“Who have you invited?”
“Oh, just a few people from my block. A few of the old ladies. Oh, and some blokes from the pub. And Noreen and John. And Denise. And Mum”
Oh, fuck. Everyone then. Fucking everyone.
It's scary enough doing stand up to strangers. But to relatives and blokes who drink in my Dad's pub?? Fucking forget about it. The risks are multiple: Dying on your arse in front of your parents isn't the problem. I can live with that. After all, they were the ones who changed my nappies. (Well my Mum did, you wouldn't see my Dad for dust) They've seen me at my absolute worst. When I was 12, my Mum had to shove a suppositry up my arsehole. Yes, me telling a joke and it not working in front of a roomful of people comes not fucking close to that vicious hell.
Dying on my arse in front of the old ladies who live in my Dad's building. That's a fear. Why? I don't need their approval. But I do visit my Dad a lot, (I’m a good son. Dutiful and loyal, and in any case, how else do I collect my pocket money) and when I do, often they are all in the common room by the lift to his floor and when my Dad's in there he forces me into this double act where he plays the piss taking Dad, and I the long suffering gimp son. We have to go through this shit every fucking time. He'll call me the black sheep of the family or an oily rag, I'll roll my eyes, and all the old biddies will coo like hens and tell him he doesn't know he's born, I am a lovely boy. So, if they see my act, that facade all goes. I die on my arse doing mental shit, the truth will unravel in their eyes and they will all realise that yes, he was right all along, Joe really is an oily rag.
In fact, you can add the blokes who drink in his pub to that scenario too. Every time I see him there, we have to play the act again. Fucking Steptoe and Son. The merciless piss taking, the awkward looks on their faces, knowing the son is playing his role under duress. If they come along and I see their faces sitting in the audience, they will be expecting some extension of our regular double act: “My Dad thinks I’m an oily rag. I’m not an oily rag. Except when I chuck one in his bed” BOOM
Also, it would be a working men’s club type of crowd. They like gags. Blue collar stuff. Jim Davidson types. What the FUCK would they make of me? I don’t do gags. (Read oily rag gag above)
When you anticipate what a gig will be like, and throw in your Mum and Dad, and relatives and various characters/associates of your Dad, you're imagining a heaving, packed audience brimming with the expectant curiosity of familiar faces. You're imagining acting like a goon to a chilling, stone cold silence and seeing those faces drop to the floor as my mouth dries up like a camel's arsehole. You're under pressure here. You HAVE to be funny. If you die on your arse in front of strangers, thats fine. You leave the gaff and never see them again. You can go home and nurse your fragile ego with junk food and angel cakes until the pain goes away. But if you die on your arse in front of people you have to see again and again and again - that's a living nightmare. Every conversation you have with them will thus forth will be framed with the underlying context that you are shit. They think you're shit. You think they think you're shit. They think you think they think you're shit. You think you're not as shit as they think you are, they think you don't realise you're as shit as they think you are. It tends to slightly befuddle a relationship. It creates tension. Resentment. It's like knowing they saw you do something weird. Like they accidentally saw you sexually fondling a basset hound while dressed as Mary Poppins. You're both pretending it never happened, but you both know it did. You're never the same after that.
Anyway. I know you were all expecting some kind of hilarious calamity to unfold. I'm really sorry to disappoint you all, but fuck all happened. They didn't turn up. It was just my Dad, my Mum and one or two friends. The crowd was nice, and I didn't die on my arse. I just about got away with it. Thankfully, there were no basset hounds in the room this time, and I could just about keep myself in check.
Gig No. 26 done. MC Pete Jee and lovely act Pamela Hilton
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