MY JONGLEURS open-spot was about as funny as a car crash involving a drunk driver fumbling for a missing cigarette lighter, a pregnant mother of nine and a pair of newly-weds on their way to the airport for their honeymoon, in which everybody dies roaring except one of the recently betrothed, who is forced to make do with serious burns and the grim prospect of being horrifically scarred for life.
It didn t go well then, Barry? I hear you say. No, not quite as well as I expected.
It did, however, go quiet, as my comedic guru Matthew Hardy expected, and such were the convulsions of laughter which wracked his angular Antipodean frame as I related the sorry chain of events that occurred in Jongleurs, Battersea on Friday 13th August 1999 (I should have known, really!) to him the following day, that I was consumed by an overwhelming desire to give him a good hard knee down under.
I knew it, mate! I knew you d fuck it up! he chortled with unfettered glee, as I catalogued the myriad disasters which constituted the most hellish seven minutes of stand-up comedy which I have ever had the dubious honour of performing. In short, things started badly and went quickly downhill.
I arrived in the company of three friends, each of who could be said to like a drink , and each of who quickly set about devouring the entire contents of the Jongleurs bar. The considerable gusto with which they undertook this task stemmed from the fact that they had arrived with the express intention of paying in, but because the House Full signs were lit up, they had been invited in by the kindly manager to watch from the back , thus making a personal saving of #13 (that number, again!) a head.
It was a cause of grave concern to me that this unexpected windfall would pay for the booze that would tip them over the edge, and thereby result in them running amok. As it happened, they didn t misbehave at all, but I have since decided that the gnawing doubt and unease which dogged me for the ensuing two hours was a minor contributing factor to my unfortunate demise. After all, what are straws there for, if not to be clutched at?
My slot, before a crowd of 300 (a tad larger than the Comedy Cellar, smaller than the Laughter Lounge) was immediately after the interval, and by the time I took to the stage I was, inexplicably, a bag of nerves. Although a few comics of my acquaintance have been known to throw up before performances, general edginess is usually as bad as it gets for me. This time, though, I appear to have decided that my entire future depended on this one little slot. Needless to say, like Newcastle United, I was shit and I knew I was. Why? God knows.
Having contained his mirth, Hardy quickly disabused me of this particular notion: The reason I m laughing, mate, is because I knew it d happen. You just seemed so confident that I actually thought you might pull it off. I died the first time I played Jongleurs, my mate Jim Tavare died the first time he played Jongleurs and if you want, I can name ten other circuit regulars who died on their holes the first time they played there.
I can only say that I am proud to have taken my rightful place on the ensuing Roll of Shame I m up there with some of the funniest stand-up comedians I have ever seen: Jim Tavare, Matthew Hardy, 10 others and then me, at no. 13. It s a good job I m not superstitious.
A couple of days later I did another set in a small West End club in front of about 35 punters. Needless to say, Sod s Law decreed that I stormed it. Life is good. Again. n