Just a joke
9 April, 2008
Silence. Okay, there was a small, stifled cough, and maybe
the creaking of someone shifting in their chair, but the
auditorium was, essentially, silent. A mass of people, all
staring at me with a mixture of boredom, pity and, in
several cases, pure loathing. From where I stood, it seemed
as if I had maybe 10 seconds at most before someone would
tell me to get off. And then, I was sure, everyone would
start booing and shouting.
What could I do? I couldn’t very well tell a joke. That was
what had got me into this mess in the first place. Telling
jokes. Whose idea was that? Well, mine, as it happened.
Entertain them, Andy had said. Just a couple of minutes
between the acts. You know, the usual thing, just so we
have enough time to clear the stage and get the props and
gear on for the next lot.
The usual thing. I didn’t notice those words at the time,
as I was caught up in the excitement of being involved in
what could be loosely described as a cultural festival.
Andy had been walking through his office, talking as he
went, leaving me trailing in his wake, trying to keep up
with his fast pace while appearing enthusiastic. Suddenly,
we were by the reception and he had stuck out his hand.
Thanks, I am really pleased you are on-board. We have got
some great acts, really innovative and challenging, and
entertaining, of course. I think you will fit right in. I
shook his firm, warm, confident hand, my head spinning
slightly. I managed a shaky smile. Great, see you in a
couple of weeks.
The usual thing. Easy to say, and easy to think you know
exactly what is required. But, when I sat down to think
about it in the pub the night before the festival, it
occurred to me that I was in a far bigger mess than I had
realised. What would there be in the theatre? 3000, 4000
people? I had no idea, but I knew it would be a lot. I saw
some stand-up performing there a few years ago and I was
impressed that he could hold that many people in the palm
of his hand, turning them this way and that before finally
releasing them, warm, happy, lifted, into the cold night
air. What on earth was I going to do? Okay, I didn’t need
to hold forth on a range of topics and be consistently
funny for well over an hour. Just five two-minute segments
to keep an already excited audience pepped up before the
next lot came on. They wouldn’t be there to see me, just
kill time without getting bored. For the vast majority of
them, I would be completely unknown. What had I done?
Written a book on modern culture and made a couple of
appearances on late-night TV programmes on obscure digital
channels. Hardly what people would call setting the world
alight. I only got the job because I happened to know Andy
through a friend. Of course, that would make it all the
more embarrassing if I screwed up…
Just before I stepped out in front of the closed curtains
and faced the audience, I didn’t feel nervous. Perhaps a
little delirious, but not nervous. I hadn’t had a drink,
just a sneaky fag round the back of the theatre. This will
be okay, I thought to myself. The first act – an African
drum troupe – had gone down well, and with good reason. The
audience were clapping wildly and the performers were
delighted, if a little relieved, as they poured past me and
the stagehands got to work on changing the set. 3-2-1, go.
I stepped out onto the small strip of stage in front of the
curtain and looked around. Lots of people. Lots. Dry
throat, sweaty palms. Where were the comforts of the TV
studio now, with their retakes and glasses of water? And no
audience.
My mind went blank. The applause was still dying down, so
it didn’t matter too much. And then it popped into my head.
A joke. Something by a risqué comedian, probably that one I
saw a few years ago. So, I breathed in and gave it my best.
It didn’t occur to me until the second after I finished…
Inside, I was shouting: I am not a racist. Or a homophobe.
Nowhere near. But it was far too late to explain. Four
thousand people hated me in an instant. I looked towards
the wings. Andy stood with his head in his hands. I could
feel the disappointment seeping out of him. There was an
assistant signalling 30 more seconds. I turned back to the
crowd and laughed nervously.
I don’t know what came over me, but I started to be honest.
I explained that I was nervous and that I was nobody, not
really. I promised I wouldn’t attempt anything like this
again, once the evening was over. But I wouldn’t let Andy
down, so they could expect me again after the second act.
Without any jokes. I made another nervous laugh. No-one
reacted. The room stayed silent. I didn’t care. I was just
relieved that they hadn’t started booing and shouting for
me to get off. So, in a louder voice, I announced the next
act, the name of which had miraculously popped into my head
a second earlier, and turned to walk off. Silence. My
footsteps echoed as I walked the narrow strip of stage. And
then a small rippled of applause started to reverberate
around the auditorium as the curtain was raised on the next
act. As I walked past Andy, he just stared at me. Hatred,
disbelief, anger? Actually, all three.