Sushi for Beginners - Marian Keyes [16]
‘I’ve decided to change my act, go slightly surreal. Talk about owls.’
‘Owls?’
‘Owls have worked for lots of people.’ Ted was defensive. ‘Look at Harry Hill, Kevin McAleer.’
Oh Christ. Ashling’s heart sank. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
As they left the flat there was a little pile-up in the hall as everyone sought to rub the lucky Buddha.
The comedy gig was in a packed, rowdy club. Ted wasn’t on until the middle of the show and though the proper comedians were clever and slick, Ashling couldn’t let go and enjoy herself. Too worried about how Ted would go down.
Like a lead balloon, if the performance of the other first-timer was anything to go by. He was an odd, hairy little boy whose act consisted almost entirely of ‘doing’ Beavis and Butthead. The audience were unforgiving. As they booed and shouted, ‘Get off, you’re crap,’ Ashling’s heart twisted for Ted.
Then it was Ted’s turn. Ashling and Joy clasped hands, like proud but justifiably anxious parents. Within seconds, their hands were so slippery with sweat that they had to let go.
Under the lone spotlight, Ted looked frail and vulnerable. Absently, he rubbed his stomach, lifting up his T-shirt, giving a brief glimpse of the waistband of his Calvins and his narrow, dark-haired midriff. Ashling approved. That might get the girls interested.
‘This owl walks into a bar,’ Ted started. The audience’s upturned faces were lambent with expectation. ‘He orders a pint of milk, a packet of crisps and ten smokes. And the barman turns to his friend and says, “Look at that, a talking owl.” ’
There were one or two nonplussed titters, but otherwise an expectant silence reigned. They were still waiting for the punchline.
Anxiously, Ted started into a new gag. ‘My owl has got no nose,’ he announced.
More silence. Ashling had almost gouged stigmata in her palms with tension.
‘My owl has got no nose,’ Ted repeated, laced with desperation.
Then Ashling understood. ‘How does he smell?’ she called, her voice quavering.
‘Terrible!’
The air was thick with perplexedness. People turned to their neighbours, their faces twisted into what-the-fuck… ?
And on Ted laboured. ‘I met a friend of mine and he said, “Who was that lady I saw you walking along Grafton Street with?” And I said, “That was no lady, that was my owl!” ’
And suddenly they seemed to get it. The laughter started small, but began to swell and burgeon, until the audience were in paroxysms. In fairness, it was Saturday night and they were pissed.
Behind her, Ashling heard people wheeze, ‘Your man’s hilarious. Off-the-wall, completely.’
‘What’s yellow and wise?’ Ted dazzled with a smile.
The audience were in the palm of his hand, their breath held, waiting for the gag. Ted smiled around the room. ‘Owl-infested custard!’
The roof nearly lifted.
‘What’s grey and has a trunk?’
A giddy pause.
‘An owl going on holidays. That’s a grey owl, obviously.’
There went the rafters again.
‘You’re recruiting for a job.’ Ted was on a roll and the audience were in floods of merriment. ‘You interview three owls and ask each of them what’s the capital of Rome. The first one says she doesn’t know, the second one says it’s Italy and the third one says that Rome is a capital. Which owl do you give the job to?’
‘The owl with the biggest tits!’ someone yelled from the back and once again laughter and applause rose and flapped like a flock of birds. The more established comedians, who’d only let Ted on as a favour to stop him pestering them, looked at each other anxiously.
‘Get him off,’ Bicycle Billy muttered, ‘the little bollocks.’
‘Gotta go,’ Ted ruefully told the audience as Mark Dignan made an urgent throat-cutting gesture.
‘AAAAAAWWWWWWW,’ everyone complained in bitter disappointment.
‘We’ve created a fucking monster!