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Authors: Katy Brand
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some barbed Mr Tumnus.
A huge cheer, which Diarmuid enjoyed for a few moments and then quietened down.
‘Hello cunts,’ said Diarmuid into the microphone.
First laugh.
Brenda was drawn to the gap in the wall. She loved watching stand-up from this angle, the performer and audience in profile, either side of some invisible dividing line that would either get stronger or weaker depending on the comedian. You could capture both in the same shot from here, you could watch individual audience members unobserved by anyone, you could see how they reacted to each joke and predict how they would react as the gig went on. Close up, you could see Diarmuid evaluating everything he said and making minute by minute adjustments according to what went well. Sometimes he would lovingly berate the audience, sometimes he would compliment them. Every inebriated interruption hurled his way from the darkness visibly delighted him even when he pretended it didn’t. This was a man in his own room. The more confident he was the more confident the audience was in him, and so the more confident he became and on and on into a prolonged simultaneous orgasm across the footlights.
It was always fun to watch each successive comedian come on and play to this exact same crowd and yet not necessarily elicit the same response. The mounting frustration of a comedian dying on his arse in front of an audience he had seen eating out of Diarmuid’s hand not five minutes earlier was always compelling but awkward viewing.
And it was about to happen now, as Diarmuid asked the crowd if they were ready for their first act of the evening. They shouted, ‘NO!’ and Diarmuid obliged them with five more minutes of affectionately mocking material of his own.
Back in the green room, Rich Joyce was cursing Diarmuid and somehow managing to pace on the spot.
‘Why does he fuck us over like this, every time? Jesus.’
He wiped damp hands on the tops of his denim thighs as he hovered by the gap in the wall, waiting to go on.
‘Fucking bastard.’
A crescendo of delighted laughter, and then without further warning Diarmuid announced Rich from the stage.
‘Fuck,’ muttered Rich and bounced on.
‘Thanks buddy,’ he said as he took the mic from Diarmuid’s hand, and that was the best received two words he said for the next ten minutes. But Brenda paid no attention because at that moment, Jonathan walked in with Lloyd and Joan and a woman Brenda had never seen before.
He clocked her immediately.
‘Hey Bren, you made it. I put your name on the door but I see you didn’t need me to.’
This was delivered amiably enough, imperceptible to the untrained ear. But Brenda knew him well enough to understand that he was put out. Something contrary rose within her.
‘Fenella got me in,’ she said, and instantly regretted it. That was too much.
‘Hey Jonny Boy,’ Fenella called from the other side of the room, her mouth full of nuts.
‘Fenella Lawrence, comedian extraordinaire. How nice of you to take care of my girlfriend while I took care of business.’
Brenda saw the unknown woman adjust to this mention of Jonathan’s girlfriend.
‘Oh, no problem. We had a great time.’
Jonathan turned to Brenda with a question mark over his head. Brenda just smiled beatifically. Fenella immediately immersed herself in conversation with Matt, who tried to be cool.
‘Who’s on now?’
Jonathan’s antennae had already sensed that whoever it was was not having a good time.
‘Rich Joyce,’ said Diarmuid. ‘Having a rough one.’
‘Sounds like he’s wrapping up.’
‘He won’t get off until he gets one big laugh. He’s a stubborn old bastard.’
At that precise moment the audience blew a decent gust of laughter into the green room, and they all heard, ‘Well, I’ve been Rich Joyce, and you’ve been a rucksack of arseholes, good night!’ Rich had clearly decided that was the best he was going to get tonight and Diarmuid moved swiftly to the gap and
A huge cheer, which Diarmuid enjoyed for a few moments and then quietened down.
‘Hello cunts,’ said Diarmuid into the microphone.
First laugh.
Brenda was drawn to the gap in the wall. She loved watching stand-up from this angle, the performer and audience in profile, either side of some invisible dividing line that would either get stronger or weaker depending on the comedian. You could capture both in the same shot from here, you could watch individual audience members unobserved by anyone, you could see how they reacted to each joke and predict how they would react as the gig went on. Close up, you could see Diarmuid evaluating everything he said and making minute by minute adjustments according to what went well. Sometimes he would lovingly berate the audience, sometimes he would compliment them. Every inebriated interruption hurled his way from the darkness visibly delighted him even when he pretended it didn’t. This was a man in his own room. The more confident he was the more confident the audience was in him, and so the more confident he became and on and on into a prolonged simultaneous orgasm across the footlights.
It was always fun to watch each successive comedian come on and play to this exact same crowd and yet not necessarily elicit the same response. The mounting frustration of a comedian dying on his arse in front of an audience he had seen eating out of Diarmuid’s hand not five minutes earlier was always compelling but awkward viewing.
And it was about to happen now, as Diarmuid asked the crowd if they were ready for their first act of the evening. They shouted, ‘NO!’ and Diarmuid obliged them with five more minutes of affectionately mocking material of his own.
Back in the green room, Rich Joyce was cursing Diarmuid and somehow managing to pace on the spot.
‘Why does he fuck us over like this, every time? Jesus.’
He wiped damp hands on the tops of his denim thighs as he hovered by the gap in the wall, waiting to go on.
‘Fucking bastard.’
A crescendo of delighted laughter, and then without further warning Diarmuid announced Rich from the stage.
‘Fuck,’ muttered Rich and bounced on.
‘Thanks buddy,’ he said as he took the mic from Diarmuid’s hand, and that was the best received two words he said for the next ten minutes. But Brenda paid no attention because at that moment, Jonathan walked in with Lloyd and Joan and a woman Brenda had never seen before.
He clocked her immediately.
‘Hey Bren, you made it. I put your name on the door but I see you didn’t need me to.’
This was delivered amiably enough, imperceptible to the untrained ear. But Brenda knew him well enough to understand that he was put out. Something contrary rose within her.
‘Fenella got me in,’ she said, and instantly regretted it. That was too much.
‘Hey Jonny Boy,’ Fenella called from the other side of the room, her mouth full of nuts.
‘Fenella Lawrence, comedian extraordinaire. How nice of you to take care of my girlfriend while I took care of business.’
Brenda saw the unknown woman adjust to this mention of Jonathan’s girlfriend.
‘Oh, no problem. We had a great time.’
Jonathan turned to Brenda with a question mark over his head. Brenda just smiled beatifically. Fenella immediately immersed herself in conversation with Matt, who tried to be cool.
‘Who’s on now?’
Jonathan’s antennae had already sensed that whoever it was was not having a good time.
‘Rich Joyce,’ said Diarmuid. ‘Having a rough one.’
‘Sounds like he’s wrapping up.’
‘He won’t get off until he gets one big laugh. He’s a stubborn old bastard.’
At that precise moment the audience blew a decent gust of laughter into the green room, and they all heard, ‘Well, I’ve been Rich Joyce, and you’ve been a rucksack of arseholes, good night!’ Rich had clearly decided that was the best he was going to get tonight and Diarmuid moved swiftly to the gap and
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