Ten years of Monday nights: a decade at DDG

After my first Duck Duck Goose improv jam, I wrote in my diary ‘I’m definitely going back to return as often as I can’. That entry was from Monday 13th April 2015. Little did I know not only would I go again, but I would continue keeping Monday nights free for the show a full decade later.

Ten years! That’s almost a third of my life. Of the five hundred plus nights DDG has run, I have been part of at least four hundred. The key to my longevity? I simply started going every week and just didn’t stop. By now, I'm the equivalent of Kenan Thompson at SNL: I wasn’t there when it began, but it seems like I’ve been there forever.

At this point, DDG is so ingrained in my routine that I cannot imagine my life without it. The show is a part of me now. It would be impossible to extract it from my being without killing me.

The joys this show has brought me are innumerable. Without DDG, my calendar would be sparser, my social life poorer. The jam is a great space to laugh, play, and make friends. It kickstarts my week. It helps me get in my improv reps. It means I regularly see my besties. 

It gives me a front row seat to see almost all of the improv teams London has to offer. It’s a place my family and colleagues can watch me in action. It's one of the best rooms I’ve ever played as an act.

DDG is the closest I’ll get to being in a real-life Muppet Show. I am grateful and lucky that it exists in my lifetime.

Ten years is an arbitrary milestone, but remember that we, like everything in improv, exist for just a moment. Our scene could be cut at any time. We never know the final punchline. To stay with anything for a tenth of a century is miraculous and noteworthy. This is why I wanted to mark it.

One key skill in improv is the ability to remember. It is useful to keep in mind everything that has been said (including – and this is difficult - your own character’s name) so you can build on it. Yet, while what we do next is inspired by what has come before, you must also exist in the present. What’s true now might not be so in two seconds, so process what’s new, react, and be changed by it.

In this spirit, while ten years is a nice round number, reaching it is not as important as what’s in front of me. Racking up tons of hours onstage and being a familiar face in a community won’t guarantee I have a good show. I need to exist in the now.

While it is comforting to reminisce about past prompts, jokes, and scenes, I cannot dwell on them. There’s another jam coming up, a chance for a new round of memories. I have no clue whether I'll be at the show forever, but today all I need to know is that there is a show on Monday.

Five Things to Know about Improv: what I have learnt from half a decade of making stuff up

I have now been an improviser for five years. In that half decade, I have taken shows to festivals, co-hosted one of London’s longest-running jams, and played so many talking animals that I am probably owed a visit from Doctor Doolittle. I have now seen countless hours of people making stuff up in pub theatres across the capital (and done a fair bit of it myself).

However, the intangible nature of the form means you always have more to learn. You are never a finished product. I have gained a little insight into the art though. Here are five important things I have learnt about improv.

Improv can make you a better communicator

Which, ironically, I was apparently unable to adequately get across in a job interview. Asked at a talent pool full of potential employers to give a two-minute presentation on something I was passionate about, I chose to explain why improvisation has helped me become a better speaker. Why I am now a more patient, less competitive conversationalist. How I focus on the topic being discussed instead of waiting to butt in with my own. That the discipline encourages you to discover the joys of collaboration.

Evidently, I made my hobby sound too engaging. The people who heard my talk told me it seemed whatever role offered me would be a consolation prize, second best to improv. One inquisitor said they used to enjoy painting but gave it up to pursue their office job. Which, to me, as a tragic summary of adulthood, cannot be topped.

I had explicitly stated in my opening paragraph of the speech I did not want a career in the art form.

Of course, even if I had wanted to make stuff up full-time, I could not because...

Improv is not a career

The most successful in-demand teachers and performers still hold down their nine to fives. Most people I know who perform at Edinburgh Fringe are freelancers or jobbing actors. I can count on one hand the number of London troupes big enough to tour.

The best way to make money in this field is teaching classes or doing running corporate workshops. It is extremely unlikely you are doing that daily, let alone making enough money from it.

Besides, if you take up your hobby as your career, what on earth will you do to relax?

Improv can easily become your entire life

Improv is moreish because you get instant affirmation, encouragement to make jokes, and an excuse to mess around with friends. It feels good to be with this community, so naturally you chase that high by doing more things with those people.

This can result in improvisers being the main people in your social circle. Even if your schedule is not dominated by rehearsals and shows, you will probably hang out with your fellow players as your go-to buddies. Although you are not technically performing while out and about, you may still be ‘on’, doing bits, and falling into shoptalk.

Improv should not become your entire life

If you do improv exclusively, then you’ll end up hating it, abandoning it, and having nothing to fall back on. Eat chocolate cake daily and you’ll soon grow sick of it. You need everything in moderation. To use Sarah Silverman’s maxim, make it a treat.

I am “lucky” in that the conclusion of my first improv course coincided with me getting a job which limited the amount of evenings I was free to pursue the form. This has meant I avoided overdoing it. Which I one hundred percent would have done for precisely the reasons I detailed in the section above.

I did come close to burning out though.

Once classes were done, my group kept meeting weekly to make stuff up. Soon we formed a team. Finding a format to work on gave our rehearsals focus. Then we developed a second idea which required its own evening to practice.

This meant we were doing a total of six hours of improv across two consecutive nights.

It was too much. The second session always suffered as we were exhausted.

Not only that, but one format did not play to our strengths. We always came in demotivated. We were struggling to master something we would never make work. Not realising the problem was that the structure did not serve us well, we instead ended up questioning whether we were actually any good at improv.

We eventually dropped that show in favour of the one that we were all psyched about. That is what saved us and the only reason why we are still going today. That love for our work has kept us going and yet…

Improv does not have to be for forever

When my team first formed, there were fourteen of us. Over the years, as is to be expected, people started to move on. Some left the community. Some left the country.

One person dropped out because the classes were a chance to learn something new, to get out of the house. They enjoyed the mucking around. They were not particularly interested in being a group that gigs.

Everyone finds their own point at which to stop.

Our group continued. We worked on a format, tried out a few drafts. We found one that works. For some, ticking that box and solving that problem was a satisfying way to end their tenure. They could walk away with pride. Ditto those who were part of our one hundredth ever gig.

I have not stopped.

It has been five years since I joined the community. It has also been almost five years since I started at my day job. I am attempting to find a nine to five so I can find a better work-life-improv balance, but until then, pretending to be a talking animal is a small part of my week. Maybe it is better that way. Perhaps in the future I will give it up entirely and pursue some other area of creativity. But, for now though, I will keep on painting.

Time to Party

Back to the Future Day is finally here. Do you know what that means? People will finally stop posting memes with the wrong date. Also I’ve a decent excuse to write about what I consider to be the best film trilogy of all time.

Yeah, that’s right, forget Star Wars. It doesn’t have a dog called Einstein. Although Back to the Future does have Darth Vader…

Image copyright: Universal.

Yes, we are now in 2015, the year Marty travelled to from 1985, and whilst we have video phone calls, are working on hover boards, and did get a 3D version of Jaws, we still don’t have flying cars. We also, thanks to Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale retaining the rights, have yet to get a new reboot or sequel to the BTTF series, thus allowing the franchise’s legacy to remain untarnished.

Thank goodness they’ve kept their integrity because, despite being thirty years old, these great movies are still inspiring people today. The band McFly and rapper Doc Brown took their name from the protagonists, a Bizarro World version of the central duo is presented in Rick and Morty, and there 'it's your cousin, Marvin' has become a popular setup for jokes on Twitter. There is clearly a lot of lingering love for this franchise.

And yet the original was never guaranteed to be a success. I mean, consider the pitch – there’s a stereotypical bug-eyed wild haired mad scientist, horny teen hitting on her own son, and that most cheesy of tropes, saying the title within the film. If the makers had misjudged the tone, this could have been the best Worst B-Movie Ever. Instead the humour’s just right, the caricature’s restrained, and it’s a brilliant piece. Indeed, that first film is as close to perfect as possible.

"Seriously, this guy's one of our heroes? Uh, we'll pass." - What some exec thankfully didn't say.

Picture copyright: Universal

As a writer, I massively appreciate callbacks and satisfying payoffs. It’s why I like improv, detective stories, and stand up. It’s also why I’m such a huge fan of Back to the Future. As with the other screenplay I consider exceptional, A Bug’s Life, every line in the first in the trilogy serves a purpose. Each bit of dialogue is a joke, foreshadowing, or back reference.  There is not an inch of fat on that script. It really should be studied in schools.

If ever you wanted further proof of the series’ power, I need only offer its continued ability to thrill. As I enjoy the movies so much, I have seen them all multiple times (in fact, they were the first films I saw in 2012) and yet I still get excited at the tinkly twinkly score that hints that something magical is about to occur.

I experienced the epitome of this euphoria these cult classics inspire on Saturday 30^th September 2014. Secret Cinema, an events company that shows famous movies within extensive recreations of the sets, had set up 1950s Hill Valley in a shopping centre car park complete with an in-character cast lip-synching and mirroring their counterparts in the first film. We were encouraged to dress in accordance with the era; I essentially went as The Fonz.

Just about hidden from view: the not-so-195s camera.

As we sat in the town square during the screening, the car chases happened around us , Doc zip-wired down from the clock tower, and we whooped at the debut of the DeLorean. That was all well and nice, but the moment at which I was convinced of the movie’s power, the instance I truly celebrated, was an old-fashioned demonstration of good triumphing over evil, brains defeating brawn, George smacking Biff.

The tension before he felled him was palpable. For one of the few times that evening, my eyes were firmly on the stage and not the frames I’d seen so many times before. To see the rivals stand-off in 3D reinforced the significance of what was at stake. It is perhaps this scene, more than any across the series, hammers home how a single split-second decision can change the outcome of your life.

When the punch came, we cheered. My friend besides me actually stood up and applauded. We got such a rush. It didn’t matter that this showdown wasn’t new to us – we were pumped.

And that’s the sign of an incredible movie – you can revisit it endlessly and still be moved.

Happy BTTF Day everyone.  Remember, your future hasn’t been written yet, so make it a good one!

Happy Birthday Train

As of 11th October 205, there has been a Late Train running for five years. And no, it's not National Rail's fault. The blame goes entirely to James D Irwin. Or, as I call him, 'Irwin'. Never 'James'. It is always the full name or surname. Or that inebriate with the voice like a dirty phone call.

Said inebriate.

Let me clarify. The Late Train is in fact a comedy night. It is on once a month in Winchester at a pub called the Railway. It has now been running for five years.

Who cares?

I do. I did a lot of fun stuff at that night. It’s where I recorded a radio play, gave stand up a serious go, recieved my first heckle, first tried live improv… I also co-hosted the whole thing for two years.

From Autumn 2012 to Summer 2014, the Late Train was run by me and my double act partner, Dan. In between comedians, we did sketches, most of which involved Adam and Eve or Santa (but never Adam and Eve and Santa), and Dan occasionally did solo routines. Which led to odd scenes in which I’d introduce him after we'd already been onstage together for five minutes. It worked. Well, even if it didn’t, we were in charge so…

Two excellent comedians. And two guys who do an okay job of introducing them.

We inherited the night from James D Irwin, the night’s founder and our friend (despite one of us once describing him as ‘that inebriate with the voice like a dirty phone call’). He’d started it as a student comedy night to give himself some stage time in a town with no open mic, but the free show soon grew until it was attracting acts from afar (and I don’t mean Southampton).

It’s not hard to see why the Late Train got such a good reputation. The small room is intimate, its cosiness reinforced by the stage décor of a rug and a lamp-stand. It essentially looks like someone’s lounge. The bar and bathroom is downstairs so there’s no punters wondering around looking for a pint or a piss. The audience is generous. Everyone wants to be there. The acts have fun. Plus, if you really hate the show, the train station’s across the road.

Hence why the bar is called The Railway…

Not the usual stage set-up - this is for my radio recording. Also, look, rugs!

Of course the night’s never been perfect. Dan and I once found we’d have to share a mic. One night there was a persistent heckler who it transpires was a wannabe comic who thought he was helping. A few of the open mic acts were drunk. Which is why we don’t put our friends on anymore.

That’s a joke. The Late Train is a safe friendly place in which to give stuff a go so where better for mates and acquaintances to see if telling gags is their thing? Some had smashing debuts whilst others stuck to their day job, but at least they had the opportunity to give it a go in front of a forgiving crowd.

This picture is misleading. We'd get at least three times this many people in. 

And what a crowd. I don’t know if a quaint friendly town inherently produces quaint friendly people, but Winchester’s audiences were never less than lovely. The front row were always up for a Q&A. The magician who now hosts is never short of volunteers. It was always a pleasure to perform at the Late Train. I only gave it up because I moved to London.

But not before Dan moved to Bournemouth. He duly came in once a month to host a free show for no money before rushing out during the second half to catch a train home. If that’s not a sign of how much we love The Late Train, nothing is.

After we left, the host was recast as often as Spiderman. It went from a satirist to a musician to its current ringmaster, magician Wayne the Weird. He’s presenting the anniversary show on October 11^th. Do go – it is, was, and will be the best thing in town. Besides, what else would you be doing on a Sunday?