Andrew J. Lederer

The Palmers Green show was different from what I expected. The guy who booked me had met with me at one of his other gigs on Wednesday -- a fifteen-seater (max.) near Covent Garden which was free for audience members and non-remunerative (financially, at any rate) for performers. So, even though I knew this gig was a paying one, I had a mental image of something small-scale. But in reality, it was a big gig -- the headliner was Owen O'Neill, the room seated maybe a couple hundred people, and it was promoted in one of the free afternoon papers.

I really wanted to do a good job 'cause I wanted the guy to book me in more of his rooms. So, when I found myself doing quite nicely with gentle audience interaction, I nevertheless felt I was in danger of being perceived as insubstantial. I thought I should demonstrate my depth by introducing meaningful content. So, remembering how a segment of my Edinburgh show had galvanized an otherwise unenthusiastic crowd in Richmond some nights earlier, I launched into that same segment -- which was exactly the wrong thing to do.

They had been happy. Why did I have to try to prove something?

Well, anyway, it being a Jewish holiday, I finished by having the audience join me in a Hebrew song and left the stage to look for a spot where I could flagellate myself. The booker actually seemed happy with my set but I refused to believe I had been good enough -- and this despite the fact that a couple of people (separately) came up to tell me how much they liked me -- which the booker said was very unusual -- and despite the round of applause I had been given when I said that the British -- in their criticism of others' imperialism -- were like reformed smokers, drinkers or drug addicts -- just because they don't do something anymore, the rest of us aren't supposed to have any fun.

Luckily, I was supposed to join Ava Vidal at The Comedy Store, where she was meeting up with Adam Bloom, so I had something to take my mind off my self-perceived inadequacies. I had never been to the London Comedy Store before and I was pleased that a Jew -- the aforementioned Mr. Bloom -- would be performing because it meant I wasn't the only one who didn't have somewhere to go to celebrate the Jewish New Year.

Unfortunately, it turned out Adam was only half-Jewish and had no feeling of connection to the religion but instead of feeling alone, I zeroed in on the next comedic Jew in the room, Ian Stone, and asked him if he had been to a festive family dinner earlier in the evening.

He said no, that he had a shit family, and I really wasn't sure to what extent he was kidding.

Adam Bloom told me he had heard good things about me and storytelling, which made me feel pretty good, and he told me Holland was the perfect place to ply that kind of comedy; that he had been there something like fifteen times and that they will follow you anywhere -- storywise -- and be happy as long as the story pays off in the end. I don't know that I have any way of utilizing that knowledge in the near term but I guess it's good to know this stuff, anyway.

Met Susan Murray, who seemed nice, if a bit hard-edged but when I talked to Ian Stone, he -- perhaps sensing my insecurity and discomfort (I was feeling fat and couldn't find the necessary posture to either look or feel otherwise), seemed uncomfortable, despite the fact that we had chatted amiably when we did Political Animal together in Edinburgh. (I don't blame Ian at all for this. If there was discomfort, it probably did originate with me.)

I loved the Store and immediately knew that I wanted to play it. (Now there's another item on my list.) I walked home feeling pretty good, all things considered, deciding to take the southwesterly fork off of Piccadilly Circus rather than the northeasterly one (Regent St.) I figured the bend to the west would take me closer to Notting Hill than would the alternate stroll toward Oxford Circus. So, I walked on Picadilly (the street) and it somehow never seemed to end, twisting so far that west became north, placing me on the south side of Hyde Park, rather than the north, where I wanted and needed to be.

But -- what the hell -- vive le difference -- I walked along the south side of the park, turning north at Kensington Church St. and got home between 4:30 and 5, now knowing where Mayfair is and how it fits into the puzzle that is London.

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