Life

Jake O'Kane: Corporate gig season is almost upon comedians, heaven help us

I realised something was wrong by the lack of sound from the rapidly filling audience, and the fact nobody seemed to be taking off their coats. After 20 years of performing live, you notice such things

I’m very fussy about the corporate gigs I choose to do, as a few from my early days still haunt me
I’m very fussy about the corporate gigs I choose to do, as a few from my early days still haunt me I’m very fussy about the corporate gigs I choose to do, as a few from my early days still haunt me

WE’RE approaching the time of year when hundreds of my comedy compatriots will be doing ‘corporate gigs’, appearing at every form of celebration from birthday to Christmas parties, and my admiration for them is boundless.

I’m very fussy about the corporate gigs I choose to do, as a few from my early days still haunt me, with one particular booking standing out. I was, supposedly, to perform for a football club, and years before satnav, found myself driving up and down unmarked country roads, searching for what I’d presumed would be a hotel. When I eventually found my destination, it turned out to be a bar, miles from any human habitation.

Walking from my car, I noticed a small huddle of older men in flat caps guarding the pub entrance. As I approached, one loudly announced, “You’d be the comic, I suppose?” For a second, I considered denying any connection with such a disreputable profession, but instead meekly answered, “Yes”.

“Aye, right”, he continued. “Well, we’re a mixed crowd and don’t want no talk of sex, politics or religion”. With that one sentence, everything I’d prepared evaporated.

With hindsight I should have turned on my heels and left. Upon entering the pub, my trepidation turned to horror as I faced an audience resembling a Saga Holidays bus excursion. My agent must surely have mistaken football club for bingo club, as the average age was about 60. I was manhandled into position in front of a blazing open fire while the ‘Spanish Inquisition’ from the front door gave me a rousing introduction: “This here boy’s from the city. They say he’s funny.”

For a second, I was a rabbit caught in headlights; all I could see was blue rinses atop heads so wrinkled, they made King Tut look young. To my credit, I somehow managed to get a decent amount of laughter for the first six minutes. Then, I said something and plummeted into an abyss of shocked, silent disapproval. To this day, I have no memory what I said. The human brain is kind that way; it erases our most horrific memories, otherwise we’d never get out of bed in the morning.

Every comic who’s ever done a ‘corporate’ has a similar story. We share them in dressing rooms in the same way soldiers share war stories. The cathartic nature of sharing the horror is a form of therapy which binds us in a way no telling of a standing ovation ever could.

What never ceases to amaze me is how organisers of gigs screw things up. It’s not as if a comic’s needs are complicated. Give us a stage, a microphone and a light and we’re off and running.

Another obvious necessity is to ensure the room the audience inhabit has a comfortable temperature. I learnt the importance of temperature when performing at a very prestigious theatre which I won’t name, as I’m appearing there again next year. While standing side stage before the show, I realised something was wrong by the lack of sound from the rapidly filling audience, and the fact nobody seemed to be taking off their coats. After 20 years of performing live, you notice such things.

My opening act, Terry McHugh, finished and came off-stage, shivering, with blue lips, and exhibiting all the symptoms of hypothermia. It later transpired we were the first show on after the Christmas break and nobody had thought to heat up the theatre, which had been closed for over a week.

No wonder the audience kept their coats on; I wouldn’t have blamed them if they’d broken up seats and started bonfires. Realising the problem, the theatre management compounded their initial mistake by rushing to the thermostat and turning the heat to max. The ambient temperature instantly rose from ‘arctic’ to ‘tropic’, resulting in me limping off-stage, 90 minutes later, soaked in sweat, a stone lighter, and on the point of heat exhaustion.

Today, I’m fortunate when on the road to have a well-tested slick team in the shape of the Boyle family taking care of my technical needs and the hugely talented Terry McHugh, who never fails to set my stage for a great show.

I also take comfort there’s little chance I’ll never bump into anyone from that pub gig all those years ago, unless they’ve recently received a telegram from the queen. As for the 'oul boys outside the pub, I wouldn’t be surprised if I meet them again standing beside Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates: “Right son, remember, no sex, religion or politics.”