Frank and Forthright
"Good evening. Glad to be here. Happy to get a little time here at this wonderful, wonderful place. Isn't it exciting?"
The last scheduled comedian walked out into the spot-light. So far, they'd all been crap. By this time I'd consumed enough Jack Daniels to find almost anything funny. My wife says I drink too much and I spend far too much time in this place, but hey, it's me, it's what I do?
"No I'm not drunk, honest." The comedian continued, staggering a little. "I had a couple - So fucking what? It's just the thought of standing up in front of all you people. It makes me nervous, okay. There you go, I said it. You people scare me. So I had a drink, calm my nerves - So fucking what? - Who wouldn't. It's not like it's a sin or anything." He screwed up his face in thought. "No, it can't be a sin. Your liver packs in. You drop dead. You've been a good husband and father. You arrive in heaven and St Peter says, 'Is that alcohol I can smell on you breath? Sorry mate, you look like you've had enough, you're not coming in. 'Nah, that doesn't sound right." He made to lean his wrist on the mic-stand, missed, and nearly lost his balance.
An effective but rather contrived piece of choreography, I thought. But it seemed to work.
"Oops." He recovered his stumble. "Imagine that. You go out to a bar. Get drunk. Get into a fight, and through no fault of your own, you get stabbed. You're laying in the street, and you think you're dying. And the paramedics are trying to save you. They're saying. 'Get him twenty of morphine, and get a line in,' or whatever is they say. And you're thinking, fuck that! - Black coffee! Keep it coming, and does anybody around here have some mints? I need to get into heaven!"
There was no real reaction from his audience, but nobody actually threw anything at him. Which is always a good sign.
A woman by the bar turned around to pay closer attention.
"You know," he continued. "I had it all planned out, my routine, everything. You see, I was gonna kick off with the joke about the prostitute that took credit cards, but the producer said I couldn't. It was far too long." He grabbed his crotch, "and how was I going to fit it in to such a small slot. - Swipe!" He made the gesture.
Silence.
"You're not laughing now but the next time somebody say's 'I gotta go to the hole-in-wall,' you'll laugh, right?"
The lack of any real reaction dictated he move swiftly on. "How did the producer know the punchline? How?" He feigned anger, stamping his foot. "People been reading my notebook and stealing my shit, that's how." He eyed the patrons closest accusingly.
At that moment the words, Jesus, and crucifixion sprang into my mind.
"So that messed up my routine...... totally." He sighed heavily into the microphone before dropping it to his side and wandering around the small stage for a second or two. Eventually, he brought the microphone back up to his lips, paused and cracked a quick smile.
"So now, I just have to ramble... I like that word, ramble. Ramble and rummage, good words, English words. They bring standards, decorum and quality to cheap smut." Someone seated at the back tittered. The entertainer wasn't quite dead yet.
I desperately needed a sip of my drink but I'd left it on the bar. It was too far away. The comedian's voice started up again. I needed to concentrate.
"To wish me luck, my daughter called me earlier. We had a really good chat on the phone. It was nice, you know. We don't get to chat like we used to, not now that she's all grown up and everything. So yeah, it was nice, it was, cool, as the young like to say. Anyway, we're talking about the old days and she said I was always evil and, and came a cross kind of, curt. Of course, I knew what she meant, but it got me thinking." He continued to talk into his radio microphone as he walked sprightly from the stage to the bar, and took my drink. "Am I really evil? Or am I just frank and forthright?"
Suddenly I remembered the name of the act, Frank and Forthright. It came to me as he said it.
"Forthright!" His face beamed as he held a finger up. "Good word, a proper English word. I dunno who the fuck Frank is. Anyway, Forthright is another truly British word." He walked over and slapped the piano, hard, with his free hand. "Let's nail the fucking thing down so the fuckers don't steal it. Bastards! Steal our words! Let's face it, they steal everything else of ours don't they? Somebody told me Kingston is the capital of Jamaica. Bollocks is it! Kingston is just off the South Circular near London. Mind you I haven't been there in a while. Some bastards probably nicked it. I might go down there and there'll just be one big field where Kingston was. It'll be there being all green with sheep and cows and BSE and foot and mouth and... They're not stupid are they, they only steal the good stuff." Smatterings of laughter made a forlorn attempt fill the air.
"Oh Forget that, they're not stupid though are they, the Americans. I can't believe I just said that." He slapped his forehead the moment he'd made the ad-lib. "Take York, they did. It's a really shitty city, who'd wanna live there, it's well, old. So them Americans stole the name, built their new one and left us with that old shitty city. Why didn't they just take the whole thing? They did with London Bridge." He walked forward to the edge of the stage and whispered. "I heard the shit was falling down anyway. - I don't care if a bunch of kids told me. I deemed the source reliable. It bugs me, Americans bug me, they can't think of their own names, and when they try, they're just so rubbish! Alabama, what kind of a word is that? It sounds like a drunk with a big tongue trying to say the president's name. Or the republican party trying to implicate him as a terrorist." At last, a bit of laughter at least loud enough to drown out the fruit machine in the corner.
"You know, I was writing, looking on the internet for a location. Yeah, I write. Did you think standing here talking to you pays the bills?" He shook his head in apparent disgust. "Normal, Illinois" he restarted. "What the hell is that all about? Normal! How can you name a place, Normal. I bet the place is full of freaks and misfits. Even Illinois, it could only be in America. Set in the rural settings of Kent the quaint town of – Illinois. I don't fucking think so. It doesn't sound right does it?"
The place seemed to liven up, the ambient noise level increased. I took a moment to cast my eye over the woman at the bar. I knew her eyes were green. Even in the dim light I knew she was beautiful. Soft hair, and long elegant legs that seemed to last forever. She was one fine woman. I caught myself licking my lips at the thought of a moment, an event in my fantasy future that only my mind could experience in the present.
"Where was I ?" the voice prevented me taking my fantasy any further. "Phone, daughter, evil! Right, we're there. Erm forthright, good word, use it before they steal it. Evil, yeah. Okay. Here's the thing. My mum told me to say a prayer for my Auntie Vera, apparently she's been unwell. I've only met the woman once in my entire life. I was eight, she was fat and I swear, she had a big wart on her face. I'd watched that film - Alien. I had this jar with frog spawn in it, the little tadpoles were coming out. All the stuff kinda got mixed up in a nightmare involving my auntie's wart. Look I was eight, her wart looked like a frog's spawn thing. I peed my bed okay! It wasn't funny! She scared me then, and she scares me now!" A genuine smile appeared, he'd had to substantially raise his voice to be heard over the laughter.
His audience, he had them, the question was, could he keep them?
"My point is," he continued after taking a sip of my drink. "I couldn't say a prayer for her. I couldn't say a prayer for Auntie Vera. So I told her, I said mum it's the Euromillions, 100 million super lottery roll-over this week, all my prayers are used up already!"
The patrons roared, he had to wait for them to settle down. "Do you know what my mum said? She said I was evil. Can you imagine that? I didn't want to lie. Every prayer I had went to the lottery.
The whole subject was best left alone. If I'd spared Auntie a prayer, and she recovered, and I didn't win the lottery – I'd resent it, I know I would."
They laughed, he waited.
"If I gave Auntie Vera the prayer and she died, - well that prayer wasn't working anyway, It was a dud!"
They roared, he had to wait even longer this time.
"If I didn't give her the prayer, she died, and I won the lottery.- I'd just be so glad I didn't waste the prayer on that wart-woman."
The place erupted. The woman behind the bar turned his microphone volume up. There was a buzz about the venue that wouldn't ever die.
"I'd give her a no expenses spared funeral, you see, everybody wins," he added.
I'm not sure how many customers heard the last line, but it seemed not to matter.
"I remember now it wasn't just her, it was her damn dog." The intensity of his voice increased, he became more animated. "Aunt Vera had one of those yappy little Yorkshire Terrier fucking things. I hated it! Admit it, you lot hate them too. Auntie Vera went everywhere with that nasty horrible overgrown hairy rat thing. It never left her side, the dog and the wart, two things she was never without. For the sake of all eight-year-olds in the neighbourhood. Why couldn't the dog just eat the wart?"
He smiled during his pause, he licked his lips to add some moisture to his drying mouth. You knew this story was at least based on truth.
"Apart from when she used to go to work. She couldn't take it to work, the dog, that is, not the wart. When she was at work, it would lay curled up on her pillow until she came home. I think that's why I tried to poison the little bastard thing with Warfarin. She used come up to me and say, 'Michael kiss your Aunt Vera a goodbye.' Like I was saying, Frank and forthright! What the fuck do eight year-olds know about tact and diplomacy? Huh? I said to her. That dog goes outside, shits on the lawn, does it wipe its ass? No! - The little fucker comes and sits on your pillow, you get in your bed, stick your face in the dog-shit pillow and expect me to kiss you? No fucking way!"
The volume of appreciation required he pause again.
He took the opportunity to quench his thirst. "I don't know if it was because I said the 'F' word or I'd set a family precedent." 'Go Mikey go!' Cousins all over the world were saying, I ain't kissing her either. 'Michael Vs Vera 1989 ...', a Scott family precedent. I got proper grounded for ages. Come to think of it, the next time I actually remember leaving my house was to buy a razor." He delivered the line as if reminiscing.
"Hate those dogs, hate those nasty little yappy furry bastards! It wouldn't be so bad if it was a real dog, you know, a whole actual dog. There's actually money in animals and pets, that's stuff is big in Hollywood. Ever since Lassie, people can't get enough of the shit. You know I think I'm gonna produce one, a movie script. Kind of like a remake of Alien Vs Predator but starring Jack Russells and Yorkshire Terriers. Forget about a plot, go for serious carnage, Stephen King can direct. What is it writers are always talking about, Plot versus Character? - Plot versus Carnage, trust me, it'll be the talk of Hollywood."
Those who disapproved, still laughed.
"Oh I get it, you think I'm cruel to animals. You think we should treat them like us. I know a lot of you do? Yeah, you lot with ya smelly houses." He pointed randomly into the crowd while demonstrating his mobility once more. "You buy jackets and shampoo and stuff for your little furry friends, don't you? No, I'm cool with that, honestly." He held a hand up in apology, gesturing to all corners of the audience. "Sorry, I was doing the whole Frank and Forthright thing wasn't I." He stopped, examining the patrons, waiting just long enough for the audience to settle.
"It's fucking ridiculous!" he screamed. "You lot with your stinky bloody pets and your smelly houses. I hate dogs, I hate cats. You people make me hate!" He cast the audience an evil look that held until it broke into a smile, and finally a laugh. He took another moment to calm down. " Sorry." He cleared his throat.
"My wife, bless her," he began, deliberately avoiding the barrage of hurled daggers emanating from the green eyes owned by an attractive woman standing at the bar. "My wife, she started baking and stuff. What does it mean when women start doing stuff like that? Bake, baking, why? I'm scared. I think maybe one day I'll come home and she'll be putting down straw bedding in the garden shed. - Two days later you've got roast placenta for your Sunday lunch. Try it, she'll say, it's supposed be very nutritious. - Yes dear. Let me just wash my hands first." He pumped his arms and puffed his cheeks like a man running away. "All those stories you hear about guys going out for cigarettes, and never coming back. Nobody ever asks what was in the oven."
I caught him eyeing the woman at the bar again. He wanted her.
"Right, sorry, pets, brooding, baking, hate them pets, yes. She sent me out for pudding rice. Don't ask, I didn't. Anyway. 'Pop to the supermarket get some pudding rice,' she said. How hard can that be? Mission bloody impossible! That's how hard! I'll tell ya. Basmati, long-grain or easy cook – that was it! This was Tescos – the ultimate supermarket – If you can't get it in Tescos it doesn't exist! Three types of rice! That's it! Dog food? Twenty-three fucking varieties!" He started counting on his fingers but gave up. "Cat food, wait for it, thirty-fucking-one!" He increased the intensity of his rant. "You can get it in the can, in the packet, in the stay fresh resealable pouch! With onion, in jelly, with added vitamins. Puppy chunks! Kitty snacks, with wheat-germ, with marrow-bone. Big sign above this dedicated pet food aisle. All the varieties, all the flavours, all the time! If I'd have looked hard enough I'm sure it would have found one – 'SuperFido, now with fucking Pudding Rice'. It's fucking ridiculous!" He stamped his foot, drew breath and set off again. "They got vitamin supplements, toothbrushes, toothpaste. Nail clippers, vanity sets, shampoo, waistcoats, fucking waistcoats. It's ridiculous! It's madness." He paused let out a smile and wandered the stage once more. "'All the things your dog needs,' that's what the assistant told me. My dog doesn't need anything, it never asked for any of this shit. It doesn't speak. It doesn't have any money to pay for this shit! It's a dog for Christ's sake! They live outside in a kennel, tied to a tree, they eat scraps, burglars, neighbours, stuff like that." This guy was on a roll. He drained my glass while shaking his head.
"It's fucking ridiculous. The pet food industry was simple, it was green. The original green industry. Everything was recycled. Why do you think there's no such thing as a doggy graveyard with little doggy graves? - Listen, the can said 'Lassie – with meaty chunks.' You know like Ronseal, it's exactly what it says on the tin!"
There was a huge roar of laughter. One gentleman was a little slow on the uptake and ended up laughing on his own. "No problem sir, we can wait." The comedian winked at him.
The man's company for the evening elbowed him sharply. "Ready now?" asked the comedian. "It's a dog eat dog world." He rubbed his forehead and looked thoughtful. "Where do you think that expression comes from?" He chuckled. "Y'all think I'm cruel, don't you? You want ring the RSPCA, but you don't want to waste your calling credit or use up your free minutes. Perhaps you can text them?" He stopped again, taking a moment to attend to the sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes. "Don't get me started on texts. Okay, maybe later."
No, it's not true, I don't hate animals. I just hate double standards. If y'all want to treat animals better than humans, it's okay, it's fine, it's cool. People in Africa starving, can't even get no pudding rice! It's cool. It's up to you, no problem." He let go a cheeky grin, it warned of things to come.
"When you get them big dogs, sometimes, the males can be a bit boisterous and aggressive. I understand that. You know, they can't be trained, they piss in your house, they try to hump your kids, even the cat.
Next door's cat was a slut! You know, you come home from work and your dog and that ho of a cat are on your sofa, smoking your cigarettes and the dog is looking at the cat with that – How was it for you? - look. No, no, no!" He gesticulated negatively with his free hand. "Okay, maybe it's a little, tiny bit of jealousy. It's been a while since I got some on my own sofa."
You'd have needed to be quick to see his eyes flick to the woman at the bar. "And then the cat walks off with its tail stuck in the air. Fellas, tell me, don't lie." He mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve. "If that damn cat was a woman, would you follow it? I said don't lie! - Apart from you." He pointed to the man who'd been elbowed earlier. "You may as well lie. You're in the shit anyway. - Where was I? Auntie, wart, alien, tadpole, dog, pudding rice, cat, tail, stuck in the air, yup. So yeah, the dog's going nuts, eating through your back-door to get to roger the cat. Funny name for a girl-cat, Roger."
He paused again and made extended eye contact with the green-eyed woman.
"Sometimes you've no alternative, your dog's gone crazy, he's become a danger to others, but more importantly he's become a danger to you and your." He smiled. "F-Furniture." He paused again and chuckled. "I bet you thought I was gonna say family then, didn't ya? - Fuck them! Damn dog could eat my kids, save me a fucking fortune!" He held up a pretend can and pretended to read the label. "Michael's kids, with tender meaty chunks." He turned the can around. "Now available in the stay-fresh pouch." He paused and squinted. "With pudding rice."
"See, now you've made me lose my thread. Erm, cat, roger, kids, yeah. So your dog has become a terrorist in training, a menace to society. You've got no alternative, something has to be done." He shook his head whilst walking slowly across the stage. As he waited for the crowd to settle, he held the microphone in both hands and let his arms fall. The room was almost silent.
"SNIP!" he shouted, letting the microphone fall to the floor. BANG! - The speakers nearly popped. The crowed went wild!
The comedian stood on stage, arms folded, shaking his head slowly. Eventually, he gestured for calm. A full minute later, he looked down at the microphone, and then out to the crowd. "MY DAMN DOG'S BOLLOCKS ARE ON THE FLOOR – AND YOU'RE LAUGHING?!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, before retrieving the microphone. The patrons roared again. "Snip!" he repeated, contorting his body and screwing up his face in pain.
How he got his eyes to water? - I'll never know.
"Phew!" he exclaimed. "I think I'm gonna need a stiff drink after that!" He rushed down from the stage, grabbed a glass from the green-eyed woman, and ran back. "Has to be done, and it works." He said, his posture still slightly contorted from his previous sketch.
"One day Rover's an uncontrollable menace to society, next thing, he's bringing your slippers, looking at you with those big sad eyes. Sad? Sad, is a fucking understatement! If it was me there'd be tears, every day, all day, and every night, trust me. New product in the supermarket 'doggy vallium'." He looked around "Snip!" He set them off laughing again. "All because my dog's a little bit boisterous and aggressive sometimes. Don't get upset about it, it's just a dog."
"Frank and Forthright, yeah, hate the double standards – hate them double standards." His tone had dropped, he wiped the sweat from his face with his hand. You all think I'm mean to animals coz I hate the Yorkshire Terrier, and I think pudding rice is more important than my dog's manhood, doghood, whatever. Don't hate me. Hate the double standard." He ambled forward and sat on the stage." So much crime in this country, the world. Senseless crime, football hooligans, violence." He seemed really sad. "I hate violence. What is wrong with these people?" The smile appeared again. "Do they have hormone problems? Or are they just boisterous? Can't something be done to calm them down?" The comedian paused and scratched his head. "Hate the double standard. What can be done?" He dropped his mic on the stage. - BANG!!
The audience clapped enthusiastically, they whistled and shouted.
The show was over. I went to the bar and got myself another drink. As I raised the glass to my lips, the green-eyed woman removed it from my hand and placed it down.
"What did you think?" I asked her, gesturing toward the now empty stage.
"Pretty damn good. But I think he swears too much." She smiled and stroked my face. "I worry though, sometimes, up there." She pointed at the microphone stand. "I don't recognise that person. I think even you lose track of who you are."