Faking it

"You should become a comedian when you grow up – and I'll be your manager," someone once told me. Except that someone was my high school science teacher, Mr Batty, who later told me I was a disgrace to the school following a disastrous outing to the musical Annie that ended with my mum being called in to see the headmaster. He didn't seem too keen on managing me after that.

It was two months ago when, fuelled by a dangerous cocktail of blind ego and stupid ambition, I first agreed to do a stand-up spot in the name of stunt journalism. "But you're going to fail!" blurts out one friend in disbelief. "Even if you're funny, performing in front of that many people is an art in itself." I shrug off his warning and for weeks remain unfazed, thinking of the countless bad stand-ups that I've watched over the years. Additionally, I reflect on the fact that in three years of writing, the most success I've had has come not from valuable investigative journalism but after penning as many wank jokes as possible in a weekly TV column. A tragic legacy, but one that I pray could prove useful in writing a set.

As the festival previews begin, a mild panic hits me and I call comic Matt Kirshen for help. "Oh, you're doing one of those articles" he says, nonchalant. "That's been done by everyone. Gets done every year." I bristle with an odd mixture of anger and sorrow. Anger at my editor who, when I ask which venue I should perform at, says "start with the biggest ones" before cackling gleefully down the phone. Sorrow as I realise I'm simply one of a very long line of journalists who, like so many idiot battery chickens on a conveyor belt, finds themselves gliding voluntarily towards certain death. Metaphorically speaking, in my case.

Although dying onstage will, as my colleagues at Fest reassure me, make for a great article (not to mention delicious payback for everyone I've ever given a negative review to) I am secretly, desperately hoping for this not to happen. I plough through every "journalist tries stand-up" article I can find in an attempt to determine what not to do. Ex-Sun editor Kelvin MacKenzie did alright until he ran 20 minutes over his allocated time and his decidedly right-leaning political views offended the sensibilities of a more moderate audience. Brian Logan, the Guardian's comedy critic, set out with lofty ambitions: to change the face of stand-up and really say something – only to flounder midway through his set. Upon reading Logan's account, I scrap what little political material I have—mainly on my obsession with Italian premier Silvio Berlusconi—and decide to put aside any thoughts of revolutionising comedy. For the time being, I'd like to just survive.

On Sunday I receive a call from Tiffany Stevenson, stand-up and compère of Old Rope, an evening that sees established comics testing new material. She can fit me in that Thursday, on the same bill as Rhys Darby. With three days to go and no material whatsoever, I go into meltdown. The day arrives and incredibly, I have neither finished writing nor memorised my set. I conclude that I am sub-consciously and masochistically trying to sabotage myself. Depressed, I head round to Kirshen's place for a practice run. Holding a bottle of water for a microphone, I begin to read awkwardly from my script. It is excruciatingly embarrassing performing to one person, never mind a professional stand-up. Mercifully, his criticisms boil down to cutting out a few lines and focusing on my timing. Arriving at the venue, I make my best friend sit in the front row and my boyfriend sit somewhere I'll be unable to see him. If it all goes wrong, I reason, I will focus on my friend for support and pretend the boyfriend isn't there to witness the whole sorry carcrash.

I meet Stevenson and Phil Nichol, the evening's compères. "Ever done anything like this before?" they ask. "No" I squeak, utterly alarmed, "the closest thing I've done was a eulogy". I'm now near-hysterical as I listen backstage to the first act whose skill now seems magnified in comparison to my sub-standard pub anecdotes. From behind the curtain I hear Nichol introduce me. Puzzlingly, there is a big cheer when he says I'm from Edinburgh, followed by a small but no less menacing "BOOO" when he announces it's my first time doing stand-up. Unscathed, he ploughs on until the audience are suitably welcoming. I walk onstage to lengthy applause – generated, I should add, entirely by Phil's compering skills. "You're sympathetic now," I begin. "You probably won't be by the end."

From this point onwards, I go on autopilot. I hear laughter but it's muffled, as if heard from underwater. Any silences seem friendly and are due more to overly long set-ups than any overt hostility. I quickly find that I'm enjoying myself. I open with a couple of jokes about my voice—which has deserted me, seemingly as a direct result of the stress—followed by a piece on dating fat men. Keeping in mind both the golden rule of ending on a high and the hope that a self-deprecating tone will save me from heckles, I finish with a longer anecdote regarding an incident when I attempted to impress an ex's family by inexplicably—and inaccurately—explaining the definition of the word "munter". Any nerves are dispelled by glancing to my mate in the front row, although the man next to her looks at me with the most intense expression of disgust I have ever seen on a human face.

I finish abruptly, mumble something pathetic along the lines of "thank you for being kind to me" and stagger offstage directly to the bar, preparing myself for the inevitable feedback. "Phil [Nichol] was asking if you're going to write an article about how easy it is for journalists to do stand-up," smiles Stevenson. Easy? I have spent the last four weeks shaking, hyperventilating and feeling so ill that I lost half a stone from shitting out what felt like all of my internal organs. While the stage time was fun, the build-up was horrific. Stevenson—who recently provided an eloquent rebuttal to an article which more or less charged female comedians who refuse to adopt a cutesy, girly persona as "astonishingly vicious"—later gave the following feedback: "You started really well and on a high and then there was a low spot in the middle that you had to get out of...what was interesting was [that] you were attacking guys for the way they look and that's kind of flipping things on their head as it's something male stand-ups do."

Later that evening, I'm introduced to comedy booker Rob Riley in the Loft Bar, who saw my slot. He repeatedly asks if I plan on doing it again. Hesitant, and fearful of appearing over-confident (for the next part of the sentence may well be "please, please don't attempt it again"), I ask him what he thinks. "I think you should do it again. So long as you stop pacing about the stage and look up at your audience more, I think you'll be fine." I look into his beaming face, filled with optimism and kindness, and decide I need some harsher criticism. But I'm further spared harsh criticism by Phil Nichol; a joyous, marshmallow teddybear of a man. "You were funny," he grins before going on to ask the same two questions as everyone else that night: "How do you feel?" and "Are you going to do it again?" In response to the first question, I feel oddly dazed and embarrassed about the undeserved praise for what was clearly a hastily-assembled set. As for the second enquiry, I remain undecided – Old Rope audiences have a reputation for their friendliness; had I been plopped onstage at Late 'n' Live, I'm absolutely certain I'd have been crucified.

Two days later I'm offered my first gig – at a strip club's charity night for sick children. I accept it. At the very least it'll give me more material. (Huge thanks to: Matt Kirshen, Jeremy Meadow, Tiffany Stevenson & Phil Nichol.)

***

Fest reviews Fern Brady

As a local novice, fresh-faced but with “the voice of Regan from The Exorcist”, Fern Brady takes Old Rope slightly off guard with her self-critical smut. This isn’t the toughest late-night crowd, but making 150 people flinch in unison remains an impressive feat.

“You’ve no idea how low my standards are,” opens one early anecdote, and Brady elaborates with lurid spite while in the shadows a 23-stone mutant rubs his trotters together (possibly). It all sets up the tale of a fat man, a field and some unceremonious, al fresco sex. Brady doesn’t do one-liners, instead piling layer upon nauseating layer of hyperbolic description until you can almost feel that lardy unfortunate mounting you. It never quite slays the audience, often slackening, but they’re clearly absorbed and clock on immediately, whimpering in anticipation when a dinner table faux pas throws up the word “graveyard”; the conclusion is characteristically foul. 

Throughout, Brady paces like a distressed chimp in captivity, her hands shaking so violently the microphone might claim a tooth at any moment. But her delivery is fluid, if flat, and she exposes her indiscretions with admirable shamelessness. With this tense, grubby trial run, Brady looks remarkably competent amid a bill of heavyweights.