Monday, 4 June 2012
on the road... to wordpress
Because of the facebook-google kerfuffle I've decided to move my blog to wordpress. It can be found here.
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
Martin Creed, Fuck Off and Die.
I've had a cold for the last couple of days, no doubt brought on by last week's triple excitement of my first comedy gig and seeing Martin Creed sing and talk about vomit.
Good thing I don't have any obligations or responsibilities that actually require me to get out of bed.
By the way, if you're trying to work out the third bit of excitement, well, you plainly have never seen Martin Creed. Watching him struggle to put on a narrow guitar strap without removing his hat - which he finally had to do, with lightning speed, so we barely had time to notice the poodle hair - it was difficult to say whether he had genuine stage fright or was just playing up - by that I mean I had the impression that it could have all been a weird, awkward performance. I'm pretty sure at one point he recited most of this poem:
He'd turn and stare at the screen, upon which this painting was projected, then he'd turn to us and stand with his eyes shut tight for some time before announcing, "I don't know what to say!" Then he'd play his guitar and sing. After some songs we'd all applaud, then after other songs we wouldn't, or one person would and we'd all laugh and feel embarrassed. After awhile he told us that he was only singing because he couldn't think of what to say to us, and practically begged us to ask him questions. He could have been messing us around and making us "be the art", but if that's the case then his flustered bits were the equivalent of sticking your four year old's drawings on the fridge and going "aw, isn't that lovely!"
I think natural modesty robbed him of interesting stuff to tell us on his own initiative, because he had a lot to say in answer to the questions that were asked (except for a question about being Scottish; his answer to that was just, "I'm not Scottish. Unless I need to play the Scottish card"). I suppose you've got to be pretty pompous and up yourself, or else have a hell of a lot to answer for, if you sit down and seriously try to decide how best to fill up an hour and a half talking about yourself, not as preparation for a job interview or what you plan to tell the police if caught.
I felt too shy to ask questions, although I wanted to suggest a game of musical chairs since I thought it would be more fun and totally something Martin Creed would like. I think it was the mic that put me off. Because the session was being recorded anyone who wanted to ask a question had to take a microphone from my friend, who works at Tate and handles the mics (this is probably not her actual job; I'm terrible at remembering what my friends do). Having recently dedicated myself to a life of fancier mic-work than a toothless prostitute could manage, not even a week after my first gig, the thought of asking a famous artist to play musical chairs while my nasally voice was amplified in a small room with 30 people in it, filled me with the same squirmy terror as I got from a teacher's voice telling me to speak up so the whole class could hear. Besides, like I said I couldn't tell if breaking the carefully constructed atmosphere of social discomfort would be welcomed or not.
But some of the questions led to great answers! For a mental artist he totally broke all stereotypes. He said he felt that the Turner prize improved his artistic output and that he had desperately wanted to win it. He also said that he had wanted to be a successful artist to please his parents. He's from Wakefield and has a Glaswegian accent, which I personally liked, since I have a Canadian accent and I'm from London. His newest single is called "Fuck Off and Die", which is what I think whenever someone even slightly annoys me.
This artist just speaks unto my very soul, you get what I'm saying? It's like he's thinking my thoughts for me, man.
Good thing I don't have any obligations or responsibilities that actually require me to get out of bed.
By the way, if you're trying to work out the third bit of excitement, well, you plainly have never seen Martin Creed. Watching him struggle to put on a narrow guitar strap without removing his hat - which he finally had to do, with lightning speed, so we barely had time to notice the poodle hair - it was difficult to say whether he had genuine stage fright or was just playing up - by that I mean I had the impression that it could have all been a weird, awkward performance. I'm pretty sure at one point he recited most of this poem:
I don't know what I want to say, but, to try to say something, I think I want to try to think. I want to try to see what I think. I think trying is a big part of it, I think thinking is a big part of it, and I think wanting is a big part of it, but saying it is difficult, and I find saying trying and nearly always wanting. I want what I want to say to go without saying.
Martin Creed, 2001
It didn't get any easier over the following hour and a half. I think he might have been making fun of us the whole time.
image from http://martincreed.com/site/works
He'd turn and stare at the screen, upon which this painting was projected, then he'd turn to us and stand with his eyes shut tight for some time before announcing, "I don't know what to say!" Then he'd play his guitar and sing. After some songs we'd all applaud, then after other songs we wouldn't, or one person would and we'd all laugh and feel embarrassed. After awhile he told us that he was only singing because he couldn't think of what to say to us, and practically begged us to ask him questions. He could have been messing us around and making us "be the art", but if that's the case then his flustered bits were the equivalent of sticking your four year old's drawings on the fridge and going "aw, isn't that lovely!"
I think natural modesty robbed him of interesting stuff to tell us on his own initiative, because he had a lot to say in answer to the questions that were asked (except for a question about being Scottish; his answer to that was just, "I'm not Scottish. Unless I need to play the Scottish card"). I suppose you've got to be pretty pompous and up yourself, or else have a hell of a lot to answer for, if you sit down and seriously try to decide how best to fill up an hour and a half talking about yourself, not as preparation for a job interview or what you plan to tell the police if caught.
I felt too shy to ask questions, although I wanted to suggest a game of musical chairs since I thought it would be more fun and totally something Martin Creed would like. I think it was the mic that put me off. Because the session was being recorded anyone who wanted to ask a question had to take a microphone from my friend, who works at Tate and handles the mics (this is probably not her actual job; I'm terrible at remembering what my friends do). Having recently dedicated myself to a life of fancier mic-work than a toothless prostitute could manage, not even a week after my first gig, the thought of asking a famous artist to play musical chairs while my nasally voice was amplified in a small room with 30 people in it, filled me with the same squirmy terror as I got from a teacher's voice telling me to speak up so the whole class could hear. Besides, like I said I couldn't tell if breaking the carefully constructed atmosphere of social discomfort would be welcomed or not.
But some of the questions led to great answers! For a mental artist he totally broke all stereotypes. He said he felt that the Turner prize improved his artistic output and that he had desperately wanted to win it. He also said that he had wanted to be a successful artist to please his parents. He's from Wakefield and has a Glaswegian accent, which I personally liked, since I have a Canadian accent and I'm from London. His newest single is called "Fuck Off and Die", which is what I think whenever someone even slightly annoys me.
This artist just speaks unto my very soul, you get what I'm saying? It's like he's thinking my thoughts for me, man.
Thursday, 24 May 2012
GROWN UP GROWN UP GROWN UP
I bought a GROWN UP outfit today!
Not a sexy outfit!
An officey outfit! I have OFFICE APPROPRIATE CLOTHING!
Or a funeral! I could totally go to a funeral in this outfit without feeling disrespectfully scruffy!
Oh shit, what if the only reason no one I love has ever died has been because there is a God after all, and it was just waiting for me to be wardrobely ready?!
When I was 20 I had a job in a pricey high street store where I was expected to dress "well". For me dressing well consisted of putting on any button down shirt, black trousers and comfy/orthopaedic shoes. Usually I looked like Darlene from Roseanne, but with terrible hair. My manager hated me. She nearly fired me when she caught me advising a male customer to buy a grey suit instead of black because it wouldn't show lint or dog hairs as much. Which is still fantastic advice, by the way, and if we all followed it then no woman would have to walk around with one of those fucking rolls of inside out cellotape-on-a-hairbrush-things in her handbag. I'd rather do a public urination than get off the train in my new black pinstripe blazer and skirt set, pull out one of those roller things and begin running it up and down my body. Everyone who ever did this has looked like a dick. That's why Victorians look furious in every photograph: before sitting down some servant spent 45 minutes brushing horse hairs off their bodices.
One day I went into work feeling particularly smart, having hemmed a pair of grey knit trousers that had belonged to my aunt and were, therefore, too long for me. I am 5'9" and almost the shortest woman in my family; we breed big. In Canada I had a lot of trouble getting clothes long enough for my spidery limbs, so my UK-based aunt used to bear this in mind at birthdays and Christmases. As a result of this for years I thought British people were "exotically tall".
Unfortunately, I hadn't hemmed the trousers well, or high enough, and they dragged on the ground and beneath my cheap brown Clarks slip-ons. Also I hadn't accounted for the effect of January roads, and my trousers were soaked up to mid-calf - above which, as any Canadian can guess, a border of crusted salt formed.
I caught my manager staring at this salt tide line throughout my shift and didn't appreciate it when she told me what she thought of my deportment. To be fair she was heavily pregnant at the time with her first baby - and by heavily pregnant I mean figure-destroyingly pregnant - and there I was: 20 years old, 7 1/2 stone and wasting it all with bad clothes and a sad moustache.
Well, soon after that I decided to focus on my education and I still sometimes hope my old manager has moments when she looks at her offspring and can't tell if it was worth devaluing her property after all. Don't look at me like that, I kinda liked my girl-stache, ok! It was all Frida Kahlo! My manager was the one who was all about appearances, as I now am, and I gave that moustache the old heave ho off my face literally months ago. I've matured into vanity.
I gave up on jobs where I had to dress well and people said words like "deportment" (except I would have taken a job in a department store in Bristol if I'd suddenly been offered one, and presumably overalls are still acceptable dress for every job in the west country).
Wow! That was a lot of build up to this staggering news: I still don't have a job! But I am insanely proud of now being prepared to attend an interview! Especially since I shop almost exclusively in charity shops - not because I'm poor, but because I hate the greedy high street, and the four months I spent working for the mean manager bitch was emotionally scarring, and... actually, yeah, I'm poor. I found this Oasis jacket and skirt set for £8.99 in a BHF. While paying for it I had an interesting conversation with the old ladies working there about thieving in charity shops. Conversely, on a Saturday in town in Topshop I usually want to ask for a security escort out of the store. In case I get eaten by all the angry secret eaters, who scare me with their scousebrows.
I hope someone hires me soon so I can go back to spending my pocket money on alcohol, postcards and coach trips.
Not a sexy outfit!
An officey outfit! I have OFFICE APPROPRIATE CLOTHING!
Or a funeral! I could totally go to a funeral in this outfit without feeling disrespectfully scruffy!
Oh shit, what if the only reason no one I love has ever died has been because there is a God after all, and it was just waiting for me to be wardrobely ready?!
When I was 20 I had a job in a pricey high street store where I was expected to dress "well". For me dressing well consisted of putting on any button down shirt, black trousers and comfy/orthopaedic shoes. Usually I looked like Darlene from Roseanne, but with terrible hair. My manager hated me. She nearly fired me when she caught me advising a male customer to buy a grey suit instead of black because it wouldn't show lint or dog hairs as much. Which is still fantastic advice, by the way, and if we all followed it then no woman would have to walk around with one of those fucking rolls of inside out cellotape-on-a-hairbrush-things in her handbag. I'd rather do a public urination than get off the train in my new black pinstripe blazer and skirt set, pull out one of those roller things and begin running it up and down my body. Everyone who ever did this has looked like a dick. That's why Victorians look furious in every photograph: before sitting down some servant spent 45 minutes brushing horse hairs off their bodices.
One day I went into work feeling particularly smart, having hemmed a pair of grey knit trousers that had belonged to my aunt and were, therefore, too long for me. I am 5'9" and almost the shortest woman in my family; we breed big. In Canada I had a lot of trouble getting clothes long enough for my spidery limbs, so my UK-based aunt used to bear this in mind at birthdays and Christmases. As a result of this for years I thought British people were "exotically tall".
Unfortunately, I hadn't hemmed the trousers well, or high enough, and they dragged on the ground and beneath my cheap brown Clarks slip-ons. Also I hadn't accounted for the effect of January roads, and my trousers were soaked up to mid-calf - above which, as any Canadian can guess, a border of crusted salt formed.
I caught my manager staring at this salt tide line throughout my shift and didn't appreciate it when she told me what she thought of my deportment. To be fair she was heavily pregnant at the time with her first baby - and by heavily pregnant I mean figure-destroyingly pregnant - and there I was: 20 years old, 7 1/2 stone and wasting it all with bad clothes and a sad moustache.
Well, soon after that I decided to focus on my education and I still sometimes hope my old manager has moments when she looks at her offspring and can't tell if it was worth devaluing her property after all. Don't look at me like that, I kinda liked my girl-stache, ok! It was all Frida Kahlo! My manager was the one who was all about appearances, as I now am, and I gave that moustache the old heave ho off my face literally months ago. I've matured into vanity.
I gave up on jobs where I had to dress well and people said words like "deportment" (except I would have taken a job in a department store in Bristol if I'd suddenly been offered one, and presumably overalls are still acceptable dress for every job in the west country).
Wow! That was a lot of build up to this staggering news: I still don't have a job! But I am insanely proud of now being prepared to attend an interview! Especially since I shop almost exclusively in charity shops - not because I'm poor, but because I hate the greedy high street, and the four months I spent working for the mean manager bitch was emotionally scarring, and... actually, yeah, I'm poor. I found this Oasis jacket and skirt set for £8.99 in a BHF. While paying for it I had an interesting conversation with the old ladies working there about thieving in charity shops. Conversely, on a Saturday in town in Topshop I usually want to ask for a security escort out of the store. In case I get eaten by all the angry secret eaters, who scare me with their scousebrows.
I hope someone hires me soon so I can go back to spending my pocket money on alcohol, postcards and coach trips.
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
Beyond a Joke: THIS IS IT!
BEFORE IT:
Here are my pre-gig feelings about tonight:
1. I wish I would stop sweating.
2. I have nothing to wear.
Point 2 is really caused by Point 1, since my first outfit choice is now sadly drenched in nervous perspiration - also unpleasantly warm, since I had the insane idea of fixing it by spraying it with perfume and then ironing it. Outfit Choice 2 has just been donned, ten minutes before I leave the house. But oh no! I must brush my teeth! I don't want the mic to malfunction because of my terrible breath!
I'm not that worried about getting it right. All of my past experiences of public speaking have taught me that I don't start panicking about actually getting up in front of people and saying things to them until about one minute into the presentation.
AFTER IT:
Here's me six hours later! I've done it! It's over!
Oh no! It's over!
It's almost worse now. My very first gig was also my only planned gig, and I forgot to ask Klare what I'm supposed to do next. Most of the advice I got from the other comedians was based on making contacts and knowing people, so I guess it's like anything else.
I'm a comedian now! This was like losing my virginity, except after that event my friends didn't all high five me, and none of my relatives were watching and laughing.
I didn't forget anything! After my set I didn't feel relief or adrenaline, I mainly felt tired. I was glad that I hadn't forgotten anything, but I was annoyed that my energy was low.
People were there for me! I had to put this in bold because it was really the most important thing about tonight: I had a crowd. I don't remember anything of the 7 minutes I was on stage, all that stands out in my mind was the conversations I had with my friends before and after my set. What ended up pleasing me most was that my friends had a good time and weren't bored or embarrassed.
One of the biggest temptations for new comics is to do their first gig with strangers, so that you can prove to yourself that when your friends laugh they aren't just being polite. Fuck that! Let them be polite! Let them fill the room with their polite laughter! There's hugs after! HUGS!
Here are my pre-gig feelings about tonight:
1. I wish I would stop sweating.
2. I have nothing to wear.
Point 2 is really caused by Point 1, since my first outfit choice is now sadly drenched in nervous perspiration - also unpleasantly warm, since I had the insane idea of fixing it by spraying it with perfume and then ironing it. Outfit Choice 2 has just been donned, ten minutes before I leave the house. But oh no! I must brush my teeth! I don't want the mic to malfunction because of my terrible breath!
I'm not that worried about getting it right. All of my past experiences of public speaking have taught me that I don't start panicking about actually getting up in front of people and saying things to them until about one minute into the presentation.
AFTER IT:
Here's me six hours later! I've done it! It's over!
Oh no! It's over!
It's almost worse now. My very first gig was also my only planned gig, and I forgot to ask Klare what I'm supposed to do next. Most of the advice I got from the other comedians was based on making contacts and knowing people, so I guess it's like anything else.
I'm a comedian now! This was like losing my virginity, except after that event my friends didn't all high five me, and none of my relatives were watching and laughing.
I didn't forget anything! After my set I didn't feel relief or adrenaline, I mainly felt tired. I was glad that I hadn't forgotten anything, but I was annoyed that my energy was low.
People were there for me! I had to put this in bold because it was really the most important thing about tonight: I had a crowd. I don't remember anything of the 7 minutes I was on stage, all that stands out in my mind was the conversations I had with my friends before and after my set. What ended up pleasing me most was that my friends had a good time and weren't bored or embarrassed.
One of the biggest temptations for new comics is to do their first gig with strangers, so that you can prove to yourself that when your friends laugh they aren't just being polite. Fuck that! Let them be polite! Let them fill the room with their polite laughter! There's hugs after! HUGS!
Thursday, 17 May 2012
I did it for the incentives
Today was a big day for me. I passed a high school maths test.
Sorry. I'm still getting used to calling it maths instead of math. It is, I assume, a cultural difference.
Here's another cultural difference that brought me to this maths test: for almost every job I had in Canada, holding a high school diploma was the baseline requirement. Here, it's GCSEs.
I have no GCSEs, no A levels. What I have is a high school diploma, a Bachelors and a Masters. But that means nothing because for all anyone knows, I can't make change or form a sentence!
Job applications are a nightmare as soon as education comes up. Each one asks me to list my high school courses and the grades I got for them. How can I possibly know them? High school was almost 10 years ago. I would fully expect my most recently completed level of education to be the only important aspect - obviously I finished high school; I have two degrees. As far as I'm aware everyone in Ottawa had to stay in school until age 18 - here it's still 16, when kids take their GCSEs and then have the option of quitting. As I dimly recall, I had to complete 2 years of maths, 2 years of French and (I think) 4 years of English. Science and Tech were in there somewhere, too. Then at 16 there were more options, and people generally carried on with what they were good at - I went English and didn't bother with maths.
Not that it would have mattered now if I had! Because I also had to do a high school level English exam today! It took a grand total of 10 minutes for me to answer 40 questions at GCSE level. I'm not saying the questions were pointlessly easy... not from the perspective of dyslexics, the visually impaired, coma patients or children under 6 (children from some other country, presumably... apparently this was a standard exam in English for teenagers from England). I was conjugating verbs and identifying the root since I was big enough to bounce.
The only prize I've ever won was an award for the highest pass in English (100%), which I received upon graduating from high school. I couldn't help feeling insulted.
In Ottawa the high school diploma is the qualification, because everyone had to fulfil the same requirements, and I just barely scratched through math. Grades only mattered depending on if you planned to pursue higher education.
I'm not sure what this difference indicates. Canada is a big place, and in my little suburb I was sheltered, from 2 to 18. I don't know what the high school requirements were outside of Ottawa. I don't know if it shows higher standards or greater prejudice: disqualifying people from work just because they got a D instead of a C in English. I appreciate now how much pressure there must be on young people here - at 15 I wasn't thinking of my future, and at 18 I still hadn't learned to regret not trying harder at maths. It just feels like I got a better break in Canada... not that I can't handle it. But I can see why kids here end up feeling like giving up is the least hurtful option. Better not to try at all than to try, and fail. NVQs? Don't get me started on NVQs. They're a scam against the underprivileged.
I don't know what to write on job application forms under "list all qualifications from secondary education, including grade achieved". Lately, I've just filled in the first line with "completed high school".
Well, that's all changed now. After less than a week of classes I can slam down a C in maths and an A in English. Very likely after Friday I can throw in an A in ICT. Then employers, befuddled by the skills I supposedly gained from working hard in university for a total of 5 years, can breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of the handful of letter grades that will definitively guarantee that I won't resort to kicking the photocopier, or screaming at customers.
Of course this won't happen. I expect to still be unemployed next week, astounding letter grades notwithstanding. Wanna know why I've done this? Job seekers like me get incentives to improve our melted, degraded minds. Free driving lessons, free theory test and free first aid training - my inability to drive or perform CPR has been an issue for me since my baby cousin took up residence.
Actually, when I went into the centre last week I only wanted someone to remind me how calculations in Excel work. Plus... I really am bad at maths. The English was a pointless waste of my thought processes, but I was genuinely pleased that I passed tolerably well in maths. I am NEVER telling my dad.
Sorry. I'm still getting used to calling it maths instead of math. It is, I assume, a cultural difference.
Here's another cultural difference that brought me to this maths test: for almost every job I had in Canada, holding a high school diploma was the baseline requirement. Here, it's GCSEs.
I have no GCSEs, no A levels. What I have is a high school diploma, a Bachelors and a Masters. But that means nothing because for all anyone knows, I can't make change or form a sentence!
Job applications are a nightmare as soon as education comes up. Each one asks me to list my high school courses and the grades I got for them. How can I possibly know them? High school was almost 10 years ago. I would fully expect my most recently completed level of education to be the only important aspect - obviously I finished high school; I have two degrees. As far as I'm aware everyone in Ottawa had to stay in school until age 18 - here it's still 16, when kids take their GCSEs and then have the option of quitting. As I dimly recall, I had to complete 2 years of maths, 2 years of French and (I think) 4 years of English. Science and Tech were in there somewhere, too. Then at 16 there were more options, and people generally carried on with what they were good at - I went English and didn't bother with maths.
Not that it would have mattered now if I had! Because I also had to do a high school level English exam today! It took a grand total of 10 minutes for me to answer 40 questions at GCSE level. I'm not saying the questions were pointlessly easy... not from the perspective of dyslexics, the visually impaired, coma patients or children under 6 (children from some other country, presumably... apparently this was a standard exam in English for teenagers from England). I was conjugating verbs and identifying the root since I was big enough to bounce.
The only prize I've ever won was an award for the highest pass in English (100%), which I received upon graduating from high school. I couldn't help feeling insulted.
In Ottawa the high school diploma is the qualification, because everyone had to fulfil the same requirements, and I just barely scratched through math. Grades only mattered depending on if you planned to pursue higher education.
I'm not sure what this difference indicates. Canada is a big place, and in my little suburb I was sheltered, from 2 to 18. I don't know what the high school requirements were outside of Ottawa. I don't know if it shows higher standards or greater prejudice: disqualifying people from work just because they got a D instead of a C in English. I appreciate now how much pressure there must be on young people here - at 15 I wasn't thinking of my future, and at 18 I still hadn't learned to regret not trying harder at maths. It just feels like I got a better break in Canada... not that I can't handle it. But I can see why kids here end up feeling like giving up is the least hurtful option. Better not to try at all than to try, and fail. NVQs? Don't get me started on NVQs. They're a scam against the underprivileged.
I don't know what to write on job application forms under "list all qualifications from secondary education, including grade achieved". Lately, I've just filled in the first line with "completed high school".
Well, that's all changed now. After less than a week of classes I can slam down a C in maths and an A in English. Very likely after Friday I can throw in an A in ICT. Then employers, befuddled by the skills I supposedly gained from working hard in university for a total of 5 years, can breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of the handful of letter grades that will definitively guarantee that I won't resort to kicking the photocopier, or screaming at customers.
Of course this won't happen. I expect to still be unemployed next week, astounding letter grades notwithstanding. Wanna know why I've done this? Job seekers like me get incentives to improve our melted, degraded minds. Free driving lessons, free theory test and free first aid training - my inability to drive or perform CPR has been an issue for me since my baby cousin took up residence.
Actually, when I went into the centre last week I only wanted someone to remind me how calculations in Excel work. Plus... I really am bad at maths. The English was a pointless waste of my thought processes, but I was genuinely pleased that I passed tolerably well in maths. I am NEVER telling my dad.
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
Beyond a Joke 5: A rose, by any other name...
Yesterday was my last class in Beyond a Joke, the stand up comedy course run by Klare Murray. I know last week I banged on a lot about how great the course is, and now I'm going to do it again.
Next week is my first gig. I've been wanting this for a year. Whether I die on stage or completely smash it I fully intend to get in as much stage time as I possibly can, for as long as possible. I am so excited. I'm uneasy about what my friends will think or if they'll laugh, but I am hugely comforted knowing that Klare and the guys from class are going to be there, they aren't going to make fun of me - they will have too much sympathy. I really don't know how people get on stage totally raw.
However, I need to learn my stuff properly. I've lost a lot of the emotion I first had for it. When I practice I'm more focused on memorization than delivery, so as a result it all sounds a bit... flat. Obviously when I practice now I'll have to inject more emotion - but I'm resistant to this; I spend a lot of time out of the house and somehow I feel like uttering an emotional monologue while on the train (pausing here and there for comic effect) will sound more mental than muttering it under my breath whilst staring out the window.
For me the biggest highlight of our last class was when I floored everyone in the room with the word 'cunt' used casually in one of my jokes about an air bed. It sparked laughter, which pleases me, and shock, which does not. I don't want to be a shock comic even though people think I'd be great at it. At the heart of the matter I feel that women comics are looked at with contempt when they attempt to shock. Even the most shocking ideas I could come up with would probably not top the jokes that loads of men have heard, when the ladies are not around, when there is no polite society. If I just stood on stage and ended every punchline with cunt it would sound childish to most audiences. Didn't my mother raise me right? And if I pulled out all the stops and was really disgusting - racist, sexist, prejudiced, all in one enormous 'man walks into a bar' type joke, I would just alienate everyone.
Also, there's no scope in shock. There's no imagination. It's no fun.
But cunt! Cunt is just.... my cunt! I love my cunt! It's the bee's knees! Look at the word: in lower case the first three letters are like little symbols of what it is. It's got history: it's quaint. At 26 I am not used to being told off for using the word purely as the definition of female sex organs. And the joke isn't all cunt and no substance, it's just that the whole joke would be ruined if I said vagina (too medical) or pussy (too porno). There are plenty of other words, but they're all ambiguous. Klare has taught us to spell things out for every audience, even if it seems unnecessary: as soon as the audience is confused, it's fucking over man.
I am surprised to learn that cunt is still kind of a big deal in the UK, certainly in Liverpool. I guess it is a big deal, in a way - there's a reason it's used less frequently in the standard dialogue in any YouPorn video than 'pussy'. Cunt is a stronger word than cock. 'Shall I fuck your cunt with my cock?' is a bit like saying 'Shall I paint this room with my finger?' It's ludicrous. Cunts fuck; pussies get fucked. I have no problem with this by the way, I'm just exploring the differences between these words, and how we interact with them.
But still, with all the dicking about and cock ups going on, it seems silly to me that my innie doesn't get to have as much fun as the outties.When I stayed with my friend Genny in Glasgow (also Canadian), we used the word 'cunt' with the same frequency as the word 'that' (i.e., we kept saying 'that cunt'). Her S.O. wasn't much thrilled to hear it every two minutes - in fact I think in one particularly passionate rant duet we used it like 60 times - but his objections were pretty mild.
I've been catching a lift to class with one of the other newbies since he lives nearby, and we discuss each class on the way home. So recently we started talking about women saying cunt and his response was a little alarming... he thought it was hilarious that I said it, but also 'mad' and 'not what women say'. Yesterday on the way home he was still in stitches over the joke, but after awhile he recognised for himself that there is a difference between laughing at a woman saying cunt and laughing at the actual joke. Because he is a nice man he apologised for being patronising, although I assured him that if there were more people in the audience like him on Tuesday, I'd cane the cunt for all it's worth - I am not walking off stage with no laughs, feminism be damned.
I've been away from Canada for two years, and I've forgotten a lot about what it's like there. Liverpudlian behaviour has started to replace normal human - sorry, Canadian behaviour in my mindset. People respond to cunt a bit like I've just expressed my commitment to a strange religion, like they may start hiding behind the furniture if my cunt and I come knocking round. That didn't happen in Ottawa. Maybe it was my social circle.
For all that Ottawa gets accused of being so conservative, the line between the genders is sharper here. My aunt told me about what I now call the half pint double standard: the reason that some bartenders offer me an empty half pint glass to go with my full pint of cider is so that I won't be seen publicly drinking from a pint glass. The implication is I can't handle the pint glass: it's too big for my girlish hands, it makes me look like a classless alcoholic, and I'll probably tip it all on the floor the moment someone asks me the time. Half pints are just simpler. And that's really the issue here, isn't it? Vagina is the half pint. Cunt is a whole pint.
Well anyway, all that malarkey aside: less than one week til I can officially start telling people I'm a comedian!
Next week is my first gig. I've been wanting this for a year. Whether I die on stage or completely smash it I fully intend to get in as much stage time as I possibly can, for as long as possible. I am so excited. I'm uneasy about what my friends will think or if they'll laugh, but I am hugely comforted knowing that Klare and the guys from class are going to be there, they aren't going to make fun of me - they will have too much sympathy. I really don't know how people get on stage totally raw.
However, I need to learn my stuff properly. I've lost a lot of the emotion I first had for it. When I practice I'm more focused on memorization than delivery, so as a result it all sounds a bit... flat. Obviously when I practice now I'll have to inject more emotion - but I'm resistant to this; I spend a lot of time out of the house and somehow I feel like uttering an emotional monologue while on the train (pausing here and there for comic effect) will sound more mental than muttering it under my breath whilst staring out the window.
For me the biggest highlight of our last class was when I floored everyone in the room with the word 'cunt' used casually in one of my jokes about an air bed. It sparked laughter, which pleases me, and shock, which does not. I don't want to be a shock comic even though people think I'd be great at it. At the heart of the matter I feel that women comics are looked at with contempt when they attempt to shock. Even the most shocking ideas I could come up with would probably not top the jokes that loads of men have heard, when the ladies are not around, when there is no polite society. If I just stood on stage and ended every punchline with cunt it would sound childish to most audiences. Didn't my mother raise me right? And if I pulled out all the stops and was really disgusting - racist, sexist, prejudiced, all in one enormous 'man walks into a bar' type joke, I would just alienate everyone.
Also, there's no scope in shock. There's no imagination. It's no fun.
But cunt! Cunt is just.... my cunt! I love my cunt! It's the bee's knees! Look at the word: in lower case the first three letters are like little symbols of what it is. It's got history: it's quaint. At 26 I am not used to being told off for using the word purely as the definition of female sex organs. And the joke isn't all cunt and no substance, it's just that the whole joke would be ruined if I said vagina (too medical) or pussy (too porno). There are plenty of other words, but they're all ambiguous. Klare has taught us to spell things out for every audience, even if it seems unnecessary: as soon as the audience is confused, it's fucking over man.
I am surprised to learn that cunt is still kind of a big deal in the UK, certainly in Liverpool. I guess it is a big deal, in a way - there's a reason it's used less frequently in the standard dialogue in any YouPorn video than 'pussy'. Cunt is a stronger word than cock. 'Shall I fuck your cunt with my cock?' is a bit like saying 'Shall I paint this room with my finger?' It's ludicrous. Cunts fuck; pussies get fucked. I have no problem with this by the way, I'm just exploring the differences between these words, and how we interact with them.
But still, with all the dicking about and cock ups going on, it seems silly to me that my innie doesn't get to have as much fun as the outties.When I stayed with my friend Genny in Glasgow (also Canadian), we used the word 'cunt' with the same frequency as the word 'that' (i.e., we kept saying 'that cunt'). Her S.O. wasn't much thrilled to hear it every two minutes - in fact I think in one particularly passionate rant duet we used it like 60 times - but his objections were pretty mild.
I've been catching a lift to class with one of the other newbies since he lives nearby, and we discuss each class on the way home. So recently we started talking about women saying cunt and his response was a little alarming... he thought it was hilarious that I said it, but also 'mad' and 'not what women say'. Yesterday on the way home he was still in stitches over the joke, but after awhile he recognised for himself that there is a difference between laughing at a woman saying cunt and laughing at the actual joke. Because he is a nice man he apologised for being patronising, although I assured him that if there were more people in the audience like him on Tuesday, I'd cane the cunt for all it's worth - I am not walking off stage with no laughs, feminism be damned.
I've been away from Canada for two years, and I've forgotten a lot about what it's like there. Liverpudlian behaviour has started to replace normal human - sorry, Canadian behaviour in my mindset. People respond to cunt a bit like I've just expressed my commitment to a strange religion, like they may start hiding behind the furniture if my cunt and I come knocking round. That didn't happen in Ottawa. Maybe it was my social circle.
For all that Ottawa gets accused of being so conservative, the line between the genders is sharper here. My aunt told me about what I now call the half pint double standard: the reason that some bartenders offer me an empty half pint glass to go with my full pint of cider is so that I won't be seen publicly drinking from a pint glass. The implication is I can't handle the pint glass: it's too big for my girlish hands, it makes me look like a classless alcoholic, and I'll probably tip it all on the floor the moment someone asks me the time. Half pints are just simpler. And that's really the issue here, isn't it? Vagina is the half pint. Cunt is a whole pint.
Well anyway, all that malarkey aside: less than one week til I can officially start telling people I'm a comedian!
Friday, 11 May 2012
Beyond a Joke 4: Stop Laughing
Class was postponed until yesterday, so quit thinking this is a late update. It's a postponed update. It was a particularly intense class this week. We had to present 5 minutes of material, and then present it again after Klare Murray and comedian Steve Graston critiqued us. I don't feel I did so well this week - I wrote most of my stuff on Wednesday and Thursday morning; consequently it was very hard to memorize.
My first gig is just 11 days from now, and I'm so glad I did this course. If I had to go on stage 5 weeks ago totally raw I think I'd never do it again, which would be a real shame - I might be good at this. Looking back on what I've learned about my mannerisms so far, I think it would have taken six months of gigging to recognize my strengths and weaknesses on my own. I don't think I would have had the willpower for six months going "Why didn't they laugh! Why is it only funny when I think it up in the shower!"
Whenever I imagine myself on stage I seem cool, and chilled out, and almost deadpan; in reality I'm high energy and weird (I guess that explains why I'm exhausted after every class). I don't really like high energy. I don't like any high energy comedians. But I'm not going to try to override a natural talent with some bullshit deadpan façade, especially since I can't stop laughing at my own jokes.
The rest of the comedy virgins are finding their own style of clown shoes, too, and frankly being told I'm high energy isn't remotely embarrassing. After giving us his five minute set yesterday one guy was informed that he sounds camp and makes slightly effeminate gestures. Considering he's a family man in a profession traditionally considered as dominated by straight men, he took it really well. In fact, when Klare asked us to do our sets again he played up the campness and was funnier for it - it felt slightly uncomfortable before, when he didn't know about this side of himself.
And here I've been fretting that eventually Klare and the others would notice how much I sound like Kathy Griffin.
On my second go I did a bit worse without the panic to fuel my performance. Still, I've got the majority of my seven minute set worked out, and like I said I am SO GLAD I've done the course. Klare pointed out to us that we should think of the 5 classes before the gig as the first 5 gigs. None of us have been great every time, but we had Klare and Steve there to tell us why. In a proper gig the audience would just not laugh - I don't know about the others but I would fall apart more and more for every laughless minute that passed. Ironically, since it's a small class we've sort of gotten used to not getting many laughs. While waiting for my turn to go up I pay almost no attention to whoever is doing their stuff at the moment, and the others are the same. At this stage I'll most likely be completely thrown when I get 60 people laughing all at once. But at least I'm confident that they will all laugh - I definitely didn't feel that 5 weeks ago.
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
I'm on a coach
I spent most of last week visiting friends in Scotland, which was all very well and good, but more importantly, I spent a SIGNIFICANT amount of time on a National Express coach.
Over the years I have known lots of people who don't travel at all - they stay in their home towns and raise their kids in the same neighbourhood they grew up in. They grow old with friends they knew in primary school.
Ok, I don't really know any old people languishing away in a retirement home for the (very) senior class of 1951, but I know this happens. Some people never ever leave.
Leaving the small Ontario town where I grew up was like tearing off an uncomfortable bra after a long day, then hurling it into the bin, rubbing the welts under my tits, furiously resetting the hair around my nipples in the proper direction, and swearing off under wire push ups for the rest of my life. Leave all that suburban fabric scaffolding for the post-breast feeding mothers. I've still got places to B.
But after a 14 hour round trip I could sort of see how it might be handy to have good friends across the street rather than across borders. I don't require much pampering on vacation but when eventually I was allowed to unfold all five foot, nine inches of me from a seat suitable for small or dismantled corpses, I felt an undercurrent of a 'this better be worth it' kind of feeling. For £27 I got my money's worth; now I want my 7 hours of discomfort's worth.
Don't worry, I got it. This isn't going to be a post in which I complain about having no friends and then slag off the hospitality of my very good, yet geographically distant friends. I thought I might slag off National Express instead; here's how:
1. The booking fee
Why the fuck do I need to pay a booking fee to book a place on the coach? What does the booking fee cover, exactly? Why isn't this mandatory one pound payment included in the price? I may be too poor to take the train but I'm not so stingy that I wouldn't have paid £28 instead of £27. It's the fact that the fee was pointed out to me. Cost of ticket: 26; booking fee: 1 pound.
I can't understand what this charge was for. It's as though National Express is so inconvenienced by having to book seats on buses that they have to tax you just for wasting their time, even if you book online.
At the charity shop we charge 2p for each carrier bag. This is to cover the cost of having carrier bags. We don't charge for a carrier bag unless someone buys one. We don't even charge people extra to pay by card. What else does National Express do besides put people on buses?
2. Tebay Services
Obviously I know that not every coach is going from Liverpool to Glasgow; subsequently not every coach will stop at Tebay Services. However, this issue is probably true for every long haul coach trip: One 20 minute break and the no hot food rule.
I've just spent three and a half hours on a freezing bus to Scotland, listening to someone on Radio 2 list all of the Mr Men, trying not to vom as the drunks from Manchester sit farting like dying cattle in the seat behind me. The next best recourse to killing everyone is something carby and hot to put me to sleep for the rest of the trip. Then the driver comes over the tannoy to inform us that we'll stop for 20 minutes but we aren't allowed to bring hot food on the bus. 20 minutes is not enough time to buy and consume hot food in a busy service station, especially since I, like everyone else on the coach, planned to take a shit during the break. Bowel movements and vehicular movements don't mesh without some serious ramifications.
So I ate crisps for the rest of the journey.
Over the years I have known lots of people who don't travel at all - they stay in their home towns and raise their kids in the same neighbourhood they grew up in. They grow old with friends they knew in primary school.
Ok, I don't really know any old people languishing away in a retirement home for the (very) senior class of 1951, but I know this happens. Some people never ever leave.
Leaving the small Ontario town where I grew up was like tearing off an uncomfortable bra after a long day, then hurling it into the bin, rubbing the welts under my tits, furiously resetting the hair around my nipples in the proper direction, and swearing off under wire push ups for the rest of my life. Leave all that suburban fabric scaffolding for the post-breast feeding mothers. I've still got places to B.
But after a 14 hour round trip I could sort of see how it might be handy to have good friends across the street rather than across borders. I don't require much pampering on vacation but when eventually I was allowed to unfold all five foot, nine inches of me from a seat suitable for small or dismantled corpses, I felt an undercurrent of a 'this better be worth it' kind of feeling. For £27 I got my money's worth; now I want my 7 hours of discomfort's worth.
Don't worry, I got it. This isn't going to be a post in which I complain about having no friends and then slag off the hospitality of my very good, yet geographically distant friends. I thought I might slag off National Express instead; here's how:
1. The booking fee
Why the fuck do I need to pay a booking fee to book a place on the coach? What does the booking fee cover, exactly? Why isn't this mandatory one pound payment included in the price? I may be too poor to take the train but I'm not so stingy that I wouldn't have paid £28 instead of £27. It's the fact that the fee was pointed out to me. Cost of ticket: 26; booking fee: 1 pound.
I can't understand what this charge was for. It's as though National Express is so inconvenienced by having to book seats on buses that they have to tax you just for wasting their time, even if you book online.
At the charity shop we charge 2p for each carrier bag. This is to cover the cost of having carrier bags. We don't charge for a carrier bag unless someone buys one. We don't even charge people extra to pay by card. What else does National Express do besides put people on buses?
2. Tebay Services
Obviously I know that not every coach is going from Liverpool to Glasgow; subsequently not every coach will stop at Tebay Services. However, this issue is probably true for every long haul coach trip: One 20 minute break and the no hot food rule.
I've just spent three and a half hours on a freezing bus to Scotland, listening to someone on Radio 2 list all of the Mr Men, trying not to vom as the drunks from Manchester sit farting like dying cattle in the seat behind me. The next best recourse to killing everyone is something carby and hot to put me to sleep for the rest of the trip. Then the driver comes over the tannoy to inform us that we'll stop for 20 minutes but we aren't allowed to bring hot food on the bus. 20 minutes is not enough time to buy and consume hot food in a busy service station, especially since I, like everyone else on the coach, planned to take a shit during the break. Bowel movements and vehicular movements don't mesh without some serious ramifications.
So I ate crisps for the rest of the journey.
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
Beyond a Joke 3: I'm tired
This post comes all the way from some place in Scotland. Yay friends in far flung places!
This week in class there was a general feeling of being really, really tired. None of us are professional comedians and writing jokes (for me) still feels like something I should only do in my sparest of spare moments. I've got more important things to do, like find a job, get a new place, and try to vacuum out the specks of cat shit that are embedded in the bath mat.
But obviously we all have admitted a desire to commit to this, thus 50 quid and six weeks of classes. I spent Tuesday afternoon trying to get my crying two month old cousin to sleep while practicing three minutes of material (about codfish and cellotape, or something, I forget). I hoped I could trick her into thinking it was a tuneless lullaby, like white noise, which failed when I got to the shouty jokes.
After I performed in class I assessed which jokes I thought worked, and have concluded that two are salvageable. Looking further back at what I did week one I realized there was only one joke that stands out in my memory. That's three jokes out of four minutes of material; it's not bad but I'm definitely hemorrhaging gags here. I'm starting to possibly set the framework of what might, someday, begin to look like an actual set. I hoped I haven't phrased that too strongly.
I'm looking forward to it. If I work at it, I'll have routines and collections of jokes that I can produce at will, for any occasion. My sets will be like tableware: the good company jokes, paper plate jokes, jokes in pint glasses stolen during drunken nights out. Something suitable for everyone.
At some point during class I began to wonder, how do comedians do this full time? If I had a job that paid a decent wage I probably wouldn't have time to write jokes. Plus it's draining! After class I'm exhausted, like I've completed an interview while running on a treadmill - how will I handle the real thing? How far, exactly, do I want to go with this?
Because this is a lot of work. I can see now that this is a shit load of work. I don't think I've ever had to put in as much effort as a career in comedy requires.
I mean, I'm gonna do it anyway. I don't have any other marketable talent, so I better make this work.
Sorry this post isn't very long or well written. Did I mention I'm frigging tired?
This week in class there was a general feeling of being really, really tired. None of us are professional comedians and writing jokes (for me) still feels like something I should only do in my sparest of spare moments. I've got more important things to do, like find a job, get a new place, and try to vacuum out the specks of cat shit that are embedded in the bath mat.
But obviously we all have admitted a desire to commit to this, thus 50 quid and six weeks of classes. I spent Tuesday afternoon trying to get my crying two month old cousin to sleep while practicing three minutes of material (about codfish and cellotape, or something, I forget). I hoped I could trick her into thinking it was a tuneless lullaby, like white noise, which failed when I got to the shouty jokes.
After I performed in class I assessed which jokes I thought worked, and have concluded that two are salvageable. Looking further back at what I did week one I realized there was only one joke that stands out in my memory. That's three jokes out of four minutes of material; it's not bad but I'm definitely hemorrhaging gags here. I'm starting to possibly set the framework of what might, someday, begin to look like an actual set. I hoped I haven't phrased that too strongly.
I'm looking forward to it. If I work at it, I'll have routines and collections of jokes that I can produce at will, for any occasion. My sets will be like tableware: the good company jokes, paper plate jokes, jokes in pint glasses stolen during drunken nights out. Something suitable for everyone.
At some point during class I began to wonder, how do comedians do this full time? If I had a job that paid a decent wage I probably wouldn't have time to write jokes. Plus it's draining! After class I'm exhausted, like I've completed an interview while running on a treadmill - how will I handle the real thing? How far, exactly, do I want to go with this?
Because this is a lot of work. I can see now that this is a shit load of work. I don't think I've ever had to put in as much effort as a career in comedy requires.
I mean, I'm gonna do it anyway. I don't have any other marketable talent, so I better make this work.
Sorry this post isn't very long or well written. Did I mention I'm frigging tired?
Friday, 27 April 2012
At a Loss for Words (And Merchandise)
I was accused of being properly racist for the first time today. Woo! I made it to age 26!
Anyway, it was strange having "you're treating me like this because I'm black" levelled at me, and the woman who said it didn't even sound angry, just resigned. I couldn't do anything but apologise because I hadn't been talking about her, and actually I wasn't even being racist. I was being classist. Or maybe alcoholist. Certainly stylist.
I volunteer in a charity shop out of boredom and loneliness, and we get robbed every day. We're told who to look out for: people who look high, drunk, and are carrying large bags. On Wednesday a couple of security guards dragged a woman into the store and emptied her bag out so we could identify our things; the whole time the woman was screaming that we were disgusting, horrible thieves - this is a charity shop. We're not run by Philip Green, yet two or three times a day we'll get a certain kind of bloody-minded woman continually come up to staff, hold up something that's clearly priced and demand to know what the "real" price is and why it's so expensive.
"98p? Why is this top 98p? That's dear. It shouldn't be expensive. It's not like it's new." Sorry, but we don't own an overseas sweatshop. Most of the time people like this will buy something, and they always come back.
Today a woman came in reeking of alcohol and was not, let's say, dressed to impress. She was also carrying a big rucksack close to her chest, and seemed like the kind of person I might catch stroking the Barbies. The store was crowded, and the other volunteer was sorting out the toys and didn't notice her. Before I could ask her opinion on it, a young black mother who frequently shops at the store asked me to help her at the till. I was nervous about the other woman; from behind the till I couldn't see her. When my co-worker passed me I said, "hey, can you keep any eye on-" and nodded toward where the maybe-thief was. Unfortunately, she was somewhere behind the woman I was serving, so I can see why she may have thought I meant her.
Although that's a bit weird. Like, why would I subtly try to say, "Hey, can you keep an eye on this woman who shops here all the time, is obviously buying things now, and who I can clearly see? I don't want her to pull a fast one even though that would be completely impossible, not to mention totally out of character for this very familiar customer."
She was quite offended, and before I could clarify who I meant the potential thief sidled into earshot. That is, she joined the queue with the items she wanted to purchase. I was completely at a loss. I couldn't say "No, no! I actually thought the woman standing just behind you was a smack head, a thief, and likely to blow her nose in a pair of socks. But I see now she's just alternatively dressed. And alternatively perfumed."
I'm not feeling bad about this misunderstanding. I feel slightly bad about thinking the other woman was a thief, when probably she was just a drunk hippy shopping at 2 pm on a Friday afternoon, as usual. In the time it took for this drama to climax and end, I noticed that a clutch of old ladies with trolley bags had come in, milled around the front of the store, and then departed - oddly empty looking, the front of the store...
Anyway, it was strange having "you're treating me like this because I'm black" levelled at me, and the woman who said it didn't even sound angry, just resigned. I couldn't do anything but apologise because I hadn't been talking about her, and actually I wasn't even being racist. I was being classist. Or maybe alcoholist. Certainly stylist.
I volunteer in a charity shop out of boredom and loneliness, and we get robbed every day. We're told who to look out for: people who look high, drunk, and are carrying large bags. On Wednesday a couple of security guards dragged a woman into the store and emptied her bag out so we could identify our things; the whole time the woman was screaming that we were disgusting, horrible thieves - this is a charity shop. We're not run by Philip Green, yet two or three times a day we'll get a certain kind of bloody-minded woman continually come up to staff, hold up something that's clearly priced and demand to know what the "real" price is and why it's so expensive.
"98p? Why is this top 98p? That's dear. It shouldn't be expensive. It's not like it's new." Sorry, but we don't own an overseas sweatshop. Most of the time people like this will buy something, and they always come back.
Today a woman came in reeking of alcohol and was not, let's say, dressed to impress. She was also carrying a big rucksack close to her chest, and seemed like the kind of person I might catch stroking the Barbies. The store was crowded, and the other volunteer was sorting out the toys and didn't notice her. Before I could ask her opinion on it, a young black mother who frequently shops at the store asked me to help her at the till. I was nervous about the other woman; from behind the till I couldn't see her. When my co-worker passed me I said, "hey, can you keep any eye on-" and nodded toward where the maybe-thief was. Unfortunately, she was somewhere behind the woman I was serving, so I can see why she may have thought I meant her.
Although that's a bit weird. Like, why would I subtly try to say, "Hey, can you keep an eye on this woman who shops here all the time, is obviously buying things now, and who I can clearly see? I don't want her to pull a fast one even though that would be completely impossible, not to mention totally out of character for this very familiar customer."
She was quite offended, and before I could clarify who I meant the potential thief sidled into earshot. That is, she joined the queue with the items she wanted to purchase. I was completely at a loss. I couldn't say "No, no! I actually thought the woman standing just behind you was a smack head, a thief, and likely to blow her nose in a pair of socks. But I see now she's just alternatively dressed. And alternatively perfumed."
I'm not feeling bad about this misunderstanding. I feel slightly bad about thinking the other woman was a thief, when probably she was just a drunk hippy shopping at 2 pm on a Friday afternoon, as usual. In the time it took for this drama to climax and end, I noticed that a clutch of old ladies with trolley bags had come in, milled around the front of the store, and then departed - oddly empty looking, the front of the store...
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
Beyond a Joke 2: Criticise Me
Barring any unexpected maid of honour speeches my first stand up gig is happening May 22. On the whole I feel relieved. I've spent the last year trying to work out how to get little me on stage on my own; being part of a line up of people I'm currently learning with and getting to know is a much happier alternative. Somehow or other I got it into my head that stand up was something you have to just try on your own before you bother learning to be good at it. I am funny = on stage I will be funny. I've learned in two weeks that this is bullshit. Attending a class on stand up does not make me a failure before I start. It makes me better. I've often been told that I should take up driving, but that doesn't mean I should hop in my aunt's car and tootle off down the motorway when I don't even know what the stick thing does.
The class has gotten bigger, but as there are no new girls I'm probably the only woman in the line up for May 22. I haven't worked out how I feel about this. It might be like showing up to a black tie event wearing jeans and a Run DMC tee shirt, but they have to let you in because you're receiving an award.
For this week we had to perform a minute of prepared material so that Klare, who runs the class, could take pleasure in tearing it apart and ramming it down our throats. It didn't turn out like that. I thought that all the comments and suggestions from the professional comedians who attended were valid, and could have been worse. Obviously, at some point in the last couple of years I forgot that I have a degree in theatre, that actually I've been hauled to the front of the class and thoroughly critiqued by experts. Finally, a return on my useless liberal arts degree!
A couple of times Klare apologised for being critical, but I think in an art form like stand up her comments are a secondary critique anyway: if no one laughed you know you've done it wrong. Before I decided to get into comedy no one suggested to me I should try it, but no one has ever told me I'm not funny. Except for a few guys who all said 'You'd be great at stand up! I can write your jokes for you!' Which implies that a) I look funny, and b) I'm not funny. It's cool. I can take it.
If you are not experienced in being raked over the burning coals of conscientious review it must be a lot more stressful, and I could tell a couple of the guys were mortified. If you crack a joke to your friends they're unlikely to tell you that your delivery was off, or that it came off sounding scripted (except for my friends, who have told me such things). They are quite big guys in the class, and little Klare telling them - and me - to pull up our socks.
Besides, I may have been shaking but I know I got laughs.
Lots of laughs.
Dare I say... more laughs than the other amateurs.
FYI: I talked about rotting teeth, Freud, and tantric sex, in that order. You can't have rotting teeth and tantric sex together in one conversation without some sort of transition, and Freud is the door that connects many rooms that should really stay locked.
3 minutes for next Tuesday. Next Wednesday I'm in Glasgow!
Friday, 20 April 2012
Women Aren't Funny Fridays
I've been looking through Youtube for examples of what open mic stand up comics do with their hands. I'm naturally fidgety, and in comedy class number one I found out I have a tendency to flail.
I found this video, a day in the life of a female comedian, which I enjoyed, but the comments ranged from histrionic misunderstanding ("but she's being so sexist! To women!") to the more straightforwardly hateful ("women comedians can suck my dick").
It's disheartening to hear that women aren't funny. I'm not a fan of that line. I bet all this history of oppression by men started because some woman came up with an unbelievable small dick joke that was so good it had the same effect as that Monty Python sketch about the joke that makes people die from laughing, and not because men secretly fear that vaginas have teeth.
Maybe I'm not funny. Maybe I should get back in the kitchen. Maybe I should put my bed in the kitchen, along with a birthing pool for when I start my family. I needed to cheer myself up, and demonstrate my commitment. So I've come up with Women Aren't Funny Fridays. Every Friday I'll pick one mean-spirited youtube "joker" and draw what I think the commenter looks like. Here is Week 1!
I found this video, a day in the life of a female comedian, which I enjoyed, but the comments ranged from histrionic misunderstanding ("but she's being so sexist! To women!") to the more straightforwardly hateful ("women comedians can suck my dick").
It's disheartening to hear that women aren't funny. I'm not a fan of that line. I bet all this history of oppression by men started because some woman came up with an unbelievable small dick joke that was so good it had the same effect as that Monty Python sketch about the joke that makes people die from laughing, and not because men secretly fear that vaginas have teeth.
Maybe I'm not funny. Maybe I should get back in the kitchen. Maybe I should put my bed in the kitchen, along with a birthing pool for when I start my family. I needed to cheer myself up, and demonstrate my commitment. So I've come up with Women Aren't Funny Fridays. Every Friday I'll pick one mean-spirited youtube "joker" and draw what I think the commenter looks like. Here is Week 1!
"Women aren't funny and this isn't funny because it was written by a woman"
Can't wait til next week!
Thursday, 19 April 2012
Take Justin Bieber - Please!
The minimal research I conducted for this post involved wandering around Liverpool city centre counting portraits of Justin Bieber. Every kiosk in town sells Liverpool United gear on one side, Everton gear on the other, and they all sell pencil drawings of Bieber, tee shirts and knickers and mugs with Bieber's face on. When little girls ask me if I know Justin Bieber (after asking me why the fuck I left Canada, which is question one for all Canadians in Liverpool) I always respond that if I had then they wouldn't know him, and I wouldn't have "moved to Liverpool" so much as "fled the police".
I am pretty sure he isn't this popular in Canada. I hope not. Most Canadian pop stars who acquire international fame are not mentioned in Canada once they've left. They are the gay children of extremely right wing parents. I certainly don't remember walking through Ottawa's Byward Market feeling oppressed by all the portraits of Celine Dion or the $15 knickers with Brian Adams's face on the ass.
I don't mind the abuse I get on behalf of Celine because these internationally famous pop stars are just red herrings we throw out now and then to stop the rest of the world from wrecking our real good stuff, although I'm aware that Canadian artists probably wouldn't agree that obscurity is perfection. On the not infrequent occasions I'm chased down the Albert Dock by a horde of scallies screaming "THAT DON'T IMPRESS ME MUCH! THAT DON'T IMPRESS ME MUCH!" I think about the best live gig I've ever attended.
Also it was the first gig I attended as a resident of Liverpool, Joel Plaskett Emergency live in Mojo. Subsequently Mojo became my club of choice despite the necessity of looking only at your feet while dancing just in case you happen to make eye contact with someone and find yourself married, pregnant or dead, before the next episode of Hollyoaks airs. When I got to the club with my aunt and her then-new boyfriend, Joel and the band were sitting at a nearby table, a fact which nearly caused an insurmountable emotional crisis as I fought not to do a wee in my tights. Plainly no one in Liverpool has any idea who Joel Plaskett is. The audience consisted of myself, a pair of twin Canadian girls who had travelled to Liverpool for this gig, and a guy from Reading who made us all nervous with his violently enthusiastic response to Joel getting on stage.
The four of us stood grouped around the little stage - the one time I looked behind me I saw my relatives and the rest of the people there standing as far from us as possible, but none of us gave a shit; we were too busy going mental in a big way.
Mojo is a fantastic club but the sound system is neolithic. After cutting out a couple of times Joel and the band just hopped off the stage and carried on playing an acoustic set while the twins and I sang the girl parts of Million Dollars.
After the set was over the band came and mingled with us, and Joel told me about how they had had to switch hotel rooms after he noticed a used condom dangling precariously from the electric ceiling fan above the bed. What more could I ask of my mid-table celebrities?
I am pretty sure he isn't this popular in Canada. I hope not. Most Canadian pop stars who acquire international fame are not mentioned in Canada once they've left. They are the gay children of extremely right wing parents. I certainly don't remember walking through Ottawa's Byward Market feeling oppressed by all the portraits of Celine Dion or the $15 knickers with Brian Adams's face on the ass.
I don't mind the abuse I get on behalf of Celine because these internationally famous pop stars are just red herrings we throw out now and then to stop the rest of the world from wrecking our real good stuff, although I'm aware that Canadian artists probably wouldn't agree that obscurity is perfection. On the not infrequent occasions I'm chased down the Albert Dock by a horde of scallies screaming "THAT DON'T IMPRESS ME MUCH! THAT DON'T IMPRESS ME MUCH!" I think about the best live gig I've ever attended.
Also it was the first gig I attended as a resident of Liverpool, Joel Plaskett Emergency live in Mojo. Subsequently Mojo became my club of choice despite the necessity of looking only at your feet while dancing just in case you happen to make eye contact with someone and find yourself married, pregnant or dead, before the next episode of Hollyoaks airs. When I got to the club with my aunt and her then-new boyfriend, Joel and the band were sitting at a nearby table, a fact which nearly caused an insurmountable emotional crisis as I fought not to do a wee in my tights. Plainly no one in Liverpool has any idea who Joel Plaskett is. The audience consisted of myself, a pair of twin Canadian girls who had travelled to Liverpool for this gig, and a guy from Reading who made us all nervous with his violently enthusiastic response to Joel getting on stage.
The four of us stood grouped around the little stage - the one time I looked behind me I saw my relatives and the rest of the people there standing as far from us as possible, but none of us gave a shit; we were too busy going mental in a big way.
Mojo is a fantastic club but the sound system is neolithic. After cutting out a couple of times Joel and the band just hopped off the stage and carried on playing an acoustic set while the twins and I sang the girl parts of Million Dollars.
After the set was over the band came and mingled with us, and Joel told me about how they had had to switch hotel rooms after he noticed a used condom dangling precariously from the electric ceiling fan above the bed. What more could I ask of my mid-table celebrities?
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
Beyond a Joke: Week 1
Those who know me (almost no one) know that I want to be a comedian. If Noel Edmonds wasn't still alive I'd say it was my dearest ambition (and I'll say that to your face, Edmonds, so bring it on!) Actually, given the way the economy is, I don't think I have many viable options besides self-employment. I've been forced to make this choice, mother.
After spending a year trying to get into stand up in a city where I have few friends, fewer contacts, and no penis, I've signed up for the stand up comedy intro course, Beyond a Joke. This is a 6 week intensive course in Halewood with a gig at the end of it, run by Klare Murray, who I suspect is formidable. There is also an advanced course for comics who have been gigging for a little while and want to ramp up their marketability.
I'm relieved the course is run by a woman, I need role models in this ferociously male-dominated profession. In Liverpool I don't know any women who would rather be on the stage than in the audience. It's just a fact that most people won't want me to be funny unless I'm hilariously obese or mannishly gay. I may have to work harder, but so what? How is that different from any other job, besides wet nurse or prostitute?
Still I'm going for it (I can start eating pies... or clams. Or I can start punching people really hard in the face). The class is small so far: in week one there were four of us altogether. The first week is free just in case students get so embarrassed they decide never to show their faces in town again, but the price overall is great value for money - especially if you aren't sure you can learn this stuff. Some people think you can't be taught to be funny, but Klare argued that comedy can be learned like any skill. Well, they told me the same thing about physics, and where's my BBC science orchestra, that's what I want to know.
I've been working as a pseudo-support worker for disabled people for two years, and I could never have the patience Klare seems to possess. We sat in a circle and went overtime, mainly because all of us constantly interrupted her with nervously-trying-to-be-funny comments or idiotic questions, which she took in her stride. Every time someone cut her off I thought, these guys are fucking annoying. And then I thought, I am WITH these fucking guys, in the CIRCLE. I am ANNOYING. This is a SUPPORT GROUP FOR DICKS.
At least I am finally in a support group.
After spending a year trying to get into stand up in a city where I have few friends, fewer contacts, and no penis, I've signed up for the stand up comedy intro course, Beyond a Joke. This is a 6 week intensive course in Halewood with a gig at the end of it, run by Klare Murray, who I suspect is formidable. There is also an advanced course for comics who have been gigging for a little while and want to ramp up their marketability.
I'm relieved the course is run by a woman, I need role models in this ferociously male-dominated profession. In Liverpool I don't know any women who would rather be on the stage than in the audience. It's just a fact that most people won't want me to be funny unless I'm hilariously obese or mannishly gay. I may have to work harder, but so what? How is that different from any other job, besides wet nurse or prostitute?
Still I'm going for it (I can start eating pies... or clams. Or I can start punching people really hard in the face). The class is small so far: in week one there were four of us altogether. The first week is free just in case students get so embarrassed they decide never to show their faces in town again, but the price overall is great value for money - especially if you aren't sure you can learn this stuff. Some people think you can't be taught to be funny, but Klare argued that comedy can be learned like any skill. Well, they told me the same thing about physics, and where's my BBC science orchestra, that's what I want to know.
I've been working as a pseudo-support worker for disabled people for two years, and I could never have the patience Klare seems to possess. We sat in a circle and went overtime, mainly because all of us constantly interrupted her with nervously-trying-to-be-funny comments or idiotic questions, which she took in her stride. Every time someone cut her off I thought, these guys are fucking annoying. And then I thought, I am WITH these fucking guys, in the CIRCLE. I am ANNOYING. This is a SUPPORT GROUP FOR DICKS.
At least I am finally in a support group.
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