Never trust a fart.
Sage advice and it sent me sprinting to the men’s bathroom at last night’s comedy venue because of course there were 4,823 women queued for the single women’s stall. Bring on the day when bathroom access isn’t dependent on the configuration of your genitals.
I stand politely for a while, as I’ve been trained to do since birth, trying not to hop from foot to foot as a hot wave of something washes over me from the tips of my space buns to the pit of my belly. I study the woman in front of me. She’s very tall and she’s wearing bright red lipstick. I should ask her the brand, I think, as I gaze in rising agitation at the gin bottles lined up above the bar.
The room withdraws, the clanging wall of noise softens to a distant hum, and the ringing in my ears approaches fast as my face heats up.
A sharp pain. A moment of panic. A decision.
Shit myself or break “the rules.”
I pick the latter.
Fuck this: propriety can get in the bin when there’s a chance I might expode moments before I have to make strangers laugh.
Is it nerves or is it two days in London eating richer food than normal? Who knows. Doesn’t matter. My objective is simple: do not shit yourself. Go on stage and make people laugh. Try not to shame yourself, your husband, your friends, and the MC by attempting to socialise beforehand.
Photograph by the lovely Dave James
Because I don’t want to be socialising. I want to be a weird little antisocial goblin reading a book under a table. Like I used to do when I was a weird little kid.
When I was about four years old, I took my books into the dining room and hid from the world under the table, which had a long tablecloth. I made myself a little book nook and stayed there all day, reading, while outside my parents had the entire neighbourhood out searching for me.
At least now nobody would call the police to find me. Probably.
But I’m not allowed to hide under tables at parties. That’s against your invisible rules. Apparently I’m supposed to “join in.”
So out I come out from under the table, put my book down, and attempt to join in.
HOWEVER.
I’ve also been told, for my entire life, that it’s rude to interrupt. So tell me, please: how do I join your conversation without interrupting? THERE ARE NO NATURAL GAPS!
Give me a stage and a mic any day. Doing stand-up comedy works for me because there are obvious rules here.
Like, when I’m doing socialising, I have no idea when it’s my turn to talk. But onstage, the microphone in my hand means it’s definitely my turn to talk. About whatever I want.
Because at a party, if I monologue at you for ten minutes about why ankylosaurus is the best dinosaur and your choice of dinosaur is pants (backed up by a Canva presentation I keep in my pocket) apparently that’s “dominating the conversation.” But on stage, that’s called a set and you paid for it.
And when is it okay to interrupt someone?
I’m actually asking.
When I’m on stage — never. You’ll be thrown out or at least mildly roasted by me or a snappier comedian. But in social situations? Apparently it’s fine. You lot interrupt each other left right centre up down and sideways and it’s bewildering. And nobody cries or punches anyone. Even in my local Wetherspoons which appears to run on prison rules.
I have a list of things I want to talk about and I am damn well going to do it while the microphone is in my hand and that is fine and dandy. But at a dinner party, if I bring out my notecards and deliver a 12-minute TED Talk on the history and culture of googly eyes, suddenly I’m “intense.”
So doing stand-up comedy is like socialising for me but with rules that only benefit me and that’s brilliant. Because at a party I’m not allowed to corner you and regale you with my fun facts, which sucks for you because I have a LOT of fun facts, but while I’m in charge of the situation YOU’RE not allowed to bring out photographs of your kids and show them to me and I don’t have to pretend that’s fun.
Ultimately, I think stand-up comedy is less terrifying for me than socialising because if I bomb on stage, the stakes are low. People almost expect it, especially as a female comedian. They’re mostly going to think I was brave to give it a go in the first place.
But going into a social situation with strangers or people I am not comfortable with, I know I’ve failed before I even step into the room. I don’t know the rules. I can’t read the cues. And at some point, I will ask someone an inappropriate question or blurt out a weird, context-free fact, and the world will not swallow me up, and a ring of shame will begin to form around me as people slowly begin to back away.
Usually, though, I don’t bomb. Usually, I get the whole room laughing, and then someone will come up to me afterwards and say something like, “Thank you so much. I feel like I understand my wife a little better now.”
And I can leave that place knowing that not only am I funny AF, but I also helped make someone’s marriage a little happier.
And I didn’t shit myself. High five me. Next time, though, I’m bringing my books to the party and you’re welcome to join me if you like. Quietly.
