Wish You Were Hear!

One of the most embarrassing experiences of my life occurred at a comedy gig in the Da Club a few years ago. Johnny Vegas was in town and Deirdre O'Kane was the supporting act. Unusually, no compere had been assigned, so when Deirdre espied me in the bar before the sold-out show, she enquired if I wouldn't mind going on and warming up the crowd a smidge before she took to the stage. It was a perfectly reasonable request and I was delighted to oblige, not least because I knew how daunting an experience it was to go on and do 20 minutes of stand-up before a stone cold crowd who had bought tickets with someone else's name on them. And I was pissed.
I duly marched on stage, removed the microphone from its stand and greeted the assembled throng with a rousing "Hello!". Well up for a quality evening's comedy entertainment, they greeted me with no shortage of gusto. Realising that the microphone wasn't switched on, I flicked the switch and began talking again, but amplification remained conspicuous by its absence. Several taps, twists, flicks, fiddles and fumbles later, the audience began getting as restless as I was flustered. Looking in the direction of where I thought the sound desk was, I enquired sarcastically if it would be too much trouble for whoever was manning it to rustle up a couple of decibels from within their box of tricks. There was no response. In fact, there was no sound engineer and I was addressing the door of the toilets.
A considerable amount of babbling later, I had travelled well down the cul de sac signposted "Comedy Death". My mouth was dry, a river of sweat was pouring down my neck and the audience was no longer comprised of individuals, but one massive multi-coloured frowning blur. A million thoughts crossed my mind simultaneously, none of them in any way helpful or lucid. "It's behind you!" shouted a disjointed voice from what was fast becoming an exasperated and angry mob. "Yeah, yeah! Behind you!" a few others agreed. "Fantastic... a pantomime!" I sneered into the still-malfunctioning mic before giving the whole thing up as a lost cause and introducing Deirdre to the kind of tepid applause last heard when Martin Luther King accidentally addressed a Klan rally. Three minutes on stage had proved ample time for me to turn an atmosphere of eager anticipation into one of simmering fury.
Smiling serenely, bless her, Deirdre picked up the dodgy equipment I'd been using, placed it a few feet behind her and substituted it with the microphone lurking at the back of the stage that I hadn't seen. Her dulcet tones were immediately broadcast through the house PA and her opening gambit of 'Good evening ladies and gentlemen!' was greeted by thunderous applause, raucous cheering, wolf whistles and stamping of feet. Scarlet of cheek and cringing with embarrassment, I sank down in my seat and wished I was dead.
I was reminded of this inauspicious exhibition of MC-ery last weekend when I featured on the bill at London's Comedy Café. I was due up first, and after sallying forth to do his thing before introducing me, the compere was heckled throughout by a gang of city boys sitting at a table in a distant corner of the 300-ish capacity room. He soldiered on valiantly, giving as good as he got, but the barrage of interruptions continued unabated. As the bouncers closed in, one of the suits scuttled towards them to announce that the PA at their end of the room weren't working and consequently, they were getting no sound for their pound. Already running well behind schedule, the manager enquired if I'd mind going on anyway and making the best of things while they attempted to fix the speakers.
"No problem, I'll be grand," I spoofed, as previously exorcised Da Club demons quickly returned to haunt me. Within seconds, I was on. A couple of experimental greetings quickly established that I was in something of a pickle. The vast width of the Comedy Cafe meant that me shouting into the microphone would result in my being barely audible to the PA-less third of the audience while causing irreparable damage to the eardrums of the rest. Realising that this wasn't a viable option, I decided to be all things to all men and ventured into the previously uncharted (for me, at least) waters of avant garde experimental stand-up: alternate comedy - one stage, a split audience and two separate routines delivered simultaneously.
Luckily, it worked and potential humiliation was averted. For approximately ten minutes while the speakers were repaired, consecutive lines were delivered to alternate sections of crowd. While those without the benefit of sound got to hear some raucously hollered material about whippets, the rest were treated to an array of gratuitous mic-induced sound effects, accompanied by snide remarks about their rival audience in "no speakers corner". And there was me in the middle, whirling left and right like a dervish, not entirely dissimilar to Ann Robinson in the ultimate round of an episode of The Weakest Link where the two remaining contestants occupy the terminals at each end of death row.
Later on, still buzzing smugly in the after-glow of a job well done, I was approached during the interval by a stranger with an outstretched hand. Recognising him as one of the aurally challenged city slickers, I prepared myself, Frasier Crane like, for the inevitable barrage of fulsome praise. "You were okay up there mate," he didn't exactly enthuse. "But do you know what you should have done that would have been really funny..."
It was the first of many such suggestions I would hear that night.