Notes from a comedy junkie

Performing comedy is akin to taking drugs. Taking drugs is also akin to... taking drugs, ergo, it is quite obvious that since comedy performance began, there has been a strong link between the comedian and the world of drugs.
In Pre-Elizabethan times, court jesters were famous for taking sprak – a drug sourced from the now unfashionable thistle plant. In one legendary episode, famed court jester Percy the Ridiculous took an overdose of sprak just before going on to entertain King Henry IIX in 1541. Up until that fateful night Percy had been King Henry’s favourite comedian with his mixture of bawdy ballads, lively lute playing and witty wordplay. Given his penchant for serial marriages, King Henry especially loved Percy’s catch-phrase, ‘Take my wife-please’, which, as Hoot Press readers over the age of 50 will know, was stolen 450 years later by famed 1970s Lancashire comic Les Dawson.
But back to King Henry’s court. In an incident still referred to in obscure historical tomes and the odd demented blog, the heavily stoned Percy was eventually dragged onstage in front of the increasingly impatient monarch. An inarticulate and giggly Percy, after four minutes trying to locate his lute, finally broke away from his usual routine and started to perform the very first drug-related material in the history of stand-up comedy. “If the front of a castle is your body ma’an, well then the drawbridge is like your dick ma’an.” Silence descended on the spacious dining hall. Not a titter. The gathering looked over anxiously at King Henry. He looked ahead baffled. Percy laughed hysterically. “I’ve had a bit of sprak ma’an, Sorry. I’m a bit off my head.” Half-an-hour later, while Percy waited to be beheaded in the Tower of London, he deeply regretted using that particular choice of words, as it had lead King Henry to stand up and shout to much grovelling applause and laughter, “Surely you mean – off with your head!”
Yes. Comedians and drugs. It always leads to death. Either the physical sort like poor Percy, or else the slow dawning onstage realisation that no-one-is-laughing-at-your-jokes sort of death. I speak from experience as a former stand-up comedian who, in London in 1996, acutely depressed about getting no gigs, had developed a serious drug problem – I couldn’t afford them. I wanted them. I wanted to get out of my face. I wanted to forget my reality. But where could I get my hands on them? Out of desperation I broke one of my cardinal rules – I actually made friends with another comedian on the circuit. Comedians never make friends with each other, or if they do they only pretend they do so whilst secretly hating each other. Because (speaking of drugs) a life in comedy is more competitive than the Olympics 100 metres final.
Anyway, desperate to partake in this dangerous snorty needle netherworld, I started hooking up with Z. (Z is not his real first initial just in case fans of Zachariah Burgess – obscure and justly neglected London-based comedian originally from Mallow – think I’m referring to him). Me and Z started taking E. And some blow. And some ‘caine. Ok, I hadn’t got the lingo down pat just yet but I was feeling hip, confident, and a bit of a world-beater. This new confidence gave me the brio to constantly ring venue owners and wangle gigs. Suddenly, I had work lined up. Again. Now, all I had to do was be funny. Again. Forget again. Just once. Be funny once. That’s all I asked. Be funny once.
My first newly arranged gig was in a place called ‘The Comedy Hole’ in East Croydon. I thought about a new approach. Since artificial stimulants were helping me in the day-to-day business of my career, I reasoned that maybe they’d help me in the actual execution of my career, ie. improve my improv. Look at George Carlin, Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor et al. Funny guys. The drugs helped open their minds to a new comedy frontier. Okay, with Lenny Bruce it became the final frontier, and Richard Pryor had that unfortunate freebasing accident in 1982 (by this stage my lingo had become flawless) – but in the greater scheme of things it didn’t seem to do their careers any harm. Anyway, as the famous, sadly now deceased, American beat-humourist and Dutch clogs fetishist Spiro Cotter once said – “Better to be a dead funny fucker than a live unfunny fucker.”
The night of the gig I dropped a few Es. On the ground. Outside the venue. They were my last Es. I went to pick them up but a one-eyed, three-legged stray poodle had got to them first. He’d have an unforgettable night. He’d be the funniest canine, or feel like the funniest canine in Croydon – but what about me? I had to score some blow. Soon. I was on in twenty minutes.
Fifteen of those minutes were spent standing at the back door of the bar, outside the Gents, looking shifty, trying to attract the attention of various single men and getting punched. I came to the conclusion that this strategy wasn’t working and was causing an unnecessary loss of blood.
Three minutes to go. I was saved. She was gorgeous. An all-purpose comedy groupie. Blonde. Leather. Breasts like bowling balls. Skin-coloured bowling balls. Obviously. And without the holes. She was in love with anything to do with comedy and anybody doing comedy. She recognised me from a photo in Time Out from 1989 and asked me did I want to do a line. In my pre-lingo days and being from Galway I’d have thought she was suggesting we go steady, have a bit of relationship, maybe get married, have a couple of kids, who knows where it’ll take us, but in my new found level of narcotic sophistication I knew exactly what she meant.
We retired to the Ladies. She locked the door of the cubicle from the inside. She put a line of cocaine on the rim of the loo. This was seedy, authentic, on-the-edge living, I thought. But not very hygienic. She snorted a line. She arranged a line for me. Suddenly I heard my name being called. The MC had announced me. I had to go. I half-snorted some of the powder, got up, unlocked the cubicle and somehow found myself on stage. I started my act. After two minutes I realised the drugs weren’t opening any new comedy frontier. It was the same old comedy frontier only much less coherent. My death was slow and painful. Another night as a ‘live unfunny fucker.’