Stand Up, Fall Apart

I’d signed up for the workshop when everything looked rosy. My book was going to be a smash hit. Everyone would want it. My wildest dreams come true. Learn to be funny. It would help me write funnier, I thought. I love a lesson. I think it’s because I like being told what to do.

When the reminder email popped into my inbox I was in a very different story. My novel had been rejected by 20 publishers. If the Actor sent me one more article about a successful writer who had been rejected a gazillion times before becoming a bestseller or a Booker Prize winner I thought I would either kill him or kill myself. I was in bed watching Real Housewives, eating my body weight in chocolate, believing every good thing in my life was over. I was digging into the drama in ways I hadn’t since I was a teenager - loud music on repeat, mostly the Indigo Girls. It sounds crazy but there was a part of me that was loving it in a beat-me-I-might-have-an-orgasm kind of way. The pain of the disappointment was so acute I felt fully, catastrophically alive. I had given it my everything. Held nothing back. Wanted it so badly. I hadn’t felt this desperate in years. Not since trying and failing to get pregnant with my daughters.

So there I was when my phone vibrated and I opened the email reminding me the stand-up comedy course would start on Saturday. And at the very bottom, almost as an afterthought: on Sunday night we would perform our acts at a comedy club. I read it again. A stand-up comedy act. In a comedy club. After a two-day beginners workshop. No way. It was madness. No one could do it. It wasn’t possible. Not for me. The world had dumped me. I wasn’t funny. Life was a bitch.

On Friday night I still felt insane with despair. I re-read the email. Fuck it. I’d paid for it. There was something about the abject degradation of standing up in front of a bunch of people and bombing that appealed. I wanted to be scared, to be terrified, to be humiliated. Who cares. No one is watching. No one cares about a 60-year-old woman whose dream has been crushed. What’s the alternative? Another season of Real Housewives.

The pub had that morning-after feel to it. There were multiple TVs on silent, all set to the sports channel. A few middle-aged men reading various tabloids and drinking their first beer of the day. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall behind the bar. I hadn’t pulled myself together. It had taken everything I’d got to get there. I’d stepped into my favourite cords, thrown on a soft jumper. I hadn’t brushed my hair. No makeup. I’d not turned up to a roomful of strangers so nakedly myself for years. Or maybe ever. I shuffled up to the bar and mumbled “Comedy?” embarrassed. The woman looked me up and down.

“Upstairs,” she said, indicating a door on the side with her thumb. I made my way up the stairs.

“Welcome.” Jay, the teacher, greeted me with a big smile.

“Emma,” I stuttered and took a seat. Light poured in through the huge Victorian windows. There were four other people. A striking young woman sitting on the other side of the semicircle laughed.

“I’m Emma too.”

“Emma Number One,” Jay said, pointing at me. “And Emma Number Two. No judgement. You need to stay in the same seats and I go counter-clockwise. It’s the only way I can remember your names.” He looked at his watch.

The door burst open. A man and a woman rushed in.

“Sorry,” they said in unison. “Bus replacement.”

“Fucking trains,” the woman said and plopped herself in a chair. She was wearing silver cowboy boots and bright blue eyeshadow. She looked fabulous. I bet you’re funny, I thought.

“We’re still missing a few people but let’s get started.” Jay stood in the centre of our semicircle. “I’m Jay. I’m a full-time stand-up. I used to be an accountant. Now I make my living doing this. I’ve been teaching this course for twenty years. Because the one I did when I was starting out was rubbish. All this how-to-structure-a-joke and the rules of comedy. All bullshit. It’s really very simple. This course is going to ruin comedy for you because you’ll see what all your favourite comics are doing. Ok, we are going to introduce ourselves and talk a bit about what we want to get out of the weekend. Does that sound ok?”

The woman in the cowboy boots goes first. She’s come down from Dorset. She’s in wellness, has a YouTube channel, two kids, a husband. She talks very fast. She tells us she’s nervous. She wants to get better at public speaking. Next up is a woman from the Bahamas who did stand-up in college and loved it. She’s in London working in finance. She wanted to do something fun. I’m next. I tell them I’m here for my writing. Am I? I tell them I’m married to an actor, that I’ve been a stay-at-home mum for a long time, and that I’ve just written a book that’s been rejected. I don’t know what this adds up to. But I tell it like it is. I don’t give them my pre-mum CV. I don’t add anything like I usually do. Sometimes I feel like I have to add that I loved being at home with my kids. I did, but it’s not that simple. Other times I add that I regret staying at home with my kids. I do. Sometimes. But again, it’s not that simple. For some reason on this day with these people I just tell them the facts of the matter.

They all do the same. I’m divorced. My girlfriend left me. I’m single and have never been in a relationship. I’m married but I’m not sure about it - I might be on the way out. I’m in finance but I don’t like being in finance.

We are all here for a reason that we don’t yet understand.

Jay gets up again and gives us his big gentle smile. He has a twinkle in his eye. He brings to mind an elf. A warm, encouraging Indian elf. I really like him.

“Let’s take a break. See you back here in ten minutes.”

Everyone but me and the woman from the Bahamas returns with a large glass of beer.

“I want you all to write down five things you feel strongly about. You’ll stand up and ask the group to choose one for you. Then you’ll rant about that for three minutes.” He turns to the woman in the cowboy boots. “Ok, you’re up.”

She stamps her feet. The silver tassels jiggle.

“That’s not fair. Am I always going to go first?”

“Sorry.” Jay grins. “It’s the seating plan. Only way I can remember your names like I told you.”

“Great,” she sighs and we all laugh.

“Ok everyone, let’s give her a big round of applause. It really helps.”

We all cheer and whoop and she stands up and gives us her rant on other mums. The ones in workout gear with sons called Giles and Sinjin. I can see where Jay is going with this. Everyone who gets up falters at some point but as they push on something magical happens. They relax and it’s funny. Ranting is just inherently funny.

When it’s my turn I stand up and read my list. Emma Number Two doesn’t hesitate.

“Men looking things up on Google in the middle of a conversation.”

Three minutes is longer than you think. Jay is right, the applause really helps. I stumble like everyone else but I push on. I get a few laughs. When I sit down I expect a cascade of shame. Sometimes after I’ve been on a night out I’ll ruminate for hours on something I’ve said. Something I think was dumb or insensitive or just plain wrong. But the shame doesn’t come. Not today. Seven strangers just watched me rant and somehow I feel fine about it.

By the end of all the rants we know a lot more about each other. A lot of personal stuff comes up when you’re panicking.

It’s the end of the day and Jay sets us homework. Video yourself ranting. Write it down and shape it into a three-minute act. It feels like a big ask. I leave more exhausted than I’ve felt in years. I go home meaning to start ranting but I fall asleep on the sofa and do nothing.

The next morning I wake up flooded with anxiety. The act. I’ve got to work on the act. I have a coffee and prop my phone up on the piano. The dog sits at my feet looking up at me. I start ranting. I feel absurd. I run out of breath. I just stop. The dog cocks her ears. “Funny?” I ask. She wags her tail in encouragement.

Suddenly it’s time to go. Hours have passed, I’ve been in a zone of terror and I haven’t finished. I throw on the same clothes as yesterday. I fail to brush my teeth. I insist the Actor drives me to Hammersmith. In the car I read him my act in a flat monotone.

“Maybe work on the jokes,” he says.

As I get out of the car he shouts after me: “I’m really proud of you for doing this. It’s very brave.”

I slam the car door. I’m late. Everyone else is there. I’m relieved to see they are all still writing. Again, everyone but me and the woman from the Bahamas has beer.

“Ok, we are going to work on our scripts today so we are ready for tonight.” There is a collective intake of breath.

“I haven’t finished mine,” I blurt out. “I read it to my husband in the car. It’s terrible. It’s not funny.”

“Did he say that?” Emma Number Two demands.

“No. He said he was proud of me.”

“Patronising git.” She grins at me. We all burst out laughing.

“Don’t worry everyone. We have lots of time,” Jay tells us elfishly.

He takes us through some more exercises. They really are brilliant. I see everyone’s writing come alive.

“Everything is either a set-up or a punchline,” he tells us.

We work all day.

“Right,” he says at 4:30. “You’ve got until 7:30 to polish your script and learn it. Don’t worry if it’s not word perfect. You can take it on with you.”

We all look at each other. I can see what the fuck in their eyes. Everyone goes downstairs to vape and buy more beer. Me and the woman from the Bahamas hold the fort. Again.

The Actor and Daughter Number One are coming to watch me. I frantically work on the script employing Jay’s methods. I go into the toilet and try to memorise it. I do it over and over again.

Around 6:30 a nervous-looking middle-aged woman arrives.

“Is this the comedy?”

Turns out she did the course a month ago but couldn’t make the showcase so she’s joining us tonight. I’m relieved she’s here. She looks around my age. No makeup. She smiles a lot.

The audience starts to trickle in. We all huddle at the back except Will, whose entire family have shown up to support him. They are all tall and blonde and posh. So is Will, though he’s also adorable. His whole act is built around being posh. He sits with them in the middle of the small audience.

The Actor and Daughter Number One arrive. She gives me a squeeze.

“Good luck, Mum,” she says with a smile. The Actor looks terrified.

“Dad’s very nervous for you,” she adds.

Jay gets up. He’s a great compère. He makes everyone laugh. He’s charming, funny, and sharp. Will has done us all the great favour of offering to go first. Jay gets the audience to roar for him. He gets up. He’s great. We all laugh. His impressions of Donald Trump talking to Keir Starmer and King Charles are brilliant. Next up is Phil the dentist, one of the divorcees. It all goes in a blur. People are laughing.

Suddenly it’s me. Jay is saying my name and I stumble out in front of the microphone. I open my mouth and say my first line. It gets a big laugh.

Shit. What do I do now?

I’m talking so fast I have no idea what I’m saying.

“I’m glad I have daughters but I would have loved a gay son.”

This was not meant to be a punchline but there is a roar of laughter. I’m thrown. I stop. I look out into the audience. I find Will. He holds my eyes. He smiles.

“Go, Emma,” he shouts.

I breathe. I swerve back into a joke about Feeld, the sex-positive dating app. All the young people in the audience laugh. And then suddenly it’s over.

“Thank you and goodnight.”

I find my way back to my seat. Phil high-fives me. The woman in the cowboy boots gives me a big squeeze. But she’s up next and on we go.

I am elated. I can feel my eyes wide in stunned surprise. WOW. I touch my face. It’s stretched into a huge smile.

The night ends with the newcomer. She starts slow. She’s brought a huge puffa jacket as a prop and she’s got a soundtrack. Her material is all about going to a grime club in South London. She ends her act with a rap about being a middle-aged mum. She’s charming and funny and brilliant. She finishes and everyone cheers.

Will’s mum comes and gives me a hug.

“Your son saved me,” I tell her.

“Respect,” she says. Mums are good like that.

After everyone has left we all sit back down in our semicircle and debrief. We go around the circle. The rapping mum tells us she’s been at home for a few years being a carer. She’s about to go back out into the world and give a presentation. She signed up for the course to get a little confidence. We hug and say goodbye. I promise to sign up for the intermediate course. This time I’ll definitely read the small print.

“You slayed, Mum.” Daughter Number One throws her arms around me. “All the cool kids in the audience thought you were hysterical.”

“I can’t believe you just did that,” The Actor tells me. “I was so nervous I felt sick.”

On the way home I realise I hadn’t thought about being a failure for two whole days. The fear bleached everything out. Maybe it was the adrenaline high but somehow it all looked different. I get the Actor to put on Defying Gravity. Daughter Number One and I belt it out. The Actor rolls his eyes.

I don’t know what any of this means. Do shit that scares you? Laugh. Don’t brush your hair. I don’t think I have a future as a stand-up but who knows. I’ve signed up for the intermediate class.

That’s the set-up. You’ll have to wait for the punchline.

PS. A week later a publisher bought my book.