Opinion: Comedian? It’s a proper f*cking job.

Danny Deegan on why he hates the title of 'comedian.'

I’m a comedian. I don’t like the word comedian – I can’t explain it but it’s just never sounded right. Friends have suggested ‘comic’ as an alternative but that’s even worse. Tarby was a comic; funny actors that have never set foot on a stage get labelled by the press as comics. Gameshow hosts were comics in the 80’s, before they became models or Phillip Schofield.

That all sounded a little bitter and it wasn’t meant to come over as such. Just so we’re clear, I love what I do. I’ve done it for nearly ten years so I must. I’ve seen and done things I never thought I’d do. What other job would have you drive back Johnny Vegas from Nottingham only to get kicked out of a service station because St Helens’ favourite son tried to ride the Noddy Machine? What other job would I get a society at Leeds University named after me? (The members graduated and it no longer exists). I’ve made so many great friends and seen so many great things; I’ve always got stories to tell when I’m at parties because of the very nature of my work. I once gigged in Morecambe and my friend Ross drove me – on the main strip we nearly ran over Jim Bowen. The stupid, old bastard was too busy wolfing down fish and chips to realise it had even happened. I even met my girlfriend when I was working.

The point I’m making, though, is however much I love what I do – and however much after ten years the passion to do it better than I did it the previous night still burns – I’m most comfortable when people don’t know that I do it at all. It was all brought back to me when a letting agent recently told me I’d have to pay four grand up front for a flat because “I didn’t have a proper job”.

I remember the first time it happened. I’d kept jobs for a couple of years longer than I needed to on a part time basis so I could tell people something other than “Comedian”. I had a good four year run when I could say I worked in a petrol station or I worked in health insurance. Then eventually the time came when I just couldn’t do two jobs and I had to take the plunge. Most comedians worry about the financial risk of going pro, but my position was rather good due to a job I hadn’t really needed and only real outgoings being petrol, cigarettes, high quality coffee and the latest version of Football Manager. So I did it, and it felt fine. Until my friends decided to get married!

I can remember being at the engagement party and really enjoying myself. My friend’s mother was a teacher at school and many of the guests at the party were my old teachers. My shirt was untucked and I know I owed at least three of them homework but fuck’em I was 24! Then my French teacher came over to say hello, we exchanged pleasantries and all I could think was “I’m chewing gum, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Thinking this I may have been slightly off-guard when he asked me what I was doing with myself. That combination of childish thoughts, relaxed attitude and the knowledge that based on my French GCSE, he probably thought I sweeping streets or selling pills to clubbers and school kids. The conversation went along these lines.

“What are you up to these days Daniel?”

“I’m a comedian sir”

“No, I mean your job. Not your hobby, that’s not a proper job”

“It is a proper fucking job! If you’ll excuse me I’m off to chew gum and speak English somewhere else”

We haven’t spoken since then.

It’s not just the people you imagine it will be either. Old teachers I can accept, audience members I can accept (nothing keeps you grounded after you’ve blown the roof off a gig like the astonishment of a punter that you do it full time.) What I struggled with was my own father not really getting it. I remember about five years ago doing a gig I’m not going to name for a promoter I’m not going to name out of courtesy. The gig was a nice 170 capacity room and it was packed to the rafters. My father had driven me over since my car was getting a new clutch which would later end up falling out on the fast lane of the M6. The gig had been brilliant and I was lapping up the audience’s gratitude for kicking their night off in style all the way back to the dressing room. Even my dad looked happy, but this quickly evaporated as I was paid. I’m quite hesitant as I type this. I don’t often talk about money and I would hate to think that anyone reading this would think I am that type of person. The fee for that night’s work (all thirty minutes of it) was £220. I can remember the promoter counting it out in front of me (as many do) and me signing his little receipt book.

“…180, 200, 220. Thanks very much for tonight, Danny, you were great.”

“Cheers, they’re a great crowd.”

“Daniel…”

“What Dad?”

“Give that man his money back”

“What?”

“Give that man, his bloody money back – I didn’t raise you to be a thief”

“Thief? I bloody worked for this, you cheeky bastard”

“I’m sorry about this, [promoter’s name], at least give him back half or you’re catching a train home. You’re not ripping him off and then coming home with me!”

I caught the train home. My dad is adamant I’ll have to get a proper job before I’m 30. Another eighteen months and then I don’t know what he expects me to do. Unless I get a job hosting a gameshow. Like the comics used to do.

Danny Deegan is on Twitter (@Deegan1309) and has his own blog here.