After completing a whole day of work on Friday, it was only fitting that me and Lilsister celebrate our new found (and much more lowly paid than the last time we worked, in my case, significantly lower – so keep trying to reduce our wages you IMF BASTARDS – ahem, rant over) employment in a comedy club. Free tickets were scored from Sisinlaw2 who for confusion’s sakes I should probably call Auntie3. We met at the appointed hour, me with filthy hair, jazzed up by some girlie mousse and Lilsister, who banged her head twice on the taxi door on the way up to the pub, while she was still sober, so could feel the pain immediately. We took our seats with Auntie3 and her friends close-ish to the stage to hear and see, and throw empty bottles, but not too close that we wouldn’t be involved in the general slaggings that up and coming comedians feel they have to bestow on a paying audience in order to ”make it” in funnyland. In fairness, the audience here was well on for an insulting match, with some of them funnier than the poor people on the stage, but that’s Dubliners for you, never let a chance to belittle somebody pass you by.
We were there to witness a comedy competition where two people ranted for several minutes then the audience ungratefully cheered at the end for the person they wanted to see perform again, until, gladiator-like, only the fittest survived and was crowned comedy king (or queen as the case turned out to be, with a FEMALE winning – go girl!!!).
Naturally there were some unfunny moments one of which being an odd bloke who professed to be a student at University College Dublin (where we come from in Dublin this is still considered posh) with a fop of curly blonde hair dangling over the eyes and surprisingly, for the heat generated by the hatred and general lookingdowness of the audience in the room, a large camel coat, which gave an overall impression of a bad comedian trying to look like an intellectual, and vice versa.
The Camel produced a notebook, naturally, and began to read a series of extremely bad poems to us, which, in this pub, situated over a supermarket, in a carpark, where hooded children were dealing drugs, did not go down well at all. I didn’t really hear them all but one did end with the stark statement that ”I need to get a life”. Another was a homage to a much hated twin sister which he pointed out, was adopted. This was all fine, but nobody was laughing, apart from Lilsister, who caused great entertainment on the floor with her thigh slapping, tear wiping and silent laughter – you know when you laugh so much instead of making laughing sounds you kind of gasp, and exhale breath, and slap your thigh for a noise instead? That was the convulsion that Lilsister found herself in. She was laughing at the Camel so hard that the audience had started to face her, much to my embarrassment. As I was half sober, I felt the eyes of the Camel boring into us, but in fairness to his standupmanship, he did not fluster, he plodded through his poems, doglike in his steadfastness. After a series of groans to a new verse, he declared that the audience was ”not to worry, because I have something funny to say now.” He held his arm outstretched, flipped open the trusted notebook, took a breath, lifted his head to face his tormentors and opened his mouth. All that could be heard was Lilsister screaming ”Weirdo!!!” at which The Camel sighed, closed the book and said ”exactly”. It was the highlight of the night.
They became facebook friends during the week.