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There was a rumour first thing on a Facebook comedians forum that stand-up stalwart Ian Cognito might have died. It was clear from the replies that this would be a devastating loss for our (what could laughably be called a laughable) industry. Like everyone I was hoping that this was the kind of stupid and sick prank that this unpredictable, maverick, hilarious and sometimes terrifyingly out of control comedian might have played on us all.
Sadly not.
He died on stage, in the middle of a crackling set where he’d already talked about how weird it would be if he died on stage and where it took five minutes for anyone to believe he might actually not be fucking around.
There’s a legendary quality to dying on stage and sometimes I think that that’s how I’d like to go too, but in reality, as much as it suits the Cognito story, I know that in reality he’d prefer not to be dead and that if he was like me, he’d rather have been with his loved ones. Though there is something appropriate about dying on stage in a place like Bicester. Or at least it sums up what this job is. Especially for the jobbing comic.
I didn’t know Ian well (I didn’t know his real name for example - sort of appropriate again), but had gigged with him right at the start and was certainly scared of him. He was authentic and untameable and had definitely lived a real life even then. And I was fresh out of University and the kind of person I imagined he would hate. I imagined they all hated me. Even though most of them were much more like me than they let on. Not Ian though.
When I was touring solo, without a tour manager, in the mid-part of the first decade of this century, I was lonely and not many people were coming to see me and I sat in hotel bars feeling sad. Somehow - and I can’t remember how - I ended up having a text conversation with Ian. I don’t know how we even had each other’s numbers or how he knew I was down - I’d probably been on Facebook or Myspace or somewhere trying to cheer myself up. Maybe he got my number off someone else, but all I remember is that we had this conversation in which he let me know that I wasn’t alone and that this was the lot of the comedian. There was a kindness and friendliness to him that would be unexpected if you just saw him on stage, but also it was fucking class of him to not only understand the pain I was in, but to reach out. My assumptions about other stand ups were my problem and Ian understood, as I do now, that we’re all in the same boat and we’re a part of a shared experience and need to look out for each other. He liked comedy, and comedians and he loved being a comedian. And he was an excellent one - there are loads of excellent ones that you’ve maybe never even heard of, but he was a total one off. In many ways it’s remarkable that he lived as long as he did. But he died much too long, and as much as I want to romanticise it and imagine that he was chuckling to himself as he realised what his final laugh was actually about, I still wish he’d died at 90 surrounded by his kids and grandkids and even had a tenth of the understanding of how hard his death would hit the people he worked with. Pretty much every status on my Facebook feed was about him, each with a story of his maverick craziness.
I didn’t have one of those as I was never one of the gang who would stay up all night seeing what the world would bring to them if they got far enough off their faces. But I like that my story shows what an empathetic guy he was underneath the anarchy and bluster.
I had a fabulous day with the kids today. Appreciating them even more for knowing how precarious it all is. My daughter and I made up, drew and wrote stories about animals we had invented. My best one was the hummmmmmmbummmm a sort of wasp who didn’t buzz but whose bum hummed. Phoebe made up a kangasmanck which has a triangular head, a hat, loads of pouches for its kids and giraffe legs that come with pockets. She is cursed with imagination. But I suppose that was likely given her parents.
