Beggars Banquet

The Only True Comedian

I suppose, looking back, my schooldays were to blame. Or maybe it was my parents’ genes, which had left me the smallest boy in my year. The popular boys all seemed to be the tough ones, the sporty ones, the ones who weren’t shy, who were good-looking.

I didn’t really fit the bill. So instead I became the comedian. Of course, they weren’t laughing with me – they were laughing at me. I knew it even then, as I told my jokes and made my silly faces and did my funny walks. They told me I was off my head, said I was potty. I didn’t mind: at least they were talking to me. At least they were noticing me.

Which meant I was allowed to participate in their games, or at least watch from the periphery, which was my favoured spot anyway. Watching them, I was able to learn. I learned which kids and teachers I could make fun of. I’d go for the younger kids, even spottier and uglier than I was, or for one of the unlovely girls who stood by the playground railings, sad looks on their faces. Oh, I was ferocious with anyone who couldn’t bite back. It was how I stayed part of the gang.

The other problem was, I wasn’t stupid, but when I became a member of Black Alec’s gang, I had to pretend to be less clever than I was. And this pretence could only be carried off if I started slipping in class, answering questions wrongly when I knew the right answers, my test marks dropping. The deputy head had a word with me. I think she could see there was a problem, she just couldn’t figure out what it was. My parents were summoned to the school for a discussion. They started to take notice of me too, helping with homework and revision. Still I refused to fulfil my potential. Sometimes I would slip up, and answer some question which had stumped everyone else. At these times, the teacher would peer at me, wondering what was going on.

Eventually I was taken to hospital for tests on my brain. They glued all these electrodes to my head. Three washings later, my hair still felt sticky, and the results had failed to throw up any incongruities. When the final exams came, I was in a quandary. We’d all have left school by the time the results were posted. So if I wanted to, I could do as well as I liked. But something made me stay in character; maybe it was the thought that though I was leaving school, the gang would still be there, hanging around their favoured street corner, yelling abuse at cars and pedestrians, running down to the park with a carrier-bag of beer. It was a community I understood, and my chosen role made me unique within it. I was ‘Joker’ or ‘The Comedian’. I wasn’t expected to take part in the occasional massed battles with other gangs. I proved myself by telling jokes and stories, by deriding other gangs (especially with reference to their personal hygiene and sexual habits), and by improving my range of impressions.

Soon after leaving school, however, I found that a lot of the gang had drifted away. Even Black Alec – our leader and mentor – had gained employment as a car mechanic. The merry band had dwindled to a few losers for whom the daily stint at the street corner had become an unwelcome chore. I thought about resitting my exams, going on to college or university. But Black Alec was my next-door neighbour: how could I tell him my plans? He wouldn’t have understood. He’d have asked me to do the walk again, and afterwards his laughter would have had me craving more. More laughter, more acceptance, more of his approval.

Anyway, things didn’t work out for him as a mechanic. He became a bouncer instead, working at a discotheque in Kirkcaldy. He got into trouble, spent a couple of months in jail, and when he came out he told us he’d just paid a visit to the ‘University of Life’. From now on, he said, nothing would be beyond him. He’d only be satisfied with ‘number one’. At the time, I don’t think we really knew what he was talking about, but we found out soon enough.

I went to work in a chicken factory. It wasn’t a bad job. The production line was mostly staffed by women, and I kept them smiling. I’d sing a song, do a little dance, whatever it took to please them. They were all married, kept asking me when I’d find a girlfriend. They wore white overalls and green wellies, their hair tucked into white caps. Sometimes, when I met them outside the factory, I wouldn’t recognise them. My first Christmas party was a revelation. They were wearing dresses and make-up, having a drink and a laugh. We’d taken over the back room of a pub in Glenrothes. No management, just workers. There was some entertainment. A couple of the women sang songs. One of the foremen got up and told some jokes.

‘Get off!’ the women yelled at him. ‘Our comedian’s ten times better than you!’ They meant me. I was cajoled, persuaded. I found myself up on the stage, microphone in hand. I cleared my throat, cleared it some more, the sound filling the room. Someone called out for me to get on with it, and then somebody else twigged that I was pretending to be the production supervisor: he was always clearing his throat before he gave you bad news. There was scattered applause and laughter.

‘I’m sorry to have to inform you all’, I said, ‘that Christmas has been cancelled this year. You lot might not be happy, but I’ve two thousand capons in the back who’re over the moon.’

Now everyone understood; they’d all clicked into my act. And it felt wonderful. The hair on my arms was standing up. It seemed I’d been up there a couple of minutes, but I was told afterwards I’d done a twenty-minute set. Women were kissing me, telling me I was the best.

‘You should turn professional,’ one of them said.

And eventually, plucking up courage, that’s just what I did.

I started out at pub talent nights, winning a couple of contests. The publican might then invite me back for a three- or four-week run. I kept up the factory job, but now I had a girlfriend, Emily, who’d sung ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’ at one of the talent shows. I’d asked her about the song. She’d no idea what it was all about.

‘Just got it from one of my mum’s Joan Baez albums.’ We had a laugh together. Emily had a day job, too, in a shoe shop. She came up with the idea of me going full-time pro. She said she’d support me till I got rich and famous. She said it wouldn’t take long. Her argument was that with my job, I’d no time to write new material. She was right: I really needed new material. So she became my manager, finding me bookings, and I lay in bed writing jokes and stories.

It all went well for a while. Then we realised I was just treading water. It was still pubs and clubs.

‘You need a portfolio,’ Emily said. ‘Something you can show to agents and the TV companies.’

‘What I need are some decent gags,’ I replied.

The writing wasn’t working. It was never how I’d worked. I was spontaneous, my material came from life. Now that I spent all day mooching around the house, there was nothing for me to write about. If the act was going to go anywhere, I needed to take a few risks. And that was what I did. I invested in a tape machine and other electronic stuff, so I could use funny noises and sound effects in my act. Then I got measured for a sharp suit – blue and sparkly, with shirt to match. I looked ridiculous in it, but then that was the point, wasn’t it?

I now looked the part. Problem was, none of it came cheap. Emily asked where I’d got the money.

‘Savings,’ I told her, lying through my teeth. Soon enough, I knew as I said it, I might not have any teeth left to lie through. Because I’d borrowed the money from Black Alec.

Black Alec had almost fulfilled his ambition of becoming ‘number one’. He was now one of the most feared men on the east coast. He ran a string of clubs in Fife, owned two pubs in Edinburgh, and had so many fingers in so many other pies, it was a wonder he could pick his nose. He also ran protection, prostitutes and pornography – or so the rumours said. I’d never worked in any of his clubs – he said they were ‘upmarket’, ‘mostly music-oriented’. He said I was low-class.

But still he loaned me the money. And now, with the act flagging, it was time to start paying it off, beginning with the interest. I knew Emily was broke: the shoe shop had gone bust, and she was on Jobseekers. I knew I didn’t have any money. And I knew it wouldn’t matter to Black Alec that I’d once been his next-door neighbour and personal jester. Nothing mattered to him but repayment and violence against the person. There were those who said he preferred it when people couldn’t pay up. That way, Black Alec got to play.

Eventually, I broke down and told Emily. I’d been fobbing Alec’s men off as best I could. They’d repossessed the electronics, and soon it would be time for them to start taking possession of my limbs, lungs and lights. So we did what we had to do: went on the run. Thing is, to keep running we needed money, and I only knew one way to make money – keep on with the act, which made it hard for us to stay ahead of the GBH brigade. We’d turn up in a town, and while I tried to hustle a gig, Emily would be checking departure times of buses and trains. I’d do my stint, grab the cash, and we’d make for the station. Up and down the east coast we ran, as far north as Montrose, and south to Eyemouth, finding that the travelling was using up most of the money I made. At this rate, there was no way I was going to be able to pay back Black Alec.

‘We’ll go to London,’ Emily said. ‘That’s where the agents and TV people are. One spot on Des O’Connor and you could pay Black Alec ten times over.’

‘How are we going to get there?’

‘First thing is to talk to Des’s producer.’

‘I mean, how are we going to get to London?’

‘We’ll hitch,’ she told me. ‘All we need is a bit of money for food.’

Which meant one last show. There weren’t many places left to try. Word was out that Black Alec wanted to see me. Worse still, the rumour was I was washed up, that I stank.

But a pub on Rose Street in Edinburgh was under new management, and looking to kick-start a comedy club. They said they’d give me a fifteen-minute spot. If they liked what they saw, there’d be a twenty in it for me.

Twenty quid: I’d earned more winning talent shows. But I said okay. Of course I said okay.

That night, when I took the stage in my blue sparkly suit, there were about two dozen punters in the place: a smattering at the tables, most of them chatting at the bar. The last thing they wanted was me up there, spoiling their conversation and meaning the jukebox was turned off.

But I kicked off anyway. Nobody was laughing. Emily was in the DJ’s booth, supposedly keeping an eye on my mike level so that there was no feedback. Right then, I thought feedback had a better chance of getting a laugh.

And then Black Alec walked in. Someone had tipped him off, and here he came with three of his lads. They took a table right at the front. Alec not taking his eyes off me, a little smile on his face – it was the first smile I’d seen all night, but it didn’t exactly cheer me up. A bottle of champagne arrived, and just the one glass. Alec toasted me as he drank. Suddenly, horribly, my mind went blank, not a single joke in my repertoire could I remember. There were slow handclaps from the bar and cries of ‘Get off!’

‘Does your mum let you out looking like that?’ I told the heckler. ‘Look at him, face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.’ The heckler’s pals laughed at this, and I was on a roll. I knew only one thing: the minute they booed me off, I was in for a doing. I had to stay on that stage, and the only way to do that was to be funny.

And I was funny. Inspiration took hold, and the stories started pouring out. I had stories about working in a factory, about shoe shops and working-men’s clubs, even stories about schooldays. They clapped and cheered. More punters were coming in, and no one was leaving. I’d been on stage about forty minutes, but the owner wasn’t about to signal time-up. The only person in the place not laughing was Black Alec. Even his lads had sniggered at a couple of the routines, but Alec just sat there stony-faced, finishing his champagne.

Eventually, tiredness got the better of me. I could fall back on lame material, or stop while the going was good. I’d have won an audience and be losing my mobility. Alec looked like he was getting impatient. I never liked to keep an old friend waiting.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said, ‘you’ve been a great audience, even old bulldog-features over there. This set was dedicated to the one thing I’ve always enjoyed until this evening, namely good health. Thank you and goodnight.’

I came off to applause, whistles, cheers. I walked right over to Black Alec’s table and sat down opposite him. The jukebox came back on. The owner brought me a whisky. So did a couple of punters, congratulating me on the best show they’d seen. The owner wanted to book me a regular slot, maybe hosting the club. And throughout, Alec didn’t take his eyes off me.

‘So,’ he said at last, ‘that was your routine?’

‘That was it,’ I said. I couldn’t see Emily. Maybe she’d spotted Alec and done a runner.

‘It was good,’ he said. ‘Really good.’

I looked at him. Was it possible…?

‘You can warm an audience up,’ he went on. ‘I could do with someone like you.’

‘You’re going to take me to one of your clubs and roast me on a spit?’ I guessed.

And he laughed, the way he’d laughed when we were kids. ‘I’m offering you work, Comedian. That way, I can keep an eye on you while you pay me what you owe me. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds great,’ I said, unable to keep the relief out of my voice.

‘The same set should do.’

And I nodded, while my insides turned to rubber. The same set? The one I’d improvised? I couldn’t remember it, couldn’t recall a single blessed punchline. And then Emily was marching towards me, waving a cassette.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘I taped you,’ she said, leaning down to kiss me. ‘Now you’ve got your portfolio.’

‘And my continuing good health,’ I said, kissing her back.

I used to think comedy came from wanting acceptance, wanting to be liked. Now I know differently. I know it’s all down to fear. Fear, ladies and gentlemen, is the only true comedian in town.