Globusz^® Publishing 

The cab hit the curb outside of The Micro-Wave.

“Who put dat ting dare,” complained their driver.

Norman only noticed that people were queuing and this turned his stomach. He had expected only a quiet first away gig in January. They entered through a side door and tailed by their driver. Once safely inside Doc took them off to the backstage bar and dressing area. Norman was being introduced by the others to the rest of the night’s acts. They were all managed by Doc and they had heard about Norman. He however decided to play it cool with them; Doc noticed his confident manner and liked it.

After some delays, Betsy was introduced, following some weird patter from Doc on his holiday capers. Norman was not amused. Betsy however, he found quite funny. She only received a polite response from the crowd and that irritated Norman. He studied the other acts, on and off the stage. He liked the guy who was billed as the Thompson Twins. There had been legal problems at first over the name copy- right. Doc said they had won, as he was in fact a solo act. Norman started to get into stage mode.

“You’re up now,” whispered Betsy. Norman got out of his easy chair, shook his trousers downwards and waited. He heard Doc start his introduction, “A special event coming up, right now, right here, he’s a big fucker so don’t laugh at him, it’s Mr. Zen Warwickshire.”

Norman slowly walked out onto the stage; he had the confident style of a television chat show host. The audience were clearly intimidated by his presence and hung on his every move. “Is there a Doctor in the house,” he shouted into the microphone.

“Yes,” answered a bearded gent, as luck would have it sat down at the front.

“There’s always fucking one, out there,” shouted Norman as he pointed to the Doctor, “you ever noticed, you’re at the theatre, the cinema, or on a luxury cruise and someone shouts out is there a Doctor in the house, why the fucking house anyway, you could be at sea for fucks sake. Anyway where ever, there’s always one. Go to a fucking hospital, I need to see a Doctor please; you got no fucking chance. Phone your surgery, I need to see the Doctor; you got no fucking chance. You really want to see a Doctor, book a flight, wait till the plane is right up in the fucking air; stand up and shout is there a Doctor in the house and in seconds you’ll get one, easy Doctor. Are they all off on some quest to find the Holy Gallstone. Because they’re never at fucking work, they’re always at the theatre or the cinema or on a fucking luxury cruise or up in an airplane some-where. Failing that, just go along to your local comedy venue. I rest my case.”

He moved away from the microphone lit up a cigarette and addressed the crowd again. “Any passive smokers in tonight, good. Fucking freeloaders, should buy their own. I gave up last week; it’s fucking easy I’ve done it loads of times. I read in the newspaper it can be very bad for your health; so I gave up reading. If I book into a hotel you know with my girlfriend, oh, yeah, yeah. I got a girlfriend. ” He pointed to a young man with his girlfriend, “you hoped I was gay, wish I was it’s cheaper isn’t it? Oh sorry, are you with her? You should have gone to spec-savers darling. Anyway as I was saying in a hotel yeah, she has to have a room with a bath she tried a shower once but her cigarette got wet. As we’re talking healthcare, another thing, going to the dentist these days. Why do we stand for it? They charge us huge amounts of fucking money give you an injection that doesn’t numb your mouth until you on your way home and tell you it’s your fucking fault you got a bad tooth anyway and that’s after they make you go and pay their hygienist to clean your teeth and she tells you off an all.

Can you imagine anybody else getting away with that? You go out to buy a new tele, hand over the money and the salesman tells you, it’s your fucking fault you needed to buy a new tele if you’d looked after your old one better, you needn’t have bothered him, I don’t think so. Dentists I’m warning you, when the revolution comes, you’re high up on the list.

Not as high up as opticians though, what the fucks that all about. Two for the price of one, so you find the cheapest in the shop, they’re the ones hidden in a draw that only get brought out to stop you leaving the shop. £100 and you get a second pair free. O.K. how about I just take one pair for £50. Sorry no-can-do company policy sir. But how much are these £100 glasses fucking worth. £100 sir. So if I don’t take the extra pair, you save £100. You give me £100 glasses for £50 I give you £100 glasses for nothing. So I’m really giving you £150 for £100 per of glasses. So I’m happy and you can then sell on the extra pair of glasses for £50 to the next fucking skint comedian that comes in here and then, you’ve sold your two pairs of glasses for £100 and we’re all fucking happy. Sorry no-can –do, company policy sir. Bollocks.

O.k. I guess that’s me done for tonight, thanks for listening to me whinging, enjoy the rest of the show and if I don’t see you again enjoy the rest of your lives. I’m Zen Warwickshire, thanks for your patience, cheers.” Doc jumped up on the stage, to get another round of applause for Zen.

Back stage Betsy hugged him, “You did all right Zen, and you’re on the circuit now.” They sat back down and were joined by Doc he was pleased with Norman’s effort, informing him that as a venue manager he was invited with Betsy to watch the second half, from the V.I.P. area. After a quick handshake with the Micro-wave manager, they sat on their own awaiting the second half.

Doc got the second part of the show on with some patter, telling the crowd he had once been sacked as a careers adviser for telling an attractive student she was, “ Sitting on a gold mine, ” which brought some boos. He then delved further into his fictional past to mention also being sacked as a swimming instructor. When a teenage girl asked, “Will I really sink if you pull your finger out?” The boos were now joined by some laughter and a few slow handclaps. Doc introduced the next act.

Harry Shagman took to the stage. He looked like and sounded even more like the J.R.Ewing character. Norman and Betsy would study all the stand-ups now, they whispered to each other the ongoing merits or failings of those on stage, including their own Doc.

Harry was politically incorrect on the subject of ladies. He would try and appeal to the guys. Then using the old panto. “Oh no I didn’t, oh yes you did routine,” he would turn it all round and get away with sexist murder so to speak. His unisex parking spaces in America theory brought him a standing ovation from the males in the audience. Norman and Betsy continued to evaluate stand-up-comedy.

“It’s money for old dopes,” quipped Betsy, “look at the state of this one.”

Norman whispered, “ So you just observe what’s going on in the world, get up on stage dressed in your every –day clothes and take the piss out of the audience, for doing those things, even though you may well live the same sad life as them anyway, you still send them up. They cheer you on and you get paid and if you are really rude you may go on to have your own T.V. series; then be really nice and admit you do all the same sad things that most people do.”

“You got it Norman,” agreed Betsy, “You see most of these stand-ups are just as fucking thick as the people they’re taking the piss out of. What you need to do, is take the piss out of this lot as well and you get even more free material. So observe Norman.”

Betsy was proven right as stand-up after stand-up failed to really slaughter the audience.

A Jeremy Clarkson look-a-like was doing well, “Modern Car names I ask you,” he shouted, “where do they the come from? There was a time when they stood for something, a statement. What do we get now, a Rover, sounds like a fucking dog. I think they would be better off just naming them after illnesses. Why not! You could have The Ford Hepatitis range, A, B and C; what about an Audi Tuberculosis.” 

Norman applauded but was more interested in the next performer Sheila Patterson. She claimed to be related to Les Patterson. Betsy was not a fan of Sheila’s. Her routine was to get the audience to imagine famous people having sex. Her Aussie style added much to amuse the audience as did her signature song, ‘Young, Gifted and Fat. Norman presumed Betsy envied her reception.

Doc closed the show in person. “Do you watch these D.I.Y. fucking shows on the tele,” he asked, standing with a saw in one hand and a hammer in the other. “What a load of fucking bollocks they are. That Grand Designs, you see the state of those couples, oh my God. They’re so fucking worried about their living spaces. It always ends up the same, the only unsightly objects to be seen anywhere are the couple themselves. Bit of advice ladies, best thing to put behind your ears to attract a man, your ankles. Yeah think about. She’s got it. No not now dear. Sorry about that, see yeah, good luck.”

The D.J. Ed Nolmans yet another act of Doc’s started up his Fiasco as he called it, with Benny Hill’s Ernie song. Doc joined Betsy and Norman. “This guy’s got so many funny ha-ha and funny peculiar records, cracks me up,” shouted Doc over the noise of Ernie’s milk-cart racing along. “Must get him on the books at the Two Buttocks when we re-open. Well tonight West London, tomorrow the World. Just Brighton really, but it will be a hoot, trust me I’m a compare.” Norman looked curiously, Betsy knowingly. “Didn’t we mention Brighton, young Norman? Shucks sorry ‘bout that,” said Doc, “pick you up in the morning, we’ll make a day of it. Talk to you later, people needs paying.”

Norman spent the night at Betsy’s. Doc came hammering on the door at eight the next morning. He rushed into the apartment followed by his friendly Rastafarian cab-driver, “They really should feature this apartment on that T.V. programme. What’s it called? Oh yeah I remember Bland Designs.” Norman and Betsy were then persuaded to have breakfast on the train. Doc’s friendly cabbie dropped them off at Victoria Railway Station. By 9 o’clock their train to Brighton was pulling out of the station. Doc had grabbed very strong coffees for all and baguettes filled with his recommendations.

“I don’t usually eat anchovies for breakfast,” complained Betsy.

“It compliments the egg-mayo and toms,” replied Doc, “you must agree Norman, you’re a city boy.” Norman smiled as he winked at Betsy, who was busy picking the anchovies out of her baguette.