Comedy Take Two
It was my second (attempt at) comedic performance on Thursday just gone.
Travelled to the Abbeydale Theatre in Sheffield - www.abbcom.co.uk - to do between five and ten minutes of material. I'd prepared about eight, but was well ready to ditch the final three minutes and head for the hills if it wasn't going well.
I'd reworked much of my routine from the first performance, taking out a half-hearted pastiche on schoolyard rumours and generally trimming down the length of most of the sections. I'd also told sections of my routine to friends on several occassions, which had got me plenty of feedback and practice as to how best to deliver certain pieces. The extra space enabled me to insert a poem, a 2004 vintage from my one night of poetry writing at university, which I decided I'd perform if the first five minutes went well.
So, routine sorted, and better rehearsed than first time round, I was actually looking forward to the show, rather than dreading it. Took about two hours to get to Sheffield but we (myself and fellow Prestonian - see earlier post) were rewarded with a great venue and crowd - around 60/70 people in attendance.
I was up second, and upon arriving immediately began to feel very nervous. Rehearsing the day before, I'd actually recorded my set, so I listened to that to calm myself. It didn't work. A pint of Guinness, hastily consumed, didn't work either. But in any case, it wasn't long until I was called up, and after a brief moment of confusion over whether I'd broken the microphone or not, (I hadn't) I began. Speaking to someone else who performed on the night, he told me how after his routine he rates each of his sections out of three, so that he can assess how well he did. Following in his footsteps, below are my 'keywords' (written on my hand to guide me through) and my ratings.
Garden Centre Urinals - 1
Wikipedia - 2
Text message - 3
Wiping - 2
Kenan and Kel - 1
Poetry - 3
So a good night, all told, with a few big-sounding laughs at points. Possibly the biggest laugh of my set came when I unintentionally insulted the act who had gone before me, which I was horrified at, but thankfully he forgave me.
On the journey home we forwent our victory Snickers, but intrigue was instead provided by a sheep running out infront of the car high on Snake's Pass. For a brief moment I considered whether it would be ironic if two Prestonians killed the symbol of their proud city on a trip to Yorkshire, but decided it wasn't.
Published Date:
01/06/2008
Modified Date:
01/06/2008
Fine Dining & Toilet Etiquette
Enjoyed a meal at a recently-opened restaurant in Much Hoole last week.
Whilst waiting for our starters, a companion headed to the lavatories, and returned much impressed.
"Lovely toilets. They're playing bird music in there as well. It's a little like toiletting outside!"
He chimed, eyes wide with wonder.
Excited at the prospect of al fresco urination, I too headed to the toilets. First impressions were good; clean, well designed units and fashionable sink bowls. True to my friend's word, bird's could be heard twittering in the background. A wonderful bathroom experience awaited me.
Approaching my urinal of choice, the ambience was spoiled somewhat by a rogue pubic hair which had manifested itself in the bowl.
A fly in an otherwise splendid jar of ointment.
Published Date:
26/05/2008
Modified Date:
26/05/2008
Romania, 2005. Part 1 - Furtive Footsteps
Sighisoara, Transylvania, Romania
Furtive footsteps reverb around a woodland glade. Somewhere to the right, the heavy, monotonous thud of an axe was heard.
The friends ran through the wood, tripping and slipping on the undergrowth.
The sound of the axe stopped, suddenly. A harsh shriek and cackle reverberated around the wood. Birds left their perches at the sound, frantically trying to escape the dense woodland. The 5 friends stopped running. Silence. The only sound was the collective thudding of hearts against chests.
Without needing to say a word to one another, they started running again. Jono, leading the group, let out an exclamation. Ahead, the wood opened up, and the group caught a glimpse of a well-tended garden. They quickened pace, and raced out, blinking in the sunlight. They were safe.
What began as a gentle stroll out from the Sighisoara (apparently the birth-place of Dracula, in Transylvania) had turned into a sprint for survival. This began after Greg, who it would be fair to say was the most naturally suspicious of the group, became increasingly worried as we left the relative civilisation (you could buy milkshakes, but not pizzas) of Sighisoara.
A couple of Romany gypsy children asking us for money on the edge of the wood did nothing for Greg's anxiety, and he began to suggest to the rest of us that we turn back. As we turned to do so we saw a man and his dog approaching in the distance. Greg was wary, and now counselled that we continue forwards. Doing so brought us to the edge of the wood. Greg urged us in.
We began to amble through the wood, but then we heard the sound of the axe. By sheer persistence, Greg had managed to make the rest of us jumpy, but by now he was on the verge of a breakdown. As we heard the sound of laughter accompanying the thud of the axe he emitted a shriek, and began a human stampede; five grown men sprinting as swiftly as flipflops would allow.
Upon escaping the wood we realised we had been on the edge of civilisation the whole time. Feeling not a little foolish, but relieved nonetheless, we happened upon a shack at the side of the road. As we feasted on a meal of bourbon biscuits and premium strength lager, two young boys, aged around 10, exited the trees and walked past us, carrying wood. One of them bore a small axe.
We sat and reflected, not for the first time on the trip, that we had a lot to learn.
Published Date:
24/04/2008
Modified Date:
01/05/2008
Sightseeing in London
I visited London recently. I was snooping around a couple of universities with a view to studying there later this year, and decided to stay on for an extra few days at a friend's house.
Said friend was working during the day, but I didn't mind, because this enabled me to be an unashamed tourist; camera clasped to chest, money-belt tightly fastened around waist, Disneyworld cap proudly mounted on bonce, all protected from moisture by a see-through plastic mac.
Not really. But it was still good fun. I went to Westminster, Chelsea (by accident - I walked in the wrong direction away from Westminster), The Tower of London, Tower Bridge, Knightsbridge, Notting Hill (yes, because of the film), Piccadilly Circus and ...Baker Street.
221B Baker Street, to be precise; the 'home' of Sherlock Holmes, and now a museum dedicated to the sleuth. Or at least it claims to be a museum. It seemed more of an exhibition of what life was like for Holmes, than a provider of information, so if you aren't already a fan, there's probably not much point going.
I'm no photographer, but I managed to take this picture with my camera phone:
The highlight of the museum was an elderly man stood in the first room, who was looking a bit lost. When I entered he turned slowly towards me, as if he was mechanised, and in the most monotonous voice I have ever heard, said:
"This is my sitting room, you can see my chemistry table, violin, and when I get bored, I like to shoot the Queen's initials into the wall"
I instinctively backed out of the room, thinking he was the local crackpot, until I noticed he looked very, very slightly like Sherlock Holmes. Or at least he may have done in the 1950s. Putting two and two together, I realised he was employed as a Holmes look-a-like, and had about as much enthusiasm for the role as the waxwork version below:
I raised a chuckle, in acknowledgement. Sherlock Holmes would not be impressed.
Published Date:
17/04/2008
Modified Date:
17/04/2008
The Debut Performance
The compere began the night well; very chatty, and got the audience in the mood. Two established acts then performed, both of whom were very good. One struggled a bit due to the heckling (good natured, but I would imagine still off-putting) of three intimidating looking men in the crowd. Nerves began to set in.
After this the compere announced the ‘gong show’ was starting. The show works by comics performing 5 minutes of material. After this the crowd can decide whether to keep them on stage or vote them off (they can do this at any point after the initial 5 minutes). If the performer makes 10 minutes, he has beaten the gong.
I was on fourth out of six acts, giving me a chance to see how other people fared, and what the crowd were like. Some really good bits of material on show, and the crowd was friendly, occasional heckles from the group of three mentioned above, which, mindful of my own impending performance, terrified me, but the comics managed to keep on track.
Soon my moment came. The compere whipped the audience up into a frenzy and I stepped up on the stage, nervous, slightly embarrassed and blinking in the spotlight.
I picked up the microphone, did a small joke about a stool that had been brought on stage, and I was in. Nerves meant I didn't stick to the running order I had planned, but I'd written prompt words on my hand (meaning I had to clap wrists when applauding the other acts) and referred to them at random. My confidence grew with the sound of titters from the audience at a joke referencing a local garden centre's urinals. From there, I moved onto some material on Wikipedia, and then an erroneous text message and its consequences. By the time I had finished, well and truly exhausting my small amount of material, I realised I had (just) made it to 10 minutes, beating the gong, perhaps a sympathetic gesture from the audience.
I was followed by the Preston comedian referenced in my previous entry, who was experimenting new material, and who also made the ten minutes. At the end of the night the compere called onto the stage the three of us who had beaten the gong, and announced that the winner of the gong show would be decided by that time-honoured democratic mechanism; the 'clapometer'. To my lasting surprise, I won, to my lasting disappointment, there was no cash prize.
Fellow Prestonian and I celebrated in glamorous fashion, with a Snickers bar each on the way home.
http://www.royalcourtliverpool.co.uk/rawhide/Raw.htm
Published Date:
03/04/2008
Modified Date:
17/04/2008
Fear and the Potential for Loathing in Liverpool.
To paraphrase Ian Brown, I've got the fear.
On Wednesday I will be performing stand-up comedy for the first time, in Liverpool, and I'm terrified.
I've been working on my routine since last year, and generally thinking about performing comedy for many years, but, as with many things in life (at least in my life), now that the moment looms I find myself underprepared and unconfident.
Performing comedy changed from just a pipe dream to reality when I met a local comedian at a comedy night he ran in Preston, in February this year. I sidled up to him after the event, offered congratulations, and blurted out that I, too wished to perform comedy. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed this eager, naive 'comic' infront of him.
"Do you do jokes about chavs?" He asked. My face dropped an inch or two.
"No I'm afraid I don't unfortunately, although I do do jokes about writing poems, and about ill-fitting swimming trunks, and about..."
"No, that's fine - everyone does jokes about chavs," he explained, and our relationship was formed.
The very next day I received a text, asking if I wanted to do a 10 minute spot in Liverpool, on Wednesday 2nd April. I said yes - it seemed ages away - and I had my first booking. Between then and now I have received numerous more invitations from my comedy guru, inviting me to perform elsewhere (usually at very short notice), but I have always resisted.
"2nd April. Liverpool. That is my moment." I have been thinking. Although now it draws near, I find I still haven't properly rehearsed, and am swiftly losing faith in my material.
But never mind. Liverpool is quite far away. I don't have to go back there soon. I can lick my wounds in peace, in Preston.
Published Date:
31/03/2008
Modified Date:
31/03/2008
Kenan and Kel.
In my heady school days, it was common for rumours to reverb around the schoolyard. These rumours could be localised (a common theme was that two teachers of the same sex were co-habiting, or that a particular pupil was a test-tube baby) or international in scale.
The most ambitious and enduring form of the latter was the rumour that Kenan Thompson and Kel Mitchell, stars of a hit US television show called, imaginatively, 'Kenan and Kel', had been killed in a car accident in the late 90s.
This struck a chord with friends and I, as the show had been very popular with high school children. It operated on the simple 'dumb and dumber' format, with Kenan, a reasonably intelligent, overweight, constantly scheming teenager leading his less intelligent, and orange soda-addicted (a popular recurring sequence in the show was for Kel to proclaim his love for the soft drink) friend astray. I am unsure where the rumour started, but by the year 2000 most youths in the UK, myself included, believed our comedy heroes to be dead.
I mourned the duo for 18 months, only leaving the house in black, and avoiding orange-coloured drinks, before finding out their death had been a cruel hoax. However, I must admit, as the initial blow of their deaths had lessened with time, I found nagging doubts had begun to form.
The doubts weren't over the fact that the twosome were dead, but rather the manner of their demise. Kenan seemed to me to be more of a contender for coronary disease than dying in a car crash. My reasons for this were two fold - his excessive bulk obviously put him at risk of heart failure, but also, given that he could actually fit behind the wheel of a motor vehicle, his size would surely prohibit any car from going fast enough to engage in a serious crash.
Meanwhile, Kel's much vaunted dependency on orange soda would make him a surefire candidate for diabetes, which I saw as more likely to finish him off than any car related incident. As with Kenan, I also had doubts about his ability to drive a car, as his sugar dependency doubtless made him far too hyper-active to pass a driving test.
Published Date:
03/03/2008
Modified Date:
03/03/2008
Poetry. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
Studying English at university is a dangerous proposition.
Over-exposure to literature at a young, impressionable age can lead to one's feet being lifted from the ground, and fill a scholar's head with various notions of his or her own literary prowess. I speak from personal experience. Half way through my first year, and fresh from reading sonnets for two hours, (don't worry, it wasn't on taxpayers' money) I decided that I, too, could write great verse.
And why not? I got an A in English at GCSE after all. I considered myself intelligent. What is there to writing poetry anyway? I convinced myself that I was a natural poet, a gifted wordsmith, who need only threaten parchment with pen for my creative juices to spill forth, embellishing the page with literary flourishes and such epic language as had never before been witnessed. I studied English. I was a creative.
That night I shut myself in my room. I dimmed the lights to a suitably creative degree, and opened the bottle of wine I had secreted into my bag during my last visit home. I poured the vintage (Mateus Rosé) into my only wine glass, carefully took out my best pen (a Parker fountain). I was ready to write.
Two hours later, I sat back, spent. The wine was drunk, my ink cartridge emptied, the four pages of A4 I had set aside for my poetic indulgence filled. Curiously, my burning desire to right poetry sputtered after this, and was soon extinguished, as other matters (mainly night out matters) took priority. Eventually I cleared the sonnets I had so lovingly penned from my desk, packing them into an old briefcase, and quite forgetting the incident.
This very week, 4 years after my two hour creative spell, I came across these poems. I think it would be fair to say they fit the stereotype of an arts student; imagine a long-haired, houmous-eating, latte-swilling, tight-clothes wearing young man, and you've pretty much got the idea. Whilst there is nothing specifically wrong with this, there is plenty wrong with the poetry.
I selflessly include one here so that I may save others from falling into the same trap. Beware.
Sides
Two sides, hast I
One is shown,
One is shy.
One I own.
The other I do not.
It belongs to the public eye.
Forget me not,
For then I would die.
Published Date:
29/02/2008
Modified Date:
01/03/2008