Whole Lotta Rosie

I surveyed the crowd in front of me. Fifty, maybe sixty people. A far cry from the big venues that sold out twice over, when I was touted as the next big thing. It was easy to blame it on the age of social media and short attention spans, and say I was a victim of circumstance. But there were plenty of comedians like me who were doing just fine. The truth was that I was becoming lazy. Lazy and unoriginal.

The warm-up guy had done his thing, and the room had been lubricated with a mixture of well-timed jokes and the cheap booze the venue used to entice people in. I smiled, introduced myself, and dove straight in with a political skit about the recent trade tariffs the Trump administration had introduced.

“On Fox News,” I said, “US Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick claimed ‘The European Union hates our beef, when ours is beautiful, and theirs is weak! We can’t sell corn to India, or rice to Asia…”

Laughter broke out. I hadn’t even got to my punchline yet. Didn’t need to. Real life was so absurd, it was humorous in itself. For twenty minutes, I poked fun at stuff happening in the news, and the clickbait headlines they generated.

Student so scared of DIY he paid tradesman £180 to change batteries

Receipt artist creates supermarket bills with A to Z of items

Chicken lays anus clenchingly massive egg

“Do you think this guy got the idea of being a Receipt Artist from his careers advisor?” I said, to gentle titters. More successful were my observations on anus clenching. They were that kind of crowd.

The MC came back on after I finished.

“Give it up for everybody’s favourite shade of paint - Matt White!” he said.

The cheers were generous. But that could have been just as much for the silly joke on my name than my set. To be honest, I used to riff off it a lot. My biggest, and most successful tour to date, was called Gloss. I filled The Apollo for that one. Made a lot of cash. Which I pissed away as quickly as I earned it.

Set over, I grabbed a seat at the bar. The bartender slid over an Old Fashioned, and I settled in for the act I was supporting - Rosie Petals. She came on to pumping music - AC/DC’s Whole Lotta Rosie - and immediately whipped the gallery into a frenzy by miming along to the music with some exaggerated air guitar. She was young and new to the circuit. I’d seen a little of her online, but never live; it stung that she was headlining rather than me. Notwithstanding all the years I’d been doing this, with nationwide tours and television appearances, I was now reduced to a bit part, a pass note for the TikTok generation.

Her humour was not the subtle and understated British fayre that I plied; rather it was brash, loud, and one line at a time. One thing we shared in common though, was weaving whimsy from the shape of our bodies. She and I were both what some would call generously proportioned, voluptuous, curvy. Well-endowed in the midriff. More rolls than a medieval bakery, I used to quip.

“I move like bad WiFi… slow and always buffering,” she said to a hearty guffaws.

There was little segue between the gags, but to give her her dues, they were well thought out, clever, and brought a smile even to my face, despite the grumpy middle-aged curmudgeon into which I was metamorphosing.

“I got myself of those minimisers the other day,” she continued. “No, it’s not a short guy with no money…” She waited for the laughter to subside, then cupped her ample bosom in her hands. “The bra! To try and make these smaller.”

Women cheered. Men stared at her boobs, which she obviously knew they would do, so she picked on a gentleman in the first row and told him to lift his eyes up. The woman with him looked mortified.

“What I would give to listen to that conversation in the car ride home!” she said. “‘I was only looking because she was holding them and talking about them. What else was I supposed to do?’” She affected a whiny man’s voice, and it raised the roof.

As the voices died down, her eyes made a beeline in my direction. She smiled, extended her arm towards me, and said: “Matt White, everyone. Loved your set. Give it up for Matt White!”

The cheer was bigger than the one I had received at the end of my set, but hey, applause was always welcome. I waved sheepishly as everyone turned my way, and raised my glass in appreciation.

“Gloss is the reason I got into comedy, man. It’s a dream come true to be performing in the same room as you.” Hearing that almost brought a tear to my eye. It certainly waved off a little of the bitterness I felt - although not entirely - and I resented her a little less, but only a little. Flattery only got you so far.

More roars from the crowd before she went back to the one-liners and kept everyone happy. Just as the laughs were dying down a smidgen, the music started up again - Dusty Springfield, and those inimitable opening chords of Son of a Preacher Man. She swayed to the melody as the first verse played out, and stopped the music just after Dusty sang: The only one who could every reach me… and sang a cappella with:

…Home Delivery pizza man.

More cheers, followed by more bodily tomfoolery. Hands gripping a fold in her stomach, she said: “You don’t think I cultivated this by eating salad, do you?”

The shrieks of glee were drowned out by the blood rising from my furthest extremities, coursing through my legs and torso, and flushing my face with anger. That was my joke! It wasn’t even adapted - it was exactly as I had delivered it on the Gloss tour. Music, line about the pizza man, grabbing a spare tyre, and making a wisecrack about salad. How dare she! It just wasn’t done. And it wasn’t a case of parallel thinking, that she came up with the joke independently without knowing I did it first. No, she had seen the show it was from. The very show that inspired her to become a comedian, in fact. I could feel my ears smoking. You could have barbecued brisket on those bad boys. They weren’t going to cool down any time soon.

I spent the rest of her performance fuming in a fug of fury. Here I was, scrabbling around for a pittance while the headliner was stealing the show with my joke; she probably nicked the others too. The bare-faced audacity of the woman. I wasn’t bitter I hadn’t made it - I had made it. I was a contender, I was somebody. But in common with Brando - or at least his character - now, I was a bum; moping around looking like I’d slept in a hedge, and getting booked on past glories rather than present talent.

I must have been on drink number four when I noticed her sidle up to me. Perched her sizeable buttocks on the stool next to me.

“Hey man!” she said. “They say never meet your heroes, but how could I not, when you’re right here?”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

She extended a hand. “Rosie Petals.”

I shook it without conviction. “That your real name?”

“Rosie, yes. Petals - obviously not. Wanna guess my last name?”

“Not really.” I turned away.

I could feel her body language shift to affronted. Like the temperature had chilled as I hammered the air conditioning onto its coldest setting.

“You ok, man?”

“Yep,” I said, not bothering to turn round.

“You are such a dick! And to think I was so excited to meet you. Well fuck you, you old has-been.”

As she made to get up, I swivelled back to face her.

“You stole my joke,” I said.

“What?” she said.

“You heard. You stole my joke.”

She laughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what,” I said.

“No. I have genuinely no idea.”

“Home delivery pizza man.”

“No way, that’s mine. You aren’t the only fat comedian, you know.”

“It’s on the Gloss tour. The one you said inspired you. Want me to show you? It’s pretty grainy, but you can find it on YouTube.” My voice was dripping with disdain, my face coiled and taut like an attack dog.

She stared at me, shocked. We faced off in silence for a moment, then a wave of recognition swelled to the surface.

“Oh my God!” She raised her hand to cover her wide-open mouth. “I am so sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve watched it. Gloss, I mean. Oh no! I’ve somehow made myself believe that I came up with it. Oh God! Matt - can I call you Matt? I am so, so sorry.”

Her breathing was heavy, and she was on the cusp of hyperventilating. It was my turn to gawk, and I added to it by mouthing like a fish. Finally, I settled on placing a hand on her shoulder and making my demeanour much more conciliatory.

“No, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t need to challenge you like this.” I waved my glass. “Probably had one too many of these.”

She managed to regulate her breath, and took a sip of her own drink. Water, by the looks of it.

“I can see it now,” she said. “Clear as day. My mum has all your DVDs. Used to watch them over and over again. I grew up with you.”

There were only three DVDs. ‘All’ made it sound like I had a library of the stuff. But still, knowing that there were people that derived pleasure from what I did, was what made the nerve-wracking vulnerability of being on stage worthwhile. Every comic enjoys the adulation. I probed a little further.

“Did she ever watch me live?” I said.

“Oh yes! She said she went to most of your gigs.”

I laughed. “I’ve done hundreds, maybe even a thousand.”

“She used to travel up and down the country to see you,” she said. “Her and a couple of friends. She joked that they were like groupies.”

I gripped my tumbler, and slowly took a sip, focusing my energy, drawing out the time while my brain took a trip down memory lane. There were three of them, back in the early noughties, more often than not front row, and almost always hanging around after the gig. In the bigger venues, there was generally a divide between comics and audience, but in the smaller ones, I’d often share a drink with the fans - including Rosie’s mum and her friends.

One of the three had a spectacular mane - thick, wavy, and lustrous. She sported full lips, a full figure, and an even fuller personality. She was outgoing and cheeky. Flirty too, although I was never particularly good at reading the signs. Lily, she was called. And Lily made it clear how much she liked me, how much she admired my work, how talented I was. I was young, and enjoying some of the trappings of success.

At the last show of the Gloss tour, we celebrated with quite a few drinks, and she kissed me. That led to where you might expect, and it was undoubtedly a night to remember. In the brouhaha of everything, I didn’t get her number - or maybe I did and lost it. But I recall thinking, maybe it’s better this way. A spectacular finish to a successful tour, with no loose ends. The next tour - Satin Sheen - wasn’t until three years later. I was only half expecting them to anyway, but Lily and friends didn’t turn up. That I was glad of, as I had been with my now ex-wife for over a year by then.

My hands were trembling as I lowered my glass and soaked in the rays of Rosie. Glossy and radiant hair, cascading over her shoulders like it was auditioning for a shampoo ad. Full lips, and certainly a full figure. The confidence to approach strangers like they were your friends. And the love of comedy.

“How old are you?” I said.

She squinted slightly, like it was a strange question, which of course it was.

“Twenty-two,” she said. “And you?”

I smiled. “Forty-five,” I said.

I wanted to ask her mother’s name. But I didn’t need to. I’d done the maths.