How Did All This Happen?

by Bishop, John

  ‘Oh, that’ll be nice. With your mates … or with a girl?’

  ‘On my own.’

  ‘What? Why would you do that?’

  ‘No, I’m not going “going” – I’m going because I’m on. I’m one of the acts.’

  ‘You’re what? Oh Jesus, John, don’t make a show of yourself.’

  ‘Well, that is the general idea.’

  She wished me luck with that worried look that only mothers have, and I knew there and then that I was a comedian. It was the first time I had ever told anyone what I was doing, and now my secret was out. The only other people who were in any way aware of how I spent my free time were the audiences and the people working at the venues. It was a new life, and by letting my mum know where I was going I was merging my two worlds together for the first time.

  The gig itself went well. I was on after an excellent Australian comedian called Steve Hughes, who was more experienced than me and better at the job. But if he thought he should have been headlining – as he should have been – he never showed it, and just wished me luck.

  Going on stage after great people is always difficult as you have to at least maintain momentum, even though you are not doing the same things. That night, Steve had done such a good job that I managed to just maintain things. I didn’t storm it, but I didn’t let anyone down and, driving home, I felt satisfied. I knew I had a lot to learn, but I was beginning to allow myself to think I could actually do stand-up and make strangers laugh, rather than just need to do stand-up as a kind of therapy, as it had been up till then. Once you start being booked for paid gigs, the audience has got to enjoy the show. If you enjoy it, it’s a bonus, but the audience must come first.

  I have been lucky. I can’t remember not enjoying stand-up; even on nights when I would rather stay at home or have had a day dealing with the normal stresses of life, once I walk on stage I just feel better. On stage is a great place to be, because you have to focus, and so everything else disappears.

  My parents have been to many of my shows since, and there is nothing more strange for a grown man than to have his parents come to a comedy gig where even if things go right they have to listen to you talk about subjects they may not always want to hear, such as your current male grooming techniques.

  My mates found out a few weeks later when one of them, Mike, announced the arrival of his second daughter. After a bit of discussion about where to wet the baby’s head, the Frog and Bucket was mooted and seemed to gain general agreement.

  The only problem was that I was due to do an open spot on the evening in question.

  I decided that getting up on stage was the best way to come clean to them all. I knew there was every chance it could go wrong and I might die on my arse, but I reasoned if that happened, then it would still be funny. I felt confident, as I knew the Frog and Bucket, so if my mates were to see me for the first time anywhere, I wanted it to be there.

  A table was booked for the dozen or so who were out, and I tagged along. As an open spot, your name is never listed, so as we sat and enjoyed the first act they had no idea of who was coming up next. I slipped away as the compère came back on stage, suggesting I was going the bar. The compère then announced me, to warm and enthusiastic applause from everyone in the packed venue, apart from one table where my mates sat in stunned silence – before in unison exclaiming, ‘What the f—!’

  Fortunately, the gig went well. I just seemed to settle into being on stage very quickly, which is lucky as, even though my material was not always the strongest, audiences are like a pack of wild dogs: they will sniff out your fear and nerves before you even know you have them. My view is that if you are relaxed, it allows them to think, ‘He can’t be shit because he isn’t worried enough.’ This is only a theory, and to be honest I have seen many people die on their arse despite being filled with confidence beforehand.

  I was one of them myself.

  My worst death came in Newcastle at a club called the Hyena coming up to Christmas in 2001. In the early days I very rarely took gigs away from home because of the boys. But on this particular weekend Melanie was taking them away, which left me with the opportunity to experience my first proper weekend as a circuit comedian, doing a Thursday, Friday and Saturday night in the same club.

  I managed my work diary so that I was working up in Newcastle. Thus the hotel was paid for, and I didn’t have to take any time from my day job. Back then, the Hyena was a room that contained perhaps 200 people sitting on long benches at tables tightly packed together. There was a local compère, and I was to be the support act for Addy van der Borgh, a very funny, surreal comedian. The compère had previously had some sort of stake in the club and, as he repeatedly told everyone, this was his first gig back since he had stopped being involved in its management.

  Comedy is like sky diving: if you get the first few minutes wrong, then it’s very hard to recover. I had not done a gig outside the North West, and I was confident and familiar with all the clubs there. But there in Newcastle I began the gig badly and was not experienced enough to turn it around.

  I started to lose the audience almost immediately. Though I used what I thought would be clever techniques to win them back, like shouting, ‘Go on then, say something, and I’ll see if I can make it funny!’ the reality is that for a comedian there is no greater indication of a death on stage than an audience having a conversation between themselves. Heckles you can deal with, but indifference from an audience – as in a relationship – is a killer.

  I walked off to the hum of people talking, only slightly drowned out by the compère coming back on stage to declare: ‘Don’t blame me. I don’t book the acts any more.’

  He continued to win the audience back by reaffirming in their mind how bad I was, whilst I stood in the small dressing room next to the stage with Addy.

  There can be nothing more awkward than hearing people laugh at your failure while you’re standing in a room the size of a toilet, with someone you have only just met and who has to walk onto the same stage to improve everyone’s night out.

  The compère announced the interval and then walked into the dressing room. It was the first time, and one of the few times, I encountered the bullying that sometimes goes on in dressing rooms.

  It normally takes the form of the established acts all being friendly with each other and saying nothing to the open spot or the new act until they are deemed worthy enough to be spoken to, and every time I’ve seen it happen I do my best to break the circle. This time, however, there was not even a circle to break. The compère ignored my presence completely, which was difficult considering the dressing room was so small we were all virtually touching, and began to talk to Addy, keeping his back to me.

  My disappointment was now replaced by anger at his arrogance. Having laughed with the audience at my failure, I was expecting him to say something along the lines of, ‘Sorry, mate, had to do that to win them back. Better luck tomorrow, eh?’ Instead, it was clear I was regarded as not being worthy of conversation. So I decided to correct the situation.

  ‘If you ever take the piss out of me again, I’ll twat you!’

  I may be paraphrasing here, but not much. I don’t know what new acts normally do when they have been in a similar situation, but it must be something different, because my comments were greeted with astonishment.

  ‘No need for that, mate! Look, this gig is probably just too big for you, and you shouldn’t have been booked. It happens.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. Not to me. If I die on my arse for the next two nights, I will give you my wages. But if you take the piss again, I will twat you!’ (Or words to that effect.)

  I watched Addy’s act, and he was brilliant. He reaffirmed to me that my experience had been my fault and that the audience had actually come to enjoy some comedy – I just hadn’t provided them with any. I had got it wrong because I had had nothing in my head when I went on stage and had just expected magic to happen. That wasn’t all due to laziness or arrogance;
it was mainly due to my head being filled with other stuff, so I only thought about comedy when I was actually doing it. A bit like a wife and sex. (Sorry, couldn’t resist that one.)

  I even went through a period of walking on stage with a stool, sitting on it, and the first thing I would say to the audience was: ‘Any questions?’ Whatever was shouted out would then form the basis of the act. I enjoyed doing this as it meant literally anything could come up – although this was not always a good thing.

  One time doing ‘Late ’n’ Live’, the legendarily hostile Edinburgh Festival show which starts at one in the morning and finishes some time around four, I walked on stage in front of a very lively audience who had already taken heckling to new heights with the previous acts. I proposed to take the hecklers on head-to-head. So I invited the challenge by walking on with the stool and asking an inebriated audience of 200 people at 2.30 in the morning if they had any questions.

  ‘Were you inbred?’ shouted a Southern Counties English accent – the kind of accent all students seem to be given when they enrol in drama school.

  Having seen a fellow Northern comedian being heckled about his roots, I completely lost my temper. The Edinburgh Festival attracts some people who move around with an air of superiority because they can wear a cravat and not be punched in the nose. It’s the place where the bullied can become the bully, whether it’s promoters, critics or even comedians who can’t get booked on the circuit, but who suddenly get a five-star review from a two-page student mag and take it as an opportunity to look down their noses at the comics who spend every weekend of every year blowing audiences apart in clubs around the country. It’s a place I have been to six times, and I have had my fair share of being trampled on. So I was in no mood to allow this to happen again as some tosser tried to suggest that because of my accent I was somehow the result in interbreeding within my family.

  I jumped off the stool, looked in the direction of where the comment had come from, and using wit, expletives and the threat of violence, I put him in his place. ‘Who the fuck are you talking to, dickhead? Talk about my family like that and I will come down there and ram that stupid Southern head up your arse, although I will have to pull it out of there first, you prick.’

  Not, I accept, the best heckle put-down ever, but it was par for the course at ‘Late ’n’ Live’. The baying audience cheered my rant and savoured the prospect of a comedian and a drama student having a fight, which probably represents the least aggressive form of combat there is (two needy people slapping each other and shouting, ‘Not the face, not the face!’).

  As the cheer died down, I stood looking challengingly into the darkness of the audience in the direction of the heckler, just to assert my authority and let Drama Boy know I was the victor.

  ‘No, I meant were you in Bread, the eighties sitcom.’

  The audience once again cheered at the confusion, and my aggression melted, as I had to accept that as a heckle goes that was a good one.

  So, in Newcastle, on my first proper weekend as a stand-up, I learnt the importance of at least planning the first 10 minutes – to have something strong to start with to allow the audience to believe you might be funny. I also learnt the lesson told to me by Ross Noble, who said that the worst time to die on stage is the first night of a weekend run. He said that when you return to the club the following night, none of the staff want to look you in the eye.

  My death had been of a magnitude where this was certainly going to be the case, yet I never thought of not going back. I had a good job and didn’t need to put myself through the potential humiliation of dying on my arse again, yet it never entered my head to quit. I could say that that was because I knew in a comedy career the odd death was inevitable and I wanted to learn from it, but that’s not the case. I had no plans for a career; I just wanted to hear people laugh, so, despite the pain suffered the night before, I resolved to return the next night to chase the sound of laughter.

  However, before I returned to the Hyena on the Friday, I went out and bought a new pair of shoes. A pair of fake crocodile-skin shoes.

  As I approached the entrance that Friday night, Ross’s prediction proved to be correct. The bouncers saw it was me and immediately diverted their eyes from my face – to my feet. Once they saw the shoes, they looked back at me with an expression that seemed to say, ‘Bloody hell, you’ve got confidence if you’re wearing them.’

  At the end of the weekend, I had performed well enough in everyone’s eyes to not have to give my wages away, and a truce was called between me and the compère. As for the shoes, I still have them. It’s nice to remind yourself never to get too cocky.

  CHAPTER 26

  LIFE SAVER

  Sometimes a heckle is not a heckle, it’s a situation. I was talking recently with a fellow comedian, Alistair Barrie, who reminded me of a gig we both did at the Manchester Comedy Store around 2005, which was interrupted in the most unusual way.

  Al was compèring, and I was about 15 minutes into my headline act in front of the audience of about 40 people in the small bar there, when a man appeared at the side of the stage. As the stage is less than five foot square, it was impossible for me not to notice him, but it was also impossible for me to see how he had arrived there in the first place.

  ‘Can you help me?’ he asked.

  I stopped what I was talking about to look at him. The attention of the audience had also shifted to the man, who was now so close that I noticed he was covered in mud up to his thighs.

  ‘I’ll do my best, mate, but I’m just at work here.’ (I know you can see what I did there – a master at work, oh yes.)

  ‘I just tried to kill myself, but it didn’t work.’

  If you ever want a comment to stump a comedian, throw something like that in. Some of the audience laughed, assuming he was a plant and part of the act, although a look at the expression on my face would have made it clear he wasn’t. Or perhaps they laughed, enjoying the fact that I was completely lost for words. I just thought I would avoid any amusing quips and ask him the obvious question.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I jumped into the canal, but I didn’t realise it had been drained, and now I am just covered in mud. Look at me!’

  The Comedy Store is situated next to the canal at Deansgate Lock. Once he’d realised he was still alive and had got over that disappointment, he had clearly climbed out of the mud and entered the venue through the side door at canal level.

  ‘So I thought I would come here and get cheered up.’

  There are times as a comedian when people make demands of you that can be hard to fulfil, like when you do a corporate gig and they want you to make a joke about the boss, but that is about as demanding as a comedian’s life usually gets. ‘Can you make me laugh to save my life?’ is perhaps the hardest request I have ever had.

  As there was only a small audience, we all felt part of the experience. We gave him a seat in the front row next to two ladies who, although sympathetic to the situation, had not come out to sit next to someone drenched in the sediment that only exists at the bottom of canals in Manchester. They moved, so there was a vacant seat between them and the bridge-jumper, and I continued as best as I could with the gig.

  Picking up momentum in any gig after you have been interrupted can be difficult, but doing it after a genuine life or death situation is even harder. It was a struggle but, after a few minutes, I was back into my stride and the audience, including the bridge-jumper, began to laugh at the appropriate moments. At the end I took a bow, everyone seemed happy, and I felt that for at least the duration of the gig I had contributed to saving a life.

  As I stepped down from the stage, the bridge-jumper stood up and asked if he could give me a hug. We shook hands instead. I don’t mind saving lives, but I am not that keen in getting covered in canal mud to do it.

  CHAPTER 27

  HOW A WARDROBE CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE

  New Year’s Eve is one night of the year where you are effect
ively bullied into having a good time. In other cultures, the passing of one year and the beginning of another is seen as an opportunity to reflect on how your life is progressing and if your dreams and ambitions are closer to being fulfilled. In Britain, it’s an opportunity to get pissed and snog someone you don’t know.

  As I had had the boys with me on New Year’s Eve for 2001, it was agreed that Melanie would have them the following year, which meant that I faced the dilemma of what to do with myself. I was single, I had a night off on the one night when you were given a licence to kiss as many strangers as you could, so it was obvious what I should do: I should go to a party.

  However, I was still getting used to the idea of being the single man amongst my friends. It felt awkward being invited to events as a single person and sitting amongst couples, so instead of going to a party I went to the Frog and Bucket and did a gig.

  Comedy was now becoming my default position, the thing I went to when I didn’t know what else to do. It was a separate world to my daytime existence where I was dealing with the machinations of management in the corporate sector, or my time as a single father to my boys.

  Everyone knew I did comedy now, though this had led to some situations that I could perhaps have handled better – such as stepping in to deliver a best man’s speech when the best man could not make it as his wife had just gone into labour. I was an usher and you would think it made sense that, if the best man cannot make it and one of your ushers is a comedian, then he is the perfect replacement. That is before you realise that to a new comedian even a speech at a wedding is classed as a gig.

  I stood up at the top table, families and friends watching, and I held up the best man’s speech. ‘Paul, the proper best man, has sent me this – his speech all about living with the groom, Mike, and how close they are, particularly after surviving a house fire. It’s a good speech, but everyone knows I only do my own material.’ I then put the speech down and did a load of gags completely unrelated to the groom, the bride or even the fact that we were at a wedding. I basically did my club set.