A car park full of Jags (sleek and vicious) and a handful of BMWs crouch on the gravel like huge toads. There are a few Ferraris too, small and flat, which if they were stones would be really good for skimming. Behind, the hiss of distant traffic seeps across the hedgerows from the M6. In the foreground there are tiny ‘clicks’ and ‘tings’ from beneath the shiny bonnets, as the metal cools and contracts.
They’re all lined up in the parking overflow at Chimley Manor in Staffordshire, an up-market country hotel that specialises in business conferences. I’ve just parked my battered VW Golf (belligerently ugly) facing forward for a quick getaway. Appropriately, by comparison it looks like a clown’s car (two parps and the doors fall off). It’s certainly the only one with child seats lashed into the back. I’m here for a corporate – a gig to some fat cats after dinner.
I open the car door to get out. The air is fresh, and in the distance a pheasant makes a noise like a party blower thing from a Christmas cracker.
Into the foyer, which is all antiques, gold fittings and there’s a large open fire. There is a woman in a black trouser suit with her back to me. She’s on her mobile.
‘…no I’m stuck here until the ruddy comedian arrives.’
As she turns round I offer my hand.
‘Hello, I’m the ruddy comedian.’
She smiles with her teeth but not her eyes.
‘Wendy Appleyard, Production Manager.’
It seems she’s suspicious of my profession. She looks at me as if to say ‘You will be funny, won’t you?’ Then she says, ‘You will be funny, won’t you?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Perhaps she’s had a bad experience with a comic, although intermediaries are often dubious of the ‘turn’ probably because they’ve worked out our pound per minute ratio compared to theirs.
Yes, this pays well, but it’s daunting: fifty-five middle-aged businessmen from a pharmaceutical company. Three Japanese, two Sri Lankans and an American, none of whom speak English. No swearing, speaking to the chairman or mentioning a certain legal case in South Africa which they seem to think I know about. Thirty to forty minutes depending how it’s going. (Twenty will be an achievement.)
The big boys – Freddie McKay, Spinola and Co. – can charge five-figure sums, with an extra few grand added on if they agree to stay and have a drink with the client. But you never know with these gigs, that’s why they pay extra: they might just forget to provide you with a microphone, or an audience that wants to listen. In the stress of the moment, as you struggle to find a rhythm you find yourself going back to your oldest jokes, like a confused gadget reverting to factory settings. If you don’t concentrate you can take a nose-dive – like when you’re coming downstairs and just for a second you forget how to put one foot in front of the other.
Occasionally your duties can include presenting awards. So you press Perspex plinths into sweaty palms and smile politely as thanks goes to all those without whom it wouldn’t have been possible to win Rawlplug of the Year. The worst part is being expected to attend the dinner as well. A rabbit making small talk with ferrets before becoming the entertainment.
We sneak a look at the Constable Suite where it’s all happening. It’s set out with five large round tables spaced across a huge room with a high ceiling and chandeliers. There are also a couple of pillars in the room obscuring sight-lines. There is a microphone, but it’s on a small stage in front of an empty dance floor. This means I’ll be a good twenty yards from the nearest other person in the room. There’s no atmosphere, conversation is just a murmur, and the main sounds are coughing and cutlery.
‘Should be fine, shouldn’t it?’ says Wendy, still suspicious.
Oh dear, Wendy, stand by for another bad experience with a comedian, not that it will be his fault.
It seems they do these events a lot and there’s a whiff of complacency in the air. Drug companies are doing very well thank you. Two hours to wait, before almost certain death. It’s best not to stay over – you only get to meet them all again at breakfast. Besides, it’s a lot quicker to get home at night. But I’m not the only entertainment. Apparently, after me there are some special surprise guests. It’s them who’re in for a surprise though.
‘Don’t forget to mention Kerry’s shoes!’
Suddenly there’s a man with a red face and curly hair looking boggle-eyed at me.
‘You’re the turn aren’t you?’ he checks.
‘Yup,’ I concede, although it’s him who looks more like a clown.
‘Don’t forget to mention Kerry’s shoes!!’
‘Right.’
Then he’s off nudging people and checking everyone’s got a drink.
But who’s Kerry? And why are his shoes funny? What is Zippo thinking? It’s good to have inside information but you have to be sure of it, otherwise you might trip up and never recover. It’s good to think of something bespoke if you can, but even if it goes well, afterwards you’ll only have to park it in your unusable joke museum alongside other redundant classics – ‘It’s nice to be here at the Welsh Grocers’ Association, but if you’re going to heckle, can I ask you to take a ticket and wait till I call your number’ etc.
An hour later I’ve skimmed all the day’s newspapers in the lounge, which are attached to long wooden rods to stop you walking off with them. In future they might think to do that with acts who’ve had a look at the room – stick a rod horizontally across their shoulders to stop them running out the door.
Suspicious Wendy comes in to say that they are now onto the main course.
‘Nothing to eat?’
‘No thanks.’
How do condemned prisoners enjoy a last meal when they’re about to face the gallows?
‘Well I hope you’re better than the one we had last year.’
Ah, now the truth comes out.
‘Who was that?’
‘Ted … Bundle? Er … Ted Bundass?’
‘Tony Tundass?’
‘That’s him. He arrived late, got drunk and then insulted some of the Nigerian delegates.’
‘Ah … well that’s his speciality. So how come you went for comedy again?’
‘There’s a new MD. He’s a fan of yours. He’s seen you at the Comedy Lounge, apparently.’
Great. Just great. They often assume you’ll be able to bring with you both your act, and the atmosphere of 400 people crammed into the cellar where they first saw you, into their sparsely populated cathedral of embarrassment.
10.35: ‘They’re having coffee.’
10.55: ‘They’re onto the awards.’
She’ll be back in a minute, with a priest ideally.
11.10: Suddenly Wendy is not so suspicious.
‘I’m really sorry, Jerome … I hope you don’t mind … I wouldn’t normally ask this…’
Oh no, they want me to do an hour.
‘…do you mind if we cancel you?’
‘What!?’
‘…on full pay obviously.’
Trying hard not to laugh out loud, or hug her, I pause for a second, replaying the tape in my head just to check. Yes, ‘suddenly conciliatory’ Wendy has just asked if I wouldn’t mind not facing the firing squad after all.
‘Sure, whatever you think best for the night,’ I mutter, mustering up as much sobriety as possible.
‘It’s just we’re running way behind, and we’ve got to get the Three Degrees on stage as quickly as possible.’
‘Sure … sure, the Three Degrees?’
‘Yes, they’ve been flown over specially.’
There’s not a moment to lose, in case they change their minds. ‘The MD wants to apologise to you himself.’
‘No need.’
I’m out the door in a flash.
In the car park I sneak a look through the window of the dining room. The Three Degrees are on stage already and belting out ‘When will I see you again?’
‘Anytime,’ I think to myself. I’d be happy to do gigs like this one every night of the week, lots of them all in different parts of the country at the same time, as long as I don’t have to actually turn up, of course.
Now the audience are being told off for not getting on the dance floor. One of the Degrees is having a real go at them – the third one presumably. In the lights the ageing divas don’t realise that their audience are almost all men! It’s all fascinatingly awkward. I wouldn’t like to be in Kerry’s shoes!
The air is fresh and I can smell grass cuttings somewhere. The wings of an owl rustle overhead but when it squawks it’s already far away. A hunting machine, in and out before anyone knows it. Owls, the SAS and me. A security light comes on as I crunch across the gravel, like an escaped prisoner. Now, which one of these cars is mine?