Rape Jokes, Female Comedians and Re-evaluating.

Since I've noticed that this long, circular conversation about rape jokes in stand-up comedy is still completing its long, circular journey, I thought I'd add in a few thoughts. I am not an expert, or an authority on the matter, but I do feel like I have some insight. So this blog post will cover why I feel like I can talk about the subject at all, as well as my conclusions on it. Also, I'll mention what it prompted me to do, which may be of interest if you have any thoughts with regards to female comedians.

I organise a comedy night in Wood Green, at the Big Green Bookshop. It's an unusual, intimate gig set in a slightly odd venue, and it does seem to be one that the comedians and audiences enjoy. It's not a large one - regular crowds are between 20-50 - but we get a nice, smart, left-wing audience.

I also perform the MC duties throughout the night, which involves me acting as the warm-up for each half of the show, as well as my main duties of introducing and linking between the acts, so I usually end up doing around 15 minutes of material throughout the night.

So, effectively, I'm coming from the point of view of a performer and a promoter, as well as a fan of comedy.

Rape jokes weren't something that I thought about until I saw a rather good comedian at the bookshop, who put on what i thought was a storming routine that went down well. Except the following day, one of my friends was particularly upset. And she wasn't the only one. Two people (at least) in that small audience had been raped or sexually assaulted. I don't know the details. I didn't ask.

Basically, he'd made one or two off-hand jokes about rape during his routine, and for them, it ruined it. They'd been sat there, in the dark, surrounded by people who were laughing at something that brought up violent, difficult memories.

Now, one thing that I see some fairly new comedians doing - and when I was first doing comedy back when I was 20, before I stopped doing it for a decade, something I did myself - is working against what likeability you actually have. Now, your mileage may vary with regards to my personal likeability, but I'm mainly talking about other comedians. Being likeable isn't something everyone has, and I'm always confused when someone works against that with unpleasant material.

Maybe it's a desire to be seen as an angry young comedian. Maybe it's too much influence from comedians that play off the anger side of things. Maybe it's from a slightly paradoxical desire to be taken seriously.

But now, I am an old, decrepit man of 32, and I have no desire to make life more difficult for myself. If I can get an audience to like me, it's going to be easier to make them laugh. As far as I'm concerned, it's in my interest to take advantage of any innate likeability I have.

But doing material that could cause genuine upset, in a manner that I would have difficulty understanding? I find that hard to justify.

Now, that's not to say it's completely unjustifiable. All subjects can be talked about, and all subjects can be joked about. But I think that if you're going to tell a joke about something potentially very hurtful, be it race, religion, sexism, homophobia, or sexual assault, you should be aware of the potential consequences.

Essentially, I think my conclusion on the whole situation is that you can tell rape jokes, but they'd better be bloody good jokes, otherwise you're potentially upsetting audience members, and also turning them off you, for a joke that more than likely isn't worth that.

Obvious responses have been 'they're only jokes' and 'the majority of people like them'. True. But the majority of people haven't been raped. Sometimes, it's the minority you've got to look out for.

Jokes may not be intentionally malicious. I'm reminded of this clip from TVAM in 1984. Faith Brown may not have been intending to be malicious, but it's incredibly uncomfortable viewing. I suspect that some of the people who are arguing that rape jokes are fine are going to be looking back in twenty years in a similar way.

I'm not saying it's totally off-limits, and I'm not saying there haven't been good jokes told that involve rape. Sarah Silverman has at least one amazing joke about it in her catalogue, and on the London Circuit, I've seen Harriet Kelmsley and Nick Sun both do great routines involving it as a subject. But there was usually a different point being made (Silverman's is about Jewish stereotypes, Kelmsley's is about attitudes towards rape, and Sun's is deeply involved with his dark, screwed up comedic character).

Perhaps the point is just that it's a subject that needs to be carefully considered, and not just used casually or lazily.

Partially in response to it as a topic, I thought it would be nice to have an all-female comedians night at the bookshop. I thought it'd be nice to do something a little different, and run a night with a different ethos. It didn't start off as intentional - the first three comedians I booked were women, and I thought I may as well run with it. We did an all-female night last year, the month after we'd unintentionally had an entirely male lineup.

This time, I didn't want it to be a gimmick. When we promoted it online, we didn't mention that it was an entirely female night. When I MC'd, I didn't point out that all the acts were female. I just ran it as a regular night. And it was absolutely a regular night - in fact, it was a fantastic night. One of my favourites we've done.

At the end of the night, I was talking to audience members, and a few people said they hadn't even thought about it. Which I think is great. I don't know how noticeable an all-male comedy night would be. I suspect a lot of the time, it would go unremarked upon, but all-female line-ups tend to be flagged up as such.

This ties back in. I think a lot of the ways in which society is still more male-orientated are in ways that a lot of people don't see. Or at the very least, they are so in ways that I tend not to see. I feel like I'd notice an all-female lineup more than an all-male lineup (although the comedians that were booked that night were SO good that I think it'd have taken me a while to notice if I were an audience member) And in the same way, it can be easy to talk about rape, and not think about the victims, which while not exclusively female, are more likely to be female. The recent talk about rape jokes, and the reactions I've seen from some people, has caused me to think about how important it is to think about things from other points of views than your own, and use it to re-evaluate.

When it comes to equality, and when it comes to thinking about the possibility of offence being caused, I think it's important to sometimes do that. To think about what the consequences are, and weigh it up with what you're setting out to do. If it's worth it, absolutely do it. If it isn't, maybe just think about it again.

50 Shades of Grey - Routine

This is a routine I performed recently at Working Title Comedy at the Big Green Bookshop in Wood Green, North London. It went down rather well, so I thought I'd put it up here for anyone that would be interested.

Bookshops are now becoming known as "Purveyors of FILTH". All because of 50 Shades of Grey. Which everyone's reading. And I mean everyone. There's something slightly odd about a woman in a full burqa reading pornography on the tube.

Even my Mum's reading it. This is my Mum, who writes period Irish romantic fiction, and whose had a few novels published. After her first one, I read it, doing the sonly duty, told her how much I enjoyed it, and then I engaged wind-up mode, and I referenced the (mild) sex scenes she'd written, and I said "Well, obviously, the characters and plot are really good, but I have to ask, what's all this about heaving bosoms and straining erections?

And she says to me “Christopher…watch your language!”

Well, she’s tried to read it, but she ended up giving up. Not because of the sex, but because it’s really badly written. And I mean really badly written. Here’s an example.

"Oh my... He wants me. Christian Grey, Greek God, wants me, and I want him, here....now. In the elevator."

Now, I’m not saying that everyone should be reading Anais Nin, but this is just not good writing. It’s a bit like… wait, there’s more.

"Why won't he kiss me again? I pout at the thought. I don't understand. Honestly, his surname should be Cryptic, not Grey."

That’s not even real human dialogue. That’s fucking Dougal from Father Ted.

“Why won’t he kiss me again, Ted? I don’t understand. Honestly, his surname should be Cryptic, not Grey!”

Look, I’m not one of these people that thinks you should only read erotic poetry. This isn’t for erotic self-exploration in the bath with candles going on, this is for doing the kit-kat shuffle quickly before you go to bed, I get it. But it’s just….it’s….

There’s a girl at work who described it as “It’s really powerfully erotic. She’s created the perfect man.”

What are his perfect qualities? Well….he’s a billionaire and…no, that’s basically it. All his other qualities are loathsome.

Wait, we have more writing from this fucking book.

"This is the only sort of relationship I'm interested in."

"Why?"

He shrugs.

"It's the way I am."

"How did you become this way?"

"Why is anyone the way they are? That's kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese? Mrs. Jones - my housekeeper - has left this for supper." He takes some large, white plates from a cupboard and places one in front of me.

In the name of holy Garth Marenghi, what the actual fuck?

There’s this weird thing going throughout where he keeps buying her food. It’s really weird. But she’s fine with it, because it’s always exactly what she wants.

And it’s appealing to people because you’ve got this idea of someone who always knows exactly what you want, even if you don’t know it’s what you want. He goes “I have ordered you food”, and she goes “Oh God, this is my favourite food!” Every. Fucking. Time.

That doesn’t work in real life. Here’s how it goes in real life with my girlfiend.

“Hello, sit. I have ordered you food.”

“Oh. What did you order?”

“Omelette and tea. And some cheese.”

“I hate omelettes.”

“Oh.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I thought it would be sexy.”

“What?”

I thought it would be sexy to… order you omelette.”

"You thought it would be sexy to order me omelette?"

"And cheese. Baby."

I’ve not even got to the sex, by the way. The sex is crap as well, not least because…okay, I can get the cold aloof thing that’s going on. He only refers to her by her full first name or Miss Steele. That’s fine. But the SECOND they start fucking? “Oh baby, yeah baby, I’m going to fuck you now, baby.” Turning into Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing all of a second, while he JACKHAMMERS HIS WAY THROUGH THAT HYMEN.

There are presumably some women in the audience, and I don’t know if any of you have ever been a virgin, but if you were, would you recommend that you treat the girl slowly and tenderly, since it may really fucking hurt, or do you recommend punching your way through that shit like it’s a plank of wood at a karate exhibition?

Oh, and when she wakes up the next morning, she’s all “There was a mild throbbing, but it was pleasurable remembering”, and not doing what she should be doing which is going “FUCKING OUCH! SOMEONE GET ME SOME GERMALINE. I’VE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.”

Someone on facebook suggested that maybe I’m just not comfortable with sex that’s not totally vanilla. That maybe I’m scared of experimenting.  Because the book has some fisting and anal. Oh *please*.

I’m a 32 year old man with access to the internet. My sexual tastes have grown so cynical, jaded and downright bizarre that I can’t even masturbate to regular porn anymore. It has to involve a Nun, at least three Brazilian transsexuals, a gas mask and a Shetland pony.

There’s also the fact that this whole idea just doesn’t work in Britain. First of all, if you want to fantasise about a famous businessman, you’re basically on at best, Richard Branson, and at worst, Alan Sugar… “he ground on top of me like a sexy shaved gnome”.

One final thing you may have heard is that the main character in 50 Shades of Grey keeps saying the same stuff. “Oh my. Oh wow.” Stuff like that, but the weirdest one is “Holy hell. Holy crap. Holy God.” She says “Holy something” 157 times in this fucking book.

Now, here’s where I destroy it for you. Every time you read her say “Holy” something, just think of Burt Ward playing Robin in the 1960s Batman with Adam West. Because there are parallels. Anastasia is younger, Christian is a billionaire…he’s training her. They put on costumes and fight crime…oh, like anyone’s read the third book. But maybe that’s what she should have written. 50 Shades of Batman.

And depressingly, if she had written that, this blog post would be saying  “You know, it’s actually pretty good".

50 Shades of Sugar - Chapter One

It's a quarter to two when I arrive at the Amsprop centre, a huge five story office building,  all grey and brick. I am greatly relieved I'm not late as I walk into the glass, steel lobby, past the fleet of taxis outside.

Behind the bland desk, a strict looking woman stares at me, looking unimpressed. She is dressed immaculately and raises an eyebrow at me.

"I'm here to see - "

"Yes, I know." she says, cutting me off. "I suppose you think you're dressed appropriately?" She lowers her eyebrow before raising it again and tutting.

I am beginning to wish I had dressed more appropriately. I have made an effort, though.

"I thought so, yes", I reply.

"Hmm." she snips.

She hands me a security pass. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all.

She picks up the phone. "It's Karen, My Lord. She's here." She then nods primly as if there were a camera watching her.

"You'll want the last elevator on the right. Press for the fourth floor."

The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the fourth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in a tiny lobby with two sofas and pictures of cityscapes. There is a white haired man standing there to greet me.

"Hello, I'm Ana", I say.

"Ugh," he says, rolling his eyes dramatically.

"I'm here to see - "

"Yes," he says, shaking his head in a disappointed manner. "He's through there."

I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.

Double crap - me and my two left feet. I am on my hands and knees in the office doorway and rough hands are around me helping me to stand. I glance up. Holy cow - he's so short.

"Miss Kavanagh," he extends a stubby-fingered hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm Alan Sugar. Are you all right? Coming in here, falling over. Why don't you sit down. It's why chairs were invented." He gives a little smile and looks around awkwardly, as if he's just made a joke.

He's attractive, very attractive. He's short, dressed in a suit, with grey hair and strange, gnarled features. He looks like a sexy shaved gnome. It takes me a moment to find my voice.

"Um...." In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilerating shiver run through me.  "Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Lord Sugar."

"And you are?"  His voice is gravelly, and he emphasises words in an odd manner, but it's difficult to tell from his eyebrows, which are bunched together like a seductive scrotum.

"Anastasia Steele. I'm studying with Kate, um...Katherine...um...Miss Kavanagh at Royal Holloway."

"I see," he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but it could be acid reflux.

I look at the room while I get ready for the interview. It is one enormous table, set up in front of huge frosted sliding doors for no reason. I set up the mini-disc recorder, and inexplicably slice off one of my fingers. I hope he doesn't notice the blood spurting out of the bloody stump. Damn my clumsiness. I'd blush, except for the blood-loss.

"Sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this."

"It's a shame. I had plans for that finger."

He's teasing me? I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me. "No, I don't mind."

He takes a seat. It's a large throne with a booster seat. He hops up onto it in a lithe, athletic manner that belies his aged appearance.

He sits there like a hotter version of Yoda. I cannot help but feel a little shaky just looking at him.

"So, to what do you owe your success?"

"Well, I grew up in a rough area, a part of London where you didn't have your fancy mini-discs, or lifts, or cars, or... or paths."

"I see."

He juts his neck out to emphasise when he talks, like an erotic turtle. "And you know, I've just been around for long enough. You buy, you sell. It's simple."

“You sound like a control freak.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele,” he says. “Like when I owned Tottenham Hotspurs. I flogged my way through seven managers, but they would have had it easier if they’d believed that Les Ferdinand would play better with nipple clamps.”

“Do you feel that you have immense power?”

“I employ dozens of people, Miss Steele. That gives me a certain amount of responsibility. Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret, masturbatory, reveries that you were born to control things.”

I cannot help but think about that image. It’s like a sexy walnut lying on a bed playing with itself.

“I’m sorry, but I really should go,” I say. “I have a long drive back to Enfield.”

“No,” he says gesturing towards a bed that I noticed in the corner. “I think you’ll stay. We have some very good benefits here, and – “ he says, beginning to unbutton his shirt, revealing the wrinkled, leathery skin underneath “ – I can be a very….generous and attentive teacher.”

I can’t help myself. His sexy stony  eyes look into my soul and locate my inner goddess.

“You mean….”

“Yes,” he says, licking his lips like a lecherous lizard. “You’re fucked.”

David Cameron and the British Film Industry

This is a routine I performed at Working Title Comedy at the Big Green Bookshop on January 20th. It went down well, but because it's topical, it's one I may not reuse any time too soon - so I thought I'd stick it up here.


David Cameron said the British Film Industry should concentrate on making commercial successes. Because they're obviously not managing to do so without his help.

It reminded me of a quote by the famous screenwriter William Goldman - he wrote Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, All The President's Men, the Princess Bride...films like that, and he said "When it comes to the movie industry, nobody knows anything", and what he meant by that was that everyone's trying to make a hit, and they're trying to, but everyone makes mistakes.

But I went back to the book where he wrote that, "Adventures in the screen trade", because I was aware that sometimes quotes leave off half of what was actually said. Like in Richard III, where the line is famously "Now is the winter of our discontent", meaning now, things are bad. But what he actually says is "Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York", meaning that things were bad, but are now good. And I looked at it, and it's the same thing. William Goldman didn't say "When it comes to the movie industry, nobody knows anything. William Goldman actually says "In the movie industry, nobody knows anything...except David Cameron. He does."

Back in the eighties, Stephen Spielberg made a run of three of the biggest movies made at that point in time. Jaws, ET, Indiana Jones....then he made 1941, which was a complete flop. If only he'd spoken to David Cameron before making that film, and he'd have said "No, Stephen, know your limits and make Close Encounters of the Third Kind."

Michael Cimino made The Deer Hunter for the studio United Artists, one of the oldest, most respected film studios in the world, and he followed it up with one of the most expensive films of all time, Heaven's Gate, which ended up being terrible. Left with no options, United Artists gave it a huge, expensive promotion campaign to try and
recoup their massive losses...if it wasn't a hit, the studio would go under, but try what they might...it made no money, and thousands of people lost their jobs.

If only they had called David Cameron. He would have said "Michael, I respect your intention to fulfil your artistic calling, but this film needs a very special dog."

John Travolta, in the mid nineties was in the worst career period of his life. He'd just finished making "Look Who's Talking Now"...(the dogs were talking)...and things were going badly enough that he was grateful for the work. Then, he bumped into David Cameron, who said to him "Have you seen Reservoir Dogs? You should get in touch with the director. Sure thing there, mate". And the two of them remained friends for years, and Travolta had a second spring....and then they fell out and we got Battlefield Earth.

If only he'd continued to listen to David Cameron.

We can presumably look forward to films like "Four Weddings and a Terminator", "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Predator", "Don't look now, but Justin Bieber is right over there" and "Corialanus 2 - The Dark of the Moon".

The British Film industry has responded in kind to David Cameron, and they've said "What David Cameron needs to do is to just make more jobs and just fix the economy. Rather than tell us that we need to make more commercial films while his government kills off the UK Film Council and blocks a Pinewood Studios extension.
Arsehole."