It’s been another pretty successful season at SUQ. We’ve more than doubled the readership of this newsletter, and have had some of our biggest pieces. Feel free to check them out here, here and here.
But now it’s time for a summer break, reconvening in mid-September. Paying subscriptions will still be on, as I’m still writing, not least on the novel I’m hoping to finish.
Thank you for your continuing support for this newsletter – it really does mean the world to me that you read.
If you’re missing my words this summer, please feel free to buy my novel ‘Midlands’ (here), which is currently £1 on Kindle. It’s been described as ‘funny’.
As ever, I like to round out the season with a piece of fiction, in this case a story about the travails of the amateur comedian. Enjoy, and have a wonderful summer; for paying subscribers, there’ll be one more post at the end of the month.
Finally
All his best memories were sexual. The passion of evenings, the givings of consent. The unfurling in the bedroom - each body, of whatever stripe, as glorious as he had hoped. The bike ride back to the apartment with them before – women, generally, but the odd other, and the unlocking of the front door to laughter. The warm interwoven bodies and the noises of call and encouragement. The idle later masturbatory fantasies, where moments were arranged more tactfully, and events enjoyed differently and anew.
Derek was through the door into the office at 07.30. His desk was quite clean – if there’d been a paper build up, he’d have cleared it up first – and he went to make himself a coffee.
‘Alright Derek.’
It was Dave. Dave was usually in at this time with his overalls and his ‘I’m Dave’ cup.
‘Hello mate. How’s things?’
‘Honestly mate. I cannat tell you how much me leg’s hurting.’
‘You been to the doctors?’
‘I’ve been to A & E man. Been sitting there all night. Had the football on though, so it was alright.’
‘Not bad like.’
‘Howay the Toon.’
‘2:1.’
‘I don’t know why they don’t play like that every week.’
‘Well, I guess they’re not as motivated against the smaller teams.’
‘Mate – we are the smaller teams!’ Dave had his cup done and was so good as to pour some for Derek. ‘So you going to Claire’s birthday on Thursday?’
‘Aw no, I’m going to London.’
‘I heard about this! You’re doing some comedy, is that right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You on at a good place?’
‘Ay man, one of the best. It’s at “Mugs”, one of the most famous comedy clubs in London, like. I’m going down on the coach.’
‘Is it Megabus? Good value aren’t they. I envy you mate – sugar? – I envy you mate because you’re doing it you know. Going down to London. Doing something. You always were funny – I remember that speech you made at Paul’s leaving do. Proper funny.’
‘Oh did you like that?’
‘Oh aye, you told us he was like a kiddie fiddler and that but you did in such a nice way.’
He could see his headset lying on the desk. Lines were open.
‘I’d better go and answer the phone,’ said Derek. ‘I am paid to.’
He cleaned the hotel room carefully, righted the tossed sheet, found the little notebook where it had fallen beneath the bed. Where were his – there were his shoes, below the cupboard, a little bit of housekeeping he’d done before the start of the previous big night.
He remembered a tech bro wanting to talk to him about his act, and the proposal to go see a local band, and Martinis. He remembered that a 22-year old had hit on him. He had been too tired from the shows, from all the shows, to say much. Twelve dates in fourteen days would do that to you: Bremen, Hamburg, Hannover. The journeys to the venues – and each audience full, tipsy and involved. It had probably been the most successful two weeks of his career.
Of his life! He had found his phone now, which had wriggled itself between two pillows, and slotting it back into his pocket realized he was pretty much done. Back into the bathroom – forget that toothpaste – and ready to go and out the door. Give the plastic card in at reception and head back home to Berlin.
‘Well I’m sorry to hear you’ve been having problems with your Wi-Fi.’
‘Yes and I work from home. It’s simply unbearable.’
‘I’m really sorry to hear that. First of all though, can you give me your account number?’
‘I have it somewhere here… This is all most inconvenient, you know.’
‘I realize that. So, the number then…’
The voice, frustrated, read the number.
‘Good, great, that’s fantastic. Now just to confirm – Are you the account holder?’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Margaret Thorpe? I knew a Sarah Thorpe, you know. Went to school with her.’
‘My cousin’s called Sarah.’
‘Is she really? What does she look like?’
‘A bit like me. Well you can’t see me so… Auburn hair.’
‘Ah, that won’t be the same. Sarah was a redhead. But isn’t that a coincidence.’
‘It is… I suppose.’
‘By the way, do you have your password?’
‘Yes I do.’
‘I’ll need the first letter.’
‘I.’
‘And the third.’
‘C.’
‘And just the tenth now.’
‘That’s a 9.’
‘Perfect. That’s worked. We’re in now… Ah, I see there’s been some disruption in your area. Is your internet intermittent and slow?’
‘Those are two of the exact words I would use, yes. Intermittent and slow.’
‘Well that’s no good is it. We cannat have that.’
‘We can’t, no.’
‘Margaret, the estimate here is that the problem will be resolved by the end of the week.’
‘The end of the week? That’s terrible!’
‘I know. It is. I really do sympathize. But what I’m going to do is waive your bill for the month. And I’m going to give you a credit of £20. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds the least you can do. But I guess I’ll cope. I still have some… data.’
‘I can only imagine how frustrating it is.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I’m also going to do is to send a note to the senior service team. They’re not open yet, but they’ll give you a call back, and you can raise the issue with them. Does that sound fair?’
‘Thank you.’
‘No, thank you. Now Margaret, is there anything else?’
‘No. You’ve been helpful.’
‘Thanks for your call.’
She was gone, then, with a beep. He leant back: Only a few hours left.
On the train he looked at the German flatland. It was cold out there, the Central European Plain still frost-tipped. He tried holding his breath for stretches of trees, blinking in time to the train’s rhythm, closing his eyes at the buildings between so he saw only pure grassland.
His calendar was on the screen in front of him. He’d go to Dirk’s tonight, stop by and maybe not do a set, just see some friends. The rest of the week was hugely busy, all leading up to the Musical Comedy Awards Friday.
He remembered another train and tears and bodies again.
There was a woman writing something on a small laptop directly across. He didn’t want to appear to be spying on what she was writing and so he – imagining as he did talking to her – closed his eyes for real sleep.
Derek was up early on the Thursday, his house a merry carnage of wife and child. He took advantage of the early morning to do a little savouring; four rashers of bacon and a mug of strong black coffee. The mug, in its solidity and warmth, was an essential part of the enterprise.
Karen came back from the school run, which she walked with Cleo, to him sitting on the stairs with a mug.
‘Oh right, wearing your Wedding Present T-shirt?’
‘For the way down. I’ve got a spare for the gig.’
‘I’m sure they’ve heard about them down there.’
‘Yeah, but only when I lived there. I’m not sure what the kids are into these days.’
‘Comedy wise?’
‘Generally. I mean, it’ll all be up here in ten years.’
‘Nah, it’s a myth we’re behind. We’re ahead of them.’
‘God, I hope not. They don’t deserve this. Anyway you’re going to give me a lift?’
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ she said. ‘Is there coffee?’
It was still love, what they had, and no more so on those days which threw up an undirected bit of liberation, a few hours with no work and no kid. Karen would be in at the pharmacy later, so would drop him off at the station. With typical kindness, she’d made him a flask and a pack of sandwiches, corned beef with thick mustard in place of butter. He eyed the aesthetics – red Dr. Martens, tight blue jeans and sharp long coat.
‘I look like I’m back in the 80s.’
‘The 80s are cool,’ she said, eyes on the rear-view mirror. ‘It was our era.’
He looked out over the sea and the coast.
‘How you been keeping?’
‘I’ve been alright.’
‘Sorry I’ve been out so much.’
‘No petal it’s good. I’d rather you doing that that having an affair or whatever. And it’s not like you come back reeking.’
‘No pet – I don’t even drink.’
‘It’d add up if you did.’
They’d arrived at the drab station and she brought the car to a halt.
‘Here we go.’
He sat for a moment in the car, taking a deep breath.
‘I’m proud of you love.’
‘I won’t drink all the tea or I’ll be pissing the whole way down.’
‘You’ll text me later when you get there?’
‘Sure I will.’
‘And after?’
‘And during.’
‘Well, that’ll eat up some of your time. Might be funny though.’
‘Well, if I’m going all that way, I better be that.’
She kissed him and he got out.
As she drove away he waved and, seeing her backing round again, he gave a daft little jump, up in the air and grabbing his broad stomach. He could see her laughing, though not enough to distract her from driving thankfully, and he refocused as she drove away. And now – to the Megabus!
Derek boarded the bus in Newcastle at 08.50, hoping to get down to London for 16.00. It would be a long journey, but he had prepared a playlist of some of his favourite high-quality music and poured out a cup of tea. Excited, and ready, he reclined into sleep.
He was home now, in the small clean apartment, quiet and cleaned in his absence.
He took a coffee and his mail, sat there reading the requests for VAT, GEZ and a legal scam, which he coolly binned.
It would take him half an hour to get to Dirk’s so would cycle over there to arrive at ten. If the mood took him, he’d try some of his new jokes – though it was often a cold room. These Sunday crowds preferred to drift off with a little music, some marijuana, even the soothing vacancies of bad poetry. Perhaps later he could play some pool afterwards with Dougie and Klaus, and that new girl, who he had spoken to the last time, what was her name? Spanish, perhaps she would be there. He shouldn’t stay out too late, but it frequently got messy at Dirk’s, private stuff, and after the travelling, the buses and trains and rented cars, he deserved to unwind. He remembered the show in Bayreuth and going offstage, exhausted to the bar and the way the barmaid had placed his hand on his. ‘Well done.’ It had meant a lot, that touch, and it seemed to linger now on his hand as he looked at it, raising a water-filled mug.
When Derek arrived at the club it was ninety minutes before the show. He was beyond eager and into the anxious. The performance area had been opened, and a man in a cowboy shirt was quietly sweeping around the space.
So here he was at ‘Mugs of Greenwich’, one of the most famous London comedy clubs. He had seen it on TV once, in a documentary about its now-deceased impresario, who one night had fallen off its roof. But it was a different thing to actually sit in it now, albeit empty and on a Thursday night. He sat looking at the stage where so many of his heroes had stood before: Lee Mack, Hal Cruttenden, Bob Mortimer. Here these geniuses had pranced and swaggered, practiced television sets and sailed away on great roaring torrents of laughter. If only an ember of their greatness would spark within him tonight!
‘Sorry mate, we’re not open yet,’ said the sweeper.
‘Ah right. Is there anywhere I can get changed?’
‘Toilets. Third left.’
The man proceeded with his broom to the room’s other side.
The toilet was cold, blue and modern but thankfully empty. Derek got to work quickly, stripping down to his boxers and changing into a better pair of jeans. And then into the Superdry T-shirt and a bus-crumpled suit jacket, and even a bit of polish for his shoes. He looked at the mirror, at his hair cut expressly for the occasion, and began a pep-talk.
‘Well Derek –’ Derek said ‘You’ve done well to get this far. You’ve worked hard and here you are, ready to play one of London’s most famous comedy clubs, on the strength of your own video. You’ll do your best stuff, and if you’re you, nobody else can be.’
‘Hello.’ A man had entered, well, a boy really. It was too late to dissemble, thought Derek: I’ll own it.
‘Just geeing myself up.’
‘Oh yeah. You on?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t think I was going to be but, sent me video, and they had me.’
‘Oh yeah, I should get a better video. Mine’s really old.’
‘Yes a good video is really important for acts apparently.’
Derek looked at the boy who was small and slight, with a neat black hair cut and skinny jeans. The boy seemed to want to access the sink.
‘I’ve come all the way from Newcastle.’
‘Have you?’
‘Yeah, eight hours on a coach.’
‘Oh right? Do you know Tom Smith? He runs a night up there.’
‘I don’t,’ said Derek. ‘Well, I know there’s a night, but I’ve never done it.’
‘You should talk to him maybe.’
‘I should.’
‘Right then!’
And the boy made a move to the basin so clear that Derek had to vacate.
Derek came back into the bar near the entrance. There were a few more acts there now, who were all without exception young and skinny. Ah, there was one older man, sat in quiet on one of the high tables near the bar; he was in early 40s, pale and stubbly, and holding a big pint.
‘Hello, I’m Derek.’
‘Pleased to meet you Derek,’ said the grey man in a quiet, smoky voice. ‘You’ve come far?’
‘I have actually. Excited.’
‘Oh – first time?’
‘Yeah, you?’
‘I’d say I do it every three months. I’ve never beaten it though.’
‘Beaten it?’ asked Derek.
‘Yeah, the –‘
Another man had entered the room, a black man with a large Afro. It really was splendid, cresting into an enormous surface of curls and beads. You just wouldn’t see that at home, thought Derek, and the presence of this man, this tall powerful man in his mid-30s, well dressed and vaguely familiar, made Derek feel closer to the centre of things: To London, comedy, and real life.
‘Right, who’s here? Kathy Southwick, is she here? Right, come round,’ said the man, as the acts gathered, ‘I’m Nathan Dynamite. Is everyone clear how tonight works?’
Derek wasn’t clear but felt afraid to ask.
‘You each get two minutes to do your set. After them your audience has three cards – like this.’ He held up a large piece of card. ‘Every time a card is raised a light goes on. Once all three cards are raised, it’s over. You’re off.’
Derek was confused. The email had said five minutes… Voice a little shaky, he asked.
‘Sorry but, in the mail I got it said we had five minutes…’
‘You do. If you make it, you’ve done five. You just need to survive – The Log Flume.’ And he flipped the plastic laminate to reveal a cartoon grinning log, which had wild crazy eyes, crashing into water.
The best was three in a day, each entirely consensual and aware of the existence of others, each happily enmeshed in a web of lovers, with no guilt and no scenes on all sides. Infidelity provided most of the engine of Western drama, and removing the need for said drama was the first step to a better world. He was convinced as ever that people used ‘betrayal’ as an excuse to vent their anger over the rest of their lives, and only feigned surprise at the idea that their body alone out of all the bodies had not completely satisfied their lover. For nothing was more understandable than the desire for sexual novelty.
There was still forty minutes to the show and Derek sat in the corner eating a plate of £10 Nachos. He was nervous, running through the set in his head, saying words aloud. A man sat at the table opposite him, took out a notebook and began looking through it. Turning the pages, the man occasionally gave a harrumph or a frown, as if struggling to make out his own writing.
‘You know, if I’d have been able to my own handwriting, I think I’d have been a very successful comedian. It’s why Phil Jupitus used to type everything up.’
‘At least you’re doing it,’ said Derek, preparing another mouthful of cheese and crunch.
‘You’re not from London?’ said the man, taking tobacco and rolling papers from his pocket.
‘Newcastle.’
‘Oh well, you came far!’
‘Nine hours on the Megabus like.’
‘Oh. That must have been very distressing. I’m John by the way.’
‘Alright John.’ They shook hands. ‘You been doing this long?’
‘Actually I’ve been doing it for years. Very unsuccessful though. I do all the nights: We’re Bloody Funny, Angelic Comedy, GBH. All of them. And getting bloody nowhere!’
‘But you love comedy.’
‘Love comedy? Love comedy? I hate comedy.’
‘Well you must like it a bit, right, to keep doing it night after night.’
‘I don’t know why I do it really,’ John said after reflection. ‘I just keep bloody doing it for whatever unknown reason.’
A young woman with an exceptional fringe had entered.
‘Excuse me – is this ‘The Log Flume?’’
‘It is my dear, but I don’t think it’s started yet.’
‘Oh. Right. Do I need to sign in anywhere?’
‘Did you book a slot? Then Mr. Dynamite is around here somewhere…’ John stood up with his finished roll-up, saying to Derek: ‘You coming for a smoke?’
‘Have you done this night before?’ the woman asked Derek.
‘Not me. I’ve come down from Newcastle especially to do this. I didn’t know it was a sudden death thing though… Now I’m actually quite worried.’
‘Oh yeah… It can be pretty brutal.’
She smiled though. Dynamite was coming from backstage laughing on the phone. He saw the young woman and gestured to her. ‘You here to perform?’
‘Yeah, Sophie Tickler.’
‘Oh right – didn’t I see you on the BBC?’
‘Yeah, New Act of the Year.’
‘Well done! You were good. I mean I didn’t see it but people told me you were. If you come over here, I’ll give you your drink token.’
Derek was out of the conversation now. It would have been nice to chat with a girl like that, but certain things were closed to him by the demands of love and loyalty. Which were no burdens, not most of the time anyway, because of the happiness and love they contained. But still. Between him and that young woman was a layer of Perspex glass. He watched Sophie and Dynamite talking lowly as they crossed the room before his eyes sunk down again to his cooling nachos and iced tap water.
He cycled through Berlin on a spring night. His bike was old and rickety and the chain creaked as he went, knowing the routes well. He stuck to the paths, head down, night air cold around his bare head. There were people out even though it was Sunday evening.
He was thinking about her, and if she would be there – or others. There were many people he had not seen in a while – Jake, Bug or the girl Ryan had been seeing with the flower in her hair.
It was going quickly, life. The small towns, the many countries. His 20s, done. Now sailing into unheard of dimensions and seasons of life. Days and levels of year that would have seemed outlandish to him when he was young and the fear of death first invaded him. He was getting older and would have a drink tonight.
Crossing the road ahead at the lights was a couple in their late 20s, she holding tight to her scraggy, agrarian-bearded man. His eyes caught theirs; she had, he knew, noticed her. He imagined so much with her. First the evening drink with her – with the dutiful boyfriend with them, lucky sod. Then afternoon rendezvous, sessions of orgasm and exploration while her flatmate waited outside and one day the borders between communal living being porous, simply walked in and asked if they could participate. He imagined sessions full of moaning. The city was an intricate maze of interlocking erotic possibilities and who was to say the chance stranger you might deeply encounter might not represent the sexual highlight of your entire adult life.
She had turned back as they crossed. The light was about to change, and he lowered the gears on his bike in order to leave with the greatest speed.
The bar was really filling up now and Derek’s chest was tightening. There must have been at least forty people there. His last gig, at The Crown, had been to twelve friends at his birthday, followed by cake and stout. That had gone really well – but this was an altogether bigger occasion. Who was to say, if it went well, that there wouldn’t be new possibilities opening up? The right word in the right place and well, maybe he’d been popping down to London a wee bit more often.
Dynamite called the acts around him at the front of the stage to read the running order.
‘Alright, running order for tonight:
Derek Winchester
Bill Smith
Dangerous John
Kathy Southwick
Expertise Tinubu
Second half:
Matt Cork
James Harris
Sophie Trucker
Fedge
Mr. Arse.’
‘It’s Sophie Tickler,’ said Sophie Tickler.
‘Right – of course. Shit handwriting duh. You can watch until you’re called – I suggest the back there – and good luck all of you!’
The acts dispersed to react to the news of the timings. Most were happy, although a few in the later slots, when the crowd apparently thinned out, seemed downbeat. But Derek couldn’t help it, he was gutted. He hadn’t ever gone on first yet, and all the experienced acts said that it was the hardest spot… But wasn’t that a positive? Wouldn’t it only add to his triumph even more if he managed to go first and still beat The Log Flume?
There wasn’t much time to contemplate the moment deeply, as the audience was being seated now, bearing their pints and chattering. Nervous, he went and got himself a pint, which was £6.50, £6.50, £6.50! He stood there reeling from the expenditure and felt temporarily unable to bring the moderately-tasty Italian lager to his lips.
From the main room loud music was playing; ‘90s stuff, stuff Derek had known and danced to, stuff like Basement Jaxx ‘Red Alert’ and ‘Groove Is In The Heart.’ That famous ululating trill… ‘Dadadada – ow!’ Then, suddenly, ‘She Bangs The Drums’ – Derek picturing a girl he’d know at uni who’d loved this, under the bedsheet the night after he’d stayed over, long before Karen – and Nathan Dynamite was bounding onto the stage to it now.
‘Well hello Greenwich! How are you?’
‘Hello!’ said Greenwich, or at least the extremely small part of it present. There was a woman next to Derek watching the stage with her mouth open.
‘Now I know what some of you are thinking – Yes, you’re right, that’s me, from CBBC. But I’m not here to be a children’s presenter tonight – tonight I’m appearing in a personal capacity.’
And as confidently as Russell Brand’s clone he placed his hands on his genitalia and honked. Then he walked around a little like he’d shat himself, which the crowd seemed to appreciate, while the bar staff brought in some pizzas.
‘Who’s having the pizza? Who’s having that? Shall I tell you what my worst moment was – when I was delivered a pizza in the middle of a wank! They’re like – ding dong – and I’m like zzzzip! So I ended up finishing with the pizza going cold below me. I can remember that topping.’
Christ, this guy was amazing. How could Derek possibly compete with this level of confidence and professionalism? But perhaps even this was good – they’d be warm and ready for him. Yes, that was how to look at it. But still – the quality… Even the cadence alone was simply world-class.
There was a call from the back of the room. ‘Get your fucking hair cut!’
Dynamite paused. He cocked his head a tad.
‘What did you say mate?’
‘Get your hair cut.’ The man who had shouted was alone, aside from several empty glasses, sitting at the side of the stage.
‘You what?’
‘Your hair.’
‘What’s your job mate?’
‘I’m a cab driver. I just came in to see Ronny…’
‘I don’t think Ronny’s here mate. I think Ronny died a long time ago.’
Laughter around the room.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the host. The year is 2019. January the –’
‘What about Theresa May?’
‘What?’
‘Well, what do you think about her then?’
‘I don’t know mate. Do you take a view?’
‘You’re asking me?’ He laughed and then said to himself, ‘I just came to see Ronny man – I owe him money…‘
‘Sir, this is a comedy night. With all due respect I can’t do comedy if someone else is talking. And believe me or not I’m pretty good at comedy.’
‘Millwall! Millwall!’
‘Listen mate, I’m on children’s television. That’s why the people are here – to see me. So shut up and sit down and watch. Or fuck off.’
And strangely, as if he had just been angling for words of bracing scorn, the man did. He just sat down, drank his little beer, and was an attentive and enthusiastic audience member for the remainder of the evening.
‘Now, has anyone spoken on the phone recently? Stressful innit?’
Dynamite went full throttle into his material, which definitely lived up to his name: loud, powerful and explosive. How could such people even exist? What chance did he have? This was a different world, it wasn’t Greggs and The Union Rooms and driving, it was trains and parties and black lads who everyone loved and not in a patronizing way – and Dynamite was gesturing to him.
‘Now are you all ready for that. Two minutes and then – that’s it! Put those logs up in the air. And when all the cards are up –’
‘Hit the road Jack!’ cried the audience. At which a snatch of the song of the same title played.
Derek was watching as if in a dream and Dynamite was gesturing to him, Come on, and Dangerous John was giving the thumbs up on the sideline and somehow Derek found himself walking, actually walking with his breath contracting and his arse dropping like an Acme anvil. He desperately needed a piss.
All his remaining ambitions were sexual; foursomes, to attend an orgy, epic scenes with sisters and being pegged by them. In Berlin there was an above average chance of these ambitions being fulfilled. But could he find the courage to ask for his heart’s desire?
‘Alright –’ Derek said as he looked out across the rows of people – ‘you know in French right, the word for great is ‘chouette’. Which means ‘owl’. So I guess the French must really like owls then. When a French person asks, like, ‘Did you like the film?’ And another Frenchie says, ‘Yeah, it’s owl.’
There was no laughter, only smiles, and his voice seemed to be coming back at him as if from a distant planet.
‘Right well do you lot like jokes or what?’
There were surprisingly engaged cheers.
‘Thank you London, I thought you would – that’s why I came fourteen hours on a Megabus to see you. Megabus, for people for whom National Express is too glamorous. Anyway an actual proper joke now. What do you call a Welshman eating soup?
Rhys with a spoon.’
There was a decent amount of laughter.
‘That’s all me actual jokes now then. I had an idea for a TV programme, like, where the former Shadow Chancellor Ed Balls has to go and advise historical monarchs. Called “Balls In Your Court”.’
There was less laughter at this, just a titter or two, and though there were still smiles on the faces. He was suddenly filled with the sense that this was all going very badly, and that he was running out of time.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know I only had two minutes tonight. Two minutes isn’t a lot and so I took acid before the gig…’
But as he set up the joke, and setting it up seemed so heavy, like carrying a heavy box of woodblocks up a fell. And looking out across these London faces they seemed so unfriendly, people with their passions in weird places, not just Newcastle people who were happy with drink and scran and a fumble. These were hard faces who saw or more accurately did comedy every night of the week and had the luxury of regarding it without joy.
And looking out across those faces – which even wore an air of pity now – he saw something else, at the back of the room where the lights would be lit. He could see something out there, a figure, hovering over it, superimposed like a double exposure. It was the image of a man – a man in a black velvet waistcoat, with smart shoes, a comedian, Derek knew, like him. No, not like him – him, somehow, but a him produced by so many slight deviations and variances that his destiny seemed impossibly removed from Derek’s – but in fact the same person. And he heard a foreign word, Seelenverwandt, which he didn’t know the meaning of. He felt certain the figure could not see him.
At that moment he just as soon found himself back on the stage in London saying, ‘I can’t believe I’ve already done half an hour.’
There was quiet of a purer and more embarrassed intensity now. He looked out to the crowd – there had to be just seconds – to where the heckler sat with a vaguely patronizing smile. ‘You were lively earlier!’
The heckler was silent.
‘Ah right,’ said Derek, his voice so reedy and squeaky now, falling through voids alone, ‘Do you guys want to hear my impression of a worm?’
An authoritative male voice said, ‘Go on then.’
‘It’s owl. You know – I work up the other day with discharge from my pupil. So I went to the opticians twice –’
But now he was in the Death Strip. The lights changed to indicate the two minutes was over, and as soon as they did, the three audience cards scythed in unison into the air.
‘Aw,’ said Derek. ‘Bollocks.’
By now ‘Hit the Road Jack’ was playing and Nathan was coming onto the stage with a big grin and a quick gesture, saying ‘Off you go mate’, and as Derek stepped down to rejoin the audience, he was already thinking about the endless Megabus back. He had to be back at work tomorrow.
He pulled up outside Dirk’s with the night relatively young, at least in Berlin terms. He locked his bike up on the rusted stand outside the venue, even recognizing another bike already there from two weeks before.
When he came in Peter signalled him from the bar. ‘If it isn’t the big hero!’
‘Ha, Peter. Good to see you. Can I get a glass of wine?’
‘I have a particularly bad one I’ve been saving for you.’
‘Oh, oh. You’re just too kind.’
‘Nothing but the worst for our English guests. Danke Brexit.’
Tom came out of the pool room looking like he’d taken drugs or was just tired. Probably the latter, for Tom struck him as a relatively moderate sort.
‘Alright mate,’ he said. ‘Welcome back. Tour good?’
‘One of the best experiences of my life.’
‘You were everywhere weren’t you.’
‘Oh yeah – Essen, Gießen, Siegen. All the verb towns.‘
‘Ha ha, the verb towns.‘
It was a longstanding joke between them that Germany had some towns named after verbs.
‘Listen – do you want to do a set tonight?’
‘You know what, I’m going to take the night off. Just watch and drink.’
‘I don’t blame you. You must be tired.’
‘Yes, and you get tired of your own voice.’
‘Oh I don’t. I love it.’
‘Your wine,’ said Peter, who had filled up a glass.
‘My wine.’
He picked it up; the glass was heavy and covered in tiny crystals.
Sitting calmly he savoured the wine. Everywhere he looked he could see friends; Tom, Doug and Elena, an unknown local couple, Klaus, a regular, Derek, a visiting comedian. Laura, Sarah, Cem, Thiago – that was literally all the people he could see, their faces bathed in the warm bar light. More wine. And there was the cold outside there, conditions still fresh and icy for miles around the city’s sanctuary.
And now he felt a touch at the bar from a woman who had made her way out of the pool room and seen him sitting there in his black waistcoat with his ornate crystal cup.
‘Finally!’ she said to him.
‘Oh,’ he said, as she took a seat, ‘If it isn’t you.’
