by Lana Citron
The Brodsky Touch
n. when everything one touches turns to
shit; opposite of Midas Touch
Contents
‘THANK YOU … AND GOOD NIGHT’
THE END
HOW COME MEN ARE SUCH GOOD LIARS?
BACK TO BUSINESS
JAMMY SITUATION (OR HOW I FOUND MYSELF IN ONE)
WHEN JAMMY SITUATIONS TURN STICKY
‘A GHOST … THERE’S NO OTHER RATIONAL ANSWER!’
STORMY WEATHER
HONESTY?
SPEAKING OF WHICH …
THAT SPECIAL TIME OF THE MONTH
POST-SPLIT ANALYSIS
MUMMY IS A CRY-BABY
OR
AND THEN
THE UNTOUCHABLES (GOOD NAME FOR A POLE-DANCING TROUPE, EH?)
POLICE RAID
PROCRASTINATION
THEN …
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER
ONE-TO-ONE
MINE, AN HOUR LATER
THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY
LIKE BEES TO THE HONEY (TRAP)
A WHOLE OTHER STORY
THE POSITIVE SIDE OF NOT BEING AN ORPHAN
DON’T GET ME STARTED
DROP-DEAD GORGEOUS
FIRST ON
FULL STEAM AHEAD
HOT BLUE-COLLAR WORK
THE STARS OF TOMORROW, TODAY!
ON THE HOME RUN …
‘I HATE YOU!’
OUR LAST SUPPER – WELL, LUNCH
READY OR NOT
FINAL PARTING WORDS
LIVING THE DREAM
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
‘HOW IS IT, DARLING?’
‘MORE THAN WELL – I’D SAY WE WERE HITTING IT OFF …’
‘THE TIT-WHAT?’
‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, SHE’S DISAPPEARED?’
P.A.R.T.Y.
PADDY ENGLISHMAN, PADDY IRISHMAN AND PADDY SCOTSMAN
MY NUMBER-ONE CHOICE
‘ISSY BRODSKY! AND WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU DOING HERE?’
THE MORNING AFTER
THE ART OF FLYERING (or how not to do it)
CAUGHT OUT THERE
‘YOU OK, ISSY? YOU SEEM A BIT DEFLATED’
A (WO)MAN WALKED INTO A BAR …
DAMN, THAT WASN’T MEANT TO HAPPEN
KEEPING FOCUS
FIRST NIGHT
FOCUS, BRODSKY …
HEY! PSST, BIG G
BACK IN REAL TIME
STAR-COSTER
READER
PARK LIFE
OVER THE HILLS AND FAR, FAR AWAY …
IT COULD HAVE BEEN YOU!
TRAPPED
AND FELL STRAIGHT INTO THE ARMS OF JAN
SIX YEARS ON
RUN, BRODSKY, RUN
FALLOUT
THE DAY JOB
LYING IN A STATE OF NUMBNESS AND DENIAL
ISSY BRODSKY’S TOP FIVE ALL-TIME CLASSICS
ON DIVERSION
END OF THE LINE
THERE WAS IN EDINBURGH A WOMAN ON A MISSION, ON A MISSION (WELL, I RECKONED I’D HAVE KICKED MYSELF IF I DIDN’T AT LEAST TRY TO TRACK HIM DOWN)
IN THE MEANTIME, DEATH AND RESURRECTION TOOK PRIORITY
THE SAYING AND THE DOING
FACING THE FEAR
‘IT COULD MAKE ALL THE DIFFERENCE … ATTENTION TO DETAIL’
‘AND HOW IS MY STAR?’
‘ON MY KNEES GIVING HIM THE BEST …’
LOWEST OF THE LOW
‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?’
ACTION EXT: RANDOM OFF-LICENCE, DAY
TAKE TWO
INT: FLEA-PIT FLAT LATE AFTERNOON
REALITY
‘COME ON ISABEL, YOU CAN DO IT’
WHAT YOU LOOKING AT?
A FESTIVAL VIRGIN
WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘YOU’RE COMING’?
‘I WASN’T FONDLING HER NIPPLES!’
CHRIST, WHY ME?
JUST SHUT UP ABOUT IT – OK?
AVANTI
I WAS FOCUSING, FOCUSING …
STORMED IT
TAKING COMPLIMENTS
SOME PEOPLE LET SUCCESS GO TO THEIR HEADS
STARRY, STARRY NIGHT
ALL CHANGE
A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER …
GOD DAMN IT ALL
MY SACKING?
YES, HE WAS DEFINITELY COMING TO GET ME
THE DAY JOB
HE SHALL HAVE A FISHY ON A LITTLE DISHY, HE SHALL HAVE A FISHY WHEN THE BOAT COMES IN
‘JUST MY USUAL, PLEASE’
THE AWARDS PARTY
‘WANT A PILL?’
HERE COMES MY FIDDLER ON THE ROOF MOMENT
LONDON, ONE MONTH LATER
‘MAX!’
NOTES ON MY EMPLOYMENT STATUS
IT WENT
COO-EEEE
TAKING THE BULL BY THE HORNS
EVIL LISA
‘MUM, I WON PASS THE PARCEL!’
LEGALLY WED AND THERE’S NO GOING BACK
STAND-UP, ISSY?
THE BIG BREAK
NEXT!
NEXT …
‘FOR REAL?’
‘LIFE’S LOSERS’
SHOWDOWN
ON COURSE (AND FEELING VERY PLEASED WITH MYSELF)
READER!
MY NUMBER-ONE CHOICE
FLYING FLOWERS
RESULT!
COUNTING ONE’S BLESSINGS
Footnotes
A Note to the Author
By the Same Author
‘THANK YOU … AND GOOD NIGHT’
There came an ungodly roar from the crowd – a roar of appreciation, I hasten to add. I did my best to milk it; I bowed, curtsied, punched the air and, most importantly, didn’t wake up. This wasn’t a dream. My eyelids weren’t about to ease open, contented with the night’s illusory whim of fancy. No, this was 100 per cent unadulterated reality and I believed that this evening would mark the beginning of a new era for me. I was sweating profusely, as adrenalin was flooding my body. It was all reminiscent of when I lost my virginity, only this time I reached a climax. My eyes scanned the audience. There were about thirty people present, which was fair enough, considering it was a wet Monday night in a room above a grotty goth pub in Camden Town, London.
The occasion was the quarter-finals of the ‘Women Can Be Funny Too’ competition. I had made it through three previous rounds, yes, thrice had I proved myself and, judging by tonight’s performance, it was an immodest certainty that I would go on to the semi-finals and then the finals. From there I’d be catapulted from my normal, north London, ‘spod-u-like’ existence up to the city of Edinburgh, Land of the Scots, where I would reside for the entire month of August and partake in a stand-up show at the grand Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Of course, this would represent a mere stepping stone, for I would then be hurled heavenward. Make no mistake, I was star-bound, next stop Hollywood. I was going to hang with Madonna, sing with André 3000 and make love to the A-listers. See, this was my dream and the reason I’d been working my ass off for the past year or, in truth, even longer.
Ever since I was a little girl I’d wanted fame. Not in a D-list, celebrity, must-expose-my-breasts sort of way (especially not since giving birth). Nor was it the trappings of a luxury lifestyle I was after, though I knew I would come to appreciate it. It was more of a deep desire – indeed, I would go even further: it was a need, a subterranean guttural ache to express myself on a global scale. Being a shortarse, modelling was out of the question, although I wouldn’t have turned down a midget catalogue. Sure, I toyed with other artistic vocations: acting, painting, singing, ballet, operatic diva, rock chick, gangster moll, weather girl, but was continually put off by the number of qualifications required. Then, thumbing my way through the pages of Floodlight, I chanced upon a ‘How to be a comedian in nine easy steps’ cour
se and promptly signed up. It required neither a CV nor previous experience, simply a cheque. Hurrah! I qualified. I enrolled, studied hard, learned how to create a joke, shape a joke, tell a joke. Laughter is more than a muscular contraction, my friend (although that is exactly what it is). Anyway, the art of evoking laughter captivated me and, following my comedic graduation, I began to gig, gradually and painstakingly learning the craft of the comic. Nine months later, the time was ripe, the moment within my grasp and I was dropping punchlines, well … like a mother.
Yes, finally the smell of success flirted with my nostrils, which flared open to inhale all the more. Agh … if only I could freeze-frame that moment, for the audience continued to clap as I continued to bow, prolonging it further by pointing down to the invisible orchestra, upward to the unknown gods, finally acknowledging my co-competitors (who all looked unreservedly nervous) before Fat Adrian the MC bounced onstage, grabbed my free fist and yanked it upwards.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he cried, ‘let’s give it up one last time for the one, the only, a close, personal, showbiz friend of mine, little Issy Brodsky.’
Me: Issy Brodsky.
Age: thirty-recurring.
Physique: normally size ten, though being on stage is similar to telly, it puts on at least half a stone; as for the other half, let’s just say I enjoy my food.
Ego: rising.
Status: mainly confused, single mother to one child, a boy of five years old.
Love interest: die-hard romantic and girlfriend to Scarface.
Relationship at present: rocky.
Job: hanging on by the skin of my teeth.
Position: in glamorous terminology, ‘agent provocateur’; in vernacular, two-bit private detective.
Financial ranking: Red alert, red alert …
Jubilantly, I pushed my way through the thirty-strong throng towards a table of loyal supporters on the far side of the room, otherwise known as my work colleagues. The entire Honey Trap Undercover Detective Agency was conspicuously out in full force.
‘Nice one, Brodsky,’ yelled Nads.
Though Nadia was younger and far more aesthetically pleasing than yours truly, I didn’t hold it against her (for long) and considered her a true friend, a best friend and, besides, she’d always laughed at my jokes – a habit established way before I went on the comedy course. Nadia was someone I could rely on to give me an honest appraisal of my performance.
‘Nads, did you notice how nervous I was at the beginning of my set?’ I whispered.
‘You mean the shaky voice?’
‘Yeah …’
‘I thought it was on purpose.’
‘Phew. And what about when I dropped the mic?’
‘Issy, you were fantastic,’ Maria cried. Maria, co-worker and chief babysitter extraordinaire, flung herself upon me. ‘Very brave.’
‘You’re just saying that …’
‘No, I mean it,’ and she repeated earnestly, ‘very brave.’ Tears of pride glistened at the edges of her eyes as she grasped me to her mammoth chest.
A swift, sharp whack to my spine released me from the quicksands of Maria’s flesh. I jerked backwards like a Wellington boot being yanked from a pool of mud. It was Trisha, second-in-command of the Honey Trap. She was a woman of much military bearing, and slightly suspicious of me. Put it this way: when I stepped out of line, she was sure to catch me.
‘Got to hand it to you, Issy, you’ve really come on in the past year. Miles better than your first gig,’ Trisha observed.
‘Don’t remind me …’
I cringed at the memory. It had been a truly woeful event.
‘You may have found your vocation.’ Trisha raised a glass to me.
Naturally, I reached out to take it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t an offer – it was hers. My mild embarrassment amplified when Fiona blared out, for all and sundry to hear: ‘Brodsky, thought the drinks were on you tonight. Mine’s a vodka tonic.’
Fiona was my top boss, Honey founder and one of Europe’s leading experts on all things ‘Trappable’ (ie potentially erring partners). Having once been a man, she knew the male psyche well, but had acquired the capacity to be a complete bitch as soon as she’d gone for the full chop.
Okay, confession time: I had had to bribe most of my colleagues to guarantee their presence/support.
‘Fiona,’ I muttered, ‘I strictly stipulated only the first two.’
‘I jest, Brodsky,’ she smiled. ‘You did good. Well done.’
I beamed, chuffed to bits that the force were all present to witness my glorious ascension to the very first rung of superstardom.
‘A word in your ear, Brodsky,’ Fiona murmured.
I hated it when she said stuff like that, suspecting she’d discovered something was amiss, usually that which I should have done, did do, or forgot to do. Like when I mixed up two assignments, mistaking one client’s husband for another, leading to false accusations, recriminations and, ultimately, two marriages dissolved. Puff, one, two, three, and like a stack of cards they crumpled. Or then there was the time I accidentally got involved with a client – physically involved, the full ding-dong, beep-beep, toot-toot (I kid you not), and committed the cardinal sin of Honey Trapping. Agh, fool that I was to allow such a transgression to occur. The forbidden line crossed. For one can flirt, tease, toy with, trifle with, importune even, but never ever, on pain of P45-dom, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, on no account whatsoever (ever), have full and complete carnal knowledge of any of the clients.
Yeah, I lost my job over that and, though reinstated (it’s a long story and a riveting read, in a book called The Honey Trap – go figure – go buy), I have been on a prolonged probation ever since. One false move and I’m history. It’s much like living under threat of an ever-increasing congestion zone that will eventually incorporate the whole of London within the M25. Don’t get me wrong, I do hate my job and can’t wait until I’m ready to make the all important step to professional comedian, ie, one that is paid, but as reality decrees and everyone acknowledges, it is incredibly difficult for most nannyless/grannyless mothers of young kids to find a job complementing school hours and term times, never mind securing one that is somewhat fulfilling, challenging and well paid. Being a lone parent, Honey Trapping had turned out to be the perfect solution. Pre hooking up with my boyfriend, Scarface, it meant I had, by default at least, a semblance of a social life.
‘That woman there …’ Fiona pointed to the side of the stage where a tall, thin, spiky-looking woman was deliberating with her more dumpy, pasty-faced counterpart. Both women were judges of the night’s competition and both were high profile in the world of female comedy. The podglet was Nell Tony, one of the top agents in London. If one was lucky enough to get on Nell’s books, a TV job was almost guaranteed. The other woman was Geraldine McIntosh, the hard-core promoter, and the one to impress at my level of the game. Without her putting a good word in, gigs were very hard to come by. She had the ability to showcase talent and, if she liked what she saw, you could bypass several years of hard slog and fast-forward to a ten-minute slot in a stand-up comedy show at the Edinburgh Festival. Hence …
‘That’s Geraldine. Geraldine McIntosh, she’s one of the judges.’
Geraldine must have felt our eyes on her, for at that very instant she looked up and across at me. I smiled in a ‘pick me’ fashion, which she returned in a noncommittal way.
‘Geraldine … Gerry …’ Fiona was off on one.
‘Do you know her?’ I asked.
‘Know her,’ Fiona repeated, her gaze firmly fixed on the subject, whose own was firmly fixed on Fiona’s. It was anyone’s guess who’d blink first. Geraldine lost. Her lids flickered, then opened and closed in what could only be labelled as utter bafflement. Her eyes then narrowed, her brows met, her forehead scrunched, while Fiona, wearing a mischievous grin, daintily waved across at her.
‘Old school friend, Brodsky,’ Fiona whispered to me. ‘Let’s see if she can work it out.’
&
nbsp; A double-take was trebled, then quadrupled and eventually Geraldine’s jaw unhinged and dropped open.
‘Oh my … I don’t … I can’t …’ and she strode towards us.
‘Bingo,’ smiled Fiona, throwing her arms warmly around her. ‘Geraldine McIntosh.’
‘Duncan! What happened to you?’
‘The Full Monty,’ I quipped. ‘The super-chop,’ I winked, my elbow nudging upwards. ‘The no-going-back, full-gender makeover …’ I was on a roll of metaphors, making the most of my Geraldine McIntosh first face-to-face.
She completely blanked me, her expression one of stupefied amazement.
‘Duncan! You … you …’
‘Fiona,’ Fiona reintroduced herself.
They stood eyeballing each other like besotted teens.
‘It must be, what, thirty years?’ Fiona gasped.
‘At least,’ Geraldine sighed.
‘I can’t believe it. After all this time,’ Fiona half-whispered, the edges of her eyes moistening.
Feeling like Fiona’s cast-off (a spare prick), I finally got the hint. ‘Anyone want a drink?’ As there were no forthcoming replies, I left them to it and went looking for Scarface, my boyfriend.
Scarface and I were originally drawn together through hatred. At first glance he was, to me, an arrogant, self-centred, younger man and I, to him, a frazzled, frustrated single mum who’d put a jinx on him after he complained about my son Max making too much noise.
See, one night while changing a bulb he fell off a ladder and that was how he’d acquired his scar, nickname and near electrocuted himself in the process. The poor guy was hospitalised and I blamed myself when it happened. How stereotypically female of me, especially considering we weren’t even going out at that stage. Nevertheless, over time we slowly warmed to one another. Mere acknowledgements turned to ‘Hi’s, which turned to minor conversations. Then, on the night of my first ever stand-up gig, he walked me home, which I considered gentlemanly, notwithstanding the fact that he lived directly above me. We stalled outside my door and he kissed me with such intensity I was suctioned to him like a mollusc.
And before I knew it, I was in a state of conjugation. I was conjugating him.
I him
You me
Me you
He me
She he
We us
Yes, I regressed to the state of a love-obsessed teenager.
How pathetic yet unsurprising. For the next three months a full orchestra followed me around – metaphorically, you understand. Singing birds appeared from every nook and cranny, chirruping and twittering like there was no delineation between dusk and dawn. People smiled at me inanely as I walked down the street. God damn it, friggin’ kiddies ran up just to touch the hemline of my skirt. I was a flower, my petals unfurling and was being touched in places that hadn’t been touched in a long time. (Pervert, but let’s not go there – oh, okay then …) Basically, Scarface and I just seemed to click in all the right ways. If it wasn’t love it was an Oscar-winning performance. Even Max liked him. They played footie in the garden and Scarface took Max kite flying up on Primrose Hill. And I thought, how handy that I was in love with my upstairs neighbour. Isn’t life amazing? I mean, one minute you’re a sad loser thirty-recurring-year-old single mother with few friends, few prospects and a vibrator with burnt-out batteries, then wham bam and you’re on an endorphin high that’s out of this world and seriously considering going on contraception.
