June 9th, Monday. Gig No.51, Rhythm Factory, Aldgate

OK. This one’s about Rik Mayall.

I shed a few tears today. True. An odd thing. For a 35 year old man to shed tears for a 56 year old man he never knew. But Rik Mayall meant a lot to me. When the tears came, I felt an uncomfortable embarrassment at myself for being so fucking weird. Like some strange, creepy little fanboy weeping in the bins outside Madonna’s house. But man. Did I love him as a kid. 13, 14, 15 yrs of age, Rik Mayall was my idol.

Initially, I spent the whole day in shock. Shock, but no real emotional gut punch. Just a bit stunned. Detached. But later on, something happened. Reading through the Facebook newsfeed on my phone on the way home after my gig, I found myself being really surprised at the sheer volume, message after message after message, of real genuine sadness at his death. Other comedians, people of the same generation as me, they loved him when they were kids too. I wasn't the only one. And then one said it: “There are precious few celebrities that can die and leave me feeling as genuinely upset as I do right now” That was it. ‘Genuinely upset.’ That phrase hit me. I got a lump in my throat and choked up. I had a long, isolated half an hour walk home from the station at midnight and spent the whole time crying.

Why would a grown man cry for a bloke who did fart and nob gags on the telly?

The best way I can explain it is with Toy Story 3. At the end of Toy Story 3, Andy is all grown up. He hasn’t played with Woody and Buzz and the gang for years and he is taking them to a little girl down the road. She is shy, so he brings the toys out and begins to play with them to entice her and make her comfortable. He introduces her to each of them, explaining who they are and what they’re like. Suddenly he starts to relive his own memories. He mentally brings them to life again. And it hits him: He loved these toys. When he was child, they brought him so much joy. He’d forgotten how much they’d meant to him. And that was me tonight.

My teenage years were my war years. They were frankly shit. I didn’t enjoy school, in fact I hated it. Home life at that time was tougher than it's ever been before or since. And puberty hit me. I was a lanky, spotty wall of piss with big clunky hearing aids and no fucking clue who I was. All of this coalesced into a maudlin depression that lasted for about three years. But the one thing that always cheered me up? Bottom. Richie and Eddie kicking seven shades of shit out of each other. I would come home from another crap day at school, lock myself in my room and gorge myself on it. That delirious, endless procession of farts and flying fists, and Eddie smashing Richie’s bollocks with a cricket bat. I loved it. I loved these two grown adult men acting like complete bellends. I loved the slapstick, the anarchy. The sheer fucking stupidity. And above all I loved, loved, loved Rik Mayall. That face. Those big bulging beady eyes, the nostrils, the energy, his loose limbed, propulsive, mincing physicality. He was a human cartoon. I just fell in love with him. And so the following years I came to seek out and devour everything he did. The Young Ones, the Comic Strips, Filthy Rich and Catflaps, Kevin Turvey. I found a kindred spirit here. I could utterly relate to this goon. For those three years, at my most gawky and vulnerable and impressionable, he was my hero. Rik bloody Mayall.

Then as I got older, I grew out of Rik. I moved on. I became a young adult and discovered new influences and found enjoyment and escape in different things. The years went by and Rik became a sort of vague memory of the past. In my mind, he faded like the dusty abandoned toys in Andy’s cardboard box. But scrolling down that newsfeed, and seeing how much he meant to people, it all came flooding back. Through those awkward, painful teenage years, he was my go to man when I needed to block out a shitty day. He would cheer me up. Always. That means something. I loved the old bastard. The tears streamed down my face.

I’ll leave you with my favourite real life memory:

1995. I'm 16 years old. I manage to secure tickets to see a live recording of Bottom series 3 at the BBC TV studios. YES!! The seats we got were amazing. Front row, slap bang right in front of the living room set. THAT living room set! The Bottom living room! And the first scene? Nothing could have prepared me for it. The first two minutes of the episode had been pre recorded as they involved Eddie setting fire to Richie’s balls. The way sitcom recording worked then is, they showed the pre recorded scene for us, the audience, to watch and record our laughs. And then it was synchronized just so that as the pre recorded scene finished, it would seamlessly cut right into the live action right in front of us. So, Richie crashes down the stairs with his balls on fire. He bursts into the living room. Frantically searches for something to put it out. And he sees it. The goldfish bowl on the table. He leaps onto the table on his knees and grabs it. And there, right in front of my stunned eyes, was my comedy hero, in that Bottom living room, on all fours on the table, FUCKING a goldfish bowl. Literally fucking it. Fucking it with a commitment no other human being in their right mind could ever agree to. Heaven. Absolute heaven.

*At the end of the recording, as people started filing out, Rik was talking to a technician just 10 yards away from me. Everyone was leaving, but I’m still there, not moving, taking it all in. Standing there staring at Rik. There he is. The man himself! And then: He suddenly catches me staring at him. He sees this young kid standing there, literally grinning from ear to ear. He gives me a little smile and a cheeky little wink. What a great bloke. He had no idea what a creepy little shit I was.

Thank you Rik. Thank you for helping a young, gawky, melancholic gimp be a bit happier and making him want to grow up to be a comedian too.



Gig No.51 done. MC/Promoter Geoff Alderman

June 7th, Friday. Gig No.50, Dog House, Kennington

Lots of weird observations on my way to this gig. But cause it was last Friday I can’t remember them. I really should get back into the habit of writing on the night I have the gig. It’s all getting a bit weird. I’m writing about a gig I did on Friday on Wednesday, pretending it’s Friday. It’s creepy. All I remember from Friday is seeing an extremely attractive blonde hottie on the train with really big lower ear lobes. Like stupidly big. If you just homed in on them and couldn’t see the rest of her you’d think she was a Greco Roman wrestler. I don’t know why that struck me. I guess I’ve always had a thing for girls like that. Not girls with cauliflower ears who look like wrestlers. Really beautiful girls with one glaring physical defect. Is that wrong? I’ve always been attracted to that. Stunning looks, and one stand out imperfection. Like the girl I saw years ago who looked like Cameron Diaz but had Dennis Taylor granny glasses. Or the tall green eyed girl at University with flawless skin and a broken nose. If you look like Charlize Theron but have one leg shorter than the other - Mama Mi!! You’ll drive me fucking crazy. What is that?

Anyway. Enough of my kinky little pecadillos. The other thing I remember is on the way to the gig I nearly got run over by a motability scooter doing 70 mph. Cunt nearly killed me. I’m developing a real personal bug bear with these fucks. Sure, I’ve got no problem with people who have walking impairments being given a lease of life. It’s a fine thing. In fact thinking about it, it’s just what my own Dad needs. (He should never be allowed near one. He’s a maniac. You can’t even put him in charge of an ashtray. Last time I did that I left for 5 minutes and when I came back he was threatening to shove it in someone's face.) But where I draw the line is when they’re driving like they’re in the Daytona 500. They’re too fast. Who in the mobility scooter production meeting actually said: "You know what, pensioners need to be able to get to the post office on time. Lets make sure they can drive 70 miles per hour. Lets get some horsepower under these fucks".

What we need on pavements are speed bumps not bobbies on the beat. Actually we need them too. To keep these nuts in check. They get a little bit of power and they take the fucking piss. And why are the scooters themselves so over the top? Outside my local KFC, I saw one guy whose scooter looked like something out of Star Trek. It actually looked like a flying saucer. It had levels. His was double stacked. Wing mirrors. White, pointed like a speedboat. With St Georges flag motif. Great, a motability kill machine driven by someone who has ties with the English Defence League. He even had a boot for his KFC bucket. What the fucks going on? I nearly had my ankles broken. My foot was five centimetres away from being roadkill. Great, just cause they have walking impairments, I have to have one too. Brilliant. Why don’t we soup the fucking lot of em up, run everyone over and we can do away with pedestrianisation once and for all.

Anyway, enough ranting about the disabled. Tonight was a major milestone: Gig No 50! That’s good isn’t it? Anyone? Anyone? Fuck yourselves. I’m going to find a supermodel who looks like she’s been in a few fights

Gig No.50 done. MC Alex Martini and Promoter So Ying Pang both being unnecessarily lascivious and letting their hands run away with themselves

June 5th, Thursday. Gigs No. 48+49, G+B Camden, The Constitution Pub + Nowhere town, Cuntsville.

Two gigs tonight, and you couldn't get a more marked contrast between quality of gig. Between good, well run little comedy night, and fucking shambles. Lets talk about the good gig first.

Camden G+B. I like doing this club. The promoters love their gig, and they run it with real care. The room is always set up when you arrive, there are posters on the walls of all the acts who are on, the sound check has already been done, and you are welcomed in a warm and friendly manner. You have a well constructed show, and they mix it up by including fun games, magic and even had a plum eating contest. (Don’t ask, just go an check it out). And, best of all, for me they have been really lovely and supportive about my challenge. They even have a countdown of my gigs on my poster on the wall. Thank you Sirs, always a pleasure to play your gig.

Gig No.2. In Nowhere Town, Cuntsville

I had to leave the G+B show early and get to this gig quick. Travelled quite some way. I get there, and, oh, my. The promoter is all over the place. The audience have been ‘chatty’. I survey the room. It is a gig in the actual main bar floor. The punters are merry, and they are naturally very talkative. Fair enough. It’s their night out. But a show has started in the middle of the room, and they’re not interested. It was so bad, one of the acts actually scarpered. Pissed off. They didn't want to work that room. So naturally the MC/promoter seemed very glad I turned up. But that was the last thing I did that he liked.

Before I went on, the MC/Promoter started the final section, and spent the entire time trying and failing to get the room to shut up. He attempted to get the people in the other half of the pub to come and sit down and be quiet, and they ignored him completely. The room just kept chatting away. (Again, I don’t blame the punters. It’s their local pub, it’s their night out. They didn’t know some twat with a microphone would be there hassling them to shut up and stop talking) In the end he gave up and brought me on. There were 5 ladies in the front row. They actually made an effort to pay attention to the show. I tried to do my set. The talking in the bar was endless, and, yes, I allowed myself to get distracted. The incessant talking would not stop. I stuck to my five minutes, but then I blurted something out. This would be my fatal mistake with regards to the MC/promoter. I blurted out, on mic, ‘You need a seperate room! A function room’. I said sorry to the ladies in the front and got off. I didn’t mean anything unkind about what I said, I wasn’t angry and I meant it in the nicest way as possible. I was smiling as I said it. But I said it, on stage, in front of the audience, which I shouldn’t have done. A mistake, for which I should have apologised. I couldn’t do that, cause I got the fuck out of there as quick as I could.

Evidence would suggest the MC/promoter was displeased with what I said. What evidence?

This:

“The last comic of the night (who was double gigging) struggled and blamed the room which I have no issue with except he did it on the mic to the audience which did rankle a tad - a little more experience under his belt (he's on some sort of marathon gig quest thing) should help him deal a little more pro and a little less "dying but it's not my fault".”

Wow!! Shock!! My first review!! Woooooo!!!!

Now. Honestly, when I read this, I was angry at first. I travelled a long way to do that gig. When it came to writing this blog, I WANTED to say: ‘Comics be warned if you want to play this room.‘

I WANTED to say ‘It provides the absolute worst performing conditions you can have, and then if you dare to displease the promoter in any way he will post vindictive shit about you. Even if another act actually leaves because it’s so SHIT and you actually still go on, honouring your commitment.’

But I won’t say that. That’s far too bitter. (I’m not a bitter man. I can let go and forgive. I’ll do that as soon as I’ve finished writing this blog.) Reading it again a couple of days later, I have calmed down. I can see he is just trying to defend something he really cares about. He felt under attack, and wanted to lash out. I get that. It was his first big show and he wanted to be a success. And it wasn’t. He needs something or someone to blame. And he seems to have chosen me. Fine.

As for the issue of never ‘blaming room’. That’s fine too. I am in absolute agreement with that. Too many comics blame rooms when they should be looking at themselves. And believe me, I look at myself. I take responsibility for my set. Even after good sets I walk away with that niggling feeling I could have done better. (I never blame myself when I crash a car though. I always blame the brewery company) As for this gig, yes, I really do need to learn to handle these rooms better. I have a lot to learn. But you know, sometimes, just sometimes, it really is the room. You do have to consider that. Not only do the comics have to take responsibility for themselves, so too do the promoters. An act has an obligation to bring a decent comedy set. And a promoter has an obligation to make a room workable for his acts.

I’ve seen this before: A bad promoter runs a bad gig. An act criticises the gig. The promoter lashes out and says the act needs to ‘stop blaming the room’. That they need to do “a little less "dying but it's not my fault"”. That kind of noxious, sleazy thinking is right up there in George W Bush territory. ‘You’re either with us or against us!’ That is, you’re either a good comic, or a bad comic who blames the room. Bollocks. There’s another option you know - sometimes, just sometimes, the room is not very good.

My advice to comics: Never blame the room. Ever. Seriously. I’m not blaming the room last night. I allowed myself to get distracted by the environment, and I blurted out something I shouldn't have. If you blame a room, you take away the most important thing you have: The ability to learn.

My other advice is. Don’t do this room. It’s a pile of shit.

* I will say that’s just a joke. I’m OK now about it. Promoters reserve the right to dislike me and my act. That's fine. It’s just genuinely too much fun writing shit like this! I will say to be fair to the promoter, it WAS just their first show in that venue. The first one. Naturally there will be teething problems in a new venture. I’m sure they will learn from it. I really hope they find a way to improve the show. I wish them the very best of luck.

Gigs No. 48+49 done.

MC/Promoter Alexander Henry Buchanan-Dunlop (Great gig)


No.2 MC/Promoter (Not so great gig)

June 4th, Wednesday. Gig No. 47, Funny Feckers, Kentish Town

This show is a ‘bringer’. A bringer is basically where you have to bring a friend with you to be allowed to do the show. It is now fairly common practice on the open mic circuit. Also in other arenas of showbiz too. How do you think One Direction get to fill Wembley? Fucking 'fans'?? NO. Friends! Exactly. If they didn't have friends no one would book the cunts.

A lovely old friend of mine from back in my early comedy days very kindly offered her support and came along. Before she came to meet me though, in the afternoon, she said she would be going to see the Book Of Mormon. Oh, shit. That’s a really funny show. If she sees that, she'll have, like, expectations and shit. 'Standards'.

I read The Book Of Mormon’s quotes:

"Money can buy you happiness! If you’re in possession of a ticket, you’ve wisely secured a seat in the premier-class cabin of delirium."

“History is made. The new gold standard for Broadway. The Book of Mormon is on its march into legend.”

"The best musical of this century. So impeccably produced on every level...A celebration of the privilege, for just a couple of hours, of living inside that improbable paradise called a musical comedy."

Jesus fucking Christ. This girl is going to be injecting comedy Heroin. Then coming to see me - fucking anus cream. This adds a rather unpleasant flavour to the whole evening. Pressure. I have to live up to The Book of Mormon. (Not the actual Book Of Mormon. That would be impossible. Their rules are sick. Actually, I don’t drink coffee, smoke or drink so there’s that covered. What else? Oh yes, get married and have children young. That’s never gonna happen. Me? Married with children?? Are they FUCKING mental??)

As it turns out the gig was a lot of fun, it had a great atmosphere and the crowd were loving the show. A good gig. Fuck the Book Of Mormon, we all rocked. I have two more blogs to write this weekend to catch up, so I’m cutting this one short. Big thank you to Christina Martin for making the evening loads of fun and providing much appreciated support

Gig No.47 done. MC and Promoter Mr Wes Dalton

June 2nd, Monday. Gig No.46, Hideaway, Tufnell Park

Sometimes in life, you make seemingly innocent choices that have far reaching consequences on your life. Some days you can take a wrong turn, and suddenly find yourself in a place that you could not have possibly have imagined. Today was such a day.

During an afternoon when I should have been looking for somewhere to live, I moseyed on over to Twitter. I hate Twitter. It’s annoying. I’ve got 180 followers. I’ve had this account for 4 years. It’s fucking pitiful. I’ve never really understood it. How do you get followers?? How do you FORCE people to stalk you? So, irritated, on a whim, I wrote a joke:

“If I get 250 followers by midnight tonight, I will insert a banana into my bum and post a picture of it at 12:03am”

It’s just a joke, right?

WRONG.

1 minute after I post it. A message from my friend Christina Martin:

“You in trouble boy. One of my followers with 7000 plus followers just retweeted my retweet of your banana pledge.”

What?

“SEVEN THOUSAND”

WHAT the sweet holy fuck?? But it’s just a joke!

NO. Suddenly, my Twitter page is going APESHIT. PEOPLE ARE RETWEETING MY POST. I get 20 new followers in 20 minutes. Messages are coming in:

“I've never followed anyone before on the promise they'll put a banana up their bottom but there's a first time for everything”

“Worth a follow. I particularly like the fact you've allocated yourself a precise 3 minutes for this feat & photography.”

“follow @JoeHunter_ he's going to do something brilliant”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

200 followers. 208, 213, 221.

I calculated it. ‘I’ve got 6 hours til midnight. If I get this many followers at this (fucking alarming) rate, in 6 hours my arsehole will see more banana peel than a fucking monkey house.

I had no idea it would turn into a thing. IT WAS A JOKE. A horrifying question hits me: Do I actually have to stick it UP my arse?? I’ve promised all these people. They’re following me, they’re spreading the news. (‘Spreading’ Not a word I would normally choose - The horror is infecting my subsoncious to the core). Would it be wrong to short change all these people and not give them what they want?

Christina: “Screw them. If they want to see a banana up an arse let them bend over in front of a mirror and do it themselves”

Good point.

Although I am attracting new followers, am I attracting the right kind of people? THEY WANT TO SEE ME PUT A BANANA UP MY ARSEHOLE.

Wait a minute, if they’re the weird ones for wanting to see it..WHO AM I FOR OFFERING TO FUCKING DO IT

And why did I just choose 250 followers? I had 180. So. I’ve offered to insert myself with solid fruit. For just 70 Twitter followers?? Jesus. Is this how cheaply I regard my own dignity?

I had to get to my gig for the night. (Oh yeah, I had a gig) Which meant I had to get off Twitter for a couple of hours. Thus triggering off a deeply edgy, twitchy evening. I’m travelling on the tube jittering and flinching like a meth head.

Three hours travelling to gig, do gig, come home from gig. Immediately log on. TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY TWO FOLLOWERS

NNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have to stick a banana up my arse.

In one hour.

OK, fuck it. I’m doing this. If I’m going down, I go down in flames.

“OK, you lot wanted a banana up my arse. Done. Game on. We've got one more hour, lets get this up to 280 and I'll tie a fucking ribbon on it”

I’ll be honest. I had to consider this fact: I had to bare my arse on the internet. It’s gonna be plastered all over the fucking place. I won’t lie. I thought about what I was about to do. And washed my arse. Yes. Gave it a good old flannel. A good scrub. I don’t normally have a dirty arse, but just in case, right? I’m in my bathroom literally washing my arse with an old flannel, wondering what kind of fucking human being I’ve become. I’m 35 years old. I’m supposed to be a respectable grown up by now. But no, I had to go an promise the internet I’d stick a banana up my bum.

How am I going to do this? No choice. I have to get my housemate to take the picture as I expose my sparkling rump. She’s only been here a few months. Poor cow. She works hard, she doesn’t need this shit. To be fair, she pissed herself. I pulled my trousers down in the kitchen and just as I’m about to shove it up my arse, she’s looking RIGHT at me.

“Don’t look!!”

She literally falls to the floor laughing. I mean crying her eyes out. For a good two minutes. I’m glad someones getting some enjoyment out of it.

12:03am. Here we go.


(When you upload the photo, it says 'Insert into post'. 'Insert'. Even Wordpress is fucking laughing at me)

The lesson here is: Don’t promise to stick a banana up your bum for Twitter followers. Under no circumstances. Ever.

Gig No.45 done. Promoter Joe Grant, possibly anticipating the horror of what is to come

June 1st, Sunday. Gig No.45, Hideaway Open Mic night, Tufnell Park

Here’s a first. There was a Greyhound in the audience. An actual Greyhound. A very nervous Greyhound. Who can blame it. (I don’t know what sex it was. Excuse me for not being a massive weirdo and checking) This gig is in a dark basement with strange noises emanating from strange machines while lots of big people all sit facing the same direction with arms crossed in cold, creepy blank eyed silence. This room is weird. I’d better not sit, I’d better stay standing in case I needs to run. Why does my owner keep pushing me down and trying to makes me sit. Why does the blokes who is writing me writes like I’m Gollum. Don’t puts a rabbit in fronts of me I goes fucking mental.

Again it’s the music gig. I’m literally the only comic on. Naturally this makes me more nervous than usual. It’s outside my comfort zone. They say moving outside your comfort zone and forcing yourself to adapt to new situations helps you to grow. Not if you’re doing comedy to a fucking dog.

I really really couldn’t be arsed travelling out to do this gig. Sunday evening, I was THIS close to not doing it. I had to though. I fucking had to. This thing has turned into an Albatross for my neck. Wait. What the FUCK does that mean?? Wait a minute, let me Google it. OK. ‘A burden which some unfortunate person has to carry.’

“This phrase refers to lines from the poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, in which the eponymous mariner, who shoots an albatross, is obliged to carry the burden of the bird hung around his neck as a punishment for and reminder of his ill deed.”

OK. Well. It’s a look innit? (Didn’t Lady Gaga wear an Albatross?) Maybe I should have shot the dog. I can wear a Greyhound dog around my neck as a metaphor for this terrible burden I’ve created for myself. You never know, it might catch on. I can flounce around like Quentin Crisp. “Darling, what is that you‘re wearing?? ‘It’s a Greyhound dear! It’s both a fashion AND a metaphor! DO keep up!”

I wonder how PETA would feel about this blog. I’ve killed more animals in it than a Japanese fishing trawler. (“Whales aren’t animals, they’re mammals” I hear you say. Oh piss off to Greenpeace you mug)

Anyway, I have nothing to write about, other than to say though I’d rather not do music gigs, I probably should do more as they really do force you out of your comfort zone and make you grow. They are like comedy viagra, only the 'growth' is permanent.

Gig No. 45 done. Promoter and MC Colin Devaney

May 29th, Thursday. Gigs No.43 + 44, Hilarity In Shoes, Ophelia + Monkey Business

Two gigs. Busy evening.

First gig. Pop down to Dalston to do Hilarity In Shoes. The rules for this club: No rape jokes. No racism, no sexism, no homophobia. I had no idea until the Matt the MC mentioned it when he started the show. For a moment I genuinely panicked. I actually asked myself: ‘Have I got any racist rape jokes??’ Course I fucking haven’t. But if I’d followed the advice of men in my Dad’s pub, I’d have fuckin tons of the stuff. But then I wondered if my bellydancing bit to the girls in the front row was sexist. Am picking on them and embarrassing or bellittling them with my wobbly gut? No. Of course not. I’m making a twat of myself.

The venue for some reason is called Ophelia. Whether that is in reference to the female character in Hamlet I have no idea. You know what happens to Ophelia right? She falls in love with Hamlet, he pretends to go mad and rejects her, then he kills her father. Then she actually goes mad, and drowns in a brook. Just what she would have wanted eh? 500 years later, her name on a pub. In Dalston.

In many ways, my stand up journey has been like Hamlet. (This is gonna be a stretch, but lets give it a crack)

I started this challenge young, hopeful and fresh. Thinking I am one day going to be a King. Then I find out my Uncle has murdered my Dad and married my own Mum. (OK, it falls apart now.) My Uncle is the audience, and the audience has murdered my act. No, wait, Father has been murdered and is in purgatory, so my Father is my act. And my Uncle is my own apathy and self destructive compulsion to keep myself small. And my Mum is..um..oh fuck it.

2nd gig Monkey Business. The pub called the Oxford. (Named after the Shakesepeare conspiracy theorist’s real Shakespeare the Earl of Oxford? OK this is getting fucking stupid now). As soon as I entered the room, the promoter Martin put me on. No time to think. Good. That’s best for a man like me. When I have too much time to think, I work myself into such a funk that I become paralysed by indecision and fear. (Shakespeare scholars would fucking LOVE that line, cause that’s exactly what Hamlet‘s problem was too. This is fucking clever stuff)

The promoter posted a pic of me onstage:


What worries me about this picture, is my shadow. It looks creepy. It makes me look like fucking Nosferatu. THE SHADOW OF THE VAMPYRE. Like I’m about to go slithering around in the dark scaring and biting women. Biting women, now, that’s definitely sexist.

*special thanks to Martin Besserman and Matthew Courtnell for both very kindly offering me walk in spots tonight

Gigs No.43 and No.44 done. MC and Promoter of Hilarity In Shoes Matthew Courtnell and Matt Duwell


MC and Promoter of Monkey Business Martin Besserman