which side of the crack to jump to, lest she plunge straight down the middle and into the abyss. You have to stand for something, or you’ll fall for anything, Brenda recalled being told by a drunk political journalist one Christmas, before he was sick into his own inside jacket pocket.
Brenda brought two fresh pints of cider back to the table and took her seat. Fenella immediately put her phone down and gave Brenda her full attention.
‘So, have you ever reviewed me?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. No particular reason.’
‘Were you scared I wasn’t any good and you wouldn’t look very sisterly giving me a slagging off?’
‘No. Maybe.’
‘We ladies must stick together, eh?’
Brenda conceded defeat.
‘I don’t believe in that, but…’
‘Good, neither do I. None of that “women in comedy” bollocks, thanks. I don’t need a special disabled person’s permit, I don’t need a special parking space near to the laughs, I don’t need anything they don’t need.’
‘I know. But it’s hard, isn’t it? I mean, it is harder.’
‘The more we talk about it, the harder it gets. That’s their trick, see. If we keep having to talk about it, it cements the problem in people’s minds and then it doesn’t go away. You have to ignore it. I’m not saying it doesn’t exist – I’m not an idiot – but the strategy is to ignore it.’
‘You have a strategy? Like a planned strategy, with other people?’
‘Of course. If you don’t have a strategy how will you know when you’re going wrong?’
‘But what if the strategy’s wrong?’
‘Then you change it.’
‘But if you can just change it any time, what’s the point of the strategy?’
‘So you know if you need to change it.’
‘That’s not an argument. That’s just some weird circular logic that eats itself.’
Fenella shrugged.
‘Perhaps you’re right, but that’s the way we’re doing it.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, me and a few others. We meet for drinks every now and again, to shoot the shit.’
‘Just women? Women in comedy?’
‘Yeah’.
‘Then doesn’t that rather disprove your point? I mean, if it’s women only, how is that ignoring it?’
‘We ignore it in public. In private we do whatever the hell we want. That’s the strategy. Why don’t you come along?’
‘I’m not a woman in comedy.’
‘No. Not yet. Are you funny?’
‘Yeah.’
Fenella let out a shriek of delighted laughter.
‘You played that perfectly. That was great. Just deadpan and… yeah, great.’
Brenda blushed.
‘I don’t know if I’m funny, I mean, compared to Jonathan and…you…and…’
‘No, don’t spoil it. That was funny. That was a nice instinct. Tells me a lot.’
‘You comedians are so intense all the time.’
‘Only the great ones.’
‘Don’t you get exhausted, analysing, picking apart everything all the time?’
‘Yeah – that’s why we all have substance abuse problems.’
‘What’s yours?’
‘Hash. The finest Lebanese Black money can buy. What are you doing the rest of the evening?’
‘Jonathan’s on
Late n Live
third…’
‘So around 1.30 or so?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘OK, let’s go down for the start of the show. I might do a bit too.’ ‘Are you booked?’
‘No, but if I turn up I’m sure Diarmuid will squeeze me on somewhere.’
A sharply consumed hot dog, another show. This time a promising twenty-four-year-old woman Fenella wanted to see who had some good jokes at the start but ran out of material twenty minutes in. (A common problem according to Fenella – a circuit honed twenty minutes then dissipates over the forty minutes still left to run to a full hour.) Then on to
Late n Live
at midnight. Fenella was waved through by a smiling ticket collector and Brenda followed in her wake. Sliding round the side of the auditorium through a damp, winding corridor, and they were in one of the few green rooms of established comedy nights that Brenda had
Brenda brought two fresh pints of cider back to the table and took her seat. Fenella immediately put her phone down and gave Brenda her full attention.
‘So, have you ever reviewed me?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. No particular reason.’
‘Were you scared I wasn’t any good and you wouldn’t look very sisterly giving me a slagging off?’
‘No. Maybe.’
‘We ladies must stick together, eh?’
Brenda conceded defeat.
‘I don’t believe in that, but…’
‘Good, neither do I. None of that “women in comedy” bollocks, thanks. I don’t need a special disabled person’s permit, I don’t need a special parking space near to the laughs, I don’t need anything they don’t need.’
‘I know. But it’s hard, isn’t it? I mean, it is harder.’
‘The more we talk about it, the harder it gets. That’s their trick, see. If we keep having to talk about it, it cements the problem in people’s minds and then it doesn’t go away. You have to ignore it. I’m not saying it doesn’t exist – I’m not an idiot – but the strategy is to ignore it.’
‘You have a strategy? Like a planned strategy, with other people?’
‘Of course. If you don’t have a strategy how will you know when you’re going wrong?’
‘But what if the strategy’s wrong?’
‘Then you change it.’
‘But if you can just change it any time, what’s the point of the strategy?’
‘So you know if you need to change it.’
‘That’s not an argument. That’s just some weird circular logic that eats itself.’
Fenella shrugged.
‘Perhaps you’re right, but that’s the way we’re doing it.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, me and a few others. We meet for drinks every now and again, to shoot the shit.’
‘Just women? Women in comedy?’
‘Yeah’.
‘Then doesn’t that rather disprove your point? I mean, if it’s women only, how is that ignoring it?’
‘We ignore it in public. In private we do whatever the hell we want. That’s the strategy. Why don’t you come along?’
‘I’m not a woman in comedy.’
‘No. Not yet. Are you funny?’
‘Yeah.’
Fenella let out a shriek of delighted laughter.
‘You played that perfectly. That was great. Just deadpan and… yeah, great.’
Brenda blushed.
‘I don’t know if I’m funny, I mean, compared to Jonathan and…you…and…’
‘No, don’t spoil it. That was funny. That was a nice instinct. Tells me a lot.’
‘You comedians are so intense all the time.’
‘Only the great ones.’
‘Don’t you get exhausted, analysing, picking apart everything all the time?’
‘Yeah – that’s why we all have substance abuse problems.’
‘What’s yours?’
‘Hash. The finest Lebanese Black money can buy. What are you doing the rest of the evening?’
‘Jonathan’s on
Late n Live
third…’
‘So around 1.30 or so?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘OK, let’s go down for the start of the show. I might do a bit too.’ ‘Are you booked?’
‘No, but if I turn up I’m sure Diarmuid will squeeze me on somewhere.’
A sharply consumed hot dog, another show. This time a promising twenty-four-year-old woman Fenella wanted to see who had some good jokes at the start but ran out of material twenty minutes in. (A common problem according to Fenella – a circuit honed twenty minutes then dissipates over the forty minutes still left to run to a full hour.) Then on to
Late n Live
at midnight. Fenella was waved through by a smiling ticket collector and Brenda followed in her wake. Sliding round the side of the auditorium through a damp, winding corridor, and they were in one of the few green rooms of established comedy nights that Brenda had
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