28: That Tosspot in the Hat

Before I begin here, I should let you know that this little rant is not the sweary modernisation of a Dr Seuss story. This concerns my second of two gigs in Nottingham on Tuesday, at the Canalhouse.

One of my favourite songs is "Thou Shalt Always Kill" by Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip. Fantastic wordplay, such passion and anger AND a sense of humour. It also features two elements that I really like - the pleading for people to spell the word "pheonix" correctly (as I have just done) and one line that I found myself screaming at the top of my lungs as I drove home last night. And I quote:

"Thou shalt not attend an open mic and leave before it's done just because you've finished your shitty little poem or song you self-righteous prick"

Of course, I wasn't taking part in a poetry slam or anything like that. I still can't get my head round the fact that poetry doesn't have to rhyme. If we had limerick slams I'd be well up for that. And of course, I wasn't strumming a guitar singing songs about unspeakably sensitive I am. I can't even play the ukelele.

No, I was performing stand-up comedy - which has been my full time employment for the past year and a bit - headlining a show in front of what I suspected could be quite a nice audience. A bit studenty, but seemingly up for it. Pleasant.

When I arrived a small new act competition was in full swing. The first two guys were decent enough, the second in particular being very talented indeed. Twas performer number three though who will forever be known as "the tosspot in the hat".

Let me describe what this miscreant looked like. Oddly, I'd pegged him as a cock before he'd even begun - and this was merely as he sat in the audience. The first thing to note about him was the hat perched atop his head. As I write this I am wearing a hat. I have no beef with hats. But this student urchin was wearing a fucking straw trilby.

Take that in for a second.

A straw trilby.

He had curly hair and looked to me like he was auditioning to be a lead singer in a tribute act to someone like The Kooks or Razorlight or the View or any of those so called "indie" bands that have their clothes supplied by Topman and spend more time doing their hair than, you know, writing songs and being anything less than run of the mill shite.

He was also committing one of my pet fashion crimes. Shorts with a long sleeved button up shirt. I hate that. It isn't "preppy", you don't look like you're about to take in the Boat Race, you just look like a fucktard who can't make his mind up if he's in the office or on the beach. And hey, just because you've seen the emaciated models in the aforementioned Topman dress like that it doesn't mean it's viable. THEY'RE TRYING TO SELL YOU THEIR SHITTY CLOTHES, DUMMY!

Anyway, our chum wandered up onstage to do his two minutes.

Issue One: He began his set by telling us his name (which I genuinely forget) and then said that most people only know him by his nickname. It was Tatchy or Blotchy or Scratchy or some such shit. The sort of name that only features in sentences uttered by middle class cocks at university who think that "[INSERT NAME HERE] is totally wacky, we had this random night where he drank five pints blah blah blah heeeee hawwwwww".

That last noise was a donkey.

Issue Two: When he wandered up onstage, the back two rows exploded in some kind of ticker tape parade for him, akin to the reaction for Argentina in 1978 when they won the world cup. The back rows consisted of my least favourite type of students - orange girls with massive hair who seem to think that Peaches Geldof is a style icon, rather than a vapid, pustulating axe-wound in the already gangrenous, fetid corpse that is celebrity. Sprinkled amongst this appalling dressed valley of mongs was the occasional bloke, all dressed in a similar manner to the aforementioned tosspot. So much bad hair in such a small space.

I must stress that the rest of the audience was lovely.

Issue Three: I love most comedians, whether they be old or new. But I do despise some johnny-come-lately accident at the clothes show thinking that comedy is "easy" because he makes his retarded friends laugh with crude jokes and by tapping girls on the head with his semi-erect elongated acorn of a penis. Here's the thing - try and be funny. Don't wander up onto the stage and reel off a list of swears that you know mixed in with other peoples gags, you fucking cretin.

Issue Four: This is the big issue. Don't lose a new act competition and then in the break decide to decamp - with all your cronies - to the back of the room and talk all the way through the closing act (ie me) despite being warned by the organiser, bar staff, MC and so on. Also, when I threaten to kill you from the stage I'm not kidding.

Seriously.

Should this person ever have the audacity to perform at a gig with me ever again, one of two things will occur:

ONE: I'll be MC and in charge of prepping the room for his arrival onstage. When people speak in hushed tones of the legendarily downbeat introductions for new acts provided by Malcolm Hardee in his heyday, they will pale into insignificance compared to what I have planned. It'll go something like this:

"This next act is the best type of new act, one with no gags who believes he'll be on E4 in six months times. He's wearing a hat and that is the limit of his personality. I can assure you no laughs in the next five minutes. You'll want to pull your own eyes out with a rusty spoon rather than gaze upon his face again, and replace your cotton buds with drill bits in order to ensure you can never hear such dross again. But don't take my word for it. Judge for yourself. Feel free to mill about while he's onstage, talk to your friends or do anything to keep you from losing your enthusiasm for life if this tosser is the future of comedy.

Oh, but before I bring him onstage, I need to share something with you. I went to the office of births, deaths and marriages today and found out that I'm actually an orphan..."

TWO: I'll be performing a set and he'll be doing an open spot, sat nervously at the gig with none of his friends around him. And i'll think back to when I had to do that, too scared to speak to the other acts, stomach churning in terror before my slot comes up, panicking that I'll die on my arse in from of people who do this for a living. Upon seeing that fear I'll go up to him and quietly reassure him. Because this business is hard, he'll need all the help he can get. I'll put an arm round his shoulder and with my own panful memories burning behind my eyes I'll put everything behind me and try to impart some knowledge into him and have him go on and give it his best shot. He'll look at me and realise that respect in this industry is the way forwards, take my words on board and go up there more pumped up than he ever could be.

And then after he's died on his arse, I'll take more solace in his broken spirit than I would from kicking his fucking teeth in.

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