The tomfoolery of April 1st has passed and as we solemnly approach Easter Sunday, I am reminded that Easter is the holiest week of the year. It follows on from Good Friday, which is the saddest day of the Christian calendar and thus, when you think about it, wrongly named, but never mind. As a believer I say to you, we must forgive the Christians this slight confusion due to their enormous grief. As a female comic I say to you, gimmie it, just gimmie it, just gimmie the chocolate. Now.
Most unusually I have appeared on an ‘all-female’ comedy bill twice in the past week. The first was at Turnmills in London for ‘Funny Women’ and the other was for Mirth Control at the ‘Cambridge Ladyfest‘.
“Hey Sam,” says the booker (in a showbiz voice), “Hey Sam. Got a gig on a boat with a load of dames.”
Alright, he’s not really from the Bronx circa 1930 and we didn’t speak on the phone, but recounting an email conversation limits the possibilities for my wild embroidery and with a name like Sam Stone I should be allowed to play out some of my Raymond Chandler style fantasies. So he says, “Hey Sam. Got a gig on a boat with a load of dames. It’s on April 1st.”
Right. So. Myself and a lot of female comics on a boat. Somewhere in Cambridge. On April Fools Day. If ever there was a well thought up conspiracy to prevent us from eating all the chocolate eggs, just cut us adrift, throw away the paddles and there you have it.
The gig wasn’t on a boat at all. I really should pay more attention. It was at The Boathouse and there were four of us. The opening act, Sheilagh Martin, an endearingly quirky and enquiring mind, was perfect for the occasion despite reckoning herself not to be a ‘warm-up act.’ The night was headlined by the unique & subversive arts of Shazia Mirza. It was a pleasing blend of material and personalities held together skilfully by the earthy and engaging warmth of a natural crowd pleaser and compere, Cherry Green. She was the conjurer of the one joke of the evening that I wish I’d written myself. Too funny and foul to mention here, besides which, it deserves a live audience.
I, myself, abandoned some material about the Shipping Forecast and improvised some stuff about being a down-and-out dairy cow on the streets of New York. It might be an acquired taste. Who can say. Ahem.
It is so rare that one gets to work with other female comics at this level. One reason would appear to be that some venues are reluctant to have more than one woman on the bill. Indeed some clubs rarely book women at all. They see it as a bit too risky. So this double-dose of sorority that I was treated to has been most welcome.
The holy week is also the anniversary that marks my First Year in Comedy.
I’ve been leafing nostalgically through last year’s diary. Ah, such sweet memories. The honeysuckled fog of yesteryear lifts long enough for me to see that written into my diary, alongside the time and location of my very first gig (April 5th), is a list of chores that I had for that particular day.
‘pay electric bill…
pay rent…
pay council tax …
take out money for dentist at 3pm
pick up car from mechanic…
pay mechanic…
park car in garage…
leave engine running…
attach hose to exhaust…
etc, etc’
What I like most about the list is ‘etc.’ It’s ‘etc’ that self-soothes. It’s ‘etc’ that is the enabler. It says, “Look. You made yourself laugh with three little letters. You have no money, you have a migraine on the way and are about to embark on a lifetime of ritual humiliation but hey, you made yourself laugh with three little letters kiddo.” My nauseating Disney moment came to an end as the thud of the TV licensing threats, car parking fines and other such debt collections landed on my doormat.
If morose little lists with etceteras can’t change my destiny, I can always cheer myself up with the other delights of the past month. Those little rays of moonshine on my oil slick. I did, afterall, win something.
In fact I won two things. I won a showcase at The Comedy Café in London and I won my heat of a new act competition in Doncaster. I didn’t win the 7th Dead Elvis Award which I wrote about last month, however a talented young comic Joanne Lau did. Hoorah for her, she’s very funny. I also performed at The Stand, a fantastic venue in Edinburgh with Greg McHugh who does a character called ‘Gary Tank Commander.’ If you ever see his name on the bill, leave your uptight ethics at the door and bask in his hilarious charms. The Stand has invited me back to do a slightly longer set for a little three night run just before the Edinburgh Festival. Not only that, but they are going to pay me. I have to say it again. They are going to pay me.
Perhaps once I’ve been paid I can start writing ‘Comedian’ next to ‘Occupation’ when filling out forms. Form-filling isn’t nearly as much fun as it used to be when I was younger. It used to be like a mini-interview, a bit of ‘me’ time that began with filling beautiful clean spaces with my full name and a chance to express myself with some optional box-ticking. Now however, it’s just a means of oppressively gauging your entitlement to something. ‘Is your visit for business or pleasure?’ (No.) ‘Are you homeless?’ (No) Are you fleeing from a dictatorship, torture or imprisonment? (No).
Jeez, I only wanted an olive for my martini.
Last month’s travelling about to get to venues has cleaned me out financially. Yet, even though I can barely afford to get to next month’s gigs and the television licence people will hunt me down with harpoons made from television aerials, I still managed to donate 6 of the precious 10 pounds I have to my name to spend on wild bird seed. Why? Because there’s going to be a frost tonight and the wild birds in my garden need some seeds, for they need their energy. So do I, which is why I am spending the other 4 pounds on chocolate. It’s a guilt-offset strategy thing and famously raises the serotonin levels. It’s no accident that the saddest day of the Christian calender is followed by a debauched and frenzied chocolate feast. Happy Easter ‘etc etc.’
