I read Malcolm Hardee's "I Stole Freddie Mercury's Birthday Cake" today, my second autobiography by an early alternative comedian of the holidays (with a fair amount of crossover with Arthur Smith's book). This one was written back in 1996 and Malcolm died
in 2005. I wasn't particularly close to Malcolm and I've written in the past about how he
was one of the figures with which I associated my unpleasant Oxford Revue experiences and had also
kneed me in the testicles at the Glastonbury Festival and
my memories of playing his club in the early days.
The book is very entertaining though and although undoubtedly packed with lies by a man who can't even remember how he proposed to his second wife, it is tender and honest as well. He lived an incredible life, without any fear of the consequences of his actions, surfing on whichever wave he happened to find himself on. In some ways he was a massive prick and in others a wonderful and eccentric gentleman.
The book (and Arthur's to an extent) does show how ephemeral show business is. Malcolm's in particular though as it is written 15 years ago and talks about contemporary acts, some of whom have gone on to be big stars, but others who have just completely disappeared from the scene. Having gigged with most of them myself I started to wonder what had become of them. Did they just give up, or find employment in other fields or get married or move away or die? Fashions changed partly I suppose, so the eccentric acts like the Iceman and Chris Luby had less places to go and the right-on and extreme feminist comedians perhaps no longer resonated with the audiences. Though I didn't make much of an impact on the comedy scene in the early 90s, I am one of only a select few who are still gigging. It's strange to see some of those names again.
I've been thinking a little bit about the early days and suddenly recalled what I think might be the funniest single piece of comedy that I have created, but which I haven't performed in almost a quarter of a century. I wrote (though wrote might be too strong a word for it) when I was at school. It took about 30 seconds to execute, and although simplistically amusing on one level had a lot of nuances within it that made it probably my greatest comedic achievement. Yet I had almost forgotten it and for some reason it never made an appearance in any of my professional shows.
I don't recall how or when I came up with it, though I suppose it has a Pythonesque influence as much of my juvenilia did. It's a visual joke that won't work so well in print, but what the hey, let's give it a go.
An announcer would come on and proclaim, "Introducing Harold Pucksa," (interesting at that early stage that I had already discovered that names with a K in them were intrinsically amusing - something Stew and I would later use to great effect. Simon Quinlank's name came from us adding a K to the name of the author of a book we had on out shelves), "The man who can only live in a vaccuum!"
Then as the audience applauded I would enter stage left, running at a reasonable pace, holding up my right arm and waving at the audieence, enjoying my moment in the spotlight. But halfway across the stage would come a moment of realisation, my arrogant smile would freeze on my face and I would die in mid run, momentum sending me flying forwards, practically horizonatally, arm still stretched out, before plummeting with force on to the ground.
Others would come on, realise I was dead and embarrassedly drag my corpse off stage.
I don't remember the performances I gave at school or the tiny Oxford Revue Workshop in a cellar under the Union, but both venues would have been too small for the joke to register properly. But in 1987 there was an Oxford Revue Workshop showcase at the Newman Rooms, which had a very large stage area and I clearly remember the enormous effect that this simple piece of nonsense had on a crowd. Not only was the stage very wide, but the floor was made of stone. There was time for an impressive run up, but also the noise that was made as my body impacted with the hard surface gave a whole new dimension to the joke. It looked painful. And it was. But my body was young and limber and the woomphing laugh and applause, which would last longer than the joke itself made it all worthwhile. I had no idea how to do a stage dive or how to land safely. I just threw myself, almost headlong, on to the floor.
Which is always going to be a little bit funny, but the joke was more than pure slapstick. The set up itself, that a man might only live in an airless environment was amusing, yet somehow the punchline that his death was inevitable as soon as he stepped on to the stage did not occur to anyone until it, too late, occurred to Harold himself. In an evening of longish sketches I suppose people imagined that this comedic conceit would be explored at some length, so the brevity was a delightful (and given the awfulness of most student sketches a welcome) relief.
There was also, fittingly for me, the element of hubris. Harold was so delighted and overawed by this shot at celebrity that like some kind of Malcolm Hardee he gave no thought to the consequences of his actions. An additional joke for me (that I doubt many people considered) was that presumably before he came on stage Harold had been waiting in some kind of human sized vaccuum flask, then a door had opened, he'd heard the crowd and run from the safety of the contraption to his death.
And if that was not enough for a 30 second quickie there was also the additional joke that the actual performer playing Harold (me) was having to endure pain and risk injury to create this laugh. Like with so much of what was to come in my career the lengths I had to go to get the laugh and the personal cost were part of what made it funny. Just as Harold Pucksa was a victim of his own desire to be adored by strangers, so was Richard Herring.
There was a lot more going on in this than I realised at the time. I just loved the sound of 300 people howling with laughter.
But the joke did come at some cost. I performed it in two Fringe shows - the Seven Raymonds in 1987 and The Oxford Revue in 1988 and even with secret elbow and knee pads under my shirt, three weeks of daily hurling myself at the floor (at least the stage was wooden and hollow in Edinburgh), left me with a bruise that ran the length of my forearm, bulging out, purple and brown. But nonetheless I would have to throw myself on to the bruise the next night. And I did it even though I feared it might result in permanent damage.
This all seems to serve as a metaphor for the life of the comedian on many levels. It's almost a mini play when you think about it, though I guess no one (including myself) ever thought as deeply about it as I just have done. I don't think I am sprightly or flexible enough to be able to repeat the joke now, although today I felt that I could almost base an entire Edinburgh show around it as a conceit. But annoyingly and slightly wonderfully it's a joke that I think I will never better in my life. And I came up with it when I was a teenager.
The Chortle awards took place in London tonight, but due to the time difference I would not find out what happened there until Tuesday morning, so I suspect I shall write about that tomorrow.
