On Sunday night I dreamed I was a stand up comedian, on stage for the first time. The curtain wasn’t a stereotypical heavy, deep-red velvet one, sweeping apart to reveal, well, me. Instead, I was slow-revealed behind a white vertical blind, crawling left to right.
As I came into the view of the audience, peeping between the part-open verticals, I spontaneously quipped that if there was a power cut, the show would never start. Also, I said ‘fucking power cut’ because I’ve seen comedians swear on the telly. I thought that might be the thing to do.
The audience did giggle, the laughter dying down as I watched the vertical blinds, eventually, decelerate, then stop when completely open.
Then, I just stood there. I couldn’t see the audience because of the lights, but they could see that I had no jokes. Not one. After 20 seconds or so, I looked at my watch. Mumbled a mumble. And, head down, quickly left the stage. I hid in a white tiled toilet cubicle. Sat, eyes-wide, on a brown wooden seat. Sweating.
There’s something I am doing right now that I am not preparing for as well as I could. I think that’s what this was about. I’m not sure. But it might just be the kick I need.