July 1st, Tuesday. Gig No. 63, Bear Jokes, London Fields

This gig is in Hackney. Walking along the high street, I liked the vibe. Theatres, cafes, arts venues. A nice, cool, chilled out vibe. Even the pigeons were chilled out:



Then I walked past the Hackney Empire. Wow. That brought back memories. Back in the day, in my mid 20s, I decided to do stand up. This was it. This was my thing. So I went to check out some comedy. Which happened to be an early heat of the Hackney Empire awards. What I remember most about that gig was how nervous it made me. Watching the acts perform in front of a huge black backdrop, (A vast macro cosmic void of nothingness) with an audience comprised mainly of other acts and judges (A vast macro cosmic void of twats), it struck me how incredibly vulnerable you are up there as a performer. That made me extremely nervous. I remember my knees shaking as I walked out. What the FUCK have I let myself in for.

Fast forward to present day, and I am walking to Bear Jokes to perform gig number 63 of my challenge. I am not nervous. When I started stand up I would get nervous the moment I booked my first gig several months away, and those nerves would stay with me every waking moment until my hair fell out. Now, I don’t get nervous at all (Bollocks. But the truth doesn’t serve my joke.) Until I saw this:



The function room upstairs has been hired out (Yes, pubs always drop the comedy if they get actual paying customers wanting to give cash for the room. They drop you like a hot sack of shit) so the comedy night has been demoted and moved downstairs. And when I saw this sign, I honestly thought we’d be performing in the actual toilet. Why did this make me nervous? I can’t ‘go’ when people are watching. (It wasn’t really worth it was it?)

But no, we aren’t in the Unisex toilet. (It’s not actually a Unisex toilet, it’s a women’s toilet that’s been temporarily transformed into a Unisex toilet cause it’s the only way to get to the function room in the basement. Great. To get into the gig, you have to walk past a row of shitting women.) A rather tough little gig. A lot of work needing to be done with a girl in front who works in a Camping shop. (She heckles me. Me: ‘Go sell some fucking tents’. It’s all very good natured.)

What did I get from the sudden contrast of the memory of nerves when I first decided to do comedy, to where I am now? Basically: Existential futility. Why do I fucking bother. Nine years later and I’m doing a gig down the road for free on a Tuesday night in a basement that stinks of disinfectant and shit.

Ah, only kidding. It’s a nice gig and a decent room. The lady who sells tents was very nice too and we even swapped telephone numbers. No we didn't. Anyone wanna buy an IPHONE? I need the money to go camping.

Gig No. 63 done. MC/Promoter Andy Quirk