Two years earlier, Hardman Street.
Every night
‘The Final Night’.
Front row seat.
Hot Water Comedy Club.
Free entry poster.
£10 entry.
Jamie Hutchinson.
Jonny Bongo.
Tony Summit.
Jonny arrives carrying
Reef.
Goldschläger.
Buckfast.
Tequila Rose.
The show is sponsored
by APK beer.
They drink that too.
A recipe for vomit.
A yellow rubble bucket appears.
I am asked to hold it.
Now I understand.
The entire show exists
to get Tony drunk
so he vomits
into a bucket.
A podcast livestreams the carnage.
Lads laughing
into their biceps.
Me hyperventilating
into a bag of crisps.
This is my competition in comedy.
So I open mic Monday.
Turn up.
Put my name in a web.
Wait.
Know your audience.
Sixteen year old lads.
Won’t stack shelves
but love to box.
New jokes for muscular dyslexics.
Crabs or carbs.
Maybe my humour works better
on screens
where only he reads.
She’s not even that fit.
Not fit for teens.
majorloveme 