Comedy – not one size fits all

Image: Steve Drayton at a lovely, well-run comedy gig. It wasn’t in Killingworth. (© Spurious Nonsense)

On Saturday last I was booked to MC a benefit show.

Headlining was Gavin Webster, support was provided by Andy Clark and John Whale. With a bill like that, and for a great cause, it would be churlish not to – I set off looking forward to a splendid night of comedy fun.

The Station in Killingworth was rammed and noisy as I attempted to find the door for the function room where the gig was to held.

Only it wasn’t. It was to be in the pub. In the pub, full of people, with tellies on and everything. With the jukebox on. And the PA was broken. And the people, enjoying their Saturday night out, drinking away the three – nil derby defeat by Sunderland.

Some blokes tried to fix the broken PA, which consisted of them cussing, whilst I wiped away any veneer of show biz magic by standing on stage saying 1-2, 1-2 into a dead microphone.

Every time they coerced a feedback howl Jesus and Mary Chain style round the pub, the good folk glowered at me. I made light of it. Oh how we laughed.

Eventually a working microphone was in place. On a two foot long lead, from the cabinet housing the amplifier. On the stage.

We were running late. Figuring the 60 or so folk who had shelled out a tenner to see Gavin Webster and friends would join in and focus, off we set.

They didn’t. It was just a battle.

I battled and got a little bit of them, Andy battled and then took off his trousers, John Whale, battled and won actually, fair play to him, he got some great laughs.

Come the interval, the buffet was a huge success. I’ve never seen cling film ripped off with such abandon. Gavin pitched up, and giving him the briefest of intros he spent about seven minutes shouting above the throng.

The folk who booked the gig were apologetic, the few folk who watched were apologetic. I was apologetic, Gav was apologetic and Andy and John had gone to die on their arses at another PA-less gig.

Long ago, having lost a gig so badly I would have beaten myself up for days afterwards. Shame, humiliation and rancour would have stalked my dreams. Not anymore.

There are some shows you can win, some you can let slip between your fingers, some where you are hated before you even get on stage. It’s all part of the rich tapestry of the business we call Show.

What’s depressingly similar is that comedy is still seen as an easy fix. Stick a couple of comics on, that’ll be a winner.

Many, many years ago, a young Ross Noble organised a comedy club in the front bar of the Cradlewell pub in Jesmond.

Alternative Comedy was big news. To us, maybe. Not to the handful of old blokes drinking their halves of Dog of a Tuesday night. Not to the bar manager who gave us a microphone connected to the house PA, which also carried the shouts for food orders.

Trying to get a routine over whilst competing with ‘Cottage pie and chips for table 5’ was a loser.

We all gave up by half eight and went home. Hating ourselves for having failed at making people laugh, hating the PA, hating the old blokes, hating Ross, hating each other.

Despite comedy becoming an all-consuming behemoth, making stars overnight, lighting up our lives with witty banter and saucy chat, it still needs to nurtured, helped and loved.

Most importantly, it needs an audience who want it to work, in a place where it can be supported. It’s fine I guess to die on one’s hoop for a good cause, if our collective funeral helped raise a few hundred quid for a worthy cause – which it did – then it was perversely worth it.

I can’t help thinking though that stocks or a ducking stool would have been more fun for all concerned.

They could’ve started with the bloke who set up the PA.