I was less than enthusiastic about attending tonight's gig, to the point of considering giving it a miss. I'd had too many disturbed sleeps, and my crankiness was off the chart, manifesting as cortisol in every muscle. I had that trapped inner scream feeling that no amount of swearing would release. Nevertheless, I grabbed my gig jacket and ticket and made my journey in.
The M8 was crawling long before the roadworks. I settled into the middle lane (the only one that would take me where I needed to go) and stuttered forward, progressing more slowly than the lanes on either side. Watching the idiots on my left slide past, then indicate they were going to join my lane, boiled my head. Fuck them c's, I thought to myself. The further we drove, the more I realised that everyone was doing it. No wonder I was going so slowly. I resolved to take action. No one was getting in front of me. I stuck to the bumper of the transit van in front of me like it was a tow.
When the car on my left indicated and started to slide over, I held my ground, much to his vigorous annoyance. He screamed and gesticulated at me, but I didn't care. Then I saw the police car blocking his lane, and the car broken down on the hard shoulder behind it. I felt so guilty. The rest of the drive was conducted politely, ensuring I did not exceed the speed limit. (In my defence, the person behind me didn't let them in either.
This change in attitude helped when I arrived at the venue. Three lines and mine moved the slowest, but I wasn't bothered. There was plenty of time. The security check was cursory and swift. I made my way towards the stalls, casually checking my ticket to see which door to use. Then I noticed I was mistaken. My ticket was for the Front Circle, so I turned around and headed for the escalator.
The view upstairs wasn't great, but it was a comedy show, so no biggie. The crowd seemed sparse, but it filled right up to the brim by showtime.
Andrew Maxwell was our first support act, dispensing with his Radio 4-friendly material in favour of more baser gags, opening with his confession over his use of Viagra and moving on to his father having a cock the size of a Pringles tube, musing on what flavour the purple can was. Sadly, he confessed, he'd inherited his cock from his mother.
The girl on my left giggled incessantly. It was like she had some sort of stimulatory device connecting the comedian's microphone to her tickle glands. Everything he said elicited a loud, unfiltered laugh. The only time this paused was when she took a sip of her pint.
The men in front of me were in a rowdy mood, not necessarily interested in the support acts, except to heckle. During Glenn Wool's set, their conversations made them laugh so hard that they became unintelligible due to sniggering. I was not amused. And neither were the people around them, drawing looks but no interjections. As such, I can't tell you much about Glenn, as my ire was directed at the men in front. He did reference that he knew he resembled Jack Black and that Canadian beer, being stronger, helps prevent the kind of trouble that weak alcohol enables, acting out a scene where the riled-up drinker tries to stand up, stumbles, then decides to deal with the problem the following day. And there was something about being divorced, but being stuck in Surrey until his daughter was old enough for him to leave. She's three.
During the interval, Giggle Girl's partner went for more drinks. She used the opportunity to get into everyone's business, starting by asking the man in front if he enjoyed the comedian. I couldn't stop myself from saying out loud, "He wouldn't know. He wasn't listening," followed by an awkward pause as both parties digested my words. Then she giggled. She established many facts about the man: where he was from, where his ex resides and where his daughter now lives. Then she drew me into her intelligence sweep. When her partner returned, she notified him that I was from Paisley, to which he responded that he hated that place, without providing any evidence. I chose to continue the rest of the interval engrossed in my phone.
At this point, Giggle Girl insisted to her partner that she wanted a selfie with him. Then, having taken it, she announced she wanted to take another as her boobs had not been in shot for the first one. I'll admit, my ears pricked up at that moment (just my ears). My eyes left my phone screen as I casually glanced across. I'm sorry to say there was nothing to report. Not even a nip slip. I suspect she had been referring to her cleavage, for which her top contained a convenient horizontal slice.
Jim Jefferies was awesome. All three acts commanded the stage, but Jim is a class apart. He opened with a bit about how society can be compartmentalised into four sections (in order): 1. Hot women; 2. Hot Men; 3. Ugly Men, and 4. Ugly Women. He pointed out that groups 1 and 2 rarely transition because they are happy. He then expressed his confusion about those guys in group 3 who transition, as they ultimately get demoted into a lower group, losing many societal benefits.
He also elaborated on his Two-Limb Policy, the subject of his recent Netflix special, extending the routine to include what benefits he would offer quadraplegics. He then pointed out how evil we were for laughing as he'd not sought consent to go down on the woman who was missing all her limbs, and as such, it was technically a rape joke. Twisted, but funny.
Not all his gags were crude. He ended with a funny story about going to dinner with his friend, Russell Crowe. Punchline: I've gone one door too early. His account of how his eighty-three-year-old father found love again was sweet, though undercut by a punchline that subverted the narrative.
The most unusual moment of the show came after this when the crowd started baying 'Phone your Dad'. This threw Jim momentarily, torn between outright refusal and making the excuse that he didn't have his phone on stage with him. When a girl from the front row came forward and offered him her phone, he took it from her and admitted he didn't know his dad's mobile number off the top of his head. While he did remember the house number, he didn't want to put it into her phone as that would mean she'd have his Dad's number. She'd have to delete it immediately, but even then, that wouldn't work, since the number would still show up on her bill (his dad lives in Australia). So instead, being in possession of her phone, he flipped the situation and started looking through her texts, making it a Michael McIntyre routine about who he could message. He chose to send the recipient of her most recent text an admission that she was, in fact, trans and hoped that he would support her during the change. He pretended she'd have to wait for the end of the show to get her phone back so he could see if there had been a response.
It was then that Giggle Girl demonstrated another of her skills: finger whistling. Not content with laughing, she had to nudge up her response whenever she found something particularly funny by providing a piercing, shrill whistle. Just when I thought I was enjoying myself.
At the end, surrounded by the smell of stale beer breath, Giggle Girl rushed out to get ahead of the queue for the Ladies, perhaps so she could remove her giggle stimulator before it tore a hole in her clitoris. Or maybe just have a pee. She made it an evening that I won't forget (now I've written it down).
Ticket Price: £60.00 Face value & £11.50 fees, & E-Ticket fee £1.00 & Transaction Fee £1.50 =Order Total £74.00 from Gigantic.
Errata: Jim actually opened with the revelation that he is being sued by the Village People for saying that YMCA is a gay anthem. The songwriter complained that it is an anthem for many situations, to which Jim replied, "Well, can I pick the gay one?"
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