by Paul Kerensa
I turn to see a grey-haired man in a suit. I smile and hope he’s not another one to comment on my peeling face, so I steer the conversation by quickly saying, ‘Hello, I’m just visiting.’
‘Oh. Righto!’
I’m sure I detect a hint of annoyance that I’m not a local Baptist changing sides. I explain I’m just here for one day, and he winces as if to say, ‘All right, don’t labour it.’
‘You on holiday?’ he enquires, standing needlessly close for such a voice. He’s clearly a Shakespearean actor who missed his calling.
I tell him about the comedy festival, and try not to mention the kids’ show. But he asks exactly what show I’ve been doing here, so I tell him about my role yesterday afternoon as babysitter/punchbag.
‘Oh! I must introduce you to Simon and Heather. Do you know them? Of course not.’ He gives a little chuckle, knowing that he too could be a comedian if he wanted to.‘Heather! Simon!’ His voice shakes the room. ‘Come and meet our friend ...’
‘... Paul ...’ I say.
‘He’s a ...’
Don’t say children’s party entertainer. I’m not a children’s party entertainer.
‘... comedian.’
Thanks.
The bellowing gent turns back and takes a full view of me.
‘You don’t look like a clown!’ he says wryly.‘No oversized shoes. No red ...’
He looks directly at my sunburnt nose, and stops talking.
‘Heather! Come, meet Paul!’
Heather and Simon, she thirty, he forty, are working their way across the room. I fill the void by asking the booming man about himself, a little belatedly. He introduces himself as David, a Guernsey resident for twenty years. He’s been part of this church for six, and is an interpreter.
‘Oh really?’ I reply with interest. I assume this close to France, there’s great demand for his work. ‘What languages? Would that be French ...?’
‘Tongues.’
A lesser man would snigger.
It takes a few seconds to understand what he means, till I realise that he wasn’t telling me his job, but his role in church. When others prophesy in tongues, which to untrained ears would sound like babbling, David may be able to interpret the message.
It’s here that I see the difference between this Pentecostal church and churches I’ve visited that have drawn on Pentecostal practices. Elsewhere, very occasionally, I’ve heard people praying in tongues, or singing worship songs which then become this different language. It’s often left un-interpreted, a direct communication from worshipper to worshippee.[52] Sometimes the speaker might interpret their own sounds after they’ve returned to recognisable speech. Sometimes others may step forward and give impressions of what they felt the Spirit was saying. Here, people like David actually have the specific job of interpreting what’s being said. Any French visitors will have to fend for themselves.
My mind races to whether there are courses that enable you as an interpreter. Are there Berlitz phrasebooks, or a Rosetta Stone audio course you can listen to on car journeys? I somehow doubt it, but David is in no doubt as to his skills. Believe it or not, but he does.
Heather and Simon have pushed their way through the minglers, and just reach us when the minister begins the service.
As we are about to find seats, David leans in to the three of us commandingly. ‘Paul’s a stand-up comedian,’ he shout-whispers to Heather and Simon. And to me:‘Heather and Simon went to a comedy show last night.’
I find a seat feeling Heather and Simon’s uncertain look towards me. They’re not quite sure what to make of me. But then, much as I’m here with an open mind, the feeling is probably mutual.
The minister welcomes us warmly, and saves a particular welcome for me, the first-timer. ‘Always nice to see new faces,’ he says. I’m not sure if he just means he’s never seen a skin tone this crimson before.
It’s a good service for a first-timer, as he uses the occasion of Pentecost to retrace the biblical origins of the spiritual gifts. As a result the introduction becomes a Bible reading then a mini-sermon, as the minister takes us on a tour of Acts 2 and 1 Corinthians 14, drawing out the specific verses that point to the use of prophecy and words of wisdom. These then empower us, he says, to go forth from here into Christian service, which tomorrow includes running a community day. Wow: intro, reading, sermon and now notices, all rolled into one.These folks really get it all out of the way up top.
A time of sung worship is introduced, and the band takes the stage. It’s a good size for this relatively small building, and the drummer has to hide behind a giant barrier. Clearly when he gets going, he deafens people.
And they do indeed get going. We sing traditional songs, but at a pace, and I’m sure it quickens as we sing. All across the congregation, arms are raised and hands are thrown into the air. I join in a little, when the music feels right, but I’m incredibly self-conscious, both as a newbie and as a Church of Englander. It seems I can humiliate myself in front of children for half an hour, yet not let go in a roomful of strangers, who are all letting go themselves.
The music fades and the minister smoothly links into further notices, while many gradually come down from the sung worship.
‘So don’t forget our special community day tomorrow,’ the minister says.
A voice from the front echoes him. ‘Tomorrow, yes ...’
I’m used to churches where the vicar speaks and we don’t. Here, everyone joins in.The minister continues:
‘So if you can help with sandwiches ...’
‘Yes ... cheese and pickle ...’
‘I think we’ve got cheese and pickle covered actually.’
‘Ham and mustard, yes, ham and mustard ...’
And so it continued. Pentecostal responses are not just for singing and praying, it seems.
We’re invited to greet others - the equivalent of the Anglo-Catholic ‘Peace be with you’ - and told that this will merge into a five-minute break. I’ve sat alone in my row, so turn around to greet my nearest neighbours and discover for the first time that Heather and Simon are sitting behind me.
We remake acquaintance, and Heather breezily asks if I’m here for the comedy festival. I tell her that I am, tell them about the kids’ show, and explain that it’s not my usual gig.
‘So you do churches?’ Simon asks.
‘Sometimes,’ I reply.‘But normally just pubs and clubs - the comedy circuit.’
This surprises them. I think after last night, they can’t comprehend what a churchgoer might have to say at a regular comedy night. Heather nervously asks about my act, and I do my best to describe it, in a way that will hopefully stop her from saying, ‘Tell us a joke then.’ Because in these circumstances, away from a microphone and an audience, they just don’t work. Often even with a microphone and an audience, they just don’t work.
‘I was at the show last night,’ I report, and Simon raises his eyebrows.
‘Oh!’ says Heather. ‘I don’t know that it was for us. We were a bit shocked.’
Simon nods, and I tell them that I do see a place in comedy for the edgy and non-edgy alike.There’ll always be comics wanting to push the limits of acceptability, and there will always be an audience for that. Equally, I hope there’ll always be an audience for acts that just want to give punters a good time.
As edgy comics get edgier, more jump on the bandwagon to break more taboos. So the boundaries change, and the middle ground shifts with it - the ‘norm’ changes. So I urge Simon and Heather not to be put off comedy after last night. By all means if they want to vote with their feet, they can, just don’t leave comedy clubs altogether. The comedy business is, like all free market economies, a democratic one, so I encourage them to stick with it. Without more mainstream comedians, the edgier ones will have nothing to react again
st.We feed each other.
It’s a tough ask, but I hope they’ll give the comedy world another go. I can see why they didn’t like the topic of religion introduced in the way it was. Being confronted at a comedy night with, ‘There is no God,’ is like being confronted with, ‘Your wife doesn’t exist’. Whether or not you agree with it, it’s going to provoke you, when you just want a laugh. Some comics want to provoke, which is all fine and dandy - sometimes I want to provoke too. But we have to be aware of the silences and puttings-off that may follow.
There’s a silence between Heather, Simon and I, so I wonder if I’ve still put them off comedians. Simon breaks it:‘Lot of atheists in comedy though, aren’t there?’
‘Well there are a lot of atheists everywhere,’ I reply. I try and get across that God needn’t be taboo. I speak of how the Robin Inces and Marcus Brigstockes of this world have brought wit and verve and laughs to the subject of religion.And I tell them how the unfortunate spillover means some new acts I’ve gigged with have tried to get a cheap laugh by writing off Jesus as a fictional character, with no real follow-up. It’s galling not just as a Christian but as a comedian, and smacks of lazy bandwagon-jumping. It means when I go on after them, I want to talk about religion in a positive - yet non-preachy - way. The overriding impetus though should always remain: Be funnier, be better. A rant back will not do.
We’re cut short as the minister restarts. I feel something under my feet, and see that Heather’s kicked her shoes off. She knows what’s coming.
It’s a time of lively musical worship again, with a variety of sung ad- libs. Most people are adding their own notes, sounds and occasionally lyrics. If I’m singing an E-flat, there’ll be a B-flat sung out from the row in front somewhere. I hear the harmonies, and wonder if they practise, together, ahead of Sunday worship - it sounds that well-rehearsed.Yet I know it’s not. For these people, the power of Spirit moves among them. And we’ve only just got going...
The music plays as an instrumental under the prayers, and we’re asked if anyone has anything particular they wish to have mentioned. I consider our ongoing fertility ponderings, but decide to leave it between me, my wife and God. Prayers here are very communal, and sure enough after each one is offered, people join in with various ‘Amen’s and ‘Yes Lord’s. I hear no ‘Alleluia’s, but that would be a bit of a walking, singing, dancing stereotype.
The minister preaches some more, again celebrating today as the anniversary of both the church’s birth and of speaking in tongues. David is standing by, ready to interpret. The minister invites us, if we want to renew our faith today, if we want to be healed, emotionally, spiritually or phsyically, to come down to the front as the next songs play.The altar call.
We sing two more songs, and by the second one, the momentum is gathering.The band play and replay and the congregation take the words and run with them.
Many, like me, are taking a more tranquil approach. Not all are carried away into the ecstatic next level of worship. Perhaps half are motionless, and half are going full pelt, with arms raised, some now dancing in the aisles - with shoes off - and one or two are now crying.
Mid-sentence, the worship leader breaks off and moves to the front, and the minister and other elders lay hands upon her. The band keeps playing without her, but the singing stops abruptly. She leads the worship, and she has decided that the singing stops here, for now.
One tall man has joined the worship leader at the foot of the stage, and various others including Simon have gone to lay their hands on him. The minister gives me a fleeting look to see if I want to join; I pass.
The tall man begins to babble, then rock on the floor, and then most surprising of all: outrageous laughter. For minute after minute, he guffaws, chortles, snorts, hoots and cackles. After five minutes he’s holding his aching sides, and after ten he’s literally rolling in the aisles. Most of those attending to the worship leader have now gathered around the tall man - he needs their help more. He’s a big man, and six adults now flank him, for his own protection. He has eyes closed and is still laughing uproari- ously, and without these guards, his flailing could take out a good couple of rows.
Some children have come through from their Sunday school to take a look, and the minister reassures them.
I have no idea if his laughter is any way linked to the comedy festival being in town, but I know for sure that it’s the most laughter I’ve heard anyone emit for years.That probably says more about my career than it does about anything.
It’s a totally experiential moment. You’re either in it or you’re not, and I feel slightly like I’m looking in through the sole stained-glass window (although I’d need a big ladder).
It strikes me that in the last twelve hours I’ve seen two sets of people talking on stages, and I like both sets; I warm to them.With one I share a comedic take on the world, and a care for the free speech of artists.With the other I share their Christian beliefs, even though their practices seem at odds with my experiences. I’m not quite on the same page as either group, and I feel that I’ve opted for ‘the middle way’. I admire the passion of both comedian and church: something that us middle-grounders often find difficult to put into words, since by our nature, we’re trying to keep the peace.
The service draws to an official close, but is gradual in finishing: the tall man is still laughing in the aisle, and being firmly restrained by a handful of the congregation’s toughest blokes. Children are still looking on, wide-eyed. The worship leader rejoins her band for some closing quiet music. Conversations recommence, including three kind invitations for me to come to lunch. In all my years of church-hopping, I’ve never had so many offers in one go. It’s a shame that I’m heading off the island shortly, because I’m a big fan of lunch, and I’m an even bigger fan of three lunches.
I leave the church, as many continue to mingle, shoes off. Some are still praying, one is still laughing. David stands at the door, quite jolly despite the fact that his interpretation has not been needed. I bid him au revoir, and take a last look at the people who have been, as the minister implied, filled up and refuelled for Christian service.
I follow Simon and Heather - now with shoes - out into the glorious day, and sunburn instantly pains me. I’ve felt welcomed today, even though my traditional background makes me feel like a visitor rather than one of the family.
I nod a goodbye to them, and we all walk down the same achingly sunny street. Some passers-by walk in the opposite direction while I walk in the shade, and Simon and Heather choose to walk in the sun.
49 Or I may be thinking of cows.
50 With cooling Aloe Vera.
51 Sorry to offend.
52 i.e. God.
11
Melting Pot
Conversing in Cafés
Edinburgh Festival: the hills too steep, the rent too steep, yet once again I found myself back for another financial gamble. It came with domestic decisions about a festival fund versus a fertility fund, but with a thousand pounds outlaid on the Fringe before discussion had even begun, I’ve ended up here. Besides, I’m not the only one taking a chance.
Some people make an annual trip to Vegas to lose money on the poker tables; for comedians, it’s this beautiful city. There’s architecture and landscape here that you never think possible in this country, in this century. For the tenth year in a row, I found my accommodation in a gorgeous Georgian townhouse, on the top floor. It was a five minute stair-climb, since each Edinburgh apartment seems to have vaulted ceilings so high you wonder if they’re built to accommodate cabers. One day Stannah stairlifts will get a contract to fit out this entire city, and that will be a happy day.
My show venue was similarly archaic, and still under construction. It had walls and a ceiling, but was currently a cave.That’s not a metaphor: it was a literal cave. The Edinburgh Fringe is known for using
every possible space as a venue. Be it a school, a car park or a public toilet, someone will have tried to fit a row of seats in there and charge a tenner a ticket for entry. It seemed now that every actual building had been used, so yes, I was put in a cave. I had metaphorically ridden to the Edinburgh Fringe office on my donkey full of props, only to be told there was no room at the inn, but try the muddy stable, and that’ll be three thousand pounds please.
Given nature began work on my cave venue several thousand years ago, I was a little confused to be told by venue staff that it wasn’t built yet.
‘Give us an hour,’ said a student with purple glasses. It struck me that if you have purple glasses, building an entertainment venue is probably not your forte.
‘You know my show starts in three hours?’ I checked.
‘Then we’ll have two hours free,’ came the sharp reply.
I asked him where I could put my props box, currently containing a dozen wigs, two extendable mops and a full Santa outfit. It was August, but it was the Fringe, so none of this looked out of place. In fact the only odd thing was that I didn’t have purple glasses.After some confusion over whether we’d have room for props storage even when the venue was finished, I decided to give him that hour and plodded off with my metaphorical donkey.
I used the time to put up posters and hand out flyers ahead of my show - the Edinburgh exhaustion comes not from performing but from pitching to the thousands of people who have thousands of shows to consider. Prop box at my feet, I started to flyer passersby, and before long found I’d given a flyer to a comedian I know called Dan.
‘Waiting for my venue to be ready,’ I explained, gesturing to the box of wigs. ‘Looks like we may not get storage space.’
‘Yeah, you don’t want to lug that back and forth every day,’ Dan empathised.‘Although you could wear the wigs and dress as Santa. What are the other shows in your venue doing with their stuff?’
‘I dunno. Maybe they have no stuff, and just need a cave wall. Maybe they’re dramatic retellings of potholing adventures.’