Life and Laughing_ My Story - Michael McIntyre [96]
I had developed about ten minutes of material that was working at the Laughing Club week in, week out. My year-long wait for my open spot at Jongleurs Camden was now nearly over, and I was well prepared. When I had played the Comedy Store the previous year with such mixed fortunes, I was so raw, I had no idea what I was doing. Now I had an act. I had jokes that I had performed every week for months, and they worked. I felt confident this time. I called them to confirm my booking, on my Dial-a-Mobile Nokia 3310 off-peak using my free minutes, and to my horror they told me they had given my spot to someone else.
‘Why?’ I asked frantically, having waited a year.
‘We didn’t have your number,’ the lady from Jongleurs said.
‘That’s because I’ve changed phone. Unfortunately I couldn’t keep my old number with my new Nokia 3310, but I did get free weekend calls, 400 free minutes per month and a free in-car charger. I need this open spot – I’ve been waiting a year for it.’
‘We tried for ages to get hold of you,’ she said nicely, ‘but nobody knows who you are. Nobody has ever heard of you. We presumed you weren’t doing stand-up any more. I’ll see what I can do.’
She was lovely and squeezed me back on to the bill. The incident made me more determined. I had no standing in the industry whatsoever. Over a year had passed since my first gig, and nobody knew who I was.
It was Saturday night, the best night of the week for comedy. Friday nights can be a bit rowdy, the audience have been working all week and tend to drink too much. But on a Saturday night people are relaxed and in a good mood. I was too. I had been getting laughs with my jokes from an audience of about fifty people in my Twickenham club. Now I had an audience of five times that, so I figured I should get five times the number of laughs. This was simple mathematics, a welcome change from working out how much petrol I had in the car.
I was due on in the second half, so I settled back and watched the acts in the first half. These were well-known circuit comics who made a decent living from stand-up. Watching them gave me more confidence. They were getting a terrific response, but I felt that my jokes were just as good.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Michael McIntyre.’ I strode purposefully on to the stage hell-bent on making sure that in ten minutes’ time Jongleurs wouldn’t have to phone around to find out who I was.
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t want any trouble here tonight, I’m not hard, I don’t have the accent for it. When I try to sound threatening it sounds more humiliating, I said, hamming up my posh accent. ‘Come on then, if you think you’re hard enough.’ It sounds more like a homosexual invitation.‘You, me, outside now … it’s a lovely evening, let’s take this alfresco on the veranda. Do you want some? Do you want some? … Nibbles, they’re divine.’
Comedians have traditionally made jokes about the Irish, saying they’re stupid, and I would like to say that I totally disagree with this. I’ve been to Ireland, I’ve met a lot of Irish people, I found them charming and wise. Although you can’t ignore all the evidence. The fact is they live on an island and called it Island and then spelled it wrong.
I had an amazing gig, much better than at the Comedy Store, by far the best gig I’d had so far. It was exhilarating; the audience erupted when I left the stage. I was walking on air when I returned to the tiny, quite grubby dressing room. Before I could catch my breath, the door burst open and a confident, stocky man with a hint of a Welsh accent cornered me. ‘You were good, you were really good, I think you could be the best there is. The very best, that’s how good I thought you were. Do you understand what I’m saying? You could be outstanding, unbelievably good.’
He thrust a card in my direction. It read: ‘Paul Duddridge, Artist Management’. He