never entered before.
Jonathan had not yet arrived. In fact the room was half-empty. In one corner Diarmuid Coyle sat hunched over a tiny notebook. Heavily bearded and dressed in the uniform of slightly too tight flowery shirt, brown cords and converse trainers, this Irish comedian’s appearance was misleading in that he looked like some kind of gentle, harmless indie kid. His winsome Dublin accent also helped conceal the rapier mind and sharper tongue that had taken many victims by surprise throughout his time as a professional comedian.
He smiled as he saw Fenella.
‘You want ten minutes?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
‘OK you can go on fourth, after Jonathan Cape.’
‘Thanks. How’s it going for you?’
‘Good. The main show’s fine, the more experimental one is… more experimental.’
Brenda knew Diarmuid to be a man not content to let a career based on the path of least resistance take its course. A stand-up of rare accomplishment, he had shunned the call of the TV panel show and branched out instead into more theatrical ventures which were reviewed incredibly well and selling OK. You had to kill for a ticket to his main stand-up show, however, and his hosting of this legendary late night comedy compilation show where anything could happen was a draw in itself. He had power and status most could only dream of. This was his room, this most feral of rooms – he had made it his own.
‘This is Brenda Monk.’
‘Hi Brenda Monk. Have we met before?’
‘Yeah, I go out with Jonathan Cape.’
Diarmuid hesitated for a second but Fenella and Brenda both caught it. Brenda knew what it meant: he had seen Jonathan looking cosy with some woman or other and assumed he was single.
‘Oh so his show is based on a real… I mean, it’s actually a… person.’
‘Yes, and the person is me.’
Diarmuid took this in but his distaste was written across his face. Brenda could tell that Diarmuid fancied his material was of a higher order than Jonathan’s and he had a point. The hierarchy expanded again, the perceived horizon was further and wider. The crack at Brenda’s feet opened some more.
‘Well, nice to meet you. Is it all true?’
‘Every word.’
‘So do you get a co-writing credit?’
‘No, but I get paid for the sex.’
Diarmuid blew air out quickly through his nose – as close as he got to an actual laugh these days – and his eyes suddenly turned interested. Fenella gave a gentle snigger herself. Brenda felt dizzy and disloyal.
‘Excuse me, I need to get back to this. Help yourself to the extremely poor selection of drinks and snacks.’
Diarmuid gestured to an old splintered table to one side which had bowls of nuts and crisps on it, along with a box of beer cans and two bottles of white wine. There were no cups. He bent back over his notebook. A member of the backstage team stuck her head round the door.
‘We’d like to start in five. Is that OK, Diarmuid?’
‘Yup,’ Diarmuid said and snapped his book shut.
Two more comedians entered the green room: Rich Joyce, an old circuit veteran who was liked by everybody because he posed no significant threat, and Matt from the previous night at the Attic Bar. They greeted Diarmuid and Fenella and shook Brenda’s hand courteously. Matt had clearly completely forgotten her, and was eager to make an impression on Fenella.
The thrumming from the main auditorium could be heard and felt through the gap in the wall to one side of the room which was the portal to the black painted but brightly lit stage. Once you were out there, there was nowhere to hide. No curtain, no set, no band, no chair, just a deep stage with a black brick wall at the back. And in front, four hundred people in various degrees of drunkenness waiting for the show known affectionately as ‘the bear pit’ to begin. The intro music played and the walls vibrated to a piece of thrash metal carefully selected by Diarmuid. He leapt up, through the gap in the wall and was gone, like
Jonathan had not yet arrived. In fact the room was half-empty. In one corner Diarmuid Coyle sat hunched over a tiny notebook. Heavily bearded and dressed in the uniform of slightly too tight flowery shirt, brown cords and converse trainers, this Irish comedian’s appearance was misleading in that he looked like some kind of gentle, harmless indie kid. His winsome Dublin accent also helped conceal the rapier mind and sharper tongue that had taken many victims by surprise throughout his time as a professional comedian.
He smiled as he saw Fenella.
‘You want ten minutes?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
‘OK you can go on fourth, after Jonathan Cape.’
‘Thanks. How’s it going for you?’
‘Good. The main show’s fine, the more experimental one is… more experimental.’
Brenda knew Diarmuid to be a man not content to let a career based on the path of least resistance take its course. A stand-up of rare accomplishment, he had shunned the call of the TV panel show and branched out instead into more theatrical ventures which were reviewed incredibly well and selling OK. You had to kill for a ticket to his main stand-up show, however, and his hosting of this legendary late night comedy compilation show where anything could happen was a draw in itself. He had power and status most could only dream of. This was his room, this most feral of rooms – he had made it his own.
‘This is Brenda Monk.’
‘Hi Brenda Monk. Have we met before?’
‘Yeah, I go out with Jonathan Cape.’
Diarmuid hesitated for a second but Fenella and Brenda both caught it. Brenda knew what it meant: he had seen Jonathan looking cosy with some woman or other and assumed he was single.
‘Oh so his show is based on a real… I mean, it’s actually a… person.’
‘Yes, and the person is me.’
Diarmuid took this in but his distaste was written across his face. Brenda could tell that Diarmuid fancied his material was of a higher order than Jonathan’s and he had a point. The hierarchy expanded again, the perceived horizon was further and wider. The crack at Brenda’s feet opened some more.
‘Well, nice to meet you. Is it all true?’
‘Every word.’
‘So do you get a co-writing credit?’
‘No, but I get paid for the sex.’
Diarmuid blew air out quickly through his nose – as close as he got to an actual laugh these days – and his eyes suddenly turned interested. Fenella gave a gentle snigger herself. Brenda felt dizzy and disloyal.
‘Excuse me, I need to get back to this. Help yourself to the extremely poor selection of drinks and snacks.’
Diarmuid gestured to an old splintered table to one side which had bowls of nuts and crisps on it, along with a box of beer cans and two bottles of white wine. There were no cups. He bent back over his notebook. A member of the backstage team stuck her head round the door.
‘We’d like to start in five. Is that OK, Diarmuid?’
‘Yup,’ Diarmuid said and snapped his book shut.
Two more comedians entered the green room: Rich Joyce, an old circuit veteran who was liked by everybody because he posed no significant threat, and Matt from the previous night at the Attic Bar. They greeted Diarmuid and Fenella and shook Brenda’s hand courteously. Matt had clearly completely forgotten her, and was eager to make an impression on Fenella.
The thrumming from the main auditorium could be heard and felt through the gap in the wall to one side of the room which was the portal to the black painted but brightly lit stage. Once you were out there, there was nowhere to hide. No curtain, no set, no band, no chair, just a deep stage with a black brick wall at the back. And in front, four hundred people in various degrees of drunkenness waiting for the show known affectionately as ‘the bear pit’ to begin. The intro music played and the walls vibrated to a piece of thrash metal carefully selected by Diarmuid. He leapt up, through the gap in the wall and was gone, like
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