Last night I went to a comedy gig at a pub near where I live, a charity fundraiser for a local community garden. There were three comedians on the bill. I have forgotten the name of the first one, which is a mercy for him and for me, because it means I can slag him off with impunity. Very patchy, very smug, and lost all my goodwill with a "joke" about rape which almost exactly described the circumstances of my friend's rape, my friend who happened to also be in the audience. I think the punchline "what on earth were you wearing?" could best be described as ill-advised. Next up was
Josie Long, who was lovely: very funny, completely charming, slightly bonkers, all of which is to the good.
And then came the headliner:
Simon Amstell For the Canadians (and other foreigners, I know I get other foreigners, make my book number one in your country and I might mention you by name too), Simon Amstell is a very famous, very successful comedian in Britain, who presents a prime time BBC2 comedy show and has won awards for his stand up. He doesn't need to go to a pub and do the whole of his Edinburgh set for no money. It was clearly a big favour to the organisers, and judging by size of pub / number of punters, he'll have made thousands for them. And he was hilarious: I absolutely love him on TV, but this was better - intelligent, self-deprecating, sharp, and managed to make jokes about rape that were actually jokes and didn't offfend my friend at all. (The quality of rape jokes is not how I judge a comedian I promise, but it was an interesting point of comparison and does show what a skilled comedian Amstell is.)
And the audience were vile. It was baffling. Not the whole audience to be fair - most of us were laughing and clapping and having a great time - but the front row seemed to be entirely taken up of drunk hecklers who wouldn't stop interrupting the show, over and over again. Possibly the fact that the gig was in a tiny pub with a foot-high stage made it too intimate and people felt they could say what they liked; I was standing by the bar, about three feet from Amstell on eye level, which isn't how I usually experience comedy (except, you know, in real life conversation) and at times it did feel like we were just chattting. Chatting without me speaking though, because HE was performing and I was NOT. But it wasn't just the size of the place, because the same people didn't heckle the first two acts, not even the first one, who kind of deserved it. But they were unbelievably aggressive with Amstell. At a charity gig. Which he was doing for free. And in which he was brilliant. Why?
The comedy and heckling thing is weird. I was talking to another professional comedian recently who told me that he thinks the hecklers reckon they are helping the comedian: they heckle, he coems up with a brilliant put-down which gets the biggest laugh of the night. But comedians don't want to get their laughs from putting down hecklers, they just want to do their show. And people don't really heckle anywhere else. If you're watching a play and you come up with a witty riposte to what's going on on-stage, you don't shout it out. (Actually I went to the cinema in New York once and the audience were heckling the action, which was astonishing to me, not least because the actors on screen can't answer back.) I absolutely loathe heckling, it always spoils my night and I just wish people wouldn't do it. I have paid to see the comic, not some drunk loser in the audience. After the show Simon Amstell walked past my table and I nearly apologised to him for the audience but I didn't, because it would have been idiotic, and also because he was so good I didn't want him to think it had spoilt the night, even though, to a certain extent, it had.
The only equivalent I can think of to heckling at comedy is this bizarre notion that it is perfectly OK to talk all the way through music gigs. A while ago I went to see Jill Scott and all I can remember of the night was the long, loud conversation the two girls next to me were having about allergies. Surely if someone is performing for you it is polite to listen? And even if you are not interested in politeness, if you have paid to be there, wouldn't you want to listen? If not, you could just stay at home and listen to the CD: way cheaper.
I may officially be the Woman Who Talked Too Much but I do know when to shut up. And if any of you are coming to my reading tomorrow (Warwick, Northgate Methodist Church, 2pm, £8.50 including afternoon tea, plug fans!) and you start to heckle, watch out: I will be very cross and not in the least bit funny about it.
Last night, feeling moribund and in serious need of motivation, I went to see celebrity motivational speaker Chris John Jackson and learned about Jackson's Way, a guide to revolutionising your life by doing things which are completely pointless. And now my life is changed FOREVER!
Last night I went to a comedy gig at a pub near where I live, a charity fundraiser for a local community garden. There were three comedians on the bill. I have forgotten the name of the first one, which is a mercy for him and for me, because it means I can slag him off with impunity. Very patchy, very smug, and lost all my goodwill with a "joke" about rape which almost exactly described the circumstances of my friend's rape, my friend who happened to also be in the audience. I think the punchline "what on earth were you wearing?" could best be described as ill-advised. Next up was Josie Long, who was lovely: very funny, completely charming, slightly bonkers, all of which is to the good.
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