by Lana Citron
FIRST ON
The position of first on was not a popular one in any comedy line-up. Basically it’s the short straw. The audience may not be sufficiently warmed up, aka drunk enough, so if up first, you had to work harder to get the audience on side. Should you storm it, it set a standard for the rest of the evening. The audience relaxed and usually enjoyed the remainder of the show. Then again, the first act could often be regarded as the sacrificial lamb and if it was spit-roasted by the audience, the following acts were often treated less harshly. It’s a win-win situation for everyone but the comic who got to go on first. We decided to pull straws. Four were pulled and although all of equal length, mine was perceived by Lisa, Adrian and the Mingers as dwarfish. The unanimous decision was taken that I would go on first, every night, for the entire run. I objected, to no avail – my position was firmly fixed. It was official; I was the runt of the pack.
‘Good to see you settling in so well,’ observed Geraldine, who had watched the show and given notes at the end of it. We were enjoying a post-preview drink in the bar below. I was chuffed, glad there had been no major hiccups.
‘Issy?’ Lisa tapped me on the shoulder. ‘I wanted to say something.’ She focused her intensely blue eyes on me. ‘I wanted to say … okay, I’m going to spit it out, even if it makes me seem strange. Issy, remember the night of the competition?’
‘Huh?’
‘The night of the competition. Remember?’
I nodded. How could I forget? My face immediately took on the shame position, the hangdog downward nod.
‘Remember when you ran up on stage to get the prize …’
‘I swear on my mother’s life I thought my name had been called out. Lisa/Issy, they are both sibilant.’
‘I could see how devastated you were.’
Understatement. I nodded again, my chin hitting my chest.
‘You must have really hated me. If I was you, I’d have really hated me.’
It had to be said, she was very perceptive. Upon pain of death I had sworn her my lifelong enemy. Yes, I was jealous. Yes, I did resent her talent, looks, the whole package, though personally I meant her no harm.
‘Lisa, that was one of the worst moments in my life.’
She leaned back in horror. ‘Only one of the worst?’
‘Let’s not go there.’
‘The thing is, Issy, I don’t want any bad feelings to stew between us. This show is really important to me.’
‘It’s really important to me, too.’
‘Good. Friends?’ She waved a white paper napkin at me. My overriding intention being to befriend her, I gladly took her up on the offer.
‘Sure, best of,’ I replied.
FULL STEAM AHEAD
We’d hit July at full speed and were almost halfway through. I was frantically trying to organise myself and ended up forgoing adult rationale and reverting to childhood antics to get what was required. Not as in throwing tantrums; instead I played my parents off one another like back in the good old days. It seemed to be working. They were responding favourably, so much so it became an ‘access to’ argument. Max was in high demand. My mum had finally confirmed she could do the last two weeks of August.
‘That sounds fine, Mum, more than fine, it sounds amazing. I promise, I won’t let you down, you’re going to be so proud of me and …’
‘Darling, you’ve got to sort out your approval-seeking issues.’
‘Mother, I’m a comedian, it’s part and parcel of the trade.’
Next up was my father.
‘Guess what? My most amazing mother, your ex-first wife, has just pledged to look after Max for the last couple of weeks in August …’
‘Really? And will she be with that twit of a partner of hers?’
‘It’s not his fault his name is Wally.’
‘He could have changed it by deed poll.’
The last time my parents had met was at Max’s Welcome to the World birthday party. Each came accompanied by their respective partner. It was the worst party I’d been to, never mind thrown. Max was just ten days old, he wailed all day, my nipples were aching, down below not much better and, to cap it off, my brother Freddie decided it was an apt moment to come out. My father immediately blamed my mother, who was all for taking it as a compliment, but Wally decided to come to her defence. A meek man by nature, his stature went against him, being six-four and built like a house. He made my father (five-foot-eleven in a good pair of hidden-heel shoes) very, very uncomfortable and the situation deteriorated into a stand-off in my living room.
‘As long as Wally isn’t on English soil, I’d be more than happy to come.’
I’d already cross-checked with my mother. Apparently he was going on an expedition down the Amazon.
‘So do you think you’ll be able to help, Dad?’ I asked again.
‘Of course, but those last two weeks were the ones I wanted …’
Agh, I knew my father well. We shared a similar trait of always wanting what we couldn’t have.
‘Mum is fairly adaptable. I’m sure she won’t mind swapping.’ I called him back half an hour later. ‘Yeah, that’s no problem, she’ll swap.’
‘Super, that’s all worked out perfectly then. Can’t wait to see Maxy, and how is your mum? How’s she looking?’
My father was officially back on the market and in hunting mode, although the reason both his previous marriages failed was that he had never really taken himself out of the market.
‘Mum is looking great. I’m not sure about the dreadlocks.’
He groaned.
‘Neither is she,’ I confided. ‘She said she was thinking of shaving her head for the summer.’
He groaned again then added, ‘Great, I won’t feel so self-conscious about my bald pate.’
And that was how I overcame all my Obligations, Responsibilities and Duties on the road to Edinburgh.
HOT BLUE-COLLAR WORK
It was a ridiculously hot day in the office and temperatures were running high. To make matters worse, the atmosphere was heavy with Fiona’s affectated premenstrual tension.
I was having a verbal spat with Lady A, who had turned against me with a vengeance. I’d only called to advertise our special summer sizzler offer – buy two hours of surveillance and receive one free. How was I supposed to know it was meant to have been the day of Her Ladyship’s nuptials? I found her in a very emotional state, grieving her phantom wedding.
‘I was meant to be getting married today…’ she howled and then, between sobs, acquainted me with the pitiful tale of how Henry had unceremoniously dumped her after having fallen in ‘true love’ with one of the strippers. I was shocked, appalled and rapt.
‘I don’t believe it!’ I gasped in my best Victor Meldrew.
‘Issy, you promised me absolutely nothing untoward had happened.’
‘I can assure you nothing did, not in my presence,’ I responded on the defensive.
‘I have evidence,’ she declared, ‘and I have a witness. The best man will testify.’
Her distress transformed into vicious hatred toward me.
‘There is the small matter of a matchbox I found from the club with the whore’s telephone number scrawled on it.’
‘Look Lady, I was there till the mass arrest. There was no cavorting, never mind fraternising with the employees.’
‘I find that hard to believe. The tramp wrote, “Light me up big boy and give me call.” I repeat, I have the box of matches.’
‘Impossible …’ I replied, but then recalled the act prior to mine, the one with the peculiar smoking habit. I vaguely remembered the performer asking Henry if he wouldn’t mind lighting up her cigarette. She handed him the box of matches and thus began her act.
‘Listen Araminta, there’s no way I can be held responsible for that, but if you are so determined to get your man back, maybe you should take up the habit.’
‘Or maybe I should just sue you,’ she snidely suggested.
In respo
nse I advised her in a most patronising tone that I’d pretend she hadn’t said that and we would put her silly, nonsensical notion down to a rejected and shattered heart. I heard her nostrils flare and then she broke down once more and fell into ear-piercing wails of ‘woe is me’.
I did feel for Her Ladyship, but not much. Okay, so she was incredibly depressed and a smidge crazy, but the fact remained that she was loaded. She owned a substantial piece of northern England. She was a catch; she’d find a replacement for her Hooray Henry soon enough. I slammed the phone down and then thrust my sweaty face as close to the crappy desk fan as possible.
Fiona was avidly filing. This was her way of dealing with frustration. Geraldine had called earlier to cancel a dinner arrangement and thus cemented Fiona’s foul mood. She was vying for a fight, kept harassing me about Lisa Slater.
‘Anything to report yet? Have you gained access to her inner sanctum?’
‘No! Give me a break, Fiona.’
‘No slacking. I want results, Brodsky.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll have results.’
‘And what’s happening with the money owed by Penn?’ Trisha butted in.
‘I can’t seem to get hold of him,’ I replied honestly.
‘Brodsky, you should never have worked those hours until the money was in.’
My cheeks turned puce. Pay at the Trap was based on commission. I was going to have to do something and soon: either pay up, own up or make up a very good excuse.
‘Seeing as you’re pissing off on a Highland mission,’ Trisha continued and I noted that she threw up her eyes as she said this, ‘I’ll give Nadia that case.’
‘You sure?’ and I thought in the circumstances that was a smart idea.
‘Positive. Make certain you give me your notes before you leave though.’
‘Eh, okay,’ and I made a note to write some.
Meanwhile, Nads was puking up in the toilets. Morning sickness had kicked in, though in her case it carried on well into the day. For four days running she’d blamed her dodgy stomach on bad curries. Trisha was getting suspicious.
‘If she’s brought E. coli into this office …’ she muttered.
I volunteered to go and check up on her. And it was while she leaned over the porcelain and I rubbed her back that I told her about the Arthur Penn case. Everything there was to know, except the money bit, and I begged her to help me. She branded me an idiot.
‘Brodsky, you’re too much. An undercover agent losing their own client,’ and she heaved some more.
We struck a deal. In return for Nadia’s help I promised not to reveal her pregnancy to Trisha or Fiona (it was only a few more weeks until Nadia qualified for full maternity benefits), not bitch about Kassie being chief bridesmaid and also to undertake and organise the hen party. We shook on it, our friendship re-ignited in our mutual complicity.
‘Issy, I haven’t said this, but make the most of Edinburgh. These opportunities only come once in a while.’
‘Thanks Nads,’ I answered. ‘Do you think I’m going to be really famous?’
Her response unfortunately was not easily translated into the vernacular.
THE STARS OF TOMORROW, TODAY!
Tonight, live on stage in Islington ….
Our final London preview before Edinburgh. The crowd were fairly responsive, consisting solely of friends and family. My brother Freddie came with his surgeon boyfriend. It was so unfair to think he pulled much better-looking guys than I ever did. This one was gorgeous, a real beauty and charming with it. I told him he could operate on me any day.
‘Actually,’ he replied, ‘you could do with a bit of a lift …’
‘Danny is a cosmetic surgeon,’ my brother smiled awkwardly.
‘Marry the man now,’ I whispered to Freddie, before slipping into my costume, ready for my imminent performance.
Again, the show went well enough. We had a few post-preview drinks, then disbanded into the night. Lisa and I were standing at the bus stop dissecting our performances joke by joke – or, rather, mine.
‘Issy, that joke is definitely your weakest,’ Lisa advised. ‘Drop it.’
‘Really? I nearly always get a laugh. I thought it was quite strong.’
‘It’s too naff. It’s a groaner rather than a laugh.’
I bowed to her better judgment. For years I’d thought stand-up comedians were spontaneous raconteurs and that jokes were made on the spur of the moment. However, most comedians have scripted sets that they reel off, though the more experienced they become, the easier it is to freestyle. My present level was strictly scripted and then fine-tooth-combed. Standing at the bus stop Lisa purged my set of three knob gags and one cancer joke. The latter I protested about, but she was adamant and felt it was in bad taste. I argued the whole set was in bad taste, but relinquished the joke nonetheless. Rubbing her up the wrong way was not in my interest.
‘Guess you’ll miss Geraldine?’ I supposed, trying to change the topic before any more of my material went in for the chop.
‘Expect so,’ she replied, nonplussed.
‘Sorry to hear about her going into hospital.’
‘How did you know?’
I was stumped. ‘Was I not supposed to know?’
‘She was hoping to keep it quiet.’
‘How come it’s all so hush-hush? What is wrong with her?’
‘Lady-of-a-certain-age stuff.’
‘Sorry, I’m being nosy, you don’t have to tell me.’
‘One of the pitfalls of smoking,’ she replied with a wink.
Oh shit! Cancer. Geraldine was a heavy smoker, not to mention imbiber. No wonder Lisa had axed my cancer joke from the show.
Just then we heard shrieking and all eyes turned to a little woman across the road, leaping up and down excitedly.
‘Lief,’ she cried out, pointing at me. ‘Lief!’
I chose to ignore her.
‘Lady lief …’
It was Won Ton Lily, the cleaning lady from the house next door to Arthur Penn’s house, which wasn’t really Arthur Penn’s house at all, who had bumped into me running out of it the day I had gone over there to give it the once-over. Fact was, I hadn’t even taken anything. Damn, but I hated being unjustly accused.
‘Who the hell is she?’ Lisa asked.
‘No idea,’ I squirmed uncomfortably.
‘She’s pointing at you.’
‘No she isn’t.’
‘She is, Issy.’
Christ, all I needed was this hysterical madwoman giving me grief. Won Ton Lily was attempting to cross the street. ‘You lady lief, bad lady, get police …’
The traffic lights turned in my favour, the volume of traffic sufficient to keep her at bay, and then the timely arrival of a night bus, though not the right bus.
‘Lisa, I’m off, see you up in Edinburgh,’ I spluttered, climbing on board and praying the bus driver was one of those types who, when spotting in their side mirror someone running for their bus usually drove off all the faster. The side-view mirror reflected Won Ton Lily sprinting toward the stop. I glanced at the driver and thought: please, please react to type … She was gaining ground, mere metres from the open door when he sneered in that smug ‘hate all passengers’ manner, then released his clutch. We were off.
ON THE HOME RUN …
Forty-eight hours from Edinburgh. The finer details had all been smoothed over. I had an apartment lined up, a case to follow, a decent ten-minute set and sufficient child cover. What could possibly go wrong?
‘I HATE YOU!’
Max screamed and then, just in case not everyone had heard, shouted, ‘I really, really hate you, Mum.’
‘Jeez Max, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll never call you Maxikins in public again.’
This was our last day together before Edinburgh and I’d envisaged it as being one of complete togetherness, tenderness and full of love. Not a boy of five going on fifteen, red in the face with anger and howling at me. I understood he felt humiliated. I reach
ed out to kiss him and made matters ten times worse. We were at the swimming pool in Archway, acoustically speaking not in my favour.
‘I want to go to the wave pool,’ Max had decided earlier that morning when asked what he would like to do. So up we went. School had finished the week before and he was delighted to bump into some of his friends. Already I was a last-resort playmate but hey, that’s par for the course.
‘You are the worst mum in the world!’ he bawled.
By this stage people were watching. My parenting skills were being put to the test. Aware that the last few months had been emotionally intense for Max, I had no doubt the forthcoming one would be, too.
‘Max, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll never call you that again.’ I pleaded with him to calm down.
‘I hate you. It’s all your fault,’ he raged. We had to get out of the pool pronto, as his friends had started pointing at him, which sent his sense of distress soaring higher. Hoping we wouldn’t slip on the wet surface, I dragged him through to the changing area, then, forgoing the shower, wrapped him tightly in a towel.
‘Max, I love you. I am so sorry. I really am,’ I intoned, holding him tight till the shouts turned to sobs and I rocked him in my arms like when he was a baby.
OUR LAST SUPPER – WELL, LUNCH
We left the earlier episode back in the changing rooms and went to our favourite place, Marine Ices, to stuff our faces on pizza. Waiting to be served, I prayed Max wasn’t going to throw another wobbly.
‘You’re going to have such a good time with Granny and Gramps.’
‘Maybe,’ he replied.
‘For sure you will.’ I pushed a gift-wrapped box across the table and his eyes lit up. He ripped the paper off with enthusiastic force and inside lay a game for his PlayStation.
‘Wicked!’ he declared as if catapulted to kid nirvana. ‘You’re the best mum ever.’
