Not A Leg To Stand On

IN RAT Pack Confidential, his immensely entertaining analysis of the bacchanalian rites of Frank Sinatra s showbiz pals summit in early 60s Vegas, Shawn Levy tells a story about stand-up comedian Joey Bishop, one of the lesser known rodents on the famous Sands Hotel bill which comprised such showbiz luminaries as Ol Blue Eyes, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr and Peter Lawford.
His [Bishop s] biggest successes had come in front of showbiz crowds, recalls Levy. He played a star-studded benefit at which Danny Thomas killed for nearly an hour while backstage the other comics huddled in fright no one had the balls to go on next; Joey volunteered; he grabbed his overcoat, folded it over his arm, walked up to the mike, muttered, Folks, what he said goes for me, too, and walked offstage to a roar.
There probably isn t a comedian alive who hasn t experienced such terror. You re on next, the act before you is delivering what is clearly the set of their lives and you re laughing ostentatiously while inwardly cussing them through gritted teeth. How do you follow that? And while one comedian does not a huddle constitute, last night I certainly had The Fear.
I was closing the show in Hammersmith s Cosmic Comedy Club, and when the preceding act, a young newcomer, took the stage, a palpable wave of discomfort washed over the 200 strong crowd. Clearly handicapped by one of those afflictions such as Parkinson s Disease, that makes you shake uncontrollably, the young lady was introduced, helped onto the stage and given a chair to lean against for balance. Throughout this ritual, there was much fidgeting and uneasy shifting of bums on seats, as the audience waited nervously, dreading whatever sad humiliation that was about to unfold.
She began, and despite an obvious speech impediment, it wasn t difficult to make out what she was saying: I don t think I d make a good master criminal, she declared. For starters, if I was robbing a bank I d need a disabled parking space for my getaway car. A few bashful giggles from assorted quarters. And as for credit card fraud . . . well, I can t even get my own signature to look the same twice, never mind forge somebody else s.
Throughout the room, people looked at each other, looked at her, looked at each other again and exploded with mirth. She continued: I sat my driving test the other day and you wouldn t believe how nervous . . . (long pause) . . . the guy who was testing me was. He failed me before we even got into the car because I wasn t able to sign the necessary forms.
And so on: inspired gag after inspired self-deprecating gag that had the audience in stitches. There wasn t a hint of patronisation, she was brilliant. She left the stage to a roar, followed by a lengthy ovation. Next up: yours truly.
From the moment she d taken the stage to the end of her short slot I d run the full gamut of emotions: condescending pity ( Oh, the poor thing! ); surprise ( Is she mad? ); fear ( No really, is she mad? ); relief ( Oh, that was funny! ); trepidation ( So was that! ); annoyance ( That was a bit too funny ); anger ( Okay, we know you re disabled, stop milking it! ) and terror ( Oh Jaysus, give me a fucking chance you wobbly bitch! ).
Then, the compere: Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for the last act? I think we all know he s got a bloody hard act to follow and I don t envy him one little bit . . . he s all the way from Ireland and we know how funny those boys can be! Put your hands together and welcome Barry Glendenning!
What a bastard! Not content with making me compete against the infirm, I was now being asked to emulate the heroic comedy deeds of Sean Hughes, Ed Byrne, Dylan Moran and Tommy Tiernan.
You wouldn t think it to look at me, but I have cancer! is how I began my set to a tumultuous round of applause . . . every time I replayed it in my head on the train home. Sadly for me, I didn t actually think of that inspired opening gambit until I had finished my inevitably so-so show and was ambling down Fulham Palace Road to the Tube station.
I can see those reviews now: Barry Glendenning: not so much quick-witted as fuck-witted!