Gig no: 25. Where? RC Comedy, The Rose & Crown, Kentish Town. Yeah, THAT friggin place.
Why? Usual. Asked.
Who Held My Hand? No one, not a bringer.
What Happened? This venue can f*ck the f*ck off. It’s the 3rd time I’ve been shit here and surpriiiise, I was shit again. This basement is cursed. In the Doomsday Book or some shite, it’s built on a jester burial ground. It CAN’T be coz I’m not funny enough. I’m about to enter a competition called So You Think You’re Funny. SO IT CAN’T BE THAT.
Still, somehow this basement gets MASSIVELY used for comedy. And SOMEHOW I keep coming back. Pernilla Holland is the MC and organiser tonight and is really nice. There are bags of really nice, intelligent funny women on the comedy wannabe circuit. Which is great. I tell myself. By etching it into my skin with my beer bottle. Pernilla has kindly offered me a 7 spot (to rehearse my competition material AGAIN) and most of the acts are women, all but one I think. There’s a beautiful happy girl next to me who is a lawyer by day, comic by night. She asks to do her gig early as she has to catch a plane to Budapest to go on a date. I shall murder her first.
I’m up first and instantly, the material that worked well last night in Shadwell BOMBS in the Basement of Hades. The lawyer lady is in my eye-line, smiling like an angel and laughing at everything I say. I won’t kill her. I’m gonna kill everyone else who is not smiling and is utterly silent. Admittedly, I’m performing to 10 acts and no audience but I’ve seen Len Hermann storm something similar. Mind you, it wasn’t in this basement. Maybe in this basement, Len Sherman wants to kill people.
I get red-faced and nervous. Especially, for some reason, as I’m being watched by women. I’ve 2 chances left to practice this shit before the competition. My gags are tight enough but I’m not connecting. I’ve just watched the unbelievable Luisa Omielan doing her show What Would Beyonce Do? on iPlayer. She’s human, moving, f*cking funny. Her audiences like her.
I get off and eat a shit sandwich. Not the metaphor, an actual sandwich which just isn’t very good. This is becoming my gig diet. A shitty sandwich and expensive beer.
I sit and fume in the dark, waiting for my red face to fade. Lawyer girl is on next so I force myself to laugh. That sounds bad. She’s funny but I am hating this dungeon and me in it. I give myself a mental poke and snap out of it. And start laughing properly. Coz she deserves it. Others on the bill don’t. For the first time I consider presenting stony-faced silence like they’ve done so far. I can’t. I’m too nice. Maybe you don’t get anywhere in comedy by being nice?? You get to go to Budapest on dates though.
What I do decide is to move away from Internet Dating. Every woman on the bill tonight has talked about dating and it’s doing my head in. Have I enough time to write more shit for this competition, stuff about stuff that matters to me and rehearse it up to standard?? Tinder, Trump, May – they’re the stay-away subjects.
I don’t stay, I don’t chat, I walk very fast to the tube. Except this time, I don’t leave my bank card behind the bar.
What I Have Learned:
- I must EITHER storm this venue or BURN IT DOWN.
- I need packed lunches. And a flask.