Dying Standing Up

This week has been pretty eventful. In between not working on my dissertation, I went to see both Juno (overrated) and Be Kind Rewind (underrated) back to back, visited the Royal Pharmaceutical Society to look at opium artefacts and whatnot (ornate jars of bear grease to combat baldness, apparently) amid a police-cordoning-off of Lambeth Bridge area, had a trip down the local to celebrate Jona's birthday, and have seen Richard Herring do his "Oh F*ck, I'm 40!" stand-up show which was very funny and vulgar indeed.

But perhaps the most eventful event of the week (if that makes any sense) was trying my hand at stand-up comedy on Tuesday evening. I went to Kingston University to compete in the regional heat of the Chortle Student Comedy Award 2008. In case you didn't know, Chortle is basically the UK Comedy website, with gig listings and daily news updates of the comedy scene, and has been running a nationwide search for the UK's best student comedian for the past few years, the final being held up in Edinburgh during the festival.

Now, I've never done stand-up before, but I thought that this was perhaps my only shot of giving it a go, and what the hey! You're only young and stupid once. So I applied. I got in. I'm on the list of acts. And now I'm standing in a student bar waiting to go on stage and recite some barely rehearsed material in front of a bunch of strangers, experienced comics, and industry know-it-alls. It was perhaps made a tiny bit more nerve-wracking that the head of Chortle looks a lot like Gregory Itzin aka President Logan from 24 / The Mayor of Eerie, Indiana.

I got chatting to a few of my competitors who were very amiable and supportive individuals. One was actually doing an MA in Stand Up Comedy, another did a couple of gigs every week, for one it was his first gig in 4 years (a final shot at the title belt, so to speak), and another who organised his own comedy night and had done about 100 gigs since September. And then there was me. But hey - everyone's gotta start somewhere.

I was to go on 4th out of 10, and I couldn't really have picked a better slot - not going first, but getting it over and done with before the interval. We had a professional MC warm up the audience of about 30/40 local students, the first few acts came and went with varying degress of laughter from the attendees, and there it was my turn.

Now, I wouldn't say I died on my arse, but during the 5-6 minutes of my act I probably got 5-6 laughs. Here is a two minute extract of my performance; unfortunately they picked the two minutes that included the joke that died the worst death and a long-winded set-up and spiel that didn't pay off (I should be sent the whole thing at a later date).



It was strange because there was no tension in the room and I wasn't really nervous; the audience sat there smiling but not laughing, so I think I held their attention and they were mildly entertained, but they just didn't find any of it actually funny. I got some better response towards the end, and a joke I only resorted to when I needed to fill up more time got the biggest laugh of my set, so what do I know? I think my main flaws were...

1. Too much set-up, not enough jokes. My running theme could have lasted a whole headline act, but I tried to squeeze it into a 5 minute framework.
2. The delivery. I didn't rehearse enough, forgot a few bits and tripped over myself a few times. Timing the right moment to drop the punchline, seguing smoothly, and emphasising the right words were also skills I fail to possess.
3. Not enough dick and fart jokes. Perhaps my approach was too clever clever, more of a referential rant than trying to point out everyday foibles that would resonate better with the audience, or better yet, using more swears and gags about sex and poo. And less bad puns - I expected at least a chucklesome groan, but got silence instead.
   
4. Be myself. Perhaps I was too scripted - really I should be making jokes that would make me laugh, and I love dark horrible humour, so maybe I should be just a bit sicker in the head.
5. Perhaps the most crucial - I just wasn't that funny.
   

Anyway, the very fact that I'm picking apart my routine is probably testament to my desire to give it another spin. The other experienced stand-ups said it was good for a first try, and those that didn't know I was a beginner were impressed in a Faking It sort of way. It was clear though that I had no chance of winning, but I was just happy to have survived. In the end, the winner was a member of the Cambridge Footlights, had competed in this competition the past 4 years, and was already signed up by Avalon. So it was a forgone conclusion for all involved. You can watch clips from all the acts in that heat here.

Still, it was a good learning experience, I got some helpful tips and advice, and I've popped my stand-up cherry. The thing is now, do I dare go on a second date?

The War Next Door

So, my final essay for a while is finished. Done and dusted. No longer do I need to think about Japan's pharmaceutical industry and their production and distribution of cocaine between the two world wars - a fascinating topic, but it almost killed me. I typed about 2000 words in 24 hours, staying up to 4am on Thursday night, waking up at 9am the next morning and ploughing through it until just before 2pm to meet the 4pm deadline. Not only that, but my main source was one of the most cack-handedly written texts I've seen throughout my university career (including my own work). Spelling the same name three different ways, non-sequitur paragraphs, little sense of a threaded argument - Steven B. Karch, MD: you are a dolt.

The weekend is my reward. But the jerks next door seem to be having none of it. After the incessant loud music (they've added bad Pink Floyd dance remixes to their repertoire now; there should be a law against radios playing songs that are designed to be 'played loud'), frantic alibi-setting-straight telephone calls, macaroni-window-flinging and shouting matches that would make the cast of Eastenders flee in fear, their ouevre has expanded.

I assume their inquisitive cat (which would regularly peak out the window and stare at us in the kitchen or lavatory) has died, because it its stead they seem to have acquired a dog. A tiny yapping puppy of sorts, and I guess the girl in the room adjacent to mine is its appointed owner. Every time they have an argument (which is pretty much all the time - most recent exchange: "Get the f**k outta mah layf!", "Get the f**k outta mah hause, yeh f**kin' mug!"), the dog won't start yipping and yupping like a flustered chicken. I blame its master. So far her commands have consisted of "Stay there!", "Sit down!", and "Shut up!". Crufts beckons.

But just as this all gets intensely irritating, something hilarious happens and all is forgiven. Couple of nights ago, she had some friends over listening to some godawful music, and the dog was yipping from time to time. Then, all of a sudden, there was shouting and panic: "OH MAH GOT! HE PISSED ON MA DVDS!".

Bless that dog.

----------------

New Year means New Telly, and a chance to catch the second series of two similar shows that hit at roughly the same time when I was in Japan. Charlie Brooker mode activated.

First off is Doctor Who spin-off Torchwood, an absudly silly sci-fi rompathon that plays like an episode of Scooby-Doo in which Shaggy has been replaced by, well, shagging. Much has been written about its bewildering tone and how the very existence of an adult version of a kids programme that retains the same level of scripting and acting but with blood and sex is strange enough in itself (Lazy Town Sleepless Nights? Postman Pat: Off Duty Package Delivery? Rosie & Jim Unleashed - With Extra Hot Dickings?). I managed to catch the first two episodes of the first series, but when I wasn't baffled, I was just plain bored. If it didn't have the Who connection, I doubt anyone would have bothered in the first place.

Yet, here comes another helping. The BBC have uploaded the opening of the first episode of the new series onto YouTube and it seems more of the same. A man with a blowfish for a head driving a sports car being pursued by the Torchwood team in their S&M Ice Cream Van with tinkly blue LEDs. A delerious hostage situation, the hilarious sight of Welsh people holding guns with all the confidence of an archer afraid of targets, some raspy hammy alienspeak and Captain Jack (John Barrowman) dropping in from nowhere to save the day. Surprised they didn't shoehorn in a big gay snog (though I believe you're promised one later in the episode). Touch wood, it'll get better...groan. May I suggest they have a man with a different animal for a head each episode. That's right, not a different animal head, but his all head comprises a scaled down creature with all its appendages attached. A tiger? Or an earwig? Or maybe a bat?

More interesting-looking is ITV's CG-filled family entertainment answer to Doctor Who, Primeval. 'Back for Seconds' scream the trails (surprised Torchwood hasn't gone for 'Second Coming'), as a band of young pretty scientists battle dinosaurs that rip through the fabric of space and time to eat M&Ms (no joke) and feast of Jeremy Kyle's intestines (joke, but one can dream can't they). Starring Ben Miller and that one from S Club 7, its perhaps because it doesn't have the baggage of 45 years of Doctor Who that both hinders and helps Torchwood that it looks like it could be more entertaining, but perhaps not quite as hysterically ludicrous.

Although Primeval starts tonight, I'm afraid I'm going to plump for an evening with Captain Jack instead. Torchwood may not start until Wednesday, but I have rented a DVD classic starring John Barrowman himself...Shark Attack 3: Megalodon...

Jean Therapy for Cringemuss

With less than a month to go before Crimbletide, I am now no longer allowed to buy myself anything bar essential goods. Luckily, I did a little spending spree before the calendar change, ordering a bunch of CDs from Amazon Japan and stopping by the new big Uni Qlo stores in Oxford Street for a couple of tops and a pair of jeans.

Yes, that's right - this is the first pair of jeans I have ever bought. I gave up on jeans before I started having to buy clothes for myself, and I still don't get the WORLD's obsession with them. Denim is not an especially nice fabric for starters, they get worn out pretty easily and the cut is rarely comfortable. On top of that, EVERYBODY WEARS THEM. Aliens probably think it's some global uniform the UN has decreed all must wear. More people wear jeans out of work than people wear suits to work. Now I've finally gotten myself a pair (mainly because I thought I might as well get some blue trousers in a change to my dark/beige/green selection), I feel even more self-conscious about the fact everyone else is wearing the same than if I'd been wearing something no-one else was wearing. I'm glad I bought them and it's a useful addition to my wardrobe, but come on guys! How about NOT wearing jeans for charity rather than the traditional vice-versa scenario? They're so...boring.

Fashion column over. The Christmas lights have been going up in Turnpike Lane the past week - well, they're non-religious specific, just some twinkly bits on the side of streetlamps. As Bill Bailey referred to in his Tinselworm show I saw on Thursday, they're just there to emphasise the Primary Gifting Period ("BEGIN THE PGP!") that have made advertisements on television more tedious than ever. While we're perhaps more inundated with 'Buy Me' breaks than in Japan, at least it's not as commercially ruthless as it was over there. They were already removing garlands from shop displays at 10pm on Christmas Day. Back closer to home, a banner was being put up over Ducketts Common roughly the same time as the Christmas lights. Would it be a Christmas message? Or a celebratory sign of some sort? Um...no...

STOP DOMESTIC VIOLENCE
Zero Tolerance in Haringey

Charming. The banner's already been battered and abused by the wind, causing it to look even more depressing in its now contorted, crumpled state.

Speaking of signs, I've recently been enjoying entertainingly named businesses. I'm pretty certain I would enlist the services of a snappier or sillier named business than a more mundane one, regardless of recommendations or qualifications. There was Swanky! Beauty Salon I saw on the bus today, the Fishcoteque chippie by the BFI Imax (I intend to open a geeky fish and chop called "All Your Plaice Are Belong To Us"), and Jim'll Mix It cement mixer. Whether I needed cement mixed or no, it's worth getting a patio just to tell your mates that Jim mixed it for you.

"Now then, now then, now then, concrete, cement, etc."

----------------
Listening to: Daft Punk - Voyager
via FoxyTunes

The Lone Gigger

Last night I went to see Arcade Fire at the Alexandra Palace. However, I was in Japan when tickets were on sale, and not wanting to pass up the opportunity in case they sold out (which they did), I decided to buy one then and there. But I did not want to fork out twice or thrice the price to get extra tickets, in the hope that I could convince someone else to go to a concert months into the future, and get paid back for it. So it was a solo venture as I walked through the wind and rain from home to the venue, a grand place for a concert indeed (having seen Franz Ferdinand there two years previous in a similar state of loneliness).

So what does one actually do at gigs when you're on your own and waiting for the bands to come on? It's too expensive and time-consuming queueing to drink, yet I was too sober to start up chit-chat with strangers - no-one wants to appear too enthusiastic about the band, despite the fact that everyone there is a fan (otherwise, why would they be there?). Instead, you're left standing there on your own while groups of friends around you have vastly entertaining and interesting conversations you want to join in with but feel it socially inappropriate to do so; no one wants their evening spoiled by some strange nobody chiming in with their two cents like they're worth a dime (that's ten cents).

Well, pehaps not turning up early would be a good idea. Then I spent my time putting my coat in the cloakroom, looking at prices for food and drinks, then found a spot by the tech crew and waited. For 45 minutes. The good thing was that Alexandra Palace is perhaps the best venue in London to get a signal (what with it being the old broadcast centre), so mobile phone use was not a problem. The boredom was alleviated through a light bit of texting, something that just would not be possible in the more cavernous capital venues (at which point, not even faux-phone-fiddling - in which you pretend to be doing important things like sending or checking messages - would slide).

Maybe there should be some kind of gig-goer application on something like last.fm where it wouldn't be considered socially awkward to check who's going on their own. Perhaps you can hook up with a like-minded group of people - I mean, the band could be a starting point for just getting to know others. Could even expand into a dating service sort of realm - music is a personal thing, and if you share similar tastes in tunes, who knows? They could be 'the one'. But I digress...

Once the support acts were on, it was fine. You're among a crowd and the focus is on music rather than being a Billy No-Mates. While New Englanders Wild Light better fitted the bill as a warm-up, Liverpudlian band Clinic were perhaps the more entertaining band, even if they seemed to bemuse most of the audience. Living up to their name by wearing dark blue surgical outfits, Clinic's pounding mix of indie-punk-folk and strange strange vocals was creepy but interesting.

Arcade Fire themselves were stunning. An energetic, kinetic live show thanks to the brilliant visuals and lighting, and the rambunctious nature inherent with so many band members and instruments on stage. Lead singer Win Butler's vocals were drowned out during My Body Is A Cage and a teasing opening to a cover of Pulp's Common People never came to pass, but the rest of it was joyous. The anthemic choral nature of their songs lend themselves perfectly to crowd sing-a-longing and clapping which required little to no direction, such were the lyrics and music engrained within all the attendees. Including myself. So I guess I wasn't alone after all...

Bah, screw sentimentality and lessons learned. Next time, I'm forcing someone to come with me.

----------------
Listening to: Clinic - Fingers
via FoxyTunes

Guess Who's Back? Needs A Scratch?

Flash forward three months and you find me here. In London. With macaroni cheese running down my kitchen window.

To briefly fill in the gaps, I'm now well into the first term of my final year at SOAS. The workload is pretty intense - I could easily coast by for the moment, but I know that preparation is key to survival. Or something. Being back from Japan is a little weird; I miss a lot of things about living there, but I missed a lot of things about living here too, so go figure (oooh, that sounded very early 90s). Despite all the pressing engagements (two essays for the end of term, dissertation deadlines to make, Japanese Language Proficiency Test Level 2), there's still time for frivolity. Well, there kind of isn't, but it gets you out the house, don't it?

Case in point - this time last week I was watching I'm A Cyborg But That's OK, followed by a talk with the director Park Chan-wook, who I believe to be something of a genius - and yet I've only seen two of his films. Well, three now. It was the closing night gala of the London Korean Film Festival, and his screen talk with Empire writer Damon Wise (via translator) was funny, frank and illuminating. I can't imagine many directors would be so honest about their early films, box office success and failure and the meaning of their work. I think he does a commentary on the Oldboy DVD which I should really listen to some time. Anyway, I review his latest on my review blog (yes, it's still there) here.

Another case in point - last Saturday, I went to see all 14 episodes of genius sitcom Spaced in one day in a grand comedy show marathon as part of the BFI's Channel 4 at 25 celebrations. In between the two series, we were treated to a Q&A with Edgar Wright, Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, Katy Carmichael, Mark Heap and Julia Deakin, chaired by big-chinned, whine-voiced Radio Times film-prong Andrew Collins. Although Jessica Hynes (Stevenson) couldn't make it (leaving us a brilliant recorded message instead), it was a brilliant way to spend 10 hours. We even got to see Aida the Dog (aka Colin the Dog)! Interestingly, the episodes were taken from their original broadcast, so at the end, the voice announcer would keep telling us Frasier was coming up next. The Q&A session was the highlight - Nick Frost is a comedy genius par excellence, and I even got to ask a question. Well, no-one else was sticking their hand up, so off the fly I asked them what it was like having met and collaborated with film directors such as George A. Romero and Quentin Tarantino having referenced them in Spaced. Not a great question, but we got a nice anecdote about Edgar meeting John Carpenter in Virgin, both buying The Beatles' Help! on DVD. I also thanked them for putting Wells on the map with Hot Fuzz, to which Edgar punched the air and Simon asked me "Didn't you know where it was before?".


The bizzayness doesn't stop there. I'm running the SOAS Film Society every Tuesday night. So far I've shown Children of Men, Chung King Express, The Thing and Grizzly Man, with A Scanner Darkly due next week. Also, I'm hosting Tokyo Soundscape, my Japanese music show, every Friday 1-2pm, which can be listened to through Open Air Radio. I got myself a MySpace page for it, so please be my friend, or I will hunt you down and cut you. Kiddles!

And as for the macaroni...well, it seems that not only do we have a bedbug infestation and noisy stupid neighbours, but someone flung macaroni cheese on our kitchen window. It was still steaming as it congealed on the glass, and I didn't even hear it happen. One moment it wasn't there, the next SPLOK! As the window only overlooks our neighbours, it could only have been them; unless the people directly below us had especially good aim. Still, there's a Citizen's Advice Bureau round the corner which I'm hankering to pay a visit. Once I've stoppoed wasting time doing stupid things like blogging.

Ah! It's good to be back!

----------------
Listening to: Fredo - Grande
via FoxyTunes