So A Comedian Walks Into Church

by Paul Kerensa

  ‘Oh you’re right,’ added the best man. ‘Clap the ushers.’

  My dad grinned - he had started the applause. He looked at me and gestured to his watch. He was going to win, and he was quite prepared to artificially get some applause going to drag these speeches out.

  The best man tried again to finish.‘So let’s now charge our glasses...’

  ‘What about the waitresses?!’ my dad heckled.

  ‘Oh, oh yes, they’ve been good too.Thank you waitresses. So charge your ...’

  My dad started clapping again, and once more the whole room joined in, amid mumbles of people saying things like, ‘Yes the waitresses are doing a great job,’ or, ‘Why are we clapping the waitresses?’

  Dad continued, ‘And the bride’s auntie. She folded napkins.’

  ‘Yes, well we have to draw the line somewhere,’ the best man replied, champagne flute in mid-toast.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled the bride’s auntie across the room.

  The assembled mass started to inspect the origami of their napkins, and the best man turned to my dad. ‘Anyone else I’ve left out?’

  My dad, the only one in the room laughing, slowed his guffaw, checked his watch and reported back, ‘No, that’s fine, thank you.’

  As glasses were finally charged, toasts were given and the speeches brought to a close, my dad gathered up his eight pounds and a wrathful glare from me as a bonus. You can’t just hijack someone’s wedding speeches to win a bet. It’s wrong, especially if I lose.

  All of this takes three seconds to race through my head as another Quaker joins the meeting. I chastise myself for my 10.53 a.m. prediction, and embrace the silence once more.

  ‘Hi there,’ the latest arrival whispers to me.

  Does he not know the rules? I’ve only been here five minutes but even I know more than him.

  ‘I’m the clerk of the meeting,’ he continues in hushed tones. ‘I hear it’s your first time at a Quaker meeting?’

  Is this a test? Am I meant to reply? I thought we were under exam conditions? No talking, no looking at each other’s Bibles, no flicking rulers at the legs of anyone wearing short trousers.

  I decide to reply quietly. ‘Yes. I’m Paul.Thanks for having me.’

  ‘Oh you’re most welcome, Paul.’ He introduces himself. ‘Dave. Do you know that the meeting is mostly conducted in silence?’

  Do you know, I think. I nod.

  ‘Here’re a couple of books - some people like to read for a bit.’

  I wonder what he’s going to give me - I hear The Hunger Games is an interesting yarn, or there’s a couple of good uns on Richard & Judy’s Book Club. I remember where I am, and so quite rightly he hands me a Bible, and a book titled Quaker Faith & Practice.

  ‘Any other questions?’ he asks. Others look up though as if we’re the naughty kids in a library. He may be the clerk but he’s clearly ‘the chatty one’. He doesn’t wait for me to reply. ‘See you after.’ And he crosses the room looking sheepish.

  A further six or seven enter the room and choose seats - these Quakers are a little late, but they’ve probably been having their porridge. Each sits anywhere - there is no front or back, as in a regular church. So it does seem a little like a psychological exercise: ‘who will sit where’. Will you head right up to the flowers for a good whiff? Or hide in the corner? One tries three seats before settling.

  Now more people have joined us, the silence takes on a presence of its own. Is this God? The Spirit? Or some sense of the combined focus of a roomful of worshippers?

  I pick up the second book Dave gave me. It’s a mighty tome: a regularly-updated, country-specific manual for Quaker living, handily broken-down into bitesize chunks. The first part is called ‘Advices & Queries’. I thought that was a Guardian column where people email in questions like,‘How long is a piece of string?’ or, ‘Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?’ But no, these ‘queries’ are open-ended questions, designed for reflections, exercises and general spiritual challenges. It reads as practical guidance for living good lives, and speaks beyond just faith. Issues such as community, tolerance, openness and diligence all come up frequently. My image of a Quaker was pretty old- fashioned and twee, but now I see that’s far from the truth: their book indicates they’re progressive and very keen to engage with the modern world, and with other beliefs.

  Well into the meeting half are reading their books or iPads, with the other half in meditative prayer. Some eyes are closed, some are open and looking towards the autumn sunshine beaming in. Bible open, I try to focus my mind on higher things. The shopping list, the order of best actors to play Doctor Who - all briefly occur to me, because they shouldn’t, and I put them to one side.

  My friend Luke was right; it does feel radical. I’m taking my time to get into it, yes, but all of the thoughts above manage to flick through my head in just a few seconds. For the next fifty minutes, I pray well, and hard, and I feel a strong power communally in the room, unsung and unspoken. The combined silence and spiritual focus here seems like more than the sum of its parts.

  After nearly an hour of silence, someone suddenly speaks. It shatters the silence, even though it’s a frail soft voice.

  ‘I was just thinking,’ she bursts out timidly, then stands, ‘that we should remember Advices & Queries number 1.05.’ She then reads it aloud. It consists of an advice - to take time to learn about the experience of others - followed by some queries - What can we impart back? Should we consider the value of doubt and questioning more? She ends by adding in a beautifully meek voice:‘I just thought that should be something we all should consider.’

  She sits, and each listener demonstrates thought and reflection: some of us nod, some return to putting fingers on chin pensively. I wonder if she’s dwelling on learning about others because I’m here - am I the first newbie in a while?

  A minute goes by.Then Dave the clerk stands in response.

  ‘I’d like to echo Lily’s words. And also add that we should take time to listen to our own experiences too.’

  He sits.We mull on his words. Some return to their Bibles. iPad man returns to whatever game he’s playing. I return to prayer.

  The next movement in the room is ten minutes later, when Dave the clerk leans over to his nearest neighbour and shakes his hand. We all take the cue and shake hands with others near us, and although no one speaks, the silence changes - it’s no longer a holy stillness, but a quiet rustling and readjustment of sitting positions.A few people cough, like they’ve been saving them up, and I suddenly realise - and am thankful - that through the hour of stillness, there were no stomach-rumblings, mini-burps or windypops. Unlike some theatre audiences, this gathering knows how to be properly noiseless.

  Two young children enter the room with a helper - this is presumably the Sunday school equivalent - and the clerk stands and addresses the room in a more informal manner.

  ‘Well, good morning to you all.’ A quiet ‘good morning’ is mumbled. ‘And a particular welcome to Paul. Nice to have you along.’

  I nod a thanks. Notices follow: a garden lunch, a plea for charity volunteers, and an announcement of the evening’s service (where I imagine the silence is livelier and more aimed at young people).

  Tea follows, and Dave makes his way back over to me. I tell him how much I’ve enjoyed the session - and I thoroughly have. I think the silence may drive me potty if I came every week, but it was so nice to have space, and have a time of worship that is unplanned yet far from unfocused. In a regular service, when the reading gives way to prayers, and the prayers give way to notices, what if you’re not ready to move on? Today gave me the chance to explore worship in a new way.

  ‘So how did you come to join us today?’ Dave asks.

  I give a summary of Luke’s tale, and Dave doesn’t even register any interest in the ‘gay
vicar’ side of the story. Quakers are inclusive after all. Dave’s interest is piqued though in Luke’s work as a prison chaplain.

  ‘I visit prisoners from time to time - a few of us here do,’ he says. ‘You’ve heard of Elizabeth Fry?’

  ‘Stephen’s mum?’ I guess.

  Dave raises an eyebrow, then asks, ‘Got a five pound note?’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought the tea was free.’

  ‘It was, you plonker,’ Dave says with a laugh. Others turn to look. The word ‘plonker’ does not feature in Quaker liturgy. But then, nothing does.

  Movers and Quakers

  Just good Friends ...

  Elizabeth Fry: A social reformer known as ‘the angel of prisons’. Also responsible for making treatment of prisoners more humane, and was the first woman to present evidence in Parliament. She remains captive, but comfortable, on the back of a five pound note.

  Joseph Fry: Founder of Fry’s Chocolate and responsible for the first chocolate bar for mass production.Also responsible for Britain’s first Easter Egg, unless you’re under eight, in which case a) it’s definitely the Easter Bunny, and b) well done reading this book.

  John Cadbury: A Quaker who didn’t want to become a soldier or lawyer for religious reasons, so went into business making chocolate. His ethics made him campaign against animal cruelty, and he founded the precursor to the RSPCA. What he’d have made of Dairy Milk’s ad campaign with a gorilla drumming to Phil Collins’ ‘In the Air Tonight’, is anyone’s guess.Today Cadbury’s is known worldwide, and there are even Chinese Wispas, although when you buy one you have to pass the message down a line of people until they misunderstand what you originally asked for.

  James Barclay: One of the founders of Barclays Bank, who among other things gave us the world’s first ATM machine in 1967, plus sent a variety of letters in red typeset to one Paul Kerensa from the year 1996 onwards.

  Joseph Rowntree: father of the founder of Rowntree’s confectionary, promoter of education for York’s poor community, and co-founder of life insurance company Friends Provident, the first to provide ethical investment funds.

  Cyrus & James Clark: founders of Clarks shoes. Quaker ethos meant they provided their workers with education, as well as housing on the condition they were kept alcohol-free. They also ran a tanning company - tanning hides that is, not the faces of Liverpudlian women as the tanning trade has become.

  From those peaceful early Quaker meetings came businesses worth billions. Silence is clearly golden.

  I left the Meeting House, to ready myself for the big TV debut ...

  The day of RX3 - Series C - Show: ‘Miranda’ ‘Kerensa’ (title subject to renaming approval)

  0845: My car arrives for door-to-door transfer.The driver offers me a choice of newspapers. He doesn’t have what I’d like, but I don’t make him pull in to a newsagent, nor do I make him wear the hat I’ve brought him.

  0920: Arrive at TV Centre, escorted to dressing room. Flowers adorn the room, eventually, when I’ve unpacked them all. Spend several minutes turning the light bulbs around the mirror off and on. Blow a fuse.

  1030: On set to walk through my first scene.All right, my only scene. I may have built up the part a little. I explore the set - smaller than I thought it would be, with doors from one room opening into another, and each piece of set littered with markings of shows it was used on previously. Some of these bits of wood have been in so many familiar shows, they deserve their own page on the IMDB. If walls could talk, that would make a great chat show.

  I meet the cast, and they quickly put me at ease. They’re a core team but go out of their way to make newcomers welcome.

  The rehearsal for my big entrance comes and the floor manager walks me through where to stand and when. I’ve got marks to hit, props to carry and lines to listen out for.As for my own lines, I don’t get a single one wrong. It was nothing, really. No really, don’t applaud.The thing is, I have no lines.

  The silent Quaker meeting was great practice, it turns out. You could say I was practising my lines throughout.

  1400: Costume. It’s my own costume, my everyday clothes. All right, the glamour’s fading.

  1630: Dress rehearsal. After five and a half hours of practising walking through a door, stopping, then walking some more, I think I’ve finally nailed it. Until we try it on set and it takes me three goes to get right. It turns out saying nothing and attempting to just walk is surprisingly difficult. It’s practically choreography.

  I’ve never excelled at the basic dramatic art of ‘movement’. At drama school, we were divided into three sets depending on our foot coordination.The A group were formidable dancers, the B group were pretty nifty, and the C group were mostly hopeless. We were called in groups to try out for each set, and after I simply walked into the room, before even attempting a dance, the teachers decided that we needed a new D group.

  1645: Back to dressing room. Sit.Wait.

  This may be my first time in front of camera but I’ve been to enough of these recordings behind camera, and the days can be long.They bear a similarity to going to hospital for surgery: you know something good will come out of it, but in the meantime you’re called in early and there’s lots of waiting around.You’ll end up in a windowless room for several hours, knowing it’s in the hands of the experts but still unbearably nervous, hoping no one slips and damages the funny bone.

  1700: Bored, nervous, I wander the corridor and bump into the comedian who’ll warm up the studio audience. He doesn’t recognise me out of writer’s clothes, which is odd, because I’m wearing my writer’s clothes, i.e. my clothes.

  I explain that I’ve begged my way into a walk-on part, thanks to three years of writing for the show. How difficult can it be to walk on and say nothing? Very difficult, I’ve discovered.

  1830: Make-up. Necessary, because everyone looks washed out and gaunt after eating in the BBC canteen under studio lights. I’m a little let down that it’s not like when I was in school plays, in that I’m not painted orange. For some reason, in every production from The Nativity to West Side Story, I was cast as an Oompa Loompa.

  The wardrobe team check over my outfit. They’re seasoned pros, and always worth talking to for tales of when they worked on everything from Blackadder to Black Books. In fact, since entering the studio today, I’ve met crew who’ve worked on Red Dwarf, The League of Gentlemen, Porridge and Fawlty Towers. Even the wooden flats have made appearances in Ab Fab and Dibley, and this very studio was home to Sykes, Dinnerladies, Only Fools and Horses, Morecambe & Wise and The Two Ronnies.

  Incredibly, we’re told that this sitcom will be the last filmed in this studio. What a dynasty of comedy royalty. It’s a humbling heritage, and I for one will miss these studios when they’re converted into one big Ikea. Hopefully they’ll save a blue plaque for it.

  1930: Showtime. My big moment is nearly here, and all right it may not elevate me to McIntyrean levels. I’ll still shop at Poundland, and may occasionally have a sponge cake meal on a whim. I won’t let fame spoil me, largely because there won’t be any fame.

  My role may only be ‘Customer’, but I give it everything I’ve got. Oh you may think it small, but a part described as ‘Taxi Driver’ can mean a starring role for De Niro, and didn’t Braveheart start out as ‘Third Soldier from Left’?

  Okay I admit ‘Customer’ - or ‘Hank’ as I’ve decided he’s called, for the CV - isn’t exactly a pivotal role. Bizarrely these few short seconds would I’m sure garner more recognition than the many combined days I’ve spent over the last few years writing lines for this same show. But then that’s because as a writer, I’m a backroom boy. As a stand-up though, I’m a big show-off.

  2030: My scene. I enter the studio, feeling the buzz of the studio audience instantly.They’re not like an audience I’m used to - this is more like a conven
tion. They’re a little scary, not to mention the millions of unseen audience members who’ll watch at home. If you thought about it too much, you’d go mad.

  I await my cue, and it goes without saying, that I go, without saying, any words. I don’t mess up my no lines by suddenly speaking or anything, but I’m still sure I’ve hit the wrong mark on the wrong line at the wrong moment. I’m only 90% sure I’m on the right set, but there’s a camera with a red light on so I’m probably in roughly the right place.

  We do it twice, for safety. It’s not like the old days when they’d record Dad’s Army in forty minutes, or maybe forty-five if they had to film a bomb detonating in a field. Some Last of the Summer Wines took less time to film than it did to watch them, thanks to using five different angles to film a bathtub of men descending a hill. Fact.[60]

  2230: Post-show drinks. A chance to stand near famous people and nearly say something.

  0000: Home, to sleeping wife and child.

  I’ve not hit the big time: just brushed past it and given it a tap on the shoulder, and it told me it was busy and I should come back later. So I’ll continue to traverse the country, write out of service stations, and hop from comedy club to comedy club to church. I’d have it no other way of course. I’m a stand-up bedouin, and life on the road suits me. Otherwise I’d have a mooing satnav for nothing.

  That said, at the time of writing, the sitcom cameo to end all sitcom cameos has yet to be broadcast. By the time of publication, it will have been. So you, dear reader, know something I don’t. My scene may have ended up on the cutting-room floor, in which case the above is a bittersweet tale of a missed opportunity. Or it may have been broadcast and be awful, in which case the above is an unfortunate tale of a should- have-been-missed opportunity. Or as I’m sure will be the case, the spin- off series could be in the pipeline - the Frasier to Miranda’s Cheers.

  ‘Customer Who Enters Shop’. Now that’s a title with a ring to it.

  56 The importance of punctuation. When I first wrote that, it read, ‘I landed a part in a sitcom, in America.’ Which would have been a much bigger deal.