Critics often get lampooned for their opinions. What do they know, it's not like they've ever given it a try right? Spoonfed comedy contributor Mike Stephenson braves the stage for his first open mic gig in the Lion's Den...
The Lion's Den stage
It's an awkwardly cold Tuesday in our decade's first January. A gaunt, black figure scuttles from King's Cross station, feeling strangely different from the metropolitan herds around him. He's not out to be entertained. He's out to entertain. But trudging into the basement of the Cross Kings, the face of his faux individuality is royally slapped. Half the people here suffer the same predicament. THIS is where one goes when one and one alone thinks one is funny. Seriously, if you fancy trying stand-up but you haven't got a battalion of rich friends, here's one of the few options available. It immediately looks dark and unspeakably sordid. Promising.
I won't get into the politics of the 'pay-to-play' counter-revolution, but if you're on your own, this city doesn't love you anymore. That's all. However, in an all-body-boggling counter-counter-revolution, something chillingly vibrant may be happening in those rare nooks of architecture that still house truly solo performers. This is one of those nights. The event is called the 'Comedy Car Crash'. The venue: 'The Lion's Den'. An unashamedly antagonistic mural greets you as you descend towards the basement. They make no bones, this is your own personal hell. Deal with it. Until you can't deal with it anymore. I'm tempted to ask the staff how often their regulars are found washed up under nearby bridges. Feels like home.
One of the Lion's Den regulars: 'Sweet Steve'
You pay entry, yes, but the point is, you can get in on your own. And they still get a fair sized audience, because most people have friends anyway. But this way, they also get to witness the wacky tribal dances of friendless wronguns like yours truly. Mixing it up, right?
The first two acts are actually not bad. But unlucky for them, they're on first and second. The atmosphere takes an understandably rocky incline. The names are drawn from a hat, see. I came third. Out of about twenty. Which has me thinking of several things. Firstly, how weird it sounds to hear my name being read out, exactly as I thought it would sound if it were read out (first thoughts never entirely make sense.) Secondly, thank God I didn't come first or second. Thirdly... "Oh crap, I'm on!" My act is fast-paced and occasionally loud, engineered to avoid any trundling gaps for the audience to fill with obnoxious silence. I talk about food and eventually incest. I definitely sense a shift in the timbre of the laughter, from a politely bounding, recognising chuckle, to quieter but more widespread controlled gasps. How many different laughters are there? What kind of voodoo puppet orchestra do I have here?
You only get five minutes. They flash a light at you after four and a half. That's a scary-ass light. You suddenly see your importance confirmed and the reality that the twelve seconds you think you just experienced was actually five minutes. Good. The alcohol has done its job, taming any possible highs or lows and scooshing all the neurosis together into a jet stream of eccentric babble. I'm not advocating public drunkenness, but if there's anything in this world that alcohol is good for, it's preventing stage fright. It works perfectly. It's like it was refined specifically to help cure comedians of their crippling self hatred. Hurrah!
I stepped out into a rocky world today, with mountains in the distance but rocks everywhere, monoliths pocketing every inch of the terrain. You can watch the highest summit, but in the meantime there's a labyrinth of peaks to conquer. Many have become masters of their own. Many struggle on. If I have any advice to give other budding comedians slithering between the 'no friends, no slot' circuit, it would be this... Call me! Call each other. We'll all tour together! I realise I'm trying paradoxically to reach out to my fellow misanthropic loners, a lot of whom may still think that their dark solitude is what makes them funny. But think about it. What does misery love?
Contact Mike at evolmike@hotmail.com
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