An Advertisement For Myself

STRANGE THINGS happen during the annual fortnight when Today FM presenter and Hot Press contributing editor Liam Mackey eases himself into Niall Stokes’ exceedingly comfortable editorial chair. For example, give or take a couple of months, it is exactly two years to the day since he forced me to perform stand-up comedy for the very first time.

Regular readers may recall the occasion: as a naive fledgling reporter, I had suggested in an editorial meeting that it would be a marvellous idea if a Hot Press journalist opted to write and perform a comedy routine and perform it in the International Bar, in order to chronicle the experience for the benefit of a readership that seems to revel in the discomfort of journalists they don’t know.

When it was unanimously agreed (well, six votes to my one) that I was the man for the job, I managed to weasel my way out of it for a number of weeks through a combination of cunning, guile and downright deceit. Indeed, so sublime were my many excuses that I assumed the matter had been forgotten by the time the gaffer went on his annual vacation. It was then I was summoned by Mackey who, with a swivel, a smirk and the backing of his partner in crime, Liam Fay, issued the ultimatum: do it, or compile the Classified Ads section for the rest of my natural life.

So I did it, and while my debut performance wasn’t even vaguely Hicksian in its content, delivery or mirth, I was bitten by the comedy bug. With the exception of a lengthy nine-month sabbatical between my first and second gig, I have continued to do stand-up regularly ever since.

And so to this year’s occupation of the editorial chair by Mackey. Once again, I was summoned.

“What have you planned for this issue’s Hoot?” he enquired.

“You mean, ‘the lamentable Glendenning’s Hoot Press’, as described in last fortnight’s letters page by regular correspondent David Tynan from Tipperary, who is obviously still bitter because his laboured scribblings weren’t deemed worthy of first prize in last year’s Wild Turkey writing competition?” I replied.

“The very one,” replied Mackey.

Struggling to hold back the tears, I explained that because I was still reeling from Tynan’s stinging criticism, I hadn’t actually given the matter much thought.

“Excellent,” Mackey smirked, “because this fortnight I think you should interview yourself.”

“You what?”

“Well, it makes sense,” he reasoned. “You’re the only Irish comedian on the circuit who gets hardly any coverage in Hot Press, mainly because you can’t really write about yourself. You should do a piece on how you’ve progressed since that initial gig, y’know, cover the successes, the failures, the deaths, the groupies, any weird shit you’ve experienced . . .”

As ever, there was method in the Mackey madness, so here goes:

THE SUCCESSES

Cue trumpet solo: I am reasonably well established on the Irish comedy scene and have performed at the Edinburgh Festival, once, for six minutes.

THE FAILURES

Thus far I have failed spectacularly to do any of the following:

• Win the Channel Four So You Think You’re Funny? award at the 1997 Edinburgh Festival.

• Arouse the interest of Mr Richard Cook, the impresario behind the ever-splendid Murphy’s Cat Laughs comedy festival.

• Do anything whatsoever about booking a flight, flat or venue for this year’s Edinburgh Festival, which started yesterday.

• Feature on the cover of Hot Press.

• Complete the Hot Press Mad Hatter’s Box, an honour which has been afforded to Liam Mackey, Liam Fay, Declan Lynch, Joe Jackson and Sam Snort, amongst other staff of this august organ.

• Write The Message.

• Gain admittance to The Library of Lillie’s Bordello without being in the company of Olaf Tyaransen.

THE DEATHS

Where do I start? Every stand-up comedian has experienced the bowel-loosening trauma of a comedy death and I am no exception. The worst, without exception, was in Dublin Airport (no, really). Aer Rianta, in their wisdom, had decided to have an Arts Week, a staple of which would be a series of stand-up shows in the Arrivals Bar. On one of the nights, Eddie Bannon and I were performing, along with Dara O’Briain, who was MC.

Coincidentally enough, just before the show, Eddie and I had been discussing bad gigs and I had been crowing about the fact that even though I’d done more than 10 shows, I had never, ever died.

Soon after, five minutes into a 20-minute slot in front of 12 (yes, twelve) people I had used up all my material and failed to elicit any reaction whatsoever.

Perfectly aware that I was floundering badly, I decided the time and place was right for my drug-smuggling gag and began explaining to the assembled smattering how difficult it is to swallow a condom full of cocaine. Ever the professional, I had brought a condom full of flour along with me to aid my demonstration. No sooner had I begun to gag involuntarily, than a quarter of my public (three middle-aged battle axes) decided they’d seen enough, left their seats and complained vociferously to the beleaguered Arts Week organiser that they’d never since such disgraceful carry-on in all their lives. After seven minutes I was ordered off the stage in disgrace, still retching like a scurvy dog.

As compere Dara O’Briain struggled to retrieve the situation, I made my way towards Eddie Bannon, the other act of the evening, in dire need of some kind words of consolation, a stiff drink and a slap on the back to dislodge the fucking condom which was now lodged firmly in my throat. Needless to say, the bollocks was too busy laughing to offer any of the above and instead, had this to say: “In case there’s any doubt in your mind, Barry, that was a death!”

THE GROUPIES

What groupies?

THE HECKLES

Ah, the heckles. Good heckles are as rare as hen’s teeth, but my most recent weekend stint at the Laughter Lounge yielded a couple of crackers. On the Friday night, at a corporate gig, a drunken front-row wag interrupted my set to announce to all and sundry that the girl sitting beside him wasn’t wearing any underwear. Not wishing to entertain his fantasies, I made little of it, but he was insistent. So, with my curiosity (and nothing else) well and truly aroused, I lay down on the stage and had a look. Without so much as batting an eyelid, the young lady in question uncrossed her legs to reveal that her colleague was actually telling the truth.

The following night, I was assaulted by another verbal terrorist. I had just mentioned that I hail from Birr, in Co. Offaly, when a bloke about three rows back roared “Yeah, you used to work in Bridge’s garage!”

Agog at the clinical accuracy of this interruption, I looked into the crowd and identified, but didn’t recognise the source of the heckle. However, as soon as I’d provided the obligatory explanation about my boyhood career as a petrol pump attendant, he started shouting out the names of various teachers I’d had as a child, as well as a barrage of other Birr-related trivia. It was a long, but surprisingly amusing, night.

WEIRD SHIT I’VE EXPERIENCED

• After what I perceived to be a stormer of a gig in City Limits, Cork, I was approached by an extremely attractive young lady in the post-comedy club disco and asked to dance. Happy to oblige, my raging stiffy subsided considerably when she proceeded to tell me, at length, exactly why I was the worst comedian she had ever seen.

• Less than 10 minutes later, I was accosted by another extremely irate punter who vented his spleen about the lack of coverage afforded to Depeche Mode in Hot Press.

• Playing pitch and toss for pound coins with Dylan Moran and Jason Byrne outside the Gilded Balloon in Edinburgh at 5am, in order to kill the hour before the Penny Black pub opened.

• Being asked for my autograph by a small boy on Edinburgh’s Golden Mile. When I asked him who he thought I was, his father explained that he had mistaken me for somebody who played for Hearts. I might be crap at football but I’m not that bad.

• Convincing a radio interviewer that I had “got into” comedy by completing a degree course in stand-up in University College Dublin.

• Going on the piss with Johnny Vegas.

• Ringing an English comedy club for the very first time, to enquire about the possibility of getting an open spot and being asked to send them a CV. Seeing as this happened less than a week ago, I don’t think I’ll be challenging for the Perrier Award just yet.

Actually, to be honest, my primary concern at the moment is that my ‘E’ grade in Economics in the Leaving Cert will stand against me when and if I attempt to break on to the London circuit.

My name’s Barry Glendenning, you’ve been great, enjoy the rest of the magazine and goodnight!

• Barry Glendenning plays The Corduroy Comedy Club at The Norseman, Temple Bar on Thurs 6th August; Milano Restaurant on Sun 9th August and The Mad Cow Comedy Club, at the International Bar on Thurs 6th and 20th August.