ANOTHER day, another gig — but I had a feeling that this one would be different.
I watched the audience file in and wondered how the show would go.
They looked happy enough as they drifted in, some alone, some in small groups of two or three.
I was told that there would be 100 as well as some guests. It was easy to distinguish between the two main parties.
The guests were all white people and formally dressed. The rest of the audience were mainly black people in casual clothing. There was no interaction between the two groups.
It was going to be difficult and I knew that. It was, after all, the middle of the afternoon and bright daylight flooded in through the windows.
There was no alcohol and the entire audience was female. I looked at the room and was struck by how bare it was.
I quickly went through memories of other tough gigs, the show in the tent for the army was difficult but they had beer.
The show in an Islamic centre seemed hard but there were men and women.
I had nothing to compare this to, and I knew that it would be hard. The gig was in a women’s prison and I had jumped through hoops to get in. I failed the security screening twice.
It turned out that I hadn’t used a black pen the first time, and the second failing was because the gas bill I presented was too old to show proof of address. I had finally made it, and had even signed a contract agreeing that if I caused offence the gig would end immediately. I also promised not to swear, mention anything contentious or be too raunchy.
Those of you who have met me will know that raunchy is not a word associated with me. Eventually, they agreed to let me in.
The show is the culmination of a project aimed at raising awareness of mental health issues. I also have to somehow talk about race and discrimination in a funny way.
How does that work? Normally there is music before a show to help create an atmosphere.
Unfortunately, my CD player failed security and so we had only the sound of the pigeons and the occasional burst of shouting from the yard to break the silence. There was no introduction.
I walked out onto the lino and stood in silence for 30 seconds in front of the cloth that hung from a broomstick, held up on one side by a piece of string attached to the wall. The other side was pinned to the ceiling by blu tack, safety pins and hope.
The girls went silent as I waited for their attention. First impressions count more than anything. If they like the look of you, any audience will give you a chance.
However, if they do not, you need to have a big opening gag. I looked at them and ran through my ideas again as they quietly waited. I couldn’t ask what they had done last night as it would have started the show with a negative.
“We were locked up for 14 hours,” is not a happy kick-off. I didn’t think saying, “A funny thing happened to me on the way here” would help as it probably wasn’t a funny thing that put them away. I thought I would go for an honest approach; maybe mention what the show was about and why I was doing it.
“I am not sure how to start,” says I with a smile. I hoped that this sincerity would endear me to them. A scream echoed around the yard: “Tray-cee, Traycee do you want some cheese ‘n’ onions?” everyone heard. “But I wouldn’t mind some crisps if Tracy doesn’t want them!” I chipped in.
This seemed to break the ice and we were off. The show was fun and the girls were all really up for it. Three fantastic poets read some of their work to break up the comedy and it was a great afternoon.
They all filed off to their cells and I headed off to security to try and get out of the place.
They say that when you leave a prison you must never look back, but I couldn’t help but wonder if, behind the high walls and barbed wire, the girls had had as much fun as I had.