The first two nights at the Stand were marvelous. Smart comedy literate audiences who were capable of listening and appreciating my more unusual routines. Tonight was a bit more difficult. Whether this was down to it just being Saturday so everyone was a bit more drunk or because Scotland were out of the World Cup or other factors beyond my control is impossible to ascertain. Everyone else had gone at least OK, though even then the crowd did not seem united with different pockets laughing at different things and rarely united on agreeing that the same thing was funny. The MC was a little antagonistic, which hadnÂ’t mattered much on Thursday when heÂ’d last been on as the people had been friendly, but with this lot it possibly created an atmosphere of slight hostility which needed to be dissipated.
There was restlessness in the air when I came on whatever the cause and though the first few minutes went fine there were a few mis-timed heckles and a murmur of conversation and I finally addressed this when a gang of men in the front centre portion of the audience started making cracks about my weight. “You’re fat,” said a bald and hard looking Glaswegian. In any normal circumstances I would have agreed or just walked away with my eyes on the floor, but imbued with the power of the stand up microphone I came back at him with the quip, “Maybe so, but at least I have some fucking hair… in fact I’ve got enough for two people, but you’re not having any.”
He took exception to this and told me to “Fuck off!” and in normal circumstances I would advise readers who find themselves in a situation where a man who looks like he wants to kill you, who has six mates with him when you’re on your own and says something similar to do exactly as he says. But this is my job and I have to stay on stage or I don’t get paid, so I said, “Well seeing as I am the final act and if I go the show will be over, I would say that if you are not enjoying my comedy stylings then it’s probably easier for you to fuck off!” The drunken crowd roared its approval. It was certainly on my side in this unequal battle of wits and would probably wade in to my assistance if the battle became an even more unequal battle of fists. The man was not willing to give up on his tirade though despite the popular vote (does democracy mean nothing to these people?) and when I questioned his sexuality (and I was pretty certain by this point that he was not really a homosexual, but figured he would be the kind of person who would find it insulting to be considered to be one) he threatened to fuck me after the show with a look of evil menace in his eyes. I stared him out though telling him I wasn’t afraid of him. And with my invisible stand up shield protecting me I genuinely wasn’t. He continued to insist that I was fat, as if I may not have noticed this without his kind intervention. “I’m not fat,” I insisted, about to lead up to a joke I have for such situations. “You are fat!” he countered before I could continue. “I’m not fat,” I calmly insisted. “You are fat” he again interrupted.. “I’m not fat” I patiently continued hoping he would let me explain my theorem to him. “You are fat,” he persisted, “Look at your fat belly”. This carried on for some while as I was interested to see how long I could stretch this contradictory exchange for, even thanking him at one point for helping me fill up my allotted time. It became clear this man was not going to give up on the truth so I finally pressed on with the gag…. That I am big-boned and that my biggest bone is the unusual curved on in my stomach. But the interruptions were breaking the flow and other audience members started to lose interest. Somewhere in the last couple of minutes I had lost authority. I pressed on to the end with a few more comments about my weight and some other people joining in in a largely supportive, but still disruptive way. Finally my 25 minutes was up and the mutual torture was over.
It hadnÂ’t been a disaster and I think most of the audience probably enjoyed the spectacle at least, but nor was it any fun. Some days are like this. But I still marvel at the fact that on stage I can look deep into the eyes of a man who hates me and is fully capable of beating me to a pulp and essentially tell him to come and have a go if he thinks heÂ’s hard enough and not even feel a pang of fear, when I would cross the street to avoid a slightly tough looking granny in real life. Afterwards, my stand up cloak now powerless I was less brave, but luckily got out of the venue without any of my English brains having to be scraped off a Scottish pavement. Which in some ways is a triumph.
