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...

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!

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!

"Women aren't funny and this isn't funny because it was written by a woman" 

Can't wait til next week!

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?

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.