How Did All This Happen?

by Bishop, John

  Mick introduced the first act who, instead of getting up to do his set, insisted on going backstage before making his appearance, which forced Mick to introduce him again. He probably shouldn’t have made such a meal of his entrance as his act when downhill from there. It was so painful to watch, in fact, that I’ve tried to block it from my memory, but I remember he kept breaking into chicken impressions. Mick had made it seem so easy to make people laugh that seeing a grown man – who looked at least as old as I was, may also have been in middle management and have had at least one significant failed relationship behind him – resorting to chicken impressions that failed to raise a titter from the audience was excruciating.

  The audience by now had begun to resemble a self-help group, as it was becoming clear from the performance of ‘Chicken Man’ that we were all there because something was wrong in our lives. Some people laughed enthusiastically to encourage him, although this was much more than the performance warranted in my opinion (but then I have never been a great fan of chicken-based humour – not since I was a child, trying to make nurses laugh.) After a finale that involved a simulation of laying an egg whilst driving a van, Chicken Man was supportively applauded off the stage. He seemed quite pleased with himself as he came to sit back amongst the group. Some of the people seemed to know him, and one actually said, ‘That was so much better than last week.’

  Before I could adjust to the knowledge that Chicken Man had done this before and what I had just witnessed was in fact an improved performance, I heard Mick say, ‘John Bishop.’

  I hadn’t registered what was said before my name was called because I was too busy contemplating how I could leave without causing too much upset to the next act. After all, with only seven of us, it would be difficult to sneak out unnoticed.

  After assuming that I would be the last one on the stage, for whatever reason my name was read out second. So, when I heard Mick say, ‘Is John Bishop here?’ I had a decision to make: either pretend I was not me and allow another name to be called out, or walk on the stage.

  I will not lie; before watching Chicken Man’s performance I thought it would be great to get up on stage and make people laugh, but it was never something I had considered doing before. My public speaking usually involved a Powerpoint presentation and some sales graphs – I had never been in front of people purely for the reason of making them laugh.

  I considered my options. I could go on the stage or I could go home, open a bottle of wine and, the following day, forget it had ever happened. I concluded I had nothing to lose – the empty house waiting for me was a reminder that I was not living the life I wanted, so I literally had nothing to lose. Even if it went badly, only seven people would know, and one of them thought he was a chicken.

  ‘Here, mate,’ I said, and Mick invited me on to the stage.

  It seemed surreal that my name had been mentioned by a professional comedian, and that I was now about to stand on a stage with the sole purpose of making strangers laugh. I would say I was nervous, but I am not sure that would be correct – I had an excitement inside me I could not recall feeling at any other time in my life. It was the excitement of knowing I was entering a new world and, whatever happened, this first time could never happen again. I could say it was like losing my virginity but in reality it wasn’t (when that happened, I knew there was a good chance it would not be the last time), but when I walked on that stage I knew the first time could easily be the last time. I had also not spent every waking minute of the previous two years thinking about it (yes, that does spell ‘waking’).

  When I spoke into the microphone, I said the first words of my comedy career: ‘Fuck me, those lights are bright.’

  If you have never been on a stage, the lights are the first things that you notice; bright, white lights burning into your face like an oncoming train, letting you know you have crossed the line now – you are on stage and you had better do something.

  For the first moment or two, I did nothing; the only thing going around in my head was, ‘How the hell did this happen?’ I just stood, allowing the luminescence of the lights to settle on the room – and suddenly I realised I had nothing to say. I hadn’t planned to be on a stage in front of strangers, but now, with the microphone in front of me, the spotlights on me and an increasingly uncomfortable audience before me, I had to think of something to say.

  I often think of that moment when I am touring now because there was a second when my brain said, ‘What are you doing, dickhead? You don’t belong here – get off, go home and have a drink, and watch News at Ten.’ Every ounce of my being wanted to run off stage to break the awkward silence, which may have lasted only seconds but to me seemed like hours.

  But something stopped me.

  Something made me want to stay on there and at the very least say something. ‘What’s the worst thing that could happen?’ I reasoned. Nothing important, I concluded. The consequences of standing on a stage talking to strangers and getting it wrong would not result in much harm. Nobody would get hurt. I wouldn’t lose the house, kids and wife I had already lost. All I could lose was my pride, and pride isn’t a reason not to try something.

  Even now, before walking out in front of thousands during an arena tour, I always think, ‘If you mess up, all that will be hurt tonight is your pride.’ Obviously, now that things have gone bigger, I could add to that, ‘Your reputation, your career and your future happiness,’ but I tend not complicate things too much. Now, I am always pretty relaxed before shows because I know I made a choice to be doing this, that night in October 2000 at the Frog and Bucket when the lights were glaring, the audience of seven was staring, the microphone stood to attention awaiting its orders and silence reigned in the room. That was the last time I could have walked away.

  ‘The French, don’t they make you laugh?’

  I was referring to the French farmers blockading the roads in objection to petrol prices, which meant English lorry drivers were unable to cross the border to return home.

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been handy if they had got that angry in 1939 and saved us all a lot of hassle?’

  My first joke, which was derived from a conversation I’d had with my mate Jimmy earlier that day, had been born and presented to the world. It was greeted with a laugh, and my life as a ‘civilian’ was over.

  Comedy is the most instant form of communication there is. You say something, and if people think it’s funny, they laugh. There is no consideration; there is laughter or silence. I learnt in that moment when you hear laughter, you sense a joy that goes beyond a simple reward – it is an affirmation of your very being. I know that sounds grand, but laughter equals happiness, and giving happiness is surely at the essence of what being a human being is about.

  At some point I drifted away from current affairs to talking about my divorce and everyone seemed prepared to listen, provided I dropped the odd joke into what was becoming a therapy session. I became aware of a red light flashing, but thought it must be broken and just carried on, but then, mid-sentence, I heard the Pearl & Dean theme tune sometimes played in cinemas before the adverts are blasted out: ‘Ba ba ba baa ba ba baa ba baa baa!’

  Mick mounted the stage and my first comedy gig was over. I didn’t know that the open spots were supposed to perform for seven minutes; I had done about 25 and was starting to ramble on a bit. The first rule of comedy is that you should know the beginning and end, the middle you can muddle through. I didn’t have a beginning when I walked on that stage so I had no end either; I just had a very long middle.

  I walked off to some appreciative applause; I think because I spared them any further animal impressions more than the fact that I was any good. But it didn’t matter. I was hooked.

  It wasn’t as if I thought I was ever going to get a job as a comedian; it was just that I now knew that the feeling of standing on a stage and making people laugh, even six people and a chicken impersonator, was better than sitting at home with an empty bottle of wine. It was like rea
lising an ambition I didn’t know I had. I did a sky dive once for a television show, having always wanted to do one – it had been at the top of my bucket list for years. I hated it, and would rather do anything else than repeat it. Standing on stage and making people laugh was never on my bucket list, but as soon as I walked off I knew I had to do it again. It wasn’t that I was going to add it to my list of things to do before I died: it would be the only thing on the list.

  I had no anticipation that being on the stage would feel so natural to me. It was an instant thing, as if it was in my genes, which perhaps it was. Years later, I was to feature in the BBC programme Who Do You Think You Are? which retraces parts of your family history. I discovered that my great-great-grandfather, Charles Bishop, had been a performer. He had found his musical talent whilst in the army in the mid-1800s and he changed the whole direction of his life to follow his passion, something I would repeat generations later. He was also the person responsible for bringing the family to Liverpool, where he was engaged to perform in a minstrel troupe. The programme has led to a family reunion and a headstone being placed on his up-to-then unmarked grave. I have also gone back and performed in some of the venues I know he performed in as a kind of homage to him, although I decided that blacking up to do the show may have taken the homage a bit too far.

  Mick was great afterwards, giving me lots of words of encouragement. He suggested that I return the week after, but next time I should try to think of something to say for about 10 minutes.

  I had found a thing to do which would change my Mondays from lonely days of depression to opportunities to reflect on the week I’d just had in a way that made strangers laugh. But, most crucially, I had found my solace, my life and my future.

  CHAPTER 24

  SOMETIMES I TRY TO BE FUNNY

  From then on, my Mondays were centred around these open spots at the Frog and Bucket. Of course, there was no money in it, but it was a chance to gain experience on the stage and develop more material.

  The thing I found immediately striking was that the experienced comedians who would compère these evenings were very supportive if they thought you were good. People like Mick, Tony Burgess, Brendan Riley and Justin Moorhouse would all be happy to pass your name on to promoters of other clubs or advise you who to ring to get more gigs. Comedy is very egalitarian in that way: anyone can have a go at it and, if you are good, the comedy community is ready to recognise that fact.

  Within a few weeks, I was asked to do an open spot at the weekend. This meant that the Frog and Bucket would be full, and the line-up would not be made up of other open spots like on the Monday, but of full-time professional comedians. This was a big step, but I felt ready for it. I had been doing well on Mondays, and I knew if I was to actually get any better I had to be tested on a night where the audience had a higher expectation and were less forgiving.

  The compère was Brendan Riley, and the first act that night was Steve Harris, who went on and stormed it. I was due on after the interval, and the audience was in a great mood after Steve’s performance, so I knew if I got it wrong I would just make the show go backwards. It’s one thing following Chicken Man in front of only a handful of people, but to follow a professional comedian who has just knocked it out of the park in front of a packed audience – that is a different matter.

  As I stood ready to go on, Brendan and Steve both gave me words of encouragement, which I really appreciated. There are few industries where people will encourage someone who could potentially take their job to go on and do well. Comedy is a community. If you have the courage to walk on stage, even if I don’t think you’re funny, you already have my respect, and I think most comedians are the same.

  My name was called out and Steve patted me on the back. During the open mic nights, I always approached the stage from the audience as you never knew what order you were going to be called on. So, on this night and on every other night I have done the Frog and Bucket, I approached the stage from the front, which meant I didn’t see the audience till I got up on the stage and turned around with the microphone in my hand.

  ‘Hiya, I’m John Bishop. I’m from Liverpool, and I live in Didsbury now.’

  ‘Didsbury’s not in Liverpool, you Scouse bastard.’

  ‘It’s nice to be in Manchester where even dickheads who shout out are factually correct.’

  It was that fast. I spoke, someone heckled, I responded, the crowd cheered, and I was away.

  My 10 minutes ended up being 15 and went better than I could have imagined. There was a hen party in from Warrington, and this opened the door to me talking about my marriage and my own new single status.

  ‘I used to be married, but I decided I deserved some happiness in life too, so we’re getting divorced. People say money doesn’t buy you happiness, but it does buy you a divorce, which is close enough.’

  My material seemed a success and, as I walked off to loud applause, I was so relieved. It was my first weekend gig and I had not let anyone down. In fact, I had done well, so well that one of the better-looking girls from the hen party made a beeline for me at the end of the gig. After a brief conversation, I invited her into the small dressing room, which the other comedians duly vacated, and I celebrated my first weekend gig by engaging in some rather satisfying shenanigans backstage.

  The old adage of making a girl laugh if you want her to be attracted to you certainly seemed true. I considered myself now well and truly in show business, although Steve did tell me not to expect such fun at every gig.

  He was right. It has never happened again, even though I would suggest my act has improved.

  CHAPTER 25

  WE ALL HAVE TO DIE ON OUR ARSE SOME TIME

  Once I started being asked to do weekend spots I faced the problem of managing my time with the boys. The gigs were never anywhere outside the North West; in fact, I was lucky that the comedy scene in Manchester was vibrant enough that the majority of them were within 20 minutes of my house. I didn’t change the arrangements and would still collect them on Friday and return them on Monday but, if I had a gig, I had to use a babysitter. However, I was always reluctant to leave before the boys were asleep in bed, which meant I would often rush to the gig, arriving only five minutes before I was due on.

  I did my first open spot in October 2000 and was booked for my first headline act in January 2001 by Agraman, a local promoter and compère who was a great supporter of people he thought were good. Indeed, he was later to encourage me to do my first solo theatre show at the 400-seater venue, the Dancehouse, in Manchester in July 2002, 18 months after doing my first open spot. I didn’t realise that this was extremely fast progression and that the normal process was to remain an open spot before progressing through the ranks over a period of years. Within the local comedy scene, everyone claims to have assisted those who have done well, but Agraman certainly helped elevate comedy in the North West as he ran the North West Comedy Awards, which had such luminous victors as Peter Kay (Johnny Vegas came second that year), Jason Manford, Alan Carr, Caroline Aherne and a Scouse lad with big teeth.

  It gave me a boost to my confidence that someone like Agraman was championing me, although what is unique about comedy is that you know when it’s going well, and so does everyone else, because the audience laughs. Even if an individual doesn’t like your act, there is no escaping the sound of laughter, which removes the subjectivity of opinion when it comes to promoters booking acts. If they think you will make people laugh, they will book you; if they think you won’t, they won’t book you – it’s that simple.

  When I did my first headline slot I thought it was important to be there for the whole show in order to see what the other acts spoke about. When I did the circuit, I never had a ‘set act’ as such – I would go on with something in my mind, but allow other things to emerge during the time I was on stage. But since I was headlining this time, I wanted to see what topics had been covered by the other acts, so I could either back-reference them or avoid them altogethe
r.

  I had asked my mum to have the boys for the evening, and had been greeted with a knowing look from both her and Dad. At this point I had been single for over a year, and there had been no hint of a girlfriend on the horizon. I still kept the comedy secret, not even telling my mates. I just wanted to have something for me, and I also didn’t know when it might end.

  I also knew that as soon as I said what I was doing, people would want to come to watch. This would have destroyed me because, although I felt very comfortable on stage, having people I knew within the small audiences I was playing to would certainly have changed things. I would have felt pressure to make them laugh more than anyone else, potentially saying anecdotes that involved them. By keeping the comedy a secret, I was able to be anonymous by being the centre of attention for people who did not know me.

  This proved a sensible decision. After my mates found out, some came to watch me during my first run in Edinburgh. I was in a tiny room, and with around 15 people in the audience my five mates made up a high percentage. As the other 10 weren’t laughing much and the gig was not going well, my mates decided to heckle me to spice things up. When a third of your audience starts to heckle you about stag dos you have been on with them, you know it was a bad idea to allow them to come.

  In not telling people, it never occurred to me that my mum and dad would make their own assumptions about why I would be out that Saturday night. It didn’t register what the look meant until I was leaving.

  I kissed the boys goodbye and did the same to my mum, after which she followed me out to the gate.

  ‘So, are you off out then?’

  ‘Yes, thanks for having them.’

  ‘So are you going out then?’

  ‘Sort of …’

  ‘Or are you staying in …?’

  I thought it was as good a time as any to break the secret.

  ‘I’m going to a comedy club.’