Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
A Moore in the Loire
It was one of those moments that a stand-up comedian dreams of. That moment when you are
on stage and you have the audience in the palm of your hand; you can lead them anywhere
you want; you can tease them, raise them up, lower them down. You have total mastery over
the room and your view of the audience and of yourself is almost from above the stage, like an
out-of-body experience.
There is no better feeling.
I looked out at the room and at the faces convulsed with laughter; 450 people all dancing
to my tune, I felt - hang on! What's that bloke doing? That bloke in the second row with the
goatee beard and the leather jacket - what's his problem? Why is he not laughing like all the
others? What's wrong with him?
I tried everything. I brought out the big guns, the infallible old material. My rhythm changed,
my tempo increased; the rest of the audience looked like they may die from laughing, but
'goatee face' in the second row… nothing. Maybe he has locked-in syndrome, I thought. Then
he yawned.
The red light came on, showing my time was up. I thanked the audience and left the stage to
deafening applause. 'That was Ian Moore!' shouted the MC, struggling to be heard as the noise
increased, 'Ian Moore!'
'Wow!' said Chris, one of the newer acts, as I stomped back into the dressing room. 'That was
brilliant. You must be really pleased with that?'
I took a long drink of water as Chris, obviously really new to the game, waited for my re-
sponse - maybe some advice, some words of comfort, before he went out there himself.
'There's a bloke in the second row,' I said, 'real attitude problem. Watch him, he might be
trouble.'
'But they loved you!' he said, almost shouting. 'They LOVED you!'
'Four hundred and forty-nine of them loved me,' I replied, looking at him like I was his sensei
or something and he was my protégé. 'That bastard ruined it for me.'
'Well, I'd be happy with that!'
'Ha!' There was a derisive snort from the corner of the dressing room. John, another old hand
like me, was sitting on a leather sofa with a bottle of beer in hand. He was due on next, but he
was in no hurry; unlike the excess of nervous energy that prevented Chris from sitting down,
