INTO
AFRICA
Destroyed Bridge in London 1897
I heard that you were doing comedy down in London,” exclaimed a hideous memory from my schooldays, now even more intrigued by the kid at school that was into‘ artsy fartsy’ stuff. More intrigued, less violent.“ I do write and perform comedy, yes,” I replied knowing instantly what was coming next... I didn’ t have to wait long.“ Tell us a joke then,” he said expectantly. Normally this was the kind of phrase that is met with that gentle fake laugh and a redirection of subject.
I’ m a sketch comedian. I don’ t tell jokes. I write scenes, create characters, I usually let it go but this hideous little turd was not the first that evening. A line of people, who weren’ t entirely understanding of my passion and talent whilst at school, had pushed themselves forward to find out what the one who did that thing in the school talent show, was doing now. The wonderful and hideous thing about coming from a small town, doing some good stuff or at least stuff that people have heard of and coming back is that it’ s like a low key, badly organised event. Like the circus coming to town mixed with an outbreak of cholera.
Fielding the same questions that ranged from“ Have you worked with anyone famous” to“ What was Snoop by LIAM J STRATTON
Dogg actually like?” to“ You’ re married? What to a woman?” and always textured in a variation of“ make us laugh.” I of course also went through the“ how do you come up with the stories,”“ what’ s the pay like,” and my all time favourite,“ you could write a script on me...” no I couldn’ t. Well, I could but I actually want people to watch my stuff, enjoy my stories, and engage with my characters. Writing a script about a thirty year old, overweight mortgage advisor who has lost his hair, two teeth and has a drinking problem – yet still clings on to when he was Captain of the football team and had his pick of girls – is the LAST thing I could or would write a script about, but thanks for the offer. I had reached that place I very seldom get to. My limit.
“ Go on then,” and we’ re back with‘ Gary’“ Tell us a joke,” his drunken tone gathering menace and starting to sound like the old bully again. Tedious conversation, limit reached.
“ Can I ask, what do you do for a living?” The question seemed to stump him. No job? Fired? Spy? Oh no just not used to the polite trappings of a two-way conversation. He took a sip of beer,“ I’ m an engineer.”“ Nice. Ok so I’ ll tell you a joke, if you go outside and build me a fucking bridge!” Exit stage right.
12 | WGSA MAG June 2013