Fenella didn’t have to play to the Gag Hags – the one solid gold advantage of being a woman in comedy.
Brenda laughed more than she usually did in stand-up comedy shows which showed that Fenella’s jokes had the ability to surprise and wrong-foot even the most committed comedy fans. Her gloriously ironic, self-mocking riff on how her rape jokes were morally superior to male comedians’ rape jokes was a joy. ‘I used be so against comics that did jokes about rape, I’d be like, how could you? Don’t you have any self-control? I said rape gags would never happen to me, I’m not that kind of comedian. But then I got drunk at a gig and one just came out, so I guess I have to take responsibility. No really, I shouldn’t have had that extra pint of Bailey’s. I was asking for it. I had it coming. Yeah, I’m now doing material against my own consent, so this may be a bumpy ride…’
No wonder her audience was in raptures. Every slight piece of improvisation or audience participation was dealt with deftly and would be used to enhance the show, indicating a comedic architectural ability to structure on the fly that eluded most comedians. This skill was the difference between goodness and greatness and what was clear was that Fenella was soaring into this league with barely a flap of her wings. She had found a comedy thermal and was riding it, curling up and up. Tangible effort minimal; effect maximised and total domination the result. This was a top predator in full health doing exactly what she was designed to do. By the time the show finished Brenda felt high as a kite.
Standing outside as Fenella’s audience poured past her, Brenda wondered where she should go to catch Fenella after the gig. Her mind was buzzing, a new horizon seemed to suddenly stretch out before her though what was beyond it she couldn’t say. She didn’t have to wonder long, however, as Fenella appeared right behind her as the last couple left the building. The tight turnaround of shows every hour meant that there was no hiding backstage for the performer. The venue spat you out as the last seat flapped up on its hinges, leaving comedians blinking and sputtering in the real world as the tide of one they had spent an hour delicately creating rolled back to reveal fresh sand for the next act to draw on.
‘Brenda Monk. I’m so glad you came.’
‘Thanks for the ticket. I loved it. I mean, shit, I don’t have the vocabulary to say how much I loved it. There is nothing original to say, only clichés, I can’t…’
‘Let me buy you a drink.’
‘No, let me buy you a drink.’
‘You can buy the second one.’
Fenella walked away without looking back.
In the bar at the back of the second small Pleasance courtyard that lay behind the main courtyard, Fenella bought two pints of cider and set them down on the table they now occupied. People were keeping a respectful distance from Fenella, but the nudging and looking was rife.
‘So, you honestly don’t mind Jonathan raping you for material, then?’
Brenda spluttered her cider back into its glass.
‘He doesn’t
rape
me.’
‘No, not literally, I mean figuratively. Did you give your consent for him to talk about you like this?’
‘He says it’s implied when you’re in a relationship with a stand-up comedian.’
‘Jesus.’
‘You’re not a fan, then.’
‘I think he’s a great comedian. I think he’s an awful man. I am able to tell the difference. Sadly, not everyone can.’
‘He’s not awful, he’s…he’s…’
Fenella cocked her head.
‘He’s a genius.’
‘Oh please. You’ve got it bad, haven’t you? Listen, I know he’s good in bed…’
‘Uh, OK.’
Brenda adjusted, absorbed, adapted and did not ask. She had got good at this. Fenella continued, oblivious.
‘But that does not make him a genius. If he was a genius, he wouldn’t pick his shirts quite so carefully.’
‘You don’t pick your outfits carefully?’
‘Of course, but I am a genius
Brenda laughed more than she usually did in stand-up comedy shows which showed that Fenella’s jokes had the ability to surprise and wrong-foot even the most committed comedy fans. Her gloriously ironic, self-mocking riff on how her rape jokes were morally superior to male comedians’ rape jokes was a joy. ‘I used be so against comics that did jokes about rape, I’d be like, how could you? Don’t you have any self-control? I said rape gags would never happen to me, I’m not that kind of comedian. But then I got drunk at a gig and one just came out, so I guess I have to take responsibility. No really, I shouldn’t have had that extra pint of Bailey’s. I was asking for it. I had it coming. Yeah, I’m now doing material against my own consent, so this may be a bumpy ride…’
No wonder her audience was in raptures. Every slight piece of improvisation or audience participation was dealt with deftly and would be used to enhance the show, indicating a comedic architectural ability to structure on the fly that eluded most comedians. This skill was the difference between goodness and greatness and what was clear was that Fenella was soaring into this league with barely a flap of her wings. She had found a comedy thermal and was riding it, curling up and up. Tangible effort minimal; effect maximised and total domination the result. This was a top predator in full health doing exactly what she was designed to do. By the time the show finished Brenda felt high as a kite.
Standing outside as Fenella’s audience poured past her, Brenda wondered where she should go to catch Fenella after the gig. Her mind was buzzing, a new horizon seemed to suddenly stretch out before her though what was beyond it she couldn’t say. She didn’t have to wonder long, however, as Fenella appeared right behind her as the last couple left the building. The tight turnaround of shows every hour meant that there was no hiding backstage for the performer. The venue spat you out as the last seat flapped up on its hinges, leaving comedians blinking and sputtering in the real world as the tide of one they had spent an hour delicately creating rolled back to reveal fresh sand for the next act to draw on.
‘Brenda Monk. I’m so glad you came.’
‘Thanks for the ticket. I loved it. I mean, shit, I don’t have the vocabulary to say how much I loved it. There is nothing original to say, only clichés, I can’t…’
‘Let me buy you a drink.’
‘No, let me buy you a drink.’
‘You can buy the second one.’
Fenella walked away without looking back.
In the bar at the back of the second small Pleasance courtyard that lay behind the main courtyard, Fenella bought two pints of cider and set them down on the table they now occupied. People were keeping a respectful distance from Fenella, but the nudging and looking was rife.
‘So, you honestly don’t mind Jonathan raping you for material, then?’
Brenda spluttered her cider back into its glass.
‘He doesn’t
rape
me.’
‘No, not literally, I mean figuratively. Did you give your consent for him to talk about you like this?’
‘He says it’s implied when you’re in a relationship with a stand-up comedian.’
‘Jesus.’
‘You’re not a fan, then.’
‘I think he’s a great comedian. I think he’s an awful man. I am able to tell the difference. Sadly, not everyone can.’
‘He’s not awful, he’s…he’s…’
Fenella cocked her head.
‘He’s a genius.’
‘Oh please. You’ve got it bad, haven’t you? Listen, I know he’s good in bed…’
‘Uh, OK.’
Brenda adjusted, absorbed, adapted and did not ask. She had got good at this. Fenella continued, oblivious.
‘But that does not make him a genius. If he was a genius, he wouldn’t pick his shirts quite so carefully.’
‘You don’t pick your outfits carefully?’
‘Of course, but I am a genius
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