I realised I was in trouble when Sean Hughes asked me what kind of routine I had planned. We had just finished an interview and I was informing him of an editorial plot which was afoot in Trinity Street. I was to try my hand as a stand-up comedian. “So what kind of humour will you be doing?” he had asked curiously, contriving to ruin what had been a delectable lunch. I had no answer for him. He was aghast.

For an instant, I was transported back to the scene of my harrowing interview for a trainee management position in Dunne’s Stores. “Why do you want to work for Dunne’s?” the decidedly vapid interviewer had enquired. “Because, eh, Dunne’s Stores better value beats them all?” I had suggested shamelessly, neglecting to mention that this was my dole officer’s idea and that I didn’t want to work for them at all.

Displaying a sharpness of wit unbecoming of one so dull she cunningly rephrased her question. “No, really, why do you want to work for Dunnes?” Aware that a simple “SO I can wear grey suits and be badgered by old ladies for the rest of my life,” would suffice, but unable to feign the necessary enthusiasm, I was promptly shown the door. Now, face to face with one of my favourite comedians I was under the spotlight again.

“Em, eh… ehh, I haven’t really thought about it yet,” I cringed in answer to Sean’s query. “Ah you must have thought it out,” he countered. “Go for the clever observational stuff, but not about mundane things. And remember to be yourself. If you’re really relaxed on stage it relaxes your audience. If you become tense, trying to be someone you’re not, they’ll feel it too. And tranquillisers, I recommend them too. They’re very good to give you that ‘I don’t give a fuck’ edge. If you take loads of them you can come off stage and say ‘Hey, I died on my arse, but at least I’m stoned’.

“Seriously though, whatever you do, don’t get pissed before the show, just have a pint to calm your nerves. It does help, although I remember the first time I played the Comedy Store in London I was so nervous I puked up before I went on. I was a wreck. God, I’m really beginning to feel for you now, when are you doing this anyway?”

I didn’t know. It had all started a couple of weeks previously at a Hot Press editorial meeting. We had been engaged in the usual end-of-meeting parley. The ‘Wouldn’t it be gas if…’ stage. “Wouldn’t it be gas if we got jack Charlton and Brendan Behan’s two brothers Dominic and Brian around a table to discuss the issues of the day” a wag might opine. “Explain yourself man,” our editor would bark. “We have a magazine to put out and our readers have little interest in such frippery.” “Well, we could do a feature on it, and use the headline Jack & The Behans Talk,” would come the mirth-inducing reply. At this particular gathering, I had made a suggestion of my own. The mercurial rise in popularity of the Irish comedy scene was under discussion and a thought had occurred to me,. “Wouldn’t it be gas…” I suggested, “…if someone from Hot Press actually did a stand-up comedy routine? They could do it in the Comedy Cellar, and then write a descriptive account of the trauma it involved.” A shroud of silence descended upon the room as my colleagues ruminated. “That’s actually a great idea,” expounded a man we will call Liam Mackey, for that is his name. “Will you do it?”

Aghast that I hadn’t suggested a feature on escort agencies which would necessitate a week of thorough research in Dublin’s carnal underbelly, I bashfully announced that such a task was beyond me. Sensitive to my shy nature, the subject was abruptly closed by the gaffer, Niall Stokes. “You can and you will,” he announced. “Get working on it” The stage had been set i had made my own comedic bed.

If I was to become a comedian, I would need a routine and having been a comedy anorak for many years now, I was confident I could deliver the goods without resorting to plagiarism. But this would take time, thus enabling Mr. Stokes to forget about the whole exercise. My bacon, along with my dignity, would be saved. Our editor’s planned holiday would heighten his amnesia, an added bonus, or so I thought. I was wrong.

Assuming the editorial reins, the two Liams, Mackey and Fay, wallowed in my obvious discomfort, gleefully requesting progress reports on a daily basis. I had made no progress, having decided that this was not the job for me. My desire to go down in flames in the International Bar was on a par with my desire to embrace a career in the heady world of retail management. Inducing mirth among large groups of strangers has never been difficult for me, but this was different. I would be doing it deliberately, a feat which would require more than just foolishness. Falling down the stairs of a bus is easy, it happens to the best of us. Stand-up comedy however, requires courage, wit and certain thespian skills. Just as it is with the expectant mother, for the stand-up comic, timing and delivery is everything.

The Liams ensured there would be no evasion. Mackeyavelli’s tenacious use of flattery, blackmail and guile in the following days made this abundantly clear. Fay was equally unreasonable, citing the erroneous logic only a man who climbs holy mountains for kicks could spout. “You can’t lose,” he argued, full of journalistic vigour after his latest religious pilgrimage. “Even if you’re crap it’ll make for a much better article.” A date was set, it was left to me to book a five-minute open spot at either Wednesday night’s Comedy Cellar, or Thursday’s Mad Cow Comedy Club. Both clubs are in the International Bar. I agreed that I would do it on the Thursday, knowing that in a relatively new club, there would be less chance of a full house. I had a week to throw up a good evasive excuse. Seven days later, at the next editorial gathering, I was asked if I was suitably prepared for the night’s ribaldry. “Well I met Eddie Bannon, the bloke who runs the Mad Cow Comedy Club, the other night,” I lied with considerable aplomb. “And he said they couldn’t fit me in until next Thursday. Anyway, because of my endeavours in other pursuits, not least my Herculean work with the Legion of Mary, I have had no time to prepare.” “Well, next Thursday it is then,” replied both Liams with editorial vision and zeal. “And you better bloody do it this time!”

Resigned to my fate, I applied myself to the task in hand and presented the script of my routine to Mackeyavelli the following Wednesday morning Sean Hughes had kindly donated one gag, a witty quip concerning pornography which he is currently touting on his Australian tour. Using this as a foundation, I had built my act. Although largely my own work, certain influences were evident. I had opted for the Frank Skinner approach: laddish banter, liberally sprinkled with obscenities and lewd innuendo but chucklesome nonetheless. Poring over it, Mackeyavelli seemed to agree.

As he doubled over his desk, shaking involuntarily, I felt a surge of relief. I had never doubted my own abilities, but this was particularly heartening. Fishing for compliments and anxious for reassurance from my comedy guru, I asked him for his opinion. As he looked up, it struck me that something was amiss. His glazed expression, and leering grin spoke volumes. These were not tears of mirth. This was the delirious cackle of a man on the edge. A man who had realised that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

“This is fucking awful!” he yowled like a feral Tom. “Not only is it not funny, it’s sexist, racist and homophobic,” or words to that effect. He had a point. Perusing my script once again, I realised he was right. Over the course of six days I had become Bernard Manning, except with fewer chins. |f it’s any consolation,” he continued, aware of my acute embarrassment, “the line about the Readers’ Wives section of porno mags putting you off marriage as well as sex is good.”

“Marvellous,” I responded, an angry and chastened young man. “At least Sean Hughes can be proud.”

The next morning, Thursday, I was restless, irritable and sick with nerves. My career as a comic was descending into farce, a comedy of errors. I was to make my debut as a stand-up that night, and I still had bugger-all material. The previous evening, out of sheer desperation, I had watched my Steve Coogan Live ‘n’ Lewd video, and “borrowed” some waggish japes. If no-one in my audience was familiar with the aforementioned show I’d be laughing. Of course, if any member of the crowd was as trainspotterish as me, I was in trouble, but I still needed to make up five minutes and the rest had to be vaguely original. I had ten hours to become familiar with my routine, and 60% of it didn’t exist yet. This was no way to prepare for such a momentous occasion.

There was also the small matter of booking my open spot. All week I had been misleading Mackeyavelli with fabricated tales of a nationwide comedy tour which meant that most of Dublin’s comedians were indisposed. “How could I ring them,” I protested, “if I didn’t know where they were?” Having procured Eddie Bannon’s telephone number from the International Bar, Mackeyavelli rang him. Eddie wasn’t in, but his accursed answering machine was. That afternoon he returned the call and Liam filled him in.

Eddie reckoned arranging an open spot wouldn’t be a problem, but recommended that I wait a fortnight when there would be one available at the Comedy Cellar. After all, it would be far easier for a beginner at a more established club. This was the news i wanted to hear. Mackey, the bollocks, was having one of it. Eddie said that he wouldn’t be compereing, but agreed to ring Joe rooney who was. Joe – the Quack Squad, Father Darno in Father Ted – wouldn’t mind. Ten minutes later Eddie rang back; it was all arranged. This was not the news I wanted to hear. “Enjoy it,” he advised, blissfully unaware that now the writing was on the wall I was genuinely close to tears. “You’ll do fine.”

By this time, I had scoured some back issues of Hot Press, and culled a few celebrated Liam Fay one-liners. Liam eile, by now genuinely concerned for my mental health, touchingly suggested that I devote a section of my act to daft newspaper headlines. He agreed to provide the necessary material. Three drafts later, at 6pm, we had between us the semblance of a routine that on paper at least, seemed vaguely amusing. I had three hours to learn it. Soon after, Joe Rooney called. Alex Lyons would be compering, but if I explained what I was doing, MC Alex would gladly accommodate me. As he wished me luck, I could only marvel at the philanthropy of Dublin’s funny men. One by one, they were outdoing each other in their attempts to help me. The bastards.

I have whiled away many happy hours in the International Bar. A haven for the Hot Press employee, its barmen purvey more than mere libation. Their friendly chitter chat makes it a home away from home, a cosy refuge amidst the urban cesspit that is Dublin town. Tonight, in a mere five minutes, I would exclude myself from the warmth of its beer and peanut saturated bosom.

I have seen comedians die on stage before, it’s not pretty sight. They open with their bankers, the lines they know will get laughs. Except they don’t. With a puzzled frown, the comic soldiers on, but nothing happens. Gag after gag is greeted by stony silence, until finally, someone breaks the monotony. “Gerroffff, you’re shit!” What can you do? Carry on, pretending you don’t care, or leave the stage, painfully aware of the sound of your own footsteps.

When a comedian dies, no-one wants to be near them. No-one talks to them, or looks them in the eye. The level of humiliation is frightening. It is reckoned the guts of 5,000 people have done open spots on the London circuit; fewer than a fifth have tried it twice. Most people have a morbid dread of addressing a crowd, but the comedian has to do it and be funny as well. Eddie Izzard, who admits he has developed a thick skin to “the humiliation of being crap” summed it up perfectly when he explained, “When you’re doing a crap gig you’re not a comedian anymore, you’re just someone talking words at people.”

These were just a few of the morbid thoughts I was entertaining 90 minutes before my first gig. Sipping my pint, Sean Hughes’ recommended dosage, I was disinclined to join in the conversation of my two colleagues. It had been decided that the Hot Press staff would steer a wide berth of the gig. Mr. Mackey had assumed that their laughter would ease my rite of passage. A few were devastated, realising the rotten fruit they had purchased earlier was non-returnable. Jonathan O’Brien was present however to review my performance, while Patria from advertising was there too, purely for the liquor. The boy Mackey had left the office early on some flimsy pretext, muttering something about sticking his head around the door later “to see how you got on”. I was wise to his caper. He had got me into this mess, and guilt was getting the better of him. A sunshine guru, he had no wish to share in my disgrace. Draining my glass, I made for the bar, ever wary of Sean Hughes’ advice. Showing unprecedented self discipline, I refrained from ordering a second pint. I had a treble vodka instead.

At 8.45 I made my way upstairs to the main bar to see who I cold see. Dermot carmody, a founder member of the Comedy Cellar was sitting at the bar looking frustratingly calm. His relaxed demeanour suggested that he too was on the bill. He was. I informed him of my plans and we adjourned to the Cellar where he introduced me to the MC for the night, Alex Lyons, and the first act, Bob Reilly. As MC, Alex had the most unenviable task, warming up the audience, and keeping them amused between acts. The straightforwardness of his job depended on the competence of the acts he introduced. He had little to fear from Dermot or Bob. I was a different kettle of fish. It was decided, as is traditional, that I would perform my open spot after the interval. An audience which has attended to its ablutions and been watered at the bar is a happy audience. And even if I went down in flames, they still had Dermot Carmody to look forward to.

As Alex opened the show to a reasonably full house, I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was terrified, more afraid than I had ever been before. Sensing my unease, Dermot Carmody imparted some sage-like wisdom which I will take to the grave. “You’re right to be worried,” he deadpanned. “This is really, really difficult. It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do.” At last, an honest comedian. Across the room, Bob was looking peaky. I would have felt for him if I hadn’t been so numb. A newcomer with considerable experience, he was milling through the fags at a rate of knots. Within seconds he was on.

I have no idea how he fared. I spent his entire gig in the jacks. Within seconds of him taking the stage I had my first ever anxiety attack. Nothing has ever concerned me sufficiently to induce one at any point in the last 23 years, but there was no mistaking this psychological onslaught. The uncontrollable trembling was intensified by waves of nausea. Rivers of sweat pored down my back. I stumbled towards the ultimate place of refuge, the bog.

It’s said that the fear of death is worse than death itself. I certainly hope so. To my eternal credit, I didn’t throw up. Some deep breaths and a perusal of my script eased the pain slightly, but took 15 minutes to convince myself that “I’ll be grand, I’ll be grand”. Not bad considering I was sitting on a toilet talking to myself with my trousers still firmly around my waist. Anyone privy to such a spectacle would not have shared my optimism. Having regained my composure, I returned to the Cellar shortly before the interval. Bob had finished, I believe he did well, and Alex was back on stage.

During the break Liam Mackey arrived. When he discovered I hadn’t been on yet, he adopted a similar countenance to that which had greeted my original script. As he took a seat beside the other two Hot Pressers they assumed the brass monkey position, except all three shielded their eyes. Shortly afterwards, I was introduced.

To my amazement and relief, the agony ended as soon as I got onstage. Alex had ensured that I got an effusive welcome by informing the crowd that I was a comedy greenhorn.

I opened with a Cooganism, “Hi, hello, that Alex Lyons was great. I pissed myself when he was on… I didn’t laugh. I was so nervous I just pissed myself.” My fate would be decided by whatever happened next.

Thankfully, everyone laughed heartily. Relieved to discover that I was not performing for the annual outing of the SCAS (Steve Coogan Appreciation Society) I spoke briefly about my expensive red shirt, “it’s actually white, it just gets embarrassed in front of crowds.” As ever, there wa no microphone on the stage of the Comedy Cellar, “No-one prepared me for an unplugged gig,” I whinged. “Imagine that, my first ever set and it’s acoustic.” So far I was playing a blinder.

Then I went blank. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what I had planned to talk about next and as I teetered on the brink of marginal success and abject failure, I was obliged to resort to the cog note I had cunningly concealed in the palm of my hand. Thankfully, by incorporating it into my act I made my incompetence seem ‘funny ha ha’, as opposed to ‘not funny gerroff!’.

Having regaled the audience with tales of rural life, I decided it was time to unleash my banker. I had been talking about marriage, and the time was right for a Fayism. “As Andrew Strong’s parents know only too well,” I expounded confidently, quoting liberally from the text of Liam’s latest Hot Press epic, “Marriage involves making a massive commitment”. For a split second, the silence was deafening, only to be interrupted by raucous laughter. This was indeed, a Fay-tal attraction.

The lengthy applause which followed was exhilarating, even if it wasn’t my line. I maintained the momentum by following Sean Hughes’ advice and being myself, a lanky git from the Midlands sporting a tremendously sexy red shirt. Involuntary bouts of amnesia forced me to consistently veer away from my ill prepared routine, but some fervent arm flapping and occasional ad libbery kept me going until the end. It was with no small measure of relief that I left the stage. The agony was over. I had enjoyed myself. I was still alive.

While the reaction to my first full international appearance was generally very positive, I will have to think long and hard before making another one. Of the five or six minutes I performed, approximately half was stolen. To paraphrase Samuel Johnson, “My material was both good and original. Unfortunately, the parts that were good were not original, while those that were original were not good.” Having immersed myself in the stand-up experience, my respect for those who rely on it as a means for survival has scaled new heights. Success is exhilarating, but the constant fear of failure and the public humiliation which accompanies it is ever present.

As my friend Steve Coogan is wont to say “Comedy is like the clap, you either have it or you don’t”. I have decided that I don’t. I would have little chance of making it as a comic. I wouldn’t like it, and I wouldn’t be good enough. The initial euphoria of my ripsnorting Thursday night gig didn’t last long; Dermot Carmody’s brilliant set soon dispelled my delusions of grandeur.

Still, I have stood up to be counted and can now return to the safety, comfort and anonymity of the place I know best: the audience.