On Friday 1st February 2008, around fifty comics from the UK, Australasia, Ireland and further afield boarded a plane for Miami to attend the international heat of ‘Last Comic Standing’, the popular NBC reality TV programme. This is my account of the whole bizarre trip.

FRIDAY

I, like many of us, had been gigging the night before. We had to be at the airport for an early flight, which meant waking at the ungodly hour of about 6am. In conversion, for a comic that’s like a normal person having to get up at about 2am.
This was my first long-haul flight for some years, so I wasn’t overly impressed to find myself reading a double-page spread in the newspaper about plane crash statistics alongside an article about the Canadian pilot who had to be restrained because halfway through a flight he started speaking to God.
At the airport check-in we got our first glimpse of the other comics who were going to Miami – people that NBC would like me to call ‘The Opposition’ but I would rather refer to as ‘My Mates’. We dribbled through the various checks with the mandatory grumbles echoing around the airport (‘Shoes? Why do they need to check my shoes? Etc etc’).
On the plane we were all spread out, and still didn’t really have an idea of which other fellow comedians were on the trip. I was sat next to a retired couple who were going on a cruise. It was a delight to see their faces as I was greeted by more and more people during the course of the flight. I didn’t let on that there was something going on, I just let them carry on thinking they’d witnessed an amazing coincidence. I read my book for the flight, as the films didn’t work. No in-flight entertainment for nine hours. If I’d paid for my ticket I would have been miffed.

On arrival into America, passport check-in took nearly two hours. Photographs, fingerprints, question after question; my first real brush with the true extent of American paranoia.
We collected our bags and were then met by representatives of NBC (I say representatives, I think the eldest among them was twenty-two.) It’s worth stressing here the general mood of the comics: very tired indeed, slightly bored, hungry, restless and wanting nothing more than to just collapse into the hotel.
Filming began almost immediately. We were frogmarched around the airport, being filmed walking up escalators, down stairs, through doors and then back up some more escalators. Scintillating footage, I think you’d agree. Now we’re becoming downright irate.
At this point we were greeted by the show anchor. Our instructions were to walk down some stairs where she would greet us on camera, and we were to chat, pretend we’d just walked off the plane and generally enthuse.
Not having any choice in the matter, we English trudged down the stairs and the anchor turned around to greet us to reveal: Fearne Cotton. Almost as one, you could hear the collective sigh of ‘Oh for Fuck’s Sake’. It was an emphatically British moment. There followed a heroic parade of moaning and grumbling.
First question to first comic: ‘So you must be pumped being here in the US! How do you feel?’
Answer: ‘Tired. Can we go to the hotel?’
Second question: ‘How do you fancy your chances in the big competition?’
Answer: ‘I’m a lot funnier when I haven’t had to walk around an airport for three hours.’
To meet the various nationalities arriving, Fearne dressed ‘appropriately’ for each country. We English got off lightly with some sort of a chauffeurs hat. A little more crass, dare we say edging towards racist was the traditional Indian costume. Most bizarre sight of the day was the Kiwi comic arriving to be greeted by Fearne dressed…as a sheep.
On the coach on the way to the hotel there were yet more individual interviews where we were, to a man, disruptive, rude about America and Americans, surly and uncooperative. I couldn’t help but feel a little burst of pride.
Finally arriving at the hotel after nearly twenty four hours without sleep, we were informed of the start time for filming and being funny for the following day: Seven O’Clock in the morning.

Saturday

Amazingly, we were all in the lobby for seven. Then there was some more waiting around (a feature of the trip, by the way) before we were driven to the location. Then there was more waiting when we got there. A truly American breakfast was served to us, that being stodgy cakes and weak coffee. There was no option for anyone for breakfast except for cakes made of 90% fat.
We waited some more, then it poured with rain drawing a wry smile from those familiar with pathetic fallacy.
Then there was some sort of bloody flag parade, where we were meant to walk behind a flag or something. The whole thing was so disorganised that if it did happen, I certainly missed it.
More waiting. We were told we couldn’t leave the location under pain of expulsion. Now, being in Miami, expulsion from the show seemed the most attractive option so a few of us fucked off in search of a decent cup of tea.
Arriving back from a satisfying cuppa, frustratingly our absence had gone entirely unnoticed. This might be the best place to point out how very much we were as cattle. In the other heats across America, people would have been overexcited at the prospect of being on the TV, coupled with the already nauseating American genetic enthusiasm. They would have been happy just to be there. The fact here was that we’re all working, professional comics already. None of us particularly needs ‘Last Comic Standing’. Granted, to progress would be a good thing for a comedy career in America, but not progressing, well, genuinely, who gives a shit?
The first round auditions were to two of the producers. I got through to the afternoon auditions quite swiftly once I was in there. It was near to lunch, so they were obviously hungry and making those kind of basic mistakes.
Then more waiting, thirty minutes to get a shower and some lunch at the hotel (an impossible timeframe), then work up some more material for the two minute audition in the afternoon. Something I think we were all surprised by was the material. It’s for a US audience, so you have to remove/alter British references, and it’s for a mainstream TV show, so you have to remove blasphemy, swearing and overtly sexual references. It’s fascinating to find, once you’ve done that, how little material you seem to have. A real eye-opener into the majority of material we, as a group, had brought over with us (obviously this wasn’t the case for everyone, but true for myself and a great number with whom I spoke).
For the afternoon auditions we had to do the new two minutes to the judges, a couple of chaps from a show called ’30 Rock’. Never heard of it myself, but I’ve since been told it’s really good. It was a real conveyer belt, one in, one out, next! Next! We were all waiting in a line down a corridor to do our two minutes. I was behind the curtain, primed, ready, poised to do my best two minutes when without telling me, they took a break for coffee and cake. For twenty-five minutes I was like a coiled spring behind the curtain. By the time I went on my legs were jelly and my brain was fried. I managed to give a fairly decent account of myself, and somehow they put me through to the evening show in front of a live audience at the Improv Comedy Club, Miami.
Now we were all exhausted. The ones who hadn’t progressed got to go off and enjoy Miami for the rest of their trip. Hand on heart, I envied them something rotten. I know that sounds ungrateful, but that’s how I felt at the time. I know most of them would have loved to have been in my position, doing the show to the crowd, but by then I was so tired I just wanted to sit on the beach with a cocktail. It’s a bit frustrating knowing that Miami is all around you but you’re trapped. One of the comics pointed out that as we were working for no money and had to do what they said, that effectively made us slaves. Good point well made.

Right. So we had about two hours between the afternoon auditions and the evening show. In that two hours we had to do the following: work up a completely new three minute set for the evening, fill out reams of paperwork about as thick as my thumbnail, shower, eat, do two or more interviews and maybe catch three minutes rest.
The evening show was sold out, a good sign, and the audience were in a good mood, enforced upon them by the compulsory ‘Two drink minimum’ rule that is de rigeur in the US. It wasn’t a bad gig, some acts absolutely ripped the nuts off it, others struggled. I fell somewhere inbetween. Most jokes worked well, I got one reference badly wrong so the joke fell because, simply, they didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. I was fairly satisfied with the gig but knew absolutely that I wasn’t going through to the next round in Las Vegas. And my honest reaction was relief. I’m really genuinely glad for those who went through, because they did want it, and equally I feel sad for those who really wanted it and didn’t get it. But I got further than I ever dared presume I might, and I was glad that time had been called before it got out of control.
After the show, the first time to relax at all, I ordered a double G & T (which apparently in Miami means ‘hello, I’d like half a pint of neat gin, please). Ended up through exhaustion and booze becoming thoroughly trolleyed. I think everyone did. The following day there were reports of breaking into hotel pools in the dead of night and skinny dipping, among other things.
Without a doubt, that was the most tiring and relentless day of having to Be Funny since the first day I stepped onto the comedy stage.

SUNDAY

More filming. Just when we thought we had a day off, they’d arranged to film us having fun (which is an utter paradox. How much fun can you really have with a camera shoved up your nose?). I got the time wrong so wandered down to the lobby an hour early with a fuming headache and limbs made of clay, to find nobody else about.
The original plan was that we would be filmed mucking about on a boat trip. That fell through because apparently messing about on the river is classed as ‘work’ in the US. As we didn’t have work visas, we couldn’t do that work. So whilst NBC Legal worked on an alternative, we munched our way through an American buffet breakfast that included beef patties. That’s right. Hamburgers for breakfast.
The geniuses at NBC managed to come up with an alternative, which was to take us all for lunch and film us at an eatery called ‘Hooters’, with topless waiting staff. That idea was rounded upon with some force by us, and swiftly screwed up into a ball and hit out of the stadium (A poor US analogy for a dreadful US idea).
We ended up going on a trip about an hour out of Miami to a Gator Park, whizzing about on one of those boats with a massive fan at the back RE Gentle Ben. I ate alligator for lunch, and can report back that it’s chewy and tasteless. I don’t know what I expected, considering the thing is pretty much a bloody dinosaur.
The boat trip was fairly entertaining, and took about an hour. One of our number was in the toilet when the boat left, so missed the trip. The poor girl went all the way to an Alligator Park for a shit then went back home.
Finally, the cameras packed up and left us alone. We were dropped at the hotel, free at last with a few hours to spend in Miami before going home the next morning.
Determined to make the most of it, a number of us headed down to Ocean Drive and Miami Beach. By now of course it was pitch black, but you could get a feel for the Art Deco Architecture. Sat in the open air, on leather sofas, sipping on a Mojito and having a great time. Finally a little bit of what I’d hoped the trip would be about.
Having eaten Alligator for lunch, I wanted to try something new to eat in the evening too. We found a restaurant, and on the menu was an intriguing item named ‘Mahi Mahi’. I asked the waiter what it was and in a broad Latin American accent said ‘well, you know, it’s illegal to kill Dolphin, but…’ Then winked. One thing led to another and I can report back that Dolphin is rather tasty indeed. Highly recommended.
Dinner was followed by a paddle in the sea, some antics with a massive white snake and its handler, who was quite potty. Then back to the hotel with a second wind. I found in my room a bottle of ‘American Champagne’ which isn’t quite up to the French stuff. Someone had ordered it to the wrong room, a mistake of which we took full advantage. Champagne guzzled, world put to rights, then to bed.

MONDAY

Woke up for the first time on the trip ready to enjoy the day, just in time for: the homeward journey. We handed in our receipts to the film crew for claiming back (mine were frighteningly liquid in content). The plane was boarded without incident, then a night flight. We were all knackered, mostly too tired to sleep.
Arrival into Heathrow was at about 5am Tuesday morning. The trip had been worthwhile for meeting and having a laugh with some incredible comics, making new friends and having a peek into the weird world of NBC. I’m so very glad that I went, but I definitely wouldn’t go again.

ADDENDUM

Arriving back into the UK, I didn’t get a moment to rest. Check email, shower, change, then drive straight down to Exeter. I hadn’t slept for coming up to thirty hours, the drive was downright dangerous and the weather terrible. And how many people were at the gig? Six.

Among the incidents of that past couple of weeks include the most highbrow heckle I've ever received: 'Do you know what solipsism means?'
I hadn't mentioned it, so it wasn't relevant and I can only assume that the heckler was pretty much ignorant of everything going on around them and blissfully unaware of pretty much everything except their own existence.
That would have been a canny put-down in a corporate gig for epistemologists, but as it was a student gig I plumped for a decidedly less sophisticated allusion to their questionable sexuality. Horses for courses...

And a word of advice to someone else: To the lady with the terribly unfortuanate birth mark on her face that looks like a Hitler moustache - please could you never again sit at the front of a comedy gig. It's an awful shame. So are many other amusing things.

I'm a big fan of bad buskers. 'Bad Buskers' sounds like a shit B-movie.
The oddest buskers I came across this week were two kids who couldn't have been more than 9/10 years old, seemingly unaccompanied.
They had stands and all sorts, and I sauntered up as they were just setting up. I got a photo, but it's not a very good one because I'm not sure what the law is about taking photos of minors. Presumably you can take photos of your own kids because they are your property. It would make for a fairly dystopian photo album where it begins at 16 years old.
But I'm hazy about ones that aren't your own. Anyway it's a shit photo because I was trying to be subtle about it, the irony being if you try to do that kind of thing covertly you look even more like a shifty paedo.

All well and good. I imagined it to be the product of pushy parenting. I waited for them to start playing, just on the off-chance that it was brilliantly cack.

They were, in truth, musically accomplished. But for reasons only known to themselves, they chose to play Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah'. The 1988 version that is frankly sexually explicit. VERY WRONG.

My friends in York have just popped out a kiddy. I think they'll make good parents. I was shown an array of photos of the child, and then onto the gifts that had been showered thereupon. The most unusual of which was...

No, I had no idea either. Luckily there was a label on the bottom of the piece (which was made of pottery and had a slot in the top) informing us that it was a 'mouse radish bank'.

I wasn't aware, but apparently Piggy Banks are terribly passé these days. No, what you really want for your newborn is something that looks like a horrific genetic mistake.
I'm not sure if there's a range of vegetable/animal hybrid depositories - there must be, surely.
You don't go straight from 'Pig' to 'Mouse-Radish'.

Sick.

As a beginner/L-plated comic, all you want to happen is that you become a full-time professional comedian. This wish is without any knowledge of what that entails; it's based in naked, unthinking, unblinking ambition. But sometimes it can grind you down.
I've spent 13 days on the road, and I've never been so happy to be incarcerated in my house. I never want to leave again. Please, should you feel it's possible, send me food parcels.

It started a while back, the first gig I did I filled in for Russell on the Edinburgh & Beyond tour, because he had radio commitments.
Now given that this is a national tour, you'd think it would be treated with a degree of respect by the venues. At the Hull Truck theatre, we had to perform amongst the set for a play called Neville's Island, which involves trees, ponds, twigs, hay, more twigs and rocks. This is Simon checking the mic - you can get a feel for how little like a comedy set the stage seemed. I'll thank you for noticing the BLOODY TREE STUMP centre-stage:

Against the odds, the gig was quite nice actually.

Then onto York for the University Freshers. It's a real one-off treat, that one. 1,200 young minds waiting to be impregnated with comedy for the first time. I like doing freshers gigs because you can do all of the shared 'hack' compering lines, and they think it's your own material. That way, from then on, whenever they go to a comedy gig and hear someone use them they'll whisper 'Thief! that's Dan Atkinson's line!'. If I employ my technique at enough freshers gigs, the lines phenomenologically actually will become mine! Mwa Ha Ha!
Whilst in York I saw this headline for the local paper which made me chuckle: 'Why, it's just what we've always wanted!'

Then onto Wales. Four dates in Wales for Silky. I've done them before, and the gigs are nice. Some of the South Wales towns are depressed, as you'd expect. In researching one of the gigs I found out that Pontypridd Town Council's official line is that their town is 'dying'. Nothing like a bit of PMA, is there?

Narberth is what I really want to write about. Not the town itself, although that is admittedly a bit strange. It's quite hippyish, and there's a lot of English there considering how far west it is, but overall charming. There's a village feel, with permanent bunting. The only problem with permanent bunting is that if you don't change it, it can give the feeling of a broken old fairground.

I also found this mural. Kids really shouldn't be allowed to paint unless they are prodigies. If this was sanctioned then shame on the hippies. It's shit. If it was a clandestine operation, then these kids really need to rethink their graffiti tags.
JELLYFISH DO NOT HAVE EYELASHES.

Anyway. Importantly, whilst there, a long way from anywhere, the only comfort you can expect to have is a decent Bed and Breakfast. And this is where things got really shitty.
I arrived at the B & B, and my initial reaction was 'Ooh, this is a bit cold damp and dirty!'. Because it was.
By the door was this thing, a sort of warning shot across my boughs. It was the size of a small child, and I swear at one point I saw it move. I don't care if it was home-made or bought, I've never felt more like Edward Woodward.

Then things became a little clearer when I clapped my eyes on this little beauty. I've taken a close-up for the sake of the detail, but let me assure you there were millions of these fuckers dotted around:

So. She (being the landlady and having a severe limp) told me that breakfast was at 8am. I said that I was doing a gig and would be back late, so would it be OK to have breakfast a little later. With not a hint of humour in her voice she said 'I'll put you down for the 8:15 sitting then'.
I trudged to my room to sit on the bed and watch the telly, which I had to turn on at a plug on the wall. Then a shower. The shower took about ten minutes. When I came back into my room, the TV had been turned off AT THE PLUG ON THE WALL.

She'd been in my room while I'd showered to turn off the telly. It was at this point that I realised that not only had I not been given any keys: there weren't any keys because there were no locks. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

In a slight daze, I stared mindfully at the dead flies on the windowsill.

I hotfooted it to the gig, then returned for a night in a bed that felt like it had been pissed in (I wouldn't have put it past her to be frank). I set my alarm to get breakfast at 8:15am.

Next morning. 7:30am. She knocks on the door of my room, and then without any warning limps her fetid way in, opens my curtains and says 'time to get up now; I've got things to be getting on with.'

Well now I was ready for anything, so when she sat and watched me eat my breakfast in utter silence it didn't seem in the slightest bit odd.
Here is a picture of the other people with whom I was dining in the breakfast area:

THAT'S RIGHT! NOBODY! This wasn't actually a B & B, just some mad limping Welsh lonely old fucknut in a house that should be condemned.

She then charged me £45 for the privilege of her hospitality (£45! No joke!) and ushered me out the door, presumably so that she could get on with her busy day scraping the mould off cheese and her manky leg.

The worst experience of my days.

After that went up to headline at Edinburgh University which for years has been a formidable gig and this was no exception. Lovely gig, great, intelligent students with a passion for comedy.
I also had the bonus of seeing this poster for an Open-Mic music night. I presume that's meant to be a guitar he's carrying, but if you've never really grown up, it makes for one of the funniest pictures you'll see in a while:

I wrote this in response to a fairly sensationalist news article I read on the BBC website yesterday. It's not funny, nor trying to be light-hearted. I'm genuinely interested in the sociological impact of what we do.

Comedy and Social Responsibility

This weekend a comic was booed off stage for making jokes in Liverpool about Madeline Mcann and Rhys Jones. It’s quickly become a much-read national news story with good reason; it’s about a comedian getting it wrong in a profoundly ham-fisted manner as well as concerning a current and ongoing emotive news story.
On the face of it, it’s ethically unequivocal. You would have to have a fairly skewed moral compass to think that telling those jokes in those circumstances was appropriate or right.
The issue of what is or isn’t appropriate for a stand-up comedian to say is raised with numbing regularity: sadly, large-scale tragedies occur on an almost monthly basis and wherever there is tragedy, there will be a queue of people writing jokes about it. Bad taste jokes do the rounds by email and text message, and some comics choose to talk about them on stage. The question that is always asked is ‘are there any subjects are inappropriate for comedy?’ But this is the wrong question to ask.
In private or among friends, you judge the jokes you make by the company you keep. If you’re down the pub and one of your friends is in tears about a family death, I think it’s easy to agree that to crack a joke about that subject would be morally wrong. Having said that, it’s commonplace for groups of friends to make wildly offensive jokes to each other in the knowledge that everyone will understand your true views on the matter and that what you are saying is heavily laced with irony.
This is very different, however, from being a stand-up comedian. As a club comic you don’t know anybody in your audience, and in most cases they don’t know you either. All stand-up comedians before they go on stage will make certain judgements about an audience, but ultimately this speculation is spurious: on any given evening you have no idea who is in your audience and what their particular opinions and tastes might be.
When a comic sits down to prepare for a gig (sorry to spoil the illusion, but we don’t just make it all up on the spot), the starting point is a blank page, and the subjects on which you can write comedy are infinite: your only remit is that the output is, by and large, funny. The boundaries regarding taste and decency are arbitrary, subjective and self-imposed.
I am firmly of the belief that no topics should be off limits for comedy, but what is important is the way in which you deal with the subject matter. Just because a topic is tragic, either personally or globally, it should not be taboo. World War Two was among the greatest tragedies of the civilised world and there was an abundance of jokes belittling Hitler and the Nazis. Some people deal with personal tragedy with humour, and it actually helps them to process an emotionally difficult experience. Crucially though, that is their choice.
The death or abduction of children should not be off limits for comedy per se. To give an example, I can’t imagine any comedy audience feeling morally outraged at a piece of material regarding the Pied Piper of Hamelin. It all comes down to a question of judgement. If you make a crass or offensive joke with the intention of actually causing offence, then you don’t deserve the valuable public platform that stand-up comedy provides: people have come out to a comedy club with the purpose of laughing, not to be offended. Besides, if you persist in deliberately trying to say things that people genuinely don’t want to hear your career in comedy will be short-lived. Case in point: I can’t imagine many comedy clubs will be on the phone today trying to book the act who blundered at the weekend in Liverpool.
I believe in the case of the gig in Liverpool last weekend it was genuinely a case of misjudgement rather than malice: a terrible idea, badly executed and punished by the audience.
Yet for all the offence caused, it actually displays one of the finest points of stand-up comedy: the right of the audience to interact with the performer and express immediate and forceful disapproval. It is emphatically and instantly democratic. It’s a chance for people who care to actively express their empathy for the people affected by the tragedies, and that can’t be all bad.
No topics should be off limits to a comedian; that live comedy isn’t censored is a sign of a healthy and civilised society. But as a comic should you choose to talk about real life tragedy, you have an obligation to display a degree of social responsibility. Ultimately it’s worth remembering that you’re in a comedy club. It’s meant to be fun.

It's a long way to St Andrews. It's especially arduous when a bridge has collapsed across the train tracks (how could they not see it coming? It's a fucking bridge!).
I would, however, implore anyone who has the chance to avail themselves of the wanton kindness of the St Andrews Students Union.
Firstly, a wonderful hotel; luxurious yet still small enough to be personal. Apples and shortbread on arrival and someone employed to go into your room at about 6pm to close your curtains for you. I'm never closing my own curtains again. Bathrobes of just the perfect size and fluffiness (you'll notice the plural - that's right - a morning and evening bathrobe). I paraded around the room feeling like Tony Soprano for a good couple of hours.
The sandwiches provided pre-gig were modest, as was the plate of mango and blueberries. We mentioned this in passing, so a gentleman (in the truest sense of the word) was sent out to fetch us a selection of eleven separate takeaway menus. We plumped for Thai, and I decided in a moment of sheer decadence to have the scallops.
The Thai Restaurant turned out to be closed, and so our food caddy, using his initiative, went to a nearby Indian restaurant and ordered the closest possible equivalent foodstuffs.
On his return, we were confronted with a box of assorted curries that was so large it was a struggle to lift. With no exaggeration it felt like an all you can eat buffet.
This was followed up with a steady stream of beer, and all neatly topped off the next day by a lift to the station.
The standard has well and truly been set.