Comic Relief

“Lyn, that you? Door’s not locked—just come in for fuck’s sake—I’m famished … Who the frig are you?”

“Brett.”

“Do I know you?”

“Not really.”

“Who let you backstage?”

“No one.”

“What’s the matter with your nose.”

“Nothing. Walked into a door.”

“Looks pretty cut up. So I don’t know you?”

“Well, not exactly, no.”

“Then get the fuck out. Hang on … Lyn, where are you? I tried to call you a moment ago … I want some … Shit wait, phones out of juice. I ain’t got my charger. Hey, Brad!”

“Brett.”

“Quickly mate, you’ve gotta phone? Great. Take this number. Zero … got it?”

“Okay.”

“Treble seven nine. That’s three sevens … repeat after me. ”

“Treble seven.”

“Nine.”

“Nine.”

“Lyn you still there? Lyn? Lyn? Shit. Fucking phone’s died. I need a kebab from Ronny’s.”

“Ronny’s?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“They do good kebabs.”

“They do, mate, a tasty kebab. But Lyn doesn’t appreciate that—she’s one of those health fanatics. She’s gonna bring me some Kale and cure-all-detox-berry smoothie and a tofu burger on wholemeal rye.”

“You don’t know her number?”

“No, I don’t know her number—not off the top of my head. Who are you again?”

“Brett.”

“What do you want?”

“I was in the audience.”

“And?”

“Nice set.”

“Thanks.”

“Funny.”

“It’s my job. When I applied it said: ‘Stand-up comedian wanted. Must be able to make people laugh. Jesus, I need a drink.”

“Yeah, you’re a funny guy.”

“You got some booze?”

“Really funny.”

“Well, if you’re thinking about getting into comedy, forget it. You do an hour’s set—drinks should be gratis, yes? I’m a fuckin’ Perrier Award winner.

“When?”

“Few years back.”

“While ago then?”

“Not really.”

“Must be difficult to stay funny.”

“Well, you saw me.”

“I did.”

“Listen, Brad, unless you’re a walking beer keg, or you’ve got a kebab in your pocket, you can do one?”

“Brett.”

“Brett … Brad—who ever—fuck off would you?“

“How’d you get so funny?”

“You taking the piss?”

“No.”

“I’m sure you’re good at something, Brad. But right now you’re excelling at being a pain in the ass.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

“Cliché.”

“You a critic now are you?”

“You do sort of know me … Know of me.”

“So you are a critic. I fuckin’ hate you guys. Leeches. Can’t do nothing yerself so you tear down those who can. Who’d you work for? Guardian, Mail?”

“Nope.”

“Express?”

“I’m not a critic.”

“Shit, I’m starved. I’m gonna shoot round Ronny’s and get a kebab myself … What you doing?”

“Locking the door.”

“Unlock that door… now.”

“I just wanna have a chat.”

“Gimme the key—I’m not chatting to you about nothing.”

“Sit down, Jack.”

“Jack is it? Suddenly we’re all familiar.

“My name’s Brett. You seem to have a problem remembering, Jack.”

“Give me the key!”

“I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to? What are you a child? Oh, okay, what’s this: now he’s put it on his tongue and what’s David Copperfield gonna do now—swallow it? Choke to death? I gotta see this.”

“uck oo ak.”

“Fuck you too, Brad. And I’m not performing the Heimlich manoeuvre on a dead beat like you so … Jesus, you in a circus or something?”

“Nope.”

“Great, so until you take a shit we’re stuck in this room together? Fuck this. HEY, I’M STUCK IN—”

“Now, I don’t wanna hurt you, Jack.”

“You’ve got me in a headlock, but hey it’s not hurting—rather comfortable. More a hug—”

“I’ll squeeze the life out of you if you don’t shut up.”

“You a human python as well as a lunatic key swallower?”

“If you don’t, one, cease calling for help and, two, apologise.”

“You’re fuckin’psycho, yes?”

“You can hang whatever label you want round my neck, Jack. Apoklogise!”

“For what?”

“I’ve just got to tighten my grip a smidge more and I’ll break your neck. I know what I’m doing—I’m a black belt, Jack.”

“Alright … Alright! I’ll shut up. Let go… please.

“I want more than a sorry.”

“For what?”

“There’s a bit during your show, when you were talking about growing up—that bit about your dad was hilarious, by the way?”

“What bit after?”

“I guess we all have stories like that, but it’s the way you tell ‘em, Jack. Timing.”

“Are you talking about the school bit?”

“The Gobbing Gang. That’s right, get your breath back.”

“Thanks.”

“Now that was funny but pretty disgusting, all that spitting at each other in the toilets … it was after that, when you were talking about bands you were into when you were a kid.”

“Talking Heads?”

“No, you liked them.”

“I don’t get it. Look whatever you want, I’m very sorry for whatever I’m supposed to have done. Happy?”

“Look at me, Jack.”

“I’m just hungry mate. It’s been a long night and I need to eat and drink and recover from getting strangled by a—”

“Look at me. Wipe my face clean of lines—I was a little dumpy in my early twenties. Too much of that booze you’re so fond of.”

“Yer talking in riddles, mate. Get to this point.”

“Like I said, you know of me.”

“I don’t know you from Adam.”

“Oh, you do, Jack.”

“Anyway Lyn’s back soon and I’ll get to eat and drink and security will escort your ass out of here. You think that key, flirting with your colon, is the only one they’ve got?”

“We’re gonna do it like this Jack: you’re going to go from that bit in the car with your Dad giving you the facts of life. After that—go from there.”

“My routine?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus, man I’m exhausted. Forget it.”

“Do it Jack. I’m losing patience. After the car bit with your dad—let it flow from there.”

“Whatever. Give me a minute … you almost strangled me to death two minutes ago.”

“Take your time.”

“Need to get my breath.”

“Sure.”

“So er … he says to me, my Dad, have you noticed anything new about yer body... lately? And this, this is really not something you want to talk about with your Dad: hair, morning erections, the difference between girls and boys, you know. What Dad didn’t know was that I’d just got back from fooling around with Tracy Smart on the pier and I was all too familiar with the difference between boys and girls. I mean the difference was on my fingers —“

“Stop, Jack—just to say this was pretty tasteless. When you smell your fingers like that … not funny. Disgusting.”

“Is that the bit you’re after? Thank fuck. Okay, look, I’m sorry Brad …”

“Brett?”

“I’m sorry about the smelly finger gag. You’re right it’s not funny. I’ll change it—no problem.”

“It’s not that bit—just wanted to say that’s all—carry on.”

“No?”

“Not that bit.”

Oh, Christ. Okay, all right so she’s er … he’s er … Dad, he’s getting hot under the collar …”

“After, after the Dad bit.”

“Right, um er …”

“When you’re talking about bands.”

“Talking Heads? Television, The Specials, Iggy Pop, The Jam…The Fall?”

“A band you hated.”

“Hated?”

“Okay, so … so … shit …wait. Are you? … Brett Trimble? Brett fuckin’ Trimble out of the Black Cherry Band?”

“Do it like in the act.”

“You gotta understand: it was a joke.”

“Like in your act, Jack.”

“Come on Brett, I’m wasn’t serious, it’s comedy. Where’s your sense of humour?”

“Up my ass, Jack.”

“Jesus, you’ve changed. I mean you’re slim … fit.”

“I’m a black belt in Judo Jack, that’s what I am.”

“Yeah, but you look taller.”

“I’m not taller.”

“But—”

“Like—in—your—act.”

“Look, I’m sorry. All right, I get it. I never thought you’d be in the audience.”

“What, you thought I was dead?”

“No, I mean, I don’t know … I never thought.”

“Never thought? Worse than that—there’s a load of not-thinking comedians—but the stuff you said about me—”

“Like I said, I get it.”

“You think I’m not human? I’ve got a kid, Jack. She saw you on the television saying that shit. She looks up to me. I’m her dad. I’m a human fuckin’ being, Jack, with feelings.”

“Last week was it?”

“Yes.”

“London Palladium?”

“Saturday night Jack. She saw it with her friends. It hurt me Jack. And it hurt my daughter.”

“Look—”

“Pinch me.”

“What?”

“Pinch me.”

“Pinch? Where?”

“My hand. Just my hand. Harder.”

“Come on.”

“HARDER!”

“There’s blood.”

“Yes, yes.”

“You’re nuts!”

“Now do it—all of the routine—after the car, talking about bands and looking me in the eye. Hurt me like you did out there, last week in front of my daughter!”

“I can’t. “

“I swear to god I’ll kill you. My daughter’s in hospital tonight, Jack. Cos of you.”

“What? What’s the matter with her?“

“Do it—speak!”

Please, no, I’ll—what’s the matter with yer kid?”

“Wipe away those tears, Jack. It’s too late for tears. You think I give a damn about your tears? …”

“Ok. You want me to do the bit about the toilet?”

“If that’s the bit you think hurt the most, Jack.”

“If you’ve ever had the misfortune to listen to track four on Black Cherry’s first album, ‘Trouble in Toledo’—“

“Don’t stop Jack. And blow your nose.”

“Yeah, ok. I had a cold … last week … Why are you holding your stomach? You all right?”

“Carry on!”

“ … thankfully it was also their last. Then you’ll be familiar with the first track that begins with a toilet being flushed. And you’re like, Okay it’s an interesting start—experimental—but then when the music trickles in and the shits been … been flushed into the down pipe and then the music ends up being … shitter than the huge turd—“

“Oh god!”

“What?”

“Aaaargh.”

“What’s happening?”

“Oh fuck.”

“It’s that fuckin’ key, isn’t it? Jesus, you idiot, Brad.”

“Brett! Carry … on.”

“No way. Not now—forget it.”

“Christ!”

“Bad is it?”

“I don’t care about the pain—I just want my kid to know—your gonna apologise to her, Jack.”

“I mean you swallow a key, there’s gonna be a problem.”

“It’s fine … I’m alright … I’m …”

“You’re Okay?”

“I’m Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!”

“For fuck’s sake lie down.”

“Aaaargh!”

“Right, I’m calling the ambulance. Gimme your phone!”

“No, Jack, don’t—please, don’t call them… just …”

“Just?”

“Get my phone … record your voice saying ‘Sorry’ for my kid … on my phone. Tell her I’m … I’m not a loser.”

“What’s she in hospital for?”

“Crash.”

“What?”

“I crashed our car, coming here … speeding because I was so annoyed and desperate to get things straight between me and you … she was thrown through the windscreen.”

“That explains your fucked up nose.”

“Steering wheel.”

“She’s Okay, yes?”

“I don’t know—I left her. They said stable but … I don’t know.”

“You gotta get to her—I mean, I’ve got a little girl—ten years old—Mother took her away back to America so I don’t get to see her much. Bitch!”

“Please.”

“Look, we’ll go together. I’m gonna apologise in person. Okay?”

“Jack? You in there Jack?”

“Lyn?”

“I’ve got your food, Jack.”

“Lyn, get a key from security.”

“Jack? What’s all that moaning—is someone in there with you—Jesus Jack, can’t you keep your dick in your pants for one night?”

‘Lyn, get the key.”

“Key?”

“Now, Lyn—stop banging on the door and get the key and open the door. Brett. I’m calling an ambulance. Your gonna be all right. We’ll get you to hospital, and I’ll find your kid …”

“Isabel … her name’s—oh god, fuckin’ hurts, the key, Jack, it hurts to fuck.”

“Isabel. All right. Hello, yes, ambulance for the Hippodrome. Backstage—”

“Queen Elizabeth Hospital—Isabel’s there. Ward seven.”

“We need to go to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, ward seven.”

“Jack?”

“WARD SEVEN!… They’re on their way mate.”

“Am I gonna die?”

“It’s a fuckin key—you haven’t swallowed a grenade.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks Jack.”

“We’re gonna get to your kid—and she’s gonna be Okay and I’m gonna apologize to her—does that work?”

“Yeah.”

“Great, Lyn’s back. Got the key? That’s Lyn, turn it anti-clockwise.”

“Jack? Was it so bad, our first album?”

“Mate, it was fuckin’ abysmal.”

“Yeah, the toilet flushing was a bad idea.”

“Good idea—your music was shit. But, you’re right, I shouldn’t have been so ... I’m sorry. I’m fuckin’ sorry.”

“Who’s this, Jack?”

“Lyn, this is an old friend.”

“Why’s he lying on the floor?”

“He ate one of those healthy burgers your so fond of. Food poisoning.”

“Really—an old friend? I didn’t think you had any friends left?”

“Yeah, we fell out for a bit, but we’re good now. Aren’t we Brett?”

“Yeah … we’re reconnecting. We’re getting there.”

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