THIS FORTNIGHT finds me in buoyant form, hanging 11 (hey daddy-o, get down with those kids) on the crest of a comedy wave. It's the morning after the night before and my spine still tingles with the memory of my finest hour as a stand-up comedian.
In the business they call Show, sometimes you have good nights, sometimes you have bad nights and once in a while, you rawk. An early zinger always helps; some unscripted oneliner which supplements what is technically known as "the usual auld shite" and brings the house down. You're surprised by its magnificence; they appreciate it, applaud and beg for more. You oblige because you're on a roll and your confidence has never been higher. Everything you touch turns to gold and the gig goes way beyond your loftiest expectations: an appreciative throng hangs on your every utterance and you finish your performance safe in the knowledge that you're the funniest man alive.
Of course you're not, but while grateful punters slap your back and shake you by the hand, you allow yourself to believe it. For one performance only: Mr Saturday Night.
Last night was my Saturday Night. The venue was on my home turf of Clapham, in a plush auditorium, similar to Dublin's Laughter Lounge. The support act was lamentable, a real let-down, which automatically made my task easier. Thus it was that, as the credits rolled at the conclusion of The Blair Witch Project in my local cinema, I knew my time had come. This was my moment. This was my perfect moment.
Anyone who has been to see this unlikely blockbuster will be aware that at its conclusion, the screen goes blank before the credits roll. It is at this point that a noticeable hush of indeterminate length descends upon those who have just seen the film. Nobody leaves their seats, choosing instead to stay put and ruminate on what they've just borne witness to. You can almost read their minds: "Fuck me, that was shite! They spent $25,000 dollars and that's the best they could come up with. Jayzus! All the reviews I've read suggested that it's the scariest movie ever made. Scary? That guff? I've experienced more chilling suspense watching Beadle's About. But wait. Was it really that bad or am I just thick? Maybe there was some profound allegorical theme that I let bypass me completely? Should I just pretend I thought it was great so as not to lose face with my friends, or do I admit that I thought it was the most criminally over-rated load of pap ever to duplicitously spoof its way onto the big screen. I'll look really stupid if I sing its praises and they all laugh at me because it was obviously complete rubbish. Then again, if I say it was a turkey and they all think it's a masterpiece, I'll look like an even bigger eejit. Oh God, what'll I say? Decisions, decisions."
Someone had to take matters in hand and break the deafening silence of hundreds of opinions being fabricated. With fortuitous split second precision, I seized the day. "Well," I declared rather matter-of-factly. "That was a load of bollocks!"
For a nano-second, nothing. For the first time that night my bowels loosened with terror as my two friends turned and looked at me quizzically . . . before exploding with mirth. To my utter disbelief, everyone in the auditorium followed suit and then applauded. I stood up, faced my public and, grinning like an idiot, took a bow. I had realised a long-held ambition at the first time of asking: making a cinema audience laugh with a witty movie-related quip. Never in my wildest dreams did I think something as straightforward as "Well, that was a load of bollocks!" would do the trick.
As an addendum, I should add that my mates and I have since hatched a plan that is weasel-esque in its cunning. Bitter at being duped by the proverbial hype, our scheme involves procuring one of those electronic boards that fourth officials use at football matches to indicate how many minutes of injury time are to be played at the end of each half.
We will then sit in the front row of a cinema that is showing The Blair Witch Project and at a late stage, one of us will parade, board in hand, in front of the screen providing much needed comic relief for the few punters that are still awake. Comic, because at that stage they'll laugh at anything. Relief, because the board will read "03". At the movie's conclusion, I will deliver my stinging, rabble-rousing critique, and then, as I bask in the applause of fellow cinema-goers, my mates will pass around a hat collecting spare change.
I have seen the future and it is interactive, low budget, multi-media, sit-down, stand-up comedy. n