by Stewart Lee
Apparently.
In Bristol, fluff-faced comic-book fans
Offered him a seventies copy of Superman
Which they knew Malcy, a famous collector,
Would not be able to resist.
It included the first appearance of
The Super Moby Dick of Space,
A sentient, speaking whale in a short red cape
Who patrolled the cosmos defending The American Way.
I assumed Malcy’s interest was an ironic pose,
But he was hurt by the suggestion
And didn’t speak till we reached Preston.
Malcy loved the Super Moby Dick of Space.
He felt that its creator was touched by divine intervention,
Chosen to communicate something beyond his comprehension.
The route of our already strangely scheduled tour
Was further complicated
By the side-trips Malcy insisted on making,
And the peculiar rituals he was determined to observe.
After an average to bad show at Lancaster University,
Malcy made me drive him twelve miles to the coast
Where he stood on the seafront and took off his coat
And urinated in the face of a statue of Eric Morecambe,
Who hailed from the area, or at least had done.
He explained that he tried to do this at least once a year,
And considered Ernie Wise a genius unsung.
Malcy had sworn he would never play Glasgow,
But on the way to Stirling he insisted we drive through
The city centre while he, sporting a ginger wig and clutching a haggis,
Leaned out of the car window shouting,
‘Remember Culloden! That was tragic!’
At small children and old women.
Each day, Malcy would buy the dullest postcard of the town we were in,
Inscribe it with the same description of an imaginary
Italian holiday and post it to an address in Ealing
That he had chosen at random from the telephone directory.
On an Irish leg, driving between Belfast, Dublin and Cork,
Malcy insisted on eating only at tiny tea-rooms,
Where he would order a baked potato, with no butter, filling or salad,
And then seek out the chef to compliment him on the meal.
Whenever we were in Devon he always tried to have sex with men,
But even in Exeter’s only gay nightclub,
The local queens could tell the difference
Between real lust and some situationist conceit.
Whenever we played a town with two ‘b’s in its name,
Malcy would order me two full English breakfasts in bed
And have them both delivered to my room at 5.45 a.m.
The cost of the two meals would then be deducted from my fee.
But I grew to love these idiosyncrasies,
Just as I grew to love Malcy,
Over and above his act,
In spite of himself.
Malcy used to live in Peckham then,
Before he moved back to his mum’s.
At the end of our two-month trip
I finally dropped him in his street.
He did not invite me in for tea,
Say goodbye or thank me.
Three months later in Edinburgh,
Malcy performed his ‘farewell’ show,
In a room above a shop.
The signs had been there I suppose,
But it still seemed hard to believe.
What would Malcy do instead?
He was dis-institutionalised.
After midnight Malcy stuck his face through a curtain
And addressed us for a quarter of an hour in the persona of a head
Which had no body and was floating in the air.
Then he laid his props upon the floor,
The harmonica, the wigs, the pack of cards,
And invited us to speculate upon the perfect order
That these elements might integrate for the ultimate comic effect.
Malcy lit an oil lamp, and sealed his mouth with masking tape.
He arranged his props in every possible way,
Like some Mondrian ballet,
Until at last, at half past one,
With wigs scattered all around the room,
He admitted it could not be done,
And that the totems of his trade were powerless
To someone who no longer cared.
Even against his will Malcy was still funny,
But the friends that I took with me said it was a waste of money.
Sold out for three weeks, then that was it,
Malcy packed up and disappeared.
The Guardian said the show was shit.
The Observer disagreed.
Five years later I saw Malcy on Oxford Street,
Hunched up, head down, staring at his feet.
I waved at him, but I don’t think he noticed me.
When the money well ran dry and I went back to my old promoters,
They laughed as if vindicated somehow and said they could find me something.
Two weeks headlining on what remained of the student circuit that I’d help create.
Of course I’d need a support.
Had I heard Malcolm Tracey was back on the boards?
No. He lives with his mum now in her council flat,
No one knows where he’s been but he’s blown all his cash.
It’ll be just like the old days.
But if he really sucks promise you’ll call
And we’ll send someone up to replace him.
Malcy came in the kitchen where I sat with his mum.
He looked older but content in an indefinable way,
As if the black cloud that always used to surround him had risen away.
‘Malcy,’ I said, ‘it’s Tim. Remember me?’
‘Ah, Tim, yes. Did I see you on the TV?
Good luck to you, son, they’d never have me.
I dare say I could have made it if I’d given it a try
But sometimes these opportunities,
Well, they just pass one by.
Now. Bangor. In Wales. I assume that you’ll drive.
Goodbye, Mother, I am sure that we will meet again.
But if I should die, think only this of me.
The stash of porn under the bed goes to kids with cerebral palsy.
Everyone needs a wank, Mother, don’t you agree …’
Goodbye, Malcy,’ she said, and passed him his packed lunch.
Malcy kissed his mother on the cheek and handed me his props.
‘Sight gags, dear boy. You can’t have too many.
You’re still travelling light I assume?
You think that wig, no matter how funny,
Is beneath the likes of you.’
Malcy woke soon after Oswestry.
So far I’d restrained myself from asking him
Where he’d been the past ten years.
It seemed somehow impolite.
Instead I said how much I had enjoyed his farewell show,
In Edinburgh so long ago,
When he had spent an hour trying to align
His funny props for maximum effect.
‘Yes. Well, I got there in the end you know, while I’ve been away.
I was five years gone before I realised anyone might have missed me.’
‘What do you mean, Malcy?’ I asked him.
‘The problem was I’d taped up my mouth.
You remember, you were there,
So I couldn’t play the harmonica
Or recite even the simplest joke or sing a silly song.
It was all very well moving wigs about
But even to a foreign ear there’s something in
The rhythm of a perfect gag that can incite the involuntary act
Of laughter, and I believe, there are absurd images
that transcend
Any cultural conditioning
And whack us on our funny bones at a primeval level.’
My head was spinning. I’d never heard Malcy wax theoretical
On comedy before. He’d always seen it as a chore.
What did he mean?
‘A certain shape, a certain sound,
A certain colour and a certain move,
Combined at a special moment and timed
To perfection, will send a pulse of laughter out,
So powerful the earth will crack,
The lightning flash,
The sky turn black,
And everything will alter.’
I felt a little bit afraid
Hearing Malcolm Tracey talk this way,
But kept my eyes upon the road
And looked for signs to Bangor.
‘Everything I need to implement
This comic day of judgement
Is in that bag on your back seat
Or here inside my skull.
And when I work my wonders
Everything I’ve fought against
Will wither, die and fall.
Can we stop for a piss soon?’
We checked into the Regency Hotel,
Opposite the station.
Outside the rain was chucking down
And waves were crashing on the shore.
I thought about the prophecy that Malcy had just made,
And wondered what exactly he’d been doing while away.
If he really had the power that he seemed to think he did,
Then having him as my opening act might not be ideal.
If Malcy had stumbled upon some comic formulae
That unleashed the energies he had described
Then if I had to follow him I would surely die,
And with it being Bangor I needed to do the time
Agreed, or with the petrol and the rooms I’d be in negative equity.
I went into the hotel bar to get a drink and steady my nerves,
And then I remembered I wasn’t well enough.
But as I sat there smoking I realised there were two options.
Either Malcolm was a superbeing, or he’d just flipped and lost it.
Tragically it seemed to me the second was most likely.
I resolved to get through the gig tonight,
Then have a think in the cold hard light
Of day as to whether my childhood hero really was going to pay his way.
If he looked like a liability I could just put him on the train,
Phone the promoters and have them find me someone new,
Who I could hook up with before the next show.
I knocked at Malcy’s door.
‘Show time,’ I said.
‘Come in,’ he lay upon the bed,
Naked except for socks and an orange wig over his cock.
‘Get dressed, Malcolm,’ I said, ‘Bangor Uni will dock
Our fee if we’re not there by six thirty for an ineffectual sound-check.
This is no time for messing around.’
‘On the contrary, dear boy,’ said Malcy,
‘There’s never been a better time for it.’
What can I say?
Malcy did OK.
His fifteen minutes came and went
Largely without incident.
At first he faltered, as well he might,
After ten years out of the light.
But he cut such an eccentric figure with his tight red suit
And revolving roster of wigs that the student pricks were initially too confused
To go in for the kill, and before they knew it
He had their goodwill.
Twelve minutes in Malcy put down his puppet rubber chicken
And reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.
I wondered if it contained some spell, some charm, or incantation,
With which he would make good his boast of earlier that day,
To bring the mountains crashing down and make the doubters pay.
But instead it was a poem he said he’d written that week,
About his relationship with his estranged daughter.
In all the time I’d spent with him,
Malcy had never mentioned her.
He read it sincerely in slow measured tones.
It was funny, but not cute, and clearly heartfelt.
The audience fell silent, with occasional laughs,
But they came in the right places,
And Malcy rode the pauses.
At the end they applauded but I noticed from my corner
That a girl by the toilets was crying.
Then as if to acknowledge the hiatus he’d caused,
Malcy bent over and pulled down his pants,
Showed his arse to the students and bowed.
I need not have worried.
Malcy still had it, and more.
After his set my own seemed a bore,
If not to the crowd then to me.
Once more I was learning from Malcolm Tracey.
But hey, what the hell, we both did our time.
The cunt from the union paid us both fine
And nobody had to go hungry.
As we walked back to the Regency Hotel
Malcy stopped for a piss by the chip shop.
‘Though I say it myself,’ he said, to himself,
‘That went rather well. It might have been my best gig ever.
Yes. I was on fire, so I think I’ll retire.
Things really can’t get any better.’
Outside the hotel Malcy stood on the steps
And looked at the sea and the sky.
‘A drink before bed,’
Malcy smiled. I said,
‘I’m sorry I need to get some kip in.
I didn’t tell you before but tomorrow
I’m afraid we are both due in Glasgow.’
To my surprise, Malcy took it in his stride.
‘Good. Then we’d best be off early.
If you don’t mind there’s a stop I should like to make
Somewhere west of Greenock.’
It had been a long time since I’d had to drive
Malcy to his assignations.
But I felt kind of proud to have him around
And agreed, just this once, that I’d take him.
At Wemyss Bay Malcy pointed the way
Across the sea by ferry.
‘We’ll go to Bute, to a beach I know,
And there we will put on a show
To live in the halls of memory.’
Tired and confused I acquiesced
And drove the car onto the boat.
Malcy hurried to the bar,
Already on his second jar
By the time I’d bought the tickets.
I didn’t think to question him,
I’d seen it all before.
He’d have a plan, to see a certain man
Or dally with a whore.
But when we drove onto the land
He took control and directed me
A little way, to Skelpsie Bay,
Some way south-west of Rothesay.
I parked the car above the beach,
In the distance I saw Arran,
And in the rain I helped Malcy
Get all the props that we could carry
And take them to the shore.
He handed me a pint glass that he’d
Brought with him from Bangor,
And told me to keep it safe
As he would need it later.
Across the sand he dragged his bags
And set them up upon some rocks,
That stretched some way into the sea,
A small performance promontory.
And as I watched him from the beach
He got down on his knees and reached
Into his pocket and pulled out
His old harmonica.
; The wind carried the notes away,
But I assume he started to play
And as he did so little heads
Began to break above the waves.
Malcy was surrounded on three sides
By dolphins bobbing on the tide,
Clicking, waiting, watching him,
Wondering when he’d begin.
‘I’ll test my theory,’ he cried,
‘On these far superior minds.’
And in-between the wind and spray
I think I heard Malcy say
The first lines of his tried and tested set.
The story of a gherkin boy who lived inside a burger,
The suicide note of a mouse or something or other,
A funny kind of lullaby sung to a sleepless child,
I knew the pay-off, but before he spat it out
Malcy called, ‘Throw the glass, throw it at me now.’
‘What?’ I answered him, appalled,
As Malcy stuck an orange wig upon his sodden hair,
And blew a last harmonica blast that cut the soggy air.
‘I’ll only go if you throw glass,’ he shouted.
I threw it towards the waiting rocks. It shattered with a crash.
The sea grew calm and duck pond still and then there was a splash.
The dolphins dived beneath the waves.
Skulls cracked smiles in ancient graves.
A shadow fell across my face.
The Super Moby Dick of Space!
But not a cloud had crossed the sun.
I looked back.
Malcy?
He was gone.
And lying there upon the rocks,
His harmonica, alone, unloved.
I hung around the beach till dusk looking for Malcolm Tracey.
If he had come back across the beach footprints would have betrayed him.
If he’d swum underwater out to sea he’d have to have swum a mile from me
Without breaking the surface.
I had to confront my fear.
Malcolm Tracey had disappeared.
I drove back to the ferry and phoned the promoters
To tell them my support act had spontaneously combusted.
But back in London they pre-empted me.
There had been a complaint.
Malcy’s poem had made a student cry.
This wasn’t what comedy was for.
Admittedly in any other form of art,
Tugging the strings of someone’s heart
Would be considered worthy.
But not in standup comedy.
Malcy was sacked and there would be
A new support waiting for me
When I arrived in Glasgow.
There’s nowhere to hide in the University of Strathclyde.
The venue’s on the top floor of a tower.
You’re crushed into a backstage room that doubles as an office.
And it was there that I met Malcolm Tracey’s young replacement.