Daddy Issues

Here's an interesting challenge...I've been asked to perform at the Meow Kacha caberet night this Saturday, (being held at the Scooterworks, 132 Lower Marsh, Waterloo, London SE1 7AE if you fancied popping along), the event is titled 'These Be The Verses' and the theme is fatherhood and relationships... meaning I had to write somethign brand new, reflecting something unique about my relationship with my Dad. It's been quite a tricky ride, because I kept getting sidetracked by emotional baggage, and though I'd love to be the kind of comic who can talk about weightier personal issues with wit and warmth, I'm not quite there yet. That said, this is the kind of comic I want to be so it was worth having a crack at. Below is my work-in-progree first draft, I thought it might be interesting. It needs more jokes, and the ended will probably change -it doesn't quite ring true enought for me yet- but It's a start...

Christmas 1990, and my 4 year old sister has just got the most amazing Christmas present ever from her Daddy. Big blue eyes are shining from beneath blonde curls, her little mouth locked in an awestruck 'O'. It's a whole toy Kitchen, and it's literally twice her height, complete with plastic fruit and a breakfast bar, a coffee pot, and real cereal packets. It is 5ft by 2ft of plastic domestic joy, and it comes in a cardboard box that is, if anything, even more exciting than its contents for sheer potential playability. The thing is, we're poor. Really really quite poor. We'd lost our house in the recession...which if anything makes this story bitingly relevant, rather than fleeting nostalgia...and we're living in a rented 2 up 2 down in Leicestershire. But that was okay, because like so many of that years gifts the Kitchen had, to quote my Dad, "fallen off the back of a truck". I'd got a Liverpool shirt, as I was in one of my periodic phases of denial about hating football. I hate football, It's shit, but it made Dad happy that I tried. That came off the back of a lorry too. I forget what my brother got, but it was probably truck-back-based in origin as well, as was most of our furniture.

We had a lot of things that had apparently fallen off of the back of Lorry's. It was sort of natural actually...Dad was a lorry driver, a lorry driver with slightly dodgy ethics when it came to his load.

Well,I say Lorry driver...that's what he did. Technically, In the eyes of the law he was unemployed. But then my Dad always had this knack of claiming benefits while still maintaining full time work, it was a knack he had developed into a master art form of deception. We were all drilled with strict instructions that if anyone ever called the house asking for our Dad we were under absolutely no circumstances to tell anyone he was at work.

There's an interesting argument about role models. How can you grow up with a decent grasp of what's right and wrong when your father-figure's take on the law is so morally grey? Sure we were poor, genuinely struggling. We'd had to move in with my grandparents for a month, we'd had to sell the car and by a cheaper one, we were living by the skin of our teeth. Dad was only doing what he could to support his family, surely? If a man steals a loaf of bread to feed his starving family, is that wrong? What if they're not actually starving, just a bit peckish? And okay if a man steals a loaf of bread he'll feed himself for his day, but let him steal a Kitchen and he'll feed himself and his family for a lifetime. And, okay, maybe that Kitchen is made of plastic and aimed at 4 year old girls but the principle still applies. It's sound.

We never felt what Dad was doing was wrong. Our Mum was and indeed still is quite a moral person, and took great pains to instill in us a strong sense of right and wrong. Instead it felt cheeky. It felt like he was getting away with it. He was Del Boy. He was Arthur Daily, playing the system to get what he wanted and winning. It wasn't wrong, it was about bending the rules, often to a state of elasticity that defied conventional physics.

It all seemed a bit of a joke somehow, not quite real. I remember being 14 and hearing on the news that a Timberland clothing warehouse in Nottingham had been burgled and thousands of £'s worth of merchandise had been stolen. This wasn't a massive shock to me.... Dad had had me selling Timberland Jumpers at my school for a £10 a pop for the last week. I knew he had nothing to do with the robbery itself though. He skirted the edges of other peoples crimes. He'd gone out "to see a man about a dog" and came back with some jumpers. He always knew a man who knew a man, that would invariably end up with my Brother and I going out with him on a freezing saturday morning selling car covers, or Christmas hampers, or on one occasion boxes of sweets that had literally come out of a big box from the tip that Dad had been delivering too.

The thing is, despite all of his faults, as a child I completely idolised my Dad, in a way you only can with someone whose hardly ever there and whose faults you're largely blind too. I envied how easily he could make friends, how easy going he was, and also how fearless. I'd go to school, or talk to my Mum, and I'd learn about right and wrong, but this wonderful person I knew became a voice in the back of my head, saying 'you don't always have to do it their way'. I learned the black and white, but Dad taught me there were shades of grey.

As an adult, I've hardly become Del Boy myself. I don't know a Man that knows a man. Most of the men I know don't know any Men at all. And I know that Dad's point of view was slightly warped. He wasn't trust worthy and so never really trusted anyone, where as I'm naieve and trusting to the point that it can often be pathetic. But I like to think that some of the best of him has ended up in me. He's always there, as a little voice in my head. Literally sometimes, when he rings me and tells me how to live my life. He's not changed, only last year he turned up at Mums saying "I've got a boot full of meat, do you want some?". Fundamentally I play by the rules, pay my taxes, and get by. But I'd like to think that on some level, I've never forgotten that sometimes you can bend the rules. That somewhere is a man that knows a man who can get you what you need. That sometimes somethings can fall off the back of a truck and not be missed. Dad can get away with it, and if it makes a little girl smile at a plastic kitchen, it's probably okay.

Critical Reaction

There are three reasons why I was worried about doing last nights gig. Firstly this was my first gig since this time last week, and that had been half poetry which obviously I don't tend to include in my normal set (I'm hoping I can marry the two at some point, but just now it comes out sounding like Tim Key, and I can't do Tim Key better than Tim Key does). This is the longest I'd gone without doing a gig since kicking off my stand-up 'career' properly at the end of January. Secondly this was a Gong Show, and I'd never done one before. Gong Shows are nerve racking affairs where the audience can boot you off whenever they think you're lagging. Heckling is generally more accepted than usual and a couple of duff lines in a row will end your stage time pretty smartly. I'm not sure I'm quite prepared for the scrutiny and disapointment. Finally due to yesterdays pervasive lethargy, I had yet to follow the example of Spandau Ballet and get some work done, rearranging my set into a more Gong-Friendly version, nor really written anything new.

This in mind, it was a slightly nervy me that wandered down New Cross Road yesterday, looking for the venue. As it turns out none of the above turned about to be huge issues, though the gig wasn't exactly an ideal experience. Read on dear follower.

As any comic will tell you some gigs are just fucking weird (although none quite as weird as this one recently endured by the excellent Tiernan Douieb), this is especially true on the new-act circuit, mostly consisting as it does of near-as Open Mic nights where the promoter books 15 or so comics and relies on them to bring in a couple of mates each, making a decent sized audience. Fairly often the 15 or so comics will actually be the audience. Which is always a bit disheartening but can create quite a nice little atmosphere of camaraderie and support, and anyway at this burgeoning level where stage-time and experience is valuable whatever the crowd, any time in front of a mic is worth the effort.

Pretty much as soon as I walked into the New Cross Inn I knew it was going to be a comics-as-audience sort of gig. The promoter/MC, Karl Edrik, was excitable and friendly enough and introduced everyone who walked in to everyone else, but admitted straight away that he had no-idea how many people were going to turn up, as the venue had done the promotion, not him. The gig was due to start in 40 minutes and the pub was completely empty. It was quickly decided to ditch the Gong element, which is pretty sensible as no-one wants to gong off another act, and just go for it. There were a couple of familiar faces lurking round, including Johnny who runs the Saturday night 'Looks Like We Have A Comedian' open-mic in Picadilly, which is a really lovely gig, and Alistair Grieves who runs 'Comedy Lake', which I'm playing next month. Both great blokes and good acts. There was also some free beers and everyone was taking things in their stride...as I said gigs like this happen fairly often.

I decided seeing as it was a crowd of comics (and 4 genuine punters. And the bar staff) I'd try and stay away from my usual set for a while and play off the top of my head. It's not something I get to do often, and I was genuinely interested in how I'd cope off-script, just to see where my mind would take me. So I ranted for a little while on my wonderful experience in the job centre on Tuesday, which yielded some good bits I might use again, Karl had brought me on as "fresh faced" so I dug out a little of my "I look younger than I actually am" bits from the first routine I'd written, and did a gag I was quite proud of about the green and pink lighting making the gig best enjoyed using 3-D glasses, finishing up with my "God's Cock Shame" routine. This last part, which i've done at all my gigs for the last month, irked me a bit as it felt quite unrehearsed and sloppy compared to last week, highlighting the need to look over my material when I have a week off gigging. It all went okay, if not extraordinary.

What happened next was a bit of a surprise. I took my seat feeling it had gone sort-of okay considering my aim was to see what came out when I opened my mouth. The PA was really loud so it had been hard to hear the audience response, but I'd gleaned enough of what had and hadn't worked and felt reasonably happy with what I was taking from the experience. Which is what it's all about at this stage, really. Which is when Karl stepped back up to the mic. Of all the things you expect to hear an MC say after you've done your bit "well you started out well" isn't top of the list. What followed was a short critique of my set, words I shouldn't have used, things I shouldn't have said, and an admonishment for making his job harder to come and pick up the pieces after me. I was, frankly, a bit stunned. Is this normal? I've not done all that many gigs after all (last night was gig #12) maybe new acts are entitled to some good-natured advice from the old pro's. I honestly don't know, but something tells me it was a bit of an odd move. Not really sure what to do I pulled my notebook out and pretended to take notes, which drew a small laugh, then I sat down. He did the same thing to the next act.

Okay, I'm not saying I'm above criticism. I've asked people for honest opinions after pretty much every gig I've done. I'm a New Comic, I need the feedback have always listened eagerly to any advice my big brothers in the comedy world have to bestow. It's just I think I'd have appreciated it a little bit more had this particular elder sibling given his opinion at the bar in the interval, or maybe via email after the fact. Not smack in middle of the second section, from the stage in front of a bunch of other comics.

I left the gig a little earlier than I normally would. Some gigs are a bit too weird to stick around.

I know this much is True

It's difficult to write a frivolous and moderately entertaining account of the life of an unemployed wanna-be Stand Up, when such titanic news is unfolding around the world. Not just the failing economy (which is all Twitters fault by the way), not just the ongoing saga of terrorist action and religious fundamentalism, but the reunion of Spandau Ballet. Still, we can all learn a lesson from the foppish dandys who penned 'Gold'...If the Kray twins, and the sweaty fellow in the suit from Reborn In The USA, can put aside their fairly tutonic differences in the pursuit of lots of grubby cash, then he rest of us have no excuse. Cash conquers all.

That being the case, why did I find it such a struggle to get out of bed before 2.30 this afternoon? Every morning my brain undergoes a familiar internal struggle: on one side, the need to get up, to search for a new job, to try and get myself some gigs, to write some jokes, to try and do something with my life that will put food on the table and keep my psyche from descending into a depressed mass like a concker dipped into hot marmalade. On the other side of my brain, the less taxing option of staying put, eating biscuits and watching the telly holds true. And that way lies the Marmelade.

Today which ever part of my head that favours watching bad sitcoms and last nights telly clearly got the upperhand because moving proved quite impossible. Maybe it was a reaction against yesterdays Job Centre horror? Maybe my subconscious demanded a little shut-down time. Maybe I just really wanted to watch Will & Grace this morning.

Either way, today is a day of very little achievment. My mind tried, but I just couldn't put words on the page. Which is a shame, as today I'm doing the Ivy Comedy Caberet Gong Show and I really should reorganise my gags into something a little more Gong-friendly, as I would really like this to go well.

Still, further examination of the Spandau Story does reveal one thing...the Kemp brothers are as far away from Tony Hadley as possible in the promo photos taken today on HMS Belfast. Perhaps I'm not the only one finding it difficult to do what they know is best.

Day of the Dole

I feel like my unemployed status has been some how legitimised. Obviously merely the absence of paid work isn't enough, in order to get the full experience one requires government rubber stamping. Today I went on the dole.

For a lot of people signing on is a bit of a right of passage, and obviously there's nothing to be ashamed of here. Some of my best friends sign on (not true, to my knowledge none of my friends sign on at all, but they would if they had to). In my home town its probably more the norm than actually having a job, and as a child -particularly during the last recession- I have very clear memories of both of my parents happily taking cash from the council. My Dad even had this uncanny ability to sign on while still working.

And why not? I've spent the last 13 years of my working life losing part of my salary to something called 'NI'. This is my chance to take some of it back. This is, after all, what it's for. This is what William Beveridge managed to avoid fighting the war for. This is my right as a British citizen. Free money! Right on.

All this being the case, the family imperative, the genuine rights as one of her majestys subjects, the fact that i'm effectively spending money that I've put aside myself, why does signing on feel so soul-crushingly awful? Why does it feel like I'm admitting defeat? I'm a namby-pampy Guardian-reading card carrying wooley liberal wanker, of course I approve of the government supporting the unemployed. I actually believe they should get more. Especially now. It's just when the poor sod without a job is me, it still feels a little like I've failed.

Earlier today I went for my "new claims interview" at -brilliantly- Peckham Job Centre, because obviously East Dulwich doesn't have one of its own (unemployed? in Dulwich? Goodness no, how would we pay the organic butcher?) Foolishly I believed this might be a quick process. Alas no, I was in plenty of time for my 10.45am appointment -and as dole scum I resent being asked to get up before 11, ta- and didn't actually leave the sodding place until 2pm, having attended 3 seperate interviews, signed 7 different pieces of paper, and been ignored by roughly 5 members of job centre staff. Aside from a chirpy conversation with a guy on the door regarding my Watchmen badge no-one seemed especially interested in my situation, in helping me get a job that might in some way aid my career or use my experience or qualifications (okay, a 2:2 in Sociology from Loughborough isn't exactly vocational gold but they could have tried).

Why exactly did it take 3 people to sort that out? If the first fellow had dealt with the lot I'd have been out in half am hour.

Instead I sat in the waiting room tweeting ideally, reading a book of Neil Gaiman short stories and listening to the other sad stories going on at the desks around me feeling by turns

a) a complete snob.
b) guilt at feeling (a)
c) annoyance with the system
d) an utter failure.

The whole experience seemed to warp my thinking in some way. I actually found myself having this thought at my first intereview...

"Jesus, he could have at least worn a tie".

I was wearing a tie. Why was this suddenly bothering me? I wear a tie because I decided on it as a good look for me. Tie-absense in others has never even begun to bother me before. I was turning into an old lady. It was probably a good thing I couldn't go on Mark Thomas' Daily Mail protest, I'd more than likely have bolted into their offices and demanded a subscription. The dole office has turned me into someone I don't like much.

Which is quite enough information for today I think. On the thin chance of someone actually reading this far down the page, I'd prefer you to actually like me.

Anyway, my claim has been processed, I have a pile of paper work to fill in-including a sheet of A4 devided into rows which I have to fill out every time I take an active step at job hunting such as "reading the paper or searching online". Apparently if I do that less than 3 times in a forntight they'll stop my money. Surely no-one ever fails that? Even if you werent looking -and most people could fill that page in a week- faking it would be pretty easy. My application should take 7-10 days and I have to call the council about housing benefit. I now must return to the job centre every 2 weeks on a Friday afternoon.

Oh, and to top it all off the festival I was booking the comedy for in May has lost a chunk of it's funding and probably won't be happening.

It's hard not to be bitter on days like this.

Diary of an Unemployed Comedian- An Introduction

Like a once proud former-lover whose changed his mind, I’ve come crawling back to my blog. I will need to do some grovelling, possibly buy it some flowers, and be really dismissive about all the other blogs I’ve written while I’ve been away, but I think…given time, we can rebuild that trust and enjoy a fruitful blogging relationship once more. What do you say Blog? Do you still feel it too?

But there’s going to have to be a change in rules. When I started ‘That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore’ last year, it was to give myself an outlet to review, critisise and muse on assorted TV shows and comedy shenanigans. I set out a very careful house-style, with everything written in the 3rd person and the subject matter being more important that the writer. I nearly always stuck to it.

Then I got really busy, and didn’t watch enough TV, let alone have time to write about it.
But now…I have all the time in the world. I hear-by re-christen my review blog ‘Diary of An Unemployed Comedian’. The reasoning behind this being, that these are the only apsects of my existance that can be considered interesting. I’m hoping it’ll be at least a tiny bit readable for you the, well, reader, and me the…er, me, to see how these dual aspects of my current predicament pan out. And it’s always nice to see a record.

The ‘Comedian’ Bit.
I don’t want anyone to think I’ve got ideas above my station here. I’m not exactly a comic yet, what I am is starting out on the road to stand up success, mostly by doing 5 minutes here and there on the open mic/new act circuit, booking gigs myself, or pulling favours from comic friends to get a few decent gigs in the bag. I’ve been gigging a couple of times a week since my first proper London performance (discounting my Edinburgh debut in August) at the very lovely House Of Mirth in Waterloo, a gig ran by the supremely talented Jess Fostekew and TV’s Sara Pascoe. To get it out of the way, here is the only footage currently in existence of me doing stand up. This is gig number six, at Tom Webb’s excellent new-act night Party Piece in Stoke Newington.

Marc's stand up gig in stoke newington march 4th
Uploaded by teamwireless

As you can see there’s still some distance to go. But every gig gets a little better. Except for the one I did last week in Battersea, where I was on 18th of 20 acts and no-one enjoyed themselves. I barely raised a titter there.

I’m doing a Gong Show on Wednesday. That’s going to be really interesting.

The ‘Unemployed’ Bit
As of Wednesday 11th March I am bereft of full time employment, a hapless victim of this cursed recession. Bother. The main problem is I’m not really trained for much, for the last couple of years I’ve worked behind the scenes in the comedy world, first booking gigs for Avalon, then making videos for Warner and Myspace. I have a certain ability with the written word and a head full of mostly pointless trivia, but these skills are rather specialised and post Crunch there isn’t much out there. It’s been over a week since I had my second interview for this plum job, which I rather think I blew quite superbly by talking too much about comedy when I was told that comedy only really counted for 20% of the role. I’m hoping my application for this comes off, but frankly I’m probably dreaming with that one.

I may try and get a job in Dominoes in East Dulwich.

That just about brings us up to speed I think. Any days I don’t update this please send me a long email telling me I’m a wanker who can’t stick at anything.