my loyalty card.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got to get to York.’
‘York? Couple of hours yet, on a good day. And that’s not today.’
It’s never ideal to have the audience endure an hour-long interval while waiting for an act, but it happens all the time thanks to poor traffic, or alarmingly frequently, comedians just forgetting and staying at home.
Staying at home - that would have been an idea. I slid back to my car with a sandwich, gliding like a Dementor on his lunch break. I made the customary phone call to the venue, which went straight to voicemail.
‘I’m en route!’ I shouted through a sandwich and my car hands-free kit, skidding across the forecourt. ‘Bit behind schedule. It’s quite icy!’
I hung up realising they probably knew that.York’s not that tropical.
The snow started falling again near Doncaster, about an hour from York. It didn’t affect this journey, but you could tell it would affect the post-Travelodge return tomorrow: this was settling snow. The only difference now was the illusion of being in Star Wars, driving at warp speed as snowflakes whizzed over the windscreen.[31] Every few minutes a voice in your head shouts, ‘You’re flying the Millennium Falcon! Yes! You’re Han Solo!’ Then you see no Wookie next to you and remember it’s a Nissan Note.
Amazingly, I entered the outskirts of York just a few minutes behind schedule. I easily navigated my way through the central streets, as most sensible people had rightly decided to stay at home. Not me, I’d heard the warnings and thought,‘No.The people of York demand comedy, and it may take me eight hours of driving and a few risky manoeuvres, but I’m going to give it to them. Because I value their entertainment, and more importantly because that nineteen pound Travelodge room is non- refundable.’
I phoned the venue again - still voicemail. ‘I’m coming!’ I steered around an old man walking his dog into the road, none of us able to tell where the pavement ended and the street began. Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the bleak midwinter.
Parking in deep snow is surprisingly easy - you just stop the car anywhere and assume it’s free parking. So for all I knew, I’d left my car in the middle of a roundabout.
I ran through the three-inch snow, rucksack on shoulder, socks sopping. Ahead of me I could see the inviting lights of the bar. Even the dingiest bar looks welcoming when all around is frosty. A glance at my watch told me I was due onstage any second, if their show timings had gone to plan.
‘I’m here for the show!’ I panted at the barman. My inner Anneka Rice yelled, ‘Stop the clock!’[32]
‘What show?’ replied the barman. His words and demeanour removed all thoughts of this as a welcoming bar.
‘The comedy show.The stand-up.’
‘Oh, that’s been cancelled. Not enough interest.’
This was not good news. I dropped my bag to the floor with a crash. ‘I’m one of the acts!’
‘So? It’s still cancelled.’ He stepped away to serve someone else, but I couldn’t let it stop there. I realised that sometimes on the night an audience just doesn’t show, but I needed more clarification than this.
‘When did you pull it then?’ I asked. If it was ten minutes ago, that’s not quite so annoying. If it was an hour ago, I could have turned around at Doncaster, or at least not endured running late on black ice, i.e. driving, as slowly as possible, as quickly as possible.
‘Er,Tuesday I think,’ came the sullen reply.
‘WHHHAT?!’ I exclaimed. ‘Five days ago?’
‘Numbers were slow. I think people didn’t want to travel in the snow.’
Too right they didn’t. I certainly didn’t. I’d spent ten hours in the car that day, at speeds reminiscent of a cross-country milk round. If I’ve travelled through seven accent zones, punters from York’s suburbs could have made the effort, surely.
The barman’s laidback response, and most crucially the overwhelming lack of an apology or explanation, made me think he just didn’t get it. Like some of the roads I’d endured, I really needed closure.
‘I’m not local, you know! I’ve travelled from Surrey. In that weather!’ I gestured out of the window, through four dabs of Blu-Tack, which probably once held a poster declaring ‘Comedy!’ with a picture of my face.That poster was no longer there, and I wished I wasn’t either.
The barman sniffed. ‘Oh. Well the manager’s not here tonight. He’s the one who made the call.’
I just wish he had made the call to me on Tuesday. I’d have had a nice week knowing the only journey I’d make on Saturday would be to the kitchen for a mug of Whittard’s Dreamtime.
‘Well can you get him on the phone?’ I demanded. I don’t know why - he’d just repeat what this most unwelcome of gig guardians had said. I just wanted to hear the word ‘Sorry’ or ‘Whoops’. Even laughing in my face would have acknowledged that the trip hadn’t been easy.
‘Oh, I don’t know his number.’
‘So what do I do now? Just go home. Another ten hours?’
‘Yeah I guess,’ he said as he finally left to take the drinks order from an increasingly impatient customer.
Oh, the customer can wait all night. I’ve waited ten hours in the car for a bit of stage time and some cash.Which reminded me ...
‘What about my pay?!’ I exclaimed across the bar.
‘Not my area, mate,’ came the reply mid-pour. ‘Mark’s the manager. Back Monday.’
‘I live in Surrey!’ I repeated.‘I’m not here on Monday! I shouldn’t be here now! I should be at home watching it snowing rather than driving in it!’
I gave up on getting a sensible reply from my pint-pulling nemesis. He knew nothing, either about the so-called gig, or about common decency and how to deal with people, people who might be a little stressed after an arduous commute to a job that doesn’t exist.
I unearthed my phone from four layers of clothing and dialled the number I’d called en route. In the back office I heard a phone ring, duly ignored by this enemy of entertainment, clearly the only barman on duty. It scared me that he was responsible for the entire pub. Woe betide if the log fire got out of hand - he’d have his arms folded muttering,‘Mark the manager deals with all health and safety issues.’
My earlier voicemails had clearly hit this communications cul-de-sac. I ransacked my phone for another number: the booker.
‘He - - o?’ it crackled.
‘Steve? It’s Paul! Paul Kerensa!’
‘Can’t quite - you!? I’m in Denmark!’ came the tinny voice through the phone.
‘This gig! In York! I’m here but it’s not on.They pulled it days ago!’
‘Oh. I’ve been i - enmark!’
We exchanged more noises across the North Sea. It became clear that Steve the absent promoter had left the running of the gig in the incapable hands of Mark the absent manager, who had left the pub in the incompetent hands of a sadly present barman. I explained to Steve in broken syllables just how bad the snow had been, how long the journey had been, and how sure he could be that I was going to get paid in full for this.Thankfully Steve was also a performer, who had probably done his fair share of long drives for cancelled gigs, so he was quick to agree that the cheque would indeed be in the post. I trusted Steve. Otherwise I’d be looking at staging some kind of sit-in. Given the weather outside, I was tempted to stage one anyway.
But why waste any more time here, I thought? If I was being paid anyway, then I’d just been sent home early. I had become the precise example that my housemate Danny had described: of a long drive across the country to pick up an envelope of cash and come home again.
My journey home of course wouldn’t be until the next day, since I had the bright lights[33] of Travelodge waiting for me a few miles back down the motorway. So after a last sneering look to the barman, I bade farewell to York city centre, turned on the iPod and motored back down the long road. Dean Martin and I sang about the weather outside. It was indeed frightful.
***
Only a minimal dusting of snow overnight thankfully, so I easily spot my car in the white blanket of a car park. It’s got a thin white hat now, but with a bright blue January sky above us, the sun promises a good defrosting to help me on my way this Sunday morning. It’s a four-hour journey home at best, so I’m stopping an hour or so into it at a church I’ve found online. Yes I’m partly using their church service as a motorway service, but I think that’s allowed. It looks lively and promises a creative, contemporary approach, as well as a pre-service hot beverage. That’s the clincher for me when comparing it with one down the road that, just judging by the photos online, looks like a bigger, colder building, with no guarantees of coffee. Mine has a nice low ceiling and lots of radiators. I get neo-charismatic evangelical vibes from their website, as well as their postcode. I think it means they sing loudly and occasionally put their hands in the air. I’m an Anglican.We only put our hands in the air to tell the vicar his microphone’s off.[34] I head south once more.
My satnav delivers me to the door of what looks less like a church building and more like a warehouse on an industrial estate, largely because it is a warehouse on an industrial estate. Most of the units are closed for the weekend, but one buzzes with noise as I drive up - there’s no doubting this is it. Even with the car windows closed, I can hear the hum of music fade in as I approach.
I park and tentatively approach the warehouse of noise, like it’s a speakeasy in the 1930s.You’d think you’d need a password, but for the friendly team on the door offering leaflets and smiles.
I follow one snowy family through the doors, and once inside coffee greets me like an old friend. It’s so refreshing to find hot drinks before the service - surely a cold Sunday start, pre-sermon, is just when you need the caffeine? Most places only have coffee as a reward at the end of it.
The room is wide, with maybe two hundred seats, mostly full. The cold morning hasn’t put off this crowd. In fact they’re revelling in the chilly weather - the giant doormat is soggy with boot-shaken snow, and every entrant is rosy-cheeked and beaming about the weather. Clearly they haven’t got a three-hour drive home ahead of them.
I make a conscious decision to put aside my narkedness at my long pointless trip, and take my coffee to a comfy seat over to one side. Once the locals are through the door and shed of their coats, quite a few come to greet me, which is nice. I explain to each that I’m just visiting, mainly to encourage them to focus on newbies with a real chance of returning, but that doesn’t dissuade many from starting up conversations. Kids tell me of yesterday’s impromptu sledging championships, and adults tell me of yesterday’s trip to A&E.
The service doesn’t so much start as ease in gently. The band has been playing throughout, segueing from tuning up to warming up to backing music, and now the audience starts joining in with familiar songs. I know it’s a congregation, not an audience, but with a ten-piece band on a giant stage with no altar, this looks more like a music gig than any church service I’ve been to. At least at their gig they’ve managed to pull a crowd - more than can be said of York’s Comedy Pod. It’s telling that this church has its own record label, and I can see, and hear, why.
Almost on the dot of 10.30 a.m., the worship leader finishes one song and most of the people applaud, while still sitting. So now we’re in service time, we’re asked to stand, and the music moves
up a notch. More people join the band, and words are now displayed on the screen rather than leaving us to remember or guess the lyrics.
The mass of sound from the stage - and warmth from the radiators - means we forget about the icy morning, and within seconds it’s like we’re mid-service. Hands are aloft, flags are being waved at the side of the stage: the worship’s gone to a hundred miles per hour in three seconds flat.The singing though is anything but flat - this several hundred strong crowd can sure hold a tune. It’s like the atmospheric effect of a football ground - the greater the number of singers, the more the duff notes are levelled out. We’re packed full here this morning, and what singing you can hear over the electric guitar riffs sounds great. The guitarists take centre stage, meaning the poor harpist at the back has lugged her instrument all through the snow to be unfortunately drowned out, but I focus and almost convince myself I can hear the occasional pling-pling.
Modern hymn gives way to rock anthem, rock anthem gives way to contemplative worship.[35] Between most songs there are several minutes of ‘singing in tongues’: the band play without vocals and some of the people let the Spirit guide their voices. It actually sounds quite beautiful - it so easily could not, given that two hundred people appear to be picking random notes. As a dyed-in-the-wool, stuck-in-the-mud, cucumber-sandwich-in-the-rectory-garden Anglican, I mostly just stay quiet. I know my time to sing, and it’s when those words appear on the screen. It was a big enough jump for us traditional C of E types to go from holding a leather-bound copy of Hymns Ancient & Modern to looking up at a projector screen. I remember distinctly thinking, ‘No book to hold? But what do we do with our hands?’
Well, this lot are showing me what to do with them - raise them. There’s some serious lactic acid building up around here. While the people either side of me are nearly touching the roof, I make do with hands to shoulder height.That’s extreme enough for me for one day.
I’m hearing babbling from my left and babbling from my right, as the music continues to play underneath. Shall I give it a go? How do you start? Am I meant to wait for the Spirit to give me some syllables to sing, or at least count me in? I scavenge my brain for a divine voice saying, ‘A one, a two, a one, two, three, four ...’ but can’t hear one. So I decide to just go for it. I, Paul Kerensa, Anglican, am going to musically ad-lib. Here goes...