Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I always try to be Zen about it and try to put myself in situations which will then form a men-
tal escape route as I deal with yet another Christmas party audience whose preferred choice,
it turns out, isn't stand-up comedy at all but loud singing and arguing with colleagues they
don't like. I even cleaned the horse's paddock on Natalie's behalf, the logic being that shovel-
ling horse poo would serve as a reminder while I was being ignored on stage that there were
worse things I could be doing. Ultime regarded my efforts to clean the field as something of
a joke and kept trying to bite my backside, and although she was being playful I wasn't in
the mood, which sent her 'off on one', charging around the place like a horse possessed and
'buzzing' me increasingly closely while Junior looked on, clearly pleased with the work of his
protégé.
Natalie took the side of the horses obviously; my presence and dark, brooding (I like to think
'Heathcliffian') mood were obviously the cause of the problem, she said. She stroked Ultime
to calm her down. She'd bitten my arse, but it was my fault.
This triggered a memory in me from a few Christmases ago. I was onstage at Jongleurs
Portsmouth: not, it has to be said, a happy hunting ground for any comedian whose shtick
involves subtlety, intelligence and the correct use of the English language. The sound system,
as usual, was woefully inadequate, geared (at the request of the management) to get people
dancing after the show rather than to project comedy in a hangar of a building. I was about
eight minutes into a pitiful performance when a Christmas dinner hit me flush in the chest
and just kind of hung there. Two women at a table on their own, possibly the result of previ-
ous injunctions, had taken umbrage at the fact that, unlike them, I hadn't been drinking since
Easter and obviously had some form of stable home life - they had therefore decided that it
would be socially acceptable to throw food at me.
I said nothing. I put the microphone back in the stand and left the stage. As I was leaving
the building I passed the manageress giving THEM a complimentary bottle of wine to atone
for whatever perceived grievance they had. They bit my arse, but it was my fault. Christmas
crowds can be like that; any authority or gravitas you normally possess is lost and you can
become the wrong kind of 'figure of fun'; ironically, much like a supposedly authoritarian
parent trying to read the Riot Act while a confused insect cowers on his wedding tackle.
Eventually of course, the butterfly had to be removed from my crotch and we decided to put
the thing outside and hope for the best. I cupped him and placed him gently in a sheltered
alcove by the front door. He'd been cocooned in the warm, safe environment of his chrysalis
but now he had to go out into the real world, alone, and fight for his survival at this cruel time
of year. Don't we all, I thought, don't we all.
