Heard the one about... me?

April 2003

Brilliant news. York is to stage its own comedy festival for the first time. Immediately I know I want to be involved, and have a bright idea. I should perform a stand-up routine at the festival, and then write about the experience.

Over a pint in the pub, I tentatively voice my proposal to my friend Roy. It would be "a laugh", I suggest, although not necessarily for the audience. With typical enthusiasm Roy first endorses the plan, then goes on over several more beers to plot my role to comic superstardom. By the time we weave home, I have become Billy Connolly, Peter Kay and Basil Brush all rolled into one. It is only when I wake the next morning that I realise I didn't say anything funny all night.

Before I can go back on my pub bravado I email the comedy festival organisers, Dan Atkinson, Tom Sharp and Andy Milson, and suggest the idea.

They respond with an immediate yes, a very generous gesture considering they are working tirelessly to make the festival a triumph. Their credibility as comedy gurus might easily be undermined by one of their performers being as amusing as SARS.

Over a cuppa at riverside bar Casa, Dan tells me that they are going to put me in the festival's National Talent Hunt contest and see how many people can tell I'm a fraud.

I smile weakly which, coincidentally, is the usual response to one of my jokes.

Then Dan hits me with shock news: he first wants me to perform in the "open mike" spot for aspiring comics at his comedy club, The Other Side. On Sunday, May 11.

So, instead of being a couple of months away, my debut is in three weeks.

Digestive system: good to soft.

May 10, 10pm

After a couple of beers, I retire to bed to write my routine. Before now I have jotted down a few notes, but not much else. My excuse is that my girlfriend has recently given birth to our second baby, a rather helpful, if drastic, way to take my mind off my impending performance.

May 11, 6am

When I wake, I immediately pick up my notepad and try to fashion last night's beery scribbles into something that might pass for funny. No joy. Which is exactly the problem. My four-year-old son hops into bed and tells me a joke.

"What do you call a girl with a lager on her head? Beatrix". Seriously consider nicking his material.

Twelve hours later I am walking into York for the gig at the Other Side comedy club in City Screen's basement bar.

Roy has travelled from his home in Cleethorpes to lend moral support. I tell him that friends and colleagues have all said the same thing to me: "You're very brave".

Roy tells me this is not bravery: being held captive by a terrorist and told that I will be shot if I cannot save the life of his critically injured friend is brave. Cannot get this strange scenario out of my head for the rest of the journey.

By the time I reach Monk Bar my chest has imploded to the size of a pistachio nut, I cannot breathe and my left arm has gone numb.

There are six real comedians on the bill tonight. Backstage they pace up and down like caged animals. How they put themselves through this night after night beats me.

They are incredibly kind. "Hey, you're losing your comedy virginity!" One guy, who looks a little like Meatloaf, tells me that doing a great set is better than sex. Consider telling him that I get more laughs during sex than I expect to elicit tonight, but my throat is too dry. The window of the dressing room overlooks the Ouse. Wonder what my chances are of making it to the far bank. The moment looms.

Digestive system: loose to watery. Thank God I chose dark trousers. I think back to the words of comfort Dan gave me. "The Other Side audience is very friendly. They never heckle."

So far so good.

"But there's nothing worse than no sound at all. That's almost worse than being heckled." Suddenly Dan is introducing me. On stage I realise I've never spoken into a microphone before. The lights are dazzling. As I stumble towards one of my first gags, I mention that my girlfriend has recently had our first daughter. The audience applaud. That's the moment I realise they are on my side.

I relax, get a few laughs, an especially big one for completely forgetting one of my jokes, and get off. Roy has bought me a beer. I down it in one. At the interval people shake my hand and offer congratulations. I feel relieved, exhausted, elated.

All for five minutes' work.

June 25

My date with destiny. Heat three of the National Talent Hunt at the York Comedy Festival, Harkers, St Helen's Square.

The real comedians are already there when I arrive. I can tell they are professionals because they have managed to eat some of the sandwiches that have been laid on.

Compere Geoff Whiting is a comedian with six years' experience. Very new acts are sometimes less nervous than more seasoned pros, he tells me, because they have done so few gigs they have never experienced a bad one. But they will. Oh yes, they will.

Several friends have come to support me. I am desperately grateful but can hardly say two words to them before I go on.

8.15pm. Geoff does a remarkable job of warming up a relatively sober audience in bright daylight. I am pleased to be going on in the middle, when a few more beers will have been sunk.

This time, I have to do 15 minutes. Having watched my debut, Dan reckons I'll have no trouble filling the time. "You spent four of your five minutes laughing at your own jokes.

"That helps."

Finally, I'm on stage. I keep forgetting where I am in my set and, due to nervous pacing, end up nearly tying myself to the microphone stand. But I do get some laughs.

Then it's over.

Amazingly, at the end of the night, I am named runner-up. It's a great feeling. Maybe I'll do it again some time.

Tonight is the last heat of the National Talent Hunt then it's the grand final on Saturday, both at Harkers. Go. These guys are funny, and brave. Not as brave as someone saving a terrorist's life at gunpoint perhaps, but brave nonetheless.

Digestive system: recovering.

Updated: 10:53 Friday, June 27, 2003