A Life In The Day Of Trent Duval

Like most folk that are asked to write about a typical day in their lives each week on the last page of The Sunday Times Magazine, I tend to wake up at an obscenely early hour each morning, invariably between 5 and 6am. Once I've got my bearings and am sufficiently alert, I fumble about in my pockets, pay the taxi driver, upset him by asking for a receipt (tax deductible!) and lurch into the house.

Assuming the gig has gone well, I'll probably have been in Renards or Lillie's Bordello for a few drinks with friends who I hold in thrall with spellbinding tales of my heroic on-stage endeavours. If the gig was a dud, I'll have adjourned to Renards or Lillie's Bordello, fretted over where it all went wrong and decided that it couldn't possibly have been my fault because the audience were only a shower of fuckers anyway. Either way, by the time I snuggle up under my duvet at the start of the day, I'm as drunk as a monkey.

At around 11.30am, my mobile phone, which in my stupor I forgot to switch off before collapsing on my bed, rouses me from my catatonic state. Aware that everybody in the business they call Show knows better than to ring a comedian before noon, I assume it must be important and answer it. Sometimes it's a parent or sibling, ringing from down the country to enquire when I'm going to get a "proper" job, but more often than not, it's a student union hack or some other tree-hugging do-gooder wondering if I'd be available to perform at a charity benefit for bewildered Kosovans next Friday. I tell them that nothing would give me more pleasure, but to run it by my agent just to ensure I'm free that night. Without further ado I get on the blower to my agent and warn her that somebody is about to try and book me for a charity gig next Friday, thus encouraging her to earn her 10% of the fuck all neither of us is going to get if I have to do a free show.

Unique among most folk that are asked to write about a typical day in their lives each week on the last page of The Sunday Times Magazine, I consider spanking the monkey before getting out of bed, but dehydration, coupled with an overwhelming need to pee, ensures that any acts of onanism are put on the back burner. I attend to my ablutions, drink a litre of water, make some coffee, light a cigarette and turn on the television.

If the lads I share the house with were home the previous evening, they'll probably have taped a couple of soaps and some comedy shows, so I ease myself into the day by chuckling at the misfortunes of the put-upon denizens of Albert Square, Coronation Street, Brookside Close or Emmerdale village, before totally immersing myself in the side-splitting antics of Jerry Seinfeld and chums. Invariably, the latest fly-on-the-wall documentary will also have been taped, and watching it, the thought occurs to me that a spoof fly-on-the-wall documentary about fly-on-the-wall documentaries could well be the idea that makes the powers that be at Channel 4 sit up and take notice of my raw comic potential. I make a mental note to jot down the idea in the "ideas" notebook I always carry about my person as soon as I retrieve my jacket from the cloakroom at Lillies. Or was it Renards?

Lunch is an informal and solitary affair, usually a sandwich and mug of tea in front of The Jerry Springer Show. Rich Hall was right—calling the kind of people who appear on those shows "cheap white trash" really is an insult to polystyrene. Some people will do anything to get on television! It's a source of constant amazement to me that hideously inbred trailer-park hicks from Alabama with wispy moustaches get more sex than they know what to do with, while I can't even muster the necessary enthusiasm and energy to shoot one from the wrist. I flick through my mental rolodex trying to visualise an attractive cousin or aunt. Nothing.

After getting dressed, I flick on the computer, sit down in front of the screen and try to do something constructive. Like most stand-up comics, I normally do between six and eight hours a day, but despite this, progress is slow. It took me almost three months to successfully complete Resident Evil, and at the moment, I'm stuck on Level 2 of the Die Hard Trilogy. I'm not solely dependent on "shoot 'em up" games for kicks, though, so if I'm feeling particularly athletic, Fifa '98 helps me to keep in trim. I'm not very good at it, so I always pick Manchester Utd, which makes getting wellied 8-0 by the computer far less traumatic.

Almost every comic I know has a PlayStation, so the support network in the stand-up community is great. Games are regularly swapped and exchanged, so if any problems present themselves, you can invariably ring a colleague to get you out of a jam. Unlike its English equivalent, the Irish comedy circuit is renowned for its camaraderie, which would go some way towards explaining why people like Eddie Izzard and Mark Lamarr are phenomenally rich and successful, but not very good at video games.

Obviously, if I'm gigging down the country, I have to forego such virtual pleasures and get onto my agent again in order to find out where I'm supposed to be, how I'm supposed to get there, who's meeting me off the train, where I'm staying, how much I'm getting paid, who else is on the bill, how they're getting there, who's meeting them off the train, where they're staying and, most importantly, how much they're getting paid.

On the other hand, if I'm in a Dublin Club, the Comedy Cellar, for example, I count the minutes until 6pm sharp and then ring for a Chinese take away—Chicken King Do with fried rice, prawn crackers and a coke—and wolf it down while watching The Simpsons, Friends or—if it's a Tuesday or a Thursday—my personal favourite, Dream Team. Exciting times beckon for the players of Harchester Utd as, this season, they've qualified for the FA Cup final for the first time in their (two season) history. Despite the absence of winger Sean Hocknell, who stormed off in a fit of pre-match pique shortly before the semi-final because he thought that player manager, Luis Rodriguez—who is having an affair with the Chairman's wife—assaulted Mrs Hocknell (who he married by mistake while drunk in Las Vegas), they still managed to see off Charlton 3-2, with goals from star striker Karl Fletcher, rookie centre half Leon Richards and the aforementioned Argentinian gaffer. Now that's football.

At 7pm it's time to start preparing for the forthcoming gig, so I shower, shave, iron a garish shirt with an excessively large collar and cuffs and head into town. It's nice to get to the venue an hour or so in advance, in order to mentally prepare for the show. No matter how long you've been doing comedy, it's difficult to eliminate the problem of nerves, but seven or eight pints and a couple of shorts before you go on stage normally does the trick.

At around 9pm, the three or four comedians who are performing will have assembled, so after the initial exchange of pleasantries, talk invariably turns to the usual subjects: who's shagging who, what open spots (newcomers) need to be taken down a peg or two, who's done a shit gig recently, who's doing well and why it's only because they were in the right place at the right time and nothing whatsoever to do with their prolific output and Amish work ethic. After a while, the room fills up, the compere takes the stage and does his or her thing, and without further ado, the first act is introduced.

The Comedy Cellar is a great place to try out new material, I've heard. I wouldn't know as I've been peddling the same tired 20 minutes for almost three years now. Fuck it, if it ain't broke don't fix it, that's what I say. What's the point in sweating bullets over new material when, within six months, you're probably going to be reading the scribblings of a crack team of Channel 4 scriptwriters off an auto cue on the set of your new panel quiz show?

Because I'm so familiar with my set, I use my stage time to check out the talent in the audience. If I see a particularly attractive girl I'll establish whether or not she has a male companion and, if she has, cut him to pieces with my rapier-like wit. After the show I'll wait for him to go to the toilet before moseying over to chat her up. A lot of comedians have impressive track records when it comes to groupies, but for some reason, I've never had much success in that department. I can only assume that the ladies are intimidated by my self-confidence and stage presence.

Once I've mixed with my public and the wages have been paid, it's straight off to Lillies or Renards to relax with a few more drinks and a couple of frames of pool. A lot of comedians suffer from stress and depression, so it's imperative that you take the time to unwind at the end of a long day. Tears of a clown and all that . . . you can't be too careful.