Almost home, but I can’t remember the journey there or back. Once again it’s as if the windscreen is a giant TV that flips between growing up, the funeral, what Keith’s doing now, and earlier this evening.
The following night I have a long-standing date in the diary. Mick is a friend and knows what’s happened and offers to replace me, but it’s a chance to escape. It’s strange, I feel a bit vulnerable returning to work – like going back to school with a new haircut.
The Ambassador Club is one I know well and is usually full of stag and hen dos. Tables surround the stage and the walls are painted red and yellow. I’ve had some of my best and worst gigs standing on this tiny four-foot by four-foot plinth. But tonight it’s a private function – lots of blokes with suits, not smart suits, well-worn, shabby ones – and there are only a few women. Mick the manager shakes my hand, and offers his condolences.
‘What have we got here then?’ I enquire on autopilot.
‘Didn’t anyone tell you – it’s wall to wall Newham Police Dept.’
Of course, lots of tall, world-weary men and no black people. (Two actually.) Usually I would be wary of so much authority, but I’ve just been at a gig where the Grim Reaper was in the house.
A car sounds its horn behind me. The traffic light is green. I move off.
Condolences! What are they? After national tragedies they open books of condolences. But who reads them afterwards? You’d have to have real trouble sleeping. That’s one thing I’ve learnt though, it doesn’t matter how stiff and awkward someone is about mentioning your grief, you appreciate them trying. Even if you don’t know what to say back. The worst thing is being ignored, pretending that nothing has happened.
There’s no real MC. An inspector in civvies gets up on stage to a barrage of catcalls. He doesn’t really know what to say, and I’ve had better intros.
Well we’ve got a turn for you now. His name’s Jerome Stevens. If he’s not funny blame Adrian – he booked him.’
Beginning with the three police jokes I have, I get off to a flier. A bald man laughs in the wrong place.
‘Hello, who do you think you are, Kojak?’
It doesn’t even make sense but they love it. They trust me now, and I can get on with the rest of my act. But seeing so many people laughing again is therapeutic.
‘If I’m going too fast, stop me, you usually do.’
More laughs. This is what I do for a living. Yes, I’m alive, life goes on. (Another cliché.)
There’s something about my manner this evening, that’s both confident and dismissive, as if I don’t care – which seems to make it all the funnier. There’s even a loud roar when I tell one laughing table ‘Shut up, will you!’
Should think about winding up soon. Then two women, at the bar, who are very drunk, start to chip in. The crowd rise to the contest.
‘What’s this,’ I gamble, ‘the dog section?’
Now that wouldn’t have worked on another night, but this is the right time and the right place. A couple of times I deliberately take my foot off the gas and enjoy the pause. Delightfully, they often laugh at the setups, promising a big payoff on the punch lines. In passing I hint that all policemen are corrupt. But instead of taking offence someone shouts, ‘More Champagne!’
This is the best kind of interaction. They’re good sports. Even I am laughing out loud now. Nights like this are why I joined up.
Nearly missed my turn. A police van speeds the other way, full of my new mates. What happened to panda cars? Apparently there are just a few left in the wild now.
As I close I pontificate, ‘So if we meet again, perhaps in a dark alley or on the hard shoulder of a motorway, just remember that anything you say or do may be taken down and later used against you.’ More barracking.
‘Listen, if you don’t like it, I’ll write up a report, and then do absolutely nothing about it!’
Applause and cheers: the best gig I’ve done for a while, for a number of reasons, and on reflection there are not many jobs in which you can insult 120 police for half an hour, they clap and cheer and then you get paid for it.
Just before I went on I had a call. Jim Bernstein’s car has broken down and he can’t get to a gig in Hendon. Can I cover for him? He has no idea what’s happened to me recently, but that’s not his fault, he’d happily do the same for me, besides, I’m on a roll. I like doubling up. You don’t get a chance to think too much, and once you’re out of the house you may as well work as hard as you can.
It turns out to be a show for a Jewish youth group. This could be tricky; they seem quite well off and judging by the ringlets and skullcaps some of them are quite orthodox. Let’s hope they’ll take to a gentile. Like in an old episode of Star Trek, I’ll have to go in with my deflector shields down to look like I’m vulnerable, and then when they drop their guard I can get to work.
The crowd is lively. The MC speaks some Yiddish and they all laugh. Now it’s me.
‘Listen, I’m not Jewish, but there’s not much I can do about that – okay there is, but I’d really rather not…’
It works and I’m on my away again – they like me too. I can lose myself in the moment…
That’s it! That’s what it’s all about – lifting people’s spirits. Going into a dark room with the promise of delivering a gift. And if you manage to do so, it can be a healing meal of fun.
But about halfway through the Jewish gig, I come to another gag I’ve used for a while, about holidays for children with short attention spans, and making the mistake of advertising them as concentration camps.
On the night I don’t do it, and do you know, I don’t think I’ll do it again.
Hungry, I stop for some chips on the way home. Some chips and a can of Sprite. The tin is lukewarm and there’s a thin layer of dust on the surface. It’s stood for months on a shelf in the shop. It lasted longer than she did.
Feeling heavy again. But I’m almost home now. She’s still gone. And I forget to eat the chips.