Centre Stage

‘You’re shit!’ 

Where on earth did that come from? 

Everyone in the room turns to stare at me. My heckle may not be very sophisticated but I think it’s justified. My girlfriend stares at me in disbelief and quickly drops her gaze in embarrassment, staring deep into her half-empty G&T. I sense a general uncomfortable air of awkwardness for the so-called comedian on the small raised stage and I feel the audience are waiting for a suitable put-down response that might kick-start his act.  

‘Err – yeah well, erm, I think you’re shit too, mate.’

That’s a pretty lame retort, I think you’ll agree. Never in my life have I heckled someone. As a rule, I’d describe myself as an introvert but there’s something about this guy that’s bypassing my shyness, it’s like a little devil is whispering in my ear and working my brain, so, completely out of character, I yell back.

‘But you haven’t paid to see me so I’m entitled to be shit.’ 

This receives a ripple of sniggers from the packed bar.

         ‘Well – whatever. Anyway – err – where was I?’ he continues bravely.

         ‘Being shit?’ I shout.

My girlfriend visibly shrinks further into her barstool. I look at her – she’s really attractive and looks super sexy in her little polka-dot dress. What did I do to deserve her? ‘Love you,’ I whisper. She simultaneously gives me a quizzical look and a sympathetic smile, which is quite an achievement, as the surrounding people laugh. Seeing her reaction, the moron comedian shouts across from the stage, ‘Oh dear – looks like you’re going home alone tonight, mate.’

         ‘At least your mum will be there to greet me’ I throw back immediately.

This gets an enormous laugh and I feel a strange surge through my body as if everyone is on my side. My girlfriend is grimacing and, rather disturbingly, a trendy, good-looking bloke wearing a jaunty flat-cap is smiling and comforting her clear embarrassment. It worries me that he’s going to steal her away from me. I’m momentarily torn between confronting this over-familiar man and continuing my hounding of the comedian on the stage.

         ‘My mum died a year ago so – err – yeah, the joke’s on you,’ the comedian feebly replies.

It’s like I’m having an out of body experience and I simply can’t let that go. Screw it – I’m on a roll, I’ll deal with him and worry about my girlfriend later.

         ‘Was she watching your act? You must be use to dying – on stage!’

‘I tell you what mate, why don’t you come and have a go? Come on big-man. Come up here and makes us laugh,’ says the shit-house comedian.

I’m not going to be asked twice, I don’t hesitate. I slide off the bar stool and head straight to the stage receiving hand-shakes and back-slaps on the way, from the surrounding audience. I pass a table of lads who are enthusiastically encouraging one of their mates to down an enormous jug of water. He’s completely drunk and off his face and I wonder if my friends would force feed me H20 if I was in such a state.

Seeing me approach, the comedian replaces the mic in the stand and takes a step to the side. ‘Good luck, funny-man,’ he mutters as I replace him - centre stage.  I’ve never done anything like this before but feel supremely confident as I turn to face the room where lots of expectant faces are staring back at me. I may not have any experience of stand-up but I’ve seen enough to know that any comedian worth their salt doesn’t hide behind the mic stand so I take the mic and place the stand behind me. With this barrier removed the sudden realisation of what I’m doing hits me. Strangely, I don’t feel nerves but I do wonder what the hell I’m going to say? A hushed, expectant silence descends and I momentarily glance across at the actual comedian who waves his hand towards the audience inviting me to begin. I stare at them and they stare back at me. After what feels like a lifetime I say, ‘Always start with a pause.’ There are a few titters.

‘So, I’m not actually a comedian…’

‘No kidding,’ I hear someone mutter.

‘…so…,’ I continue, ‘…what do you want to know?’

‘Who are you?’ someone calls out.

‘Ah, yes, okay. My name is Warren, thank you for asking. That’s my first name or my Christian name but I’m not a Christian so I always think that’s a bit weird. So, my first name is Warren and my surname is - Warren. Yes - my name is Warren Warren - what were my parents thinking? This is my signature,’ I write WW in the air with my finger. ‘It’s basically a wave diagram.’ This gets a laugh. ‘My middle name is…’

‘Warren!’ someone yells, which gets a bigger laugh.

‘No - that would be ridiculous - Warren Warren Warren - then my signature would be…’ once again I write in the air adding an extra W. ‘Actually, my middle name is Oliver,’ I spell it out in the air, W-O-W and add ‘wow!’ This gets the biggest laugh.

I’m a comedy genius – I have them in the palm of my hand, everyone is laughing and I look across to the comedian I’ve replaced and even he’s laughing at me. Hang-on – is that it – their laughing at me? The water drinking-drunk-guy is so pissed he tries to stand to applaud my wit and falls forward on to the table sending water everywhere which causes a loud raucous cheer. ‘Steady mate,’ I say into the microphone. I probably could have come up with a funnier line there. 

At the side of the stage the comedian claps his hands together, just once, which is a bit weird. I’m momentarily distracted as I try to think of something wittier to say about drunk-guy who is in the process of being hauled back to his feet. I fear that I’m losing the room and have a sudden appreciation of the shit that stand-ups have to put up with on a nightly basis. I suddenly remember quite a lame joke I was told about Lady Gaga and her ‘Poker Face’ which might be worth a whirl but before I can continue with my triumphant, making it up on the spot, stand-up routine I’m approached by a quirky looking girl in a baggy tie-dye dress and Doctor Martens who proceeds to talk to me in what I can only describe as complete gibberish, which at least results in the attention being back on me.

         ‘Gimo teda flamt pretid bonk?’ she says. The intonation suggests she’s asking a question.

‘What’s she saying?’ someone yells. I speak a bit of German but can’t claim to be an amazing linguist, but weirdly, I think I do understand so I ask her to repeat herself.

         ‘Gimo teda flamt pretid bonk?’ she replies and I instinctively understand even though I don’t know what the language is.

‘She said, I’m from outer space and I need you to translate for me,’ I inform everyone. I wasn’t aware that I spoke fluent alien but apparently, I do. I’m on fire – there’s no end to my talents!

‘Where are you actually from and how did you get here?’ I ask her. The reply wasn’t what I was expecting.

‘Chi bo Basildon et chew eb a chuff,’ she squeaked. I share her answer with the audience, ‘She said, I’m from Basildon and I got here on the train.’ 

With the exception of me and the alien, everyone erupts into hysterics including the comedian at the side of the stage. He’s taking the piss – here I am saving his night from the car-crash that he’d started, I had the room in stitches and suddenly me and this alien woman seem to be the butt of the joke. How did I get myself in this situation – it’s so out of character and my previous belief that perhaps I’m a witty sage is starting to wane. I can feel myself getting annoyed. Alien-girl asks me, ‘Wital ye ail fuinkal but?’

‘I really don’t know what they’re laughing at,’ I reply, which sends the whole room into further uproar with the exception of drunk-guy who suddenly makes a break for it. He brushes his mates aside and stumbles towards us on the stage. Everyone backs off as he bashes into them en-route. I glance across at the comedian watching from the side and he’s clearly loving the chaos that’s unfolding.

‘What the fuck are you laughing at?’ I yell at him over the microphone which amplifies my voice around the room and everyone ‘Ooooooooos.’

My aggressive outburst causes drunk-guy to momentarily pause and re-focus his drunken swagger towards the comedianat the side of the stage. Even though he’s clearly not in control of any of his faculties, the drunkard is a big man and it pleases me that his focus, if he has any, is redirected to the obnoxious un-funny prick. I’d never condone violence but in this increasingly fraught atmosphere I’d rather drunk-guy’s violent drink-fuelled intentions be aimed at him than me. ‘I wanna smack someone,’ he slurs as he tries to focus and it looks like things are seconds away from kicking-off. The intervention of alien-girl and drunk-guy have rather stalled my, quite-frankly, excellent stand-up routine and all the attention is now concentrated on watching what’s about to unfold. 

I’m looking forward to the so-called comedian getting his just-deserts, being so shit is what started this in the first place and far from accepting his shit-ness, and ‘dying’ on stage like any shit comedian worth his salt, he’s stoked the fire and provoked the tense situation that’s about to erupt in a punch in the face – hopefully. Drunk-guy has reached the slightly raised stage but failed to acknowledge that fact and therefore trips, stumbles and falls at our feet. ‘Di bibble okie?’ asks alien-girl. ‘He’s fine,’ I reply as the watching crowd, laugh, cheer and encourage him as he struggles to get back up. The comedian makes a bring-it-on gesture.   

It pains me to admit it, but, for such a small man in the face of adversity, the comedian is surprisingly calm. I take a step back – I can’t imagine that drunk-guy is going to be overly co-ordinated in his attack and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of a wild swing. 

Alien-girl yells, ‘Agrevo ern ta chiena!’ I agree, ‘violence isn’t the answer’ but in this instance I’m quite looking forward to it all kicking off and the comedian getting a good solid smack in the face so I decline from translating for the collective throng for fear of them agreeing and putting a stop to the coming Armageddon. 

Drunk-guy is making hard work of the impending assault due to his completely paralytic state and he’s stumbling all over the place. As the current resident comedian, I feel well placed to offer a few comedic words but glancing at the audience I realise that they’re no-longer interested in anything I have to say as they all watch the unfolding drama. The only person in the room who doesn’t seem in anyway phased by everything that’s going on is the so-called ‘real’ comedian which is really annoying, still he’s now a matter of seconds away from getting his comeuppance and I for one can’t wait. 

Encouraged by the comedian, the baying-crowd are making quite a noise. Drunk-guy has reached his destination and pulls back a languid fist to swing. The comedian claps his hands together in a steady beat and the crowd join in by banging the tables. It’s quite exciting as everything builds to a crescendo and then...

A loud whistle followed by - silence. Hmm. Something’s amiss. It’s like someone’s pushed a pause button. Everything is quiet. I’m standing on the stage next to alien-girl and drunk-guy who both look as perplexed as me. ‘That’s weird,’ says alien-girl nodding towards the watching crowd. She’s right – it is weird. 

Everyone is staring at us, which isn’t surprising given that we’re up on the raised stage but what is a little off-putting is all their faces are chicken heads that are cackling and blinking, blankly. Sitting at the back, by the bar, is a chicken in a polka-dot dress that I thought was my girlfriend but now it dawns on me that, aside from the fact she’s a chicken, I’m not sure I’ve ever actually met her. What am I doing up on this stage? I suddenly have an overwhelming sense of unease and the confidence that I vaguely remember feeling is replaced by humiliation and self-doubt - especially when the staring chicken heads slowly morph into regular people displaying various levels of mirth from smiles and sniggers to full on guffaws. I’m bewildered and exposed. ‘What the fuck,’ says alien-girl at my side and drunk-guy appears to be completely sober.

The comedian walks towards us applauding and addresses the audience, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s hear it for Warren, Lily and Frank.’

24 HOURS EARLIER

         ‘Do you want to see a hypnotist tomorrow night?’ asks Matt, as he tosses his jaunty, but frankly ridiculous, flat-cap across the room, landing it perfectly on the coat stand like a poor-man’s James Bond. 

         ‘Yeah, maybe. You’ve got to be pretty stupid or gullible to fall for it but why not – yeah, I’m up for laughing at the expense of other people,’ I reply.