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.

Keep Your Hobbies Fun: Why I choose to enjoy the level where I am.

'I can't wait to see to see what you do next.'

They were words of encouragement, but they sent me for a spin. Next? I haven't finished having fun with this project, let alone thought of what to follow it up with. I was proud to be making One Good Thing. Now I must devise a second?

When it comes to your career, I appreciate that it is important to always think of where you are going next. A gap in the CV will be questioned. It will look like you do not have ambition or are lazy.

What are the rules when it comes to something you pursue for fun?

I consider myself successful in many areas of my life, not because I have moved up, but because I have stayed still. I have managed to keep some of my creative ventures going for over five years. Keeping any role for half a decade, regardless of whether it is the job that pays your bills or serving as treasurer of the Taunton Crochet Club, is an achievement. If you enjoy what you are doing, why change?

Again, I must stress, in a hobby. If you are a decent employee who adds value to a company, you should ideally get more responsibilities and/or money. Unless you are the treasurer of the Taunton Crochet Club – in which case. that money stays in the communal purse, damnit!

I have previously turned down the opportunity to start teaching improv. This was for a multitude of reasons, the simplest of which is that I did not want to. I like running a show and still find that a thrill, so, although I could do that alongside running classes, I said no. I was less concerned about my continual professional development and more interested in following the fun.

This brings me to the question of what I will do next.

As of 2019, I have written four series of my comedy zombie noir podcast, Dead Drunk Detective. In addition to scripting all twenty-seven episodes, I also cast and direct the show alongside my producer, Katharine*. This figurative wearing of multiple hats means I have a big influence on the project. It also means I am frequently fretting about it.

When I eventually wrap up Dead Drunk Detective, would I want to take on the challenge of creating another show? Currently, I do not know. Then again, people say that about having more children, then some tricksy hormones make them forget all about the pain sufficiently long enough that they in fact do go through it all again.
At least, I think that is what I was taught in biology. I don’t remember – I was too busy shushing my rowdier classmates.

Maybe, after all these many months apart from friends, it would be refreshing to get people together not for the sake of a project, but to just hang out. One of my first podcasts at uni was basically an excuse to invite pals and funny acquaintances to tell me their stories. Now why have that contrivance?

Speaking of The Booth, that panel show was one of my first Good Ideas and a format I really have been trying to top ever since. Eventually, like a lot of creatives who find something that hits early in their career, I took the easy route: I revived it. Twice.

My thinking was that I like doing it, I know how it works, and it is a chance to play with my friends. Most crucially - and now I hit upon a key reason Dead Drunk Detective may be a little more work than it has to be – its release does not have to tie-in with an annual holiday.

Herein lies the solution. Just as with my decision not to start teaching, I should continue to create, but on my terms. In devising a show that must appear on or by Halloween, I managed to make the fraught role of showrunner even more stressful. It was like deciding that juggling swords wasn’t hard enough, so I opted to do it while walking across a tightrope.

If – and it would still be a big ‘if’ even without a pandemic draining my will to write – I do run another series, I will give myself the space to enjoy it. Having no deadlines at all guarantees something never gets down, but casually committing to something might be the way to go. After all, I’m not being paid for any of it.

* Katharine has written a guide to creating podcasts for your business! It will no doubt be excellent. Download the book.

My Five Favourite Pieces from 2020

Ah, 2020. A year in which very little occurred - but only because ONE VERY SPECIFIC THING happened.

I went into the new decade quietly determined to write more. I had neglected this page as of late - most years the number of posts I wrote were in single digits - so vowed to not only up the quantity, but also increase the range of formats I tackled.

The result? I ended up producing thirty-nine reviews, episode guides, and dumb jokes. It was my most productive period for the blog since its inception. Although, admittedly, that is largely because I spent October looking back at every single episode of my spooky podcast, Dead Drunk Detective.

That said, I'm proud of the work I did in the last twelve months. I think a few of the things I wrote are some of the best pieces on the blog. Here is a ranked list of my top five posts from the year (which, weirdly, all were written at the end of their respective months).

5. 'How Tabletop Role-Playing Games got me Through 2020' (December 28th)

My attempt to explain to the unconverted why games like DnD are fun. It also gives me an excuse to promote 'Monster of the Week', an RPG that I love.

4. 'Good for Them. That's not for Me' (March 24th)

Some sincere advice on dealing with jealousy. In terms of career envy, that is. I have nothing to offer in terms of dealing with relationship drama.

3. 'My Secret to Staying Young' (January 24th)

A quick 'one joke and I'm out' piece. My apologies to anyone who clicked the link in hopes of finding out how I keep it tight.

2. 'Five Thing to Know about Improv' (February 28th)

As of 2020, I have been performing improv comedy for five years. That makes me more than qualified to offer some unsolicited advice.

1. 'Passed A Way' (July 29th)

An extremely dumb piece full of nonsensical instructions for my funeral. I started the first draft of this on a laptop which later crashed. Choosing to ignore this omen, I finished writing it up once I was back online. It is a deliciously silly list and I love it very much.

Passed A Way: Guidelines for my Funeral

If you are reading this, either I am dead or you are rifling through my stuff.

SHOO! Get out of it.

Now that has wheedled out the lookie-loos, let us move onto the business at hand. I am dead. Hopefully from passing away peacefully in my sleep after a wonderful day spent with loved ones. Or from falling off stage after attempting a pratfall too athletic for my advanced years. Either/or.

Anyway, I'm gone now, so at least one (1) person will be tasked with summarising my life in a way that makes it sound mildly interesting. I won't be around to hear it, of course (which is a shame because I do so love praise), but I can still provide some tips, so you can truly know 'this is what he would have wanted'. Besides from getting to be alive longer.

Anyway, here are my guidelines. Follow them if you don't want to be haunted.

If foul play in my demise is suspected, start by announcing 'someone in this room is a murderer'. Even if this turns out not to be true, saying the phrase will give you chills.

While I have long established that a love of Scooby Doo is part of my personal "brand", at no point during your tribute should you say 'ruh roh', 'jinkies', 'jeepers', or 'zoinks'.

Do not allude to my secret second family. Do conclude that the true treasure was the family we found on the way. Related: do not reveal where I stashed the actual treasure.

You are limited to one pun based on my surname. If multiple people are giving speeches, swap notes before the service to check you're not using the same one.

No podcast clips. Listening to one en masse is weird. Podcasts are for headphones, car journeys, or playing aloud at home as if it's radio.

If speeches are running long, please play people off like they do at the Oscars, albeit using 'Mahna Mahna', the song from The Muppets. Incidentally, puppets are not banned from the ceremony and are, in fact, encouraged.

No use of any pre-university nicknames. My grandma does not need to know why I was called Squeaky Bubble Butt.

Do not refer to the Swedish Motorway Incident.

Do refer to my luscious fringe.

And if someone reacted suspiciously to the line about murder, hire four teens and a dog to investigate.

TIHSPITFOAL: Bath and Bristol

I went to Bath and Bristol, saw some things. Here's some of the things!

Historical passive-aggressiveness

Inept censorship 

 

A bit of an overreaction

A dog that has seen. some. shit.

And a bin with issues.

TIHSPITFOAL: Scottish edition

I went to Edinburgh, Linlithgow, and Dundee. I saw some things! Here are a few of them.

A rave on Noah's Ark

A comprehensive poll

A drunk unicorn

An unlikely fate for a sitcom star

A whistling shrimp

The Beano's best catchphrase

A smug lion

And a museum having an existential crisis.

Goodbye, Wisconsin! (a That '70s Show review)

‘Hanging out/down the street/the same old thing/we did last week’

When I was at uni, a friend turned me on to something great. No, not drugs. That '70s Show. I'd never heard of it, let alone seen it, which is quite surprising considering I'm quite the comedy aficionado.

Every time I went round to his flat, we’d (aptly enough, given the show’s main location) go to his basement and watch a disc. After uni, these visits became less frequent. Once I moved to London, they stopped altogether.

I hadn’t finished the series. I remembered it being good though, so I asked for the box set for my birthday. Bizarrely the version my mum found was the German release. It had subtitles and the original dub though, so I started binging.

Not a death threat to Swilden Siebziger.

I soon was doing three discs a night, three nights in a row.

This show is unlike any sitcom I’ve seen before. The people feel so real. When characters argue, their spat isn’t some Fight Of The Week that is resolved before the final credits. They hold grudges. They mope. They break up and get back together and break up again. At times, it was like a very funny soap.

This is a show that’s not afraid to take its time, sit in a silence, or slowly bring characters together. The scripts smartly write in and around people’s absences. The creative team have a long memory, so each of the gang are rightly called out as hypocrites when mocking others for something they previously did.

The writing is incredibly consistent. Sure, there were arcs I didn’t like, couplings I didn’t buy. The finale is part clip show which I feel wastes time which could otherwise be spent giving us one more moment with our onscreen friends. But really, there weren’t any episodes that were ‘meh’. They’re all decent right into, and including, the eighth series which infamously struggled due to the loss of two key cast members.

Speaking of which, I don’t hate the character of Randy as much as The Internet seems to, but I do wish he’d been given more flaws. To that end, I very much share Kitty’s opinion of him ‘he's so charming and friendly and always willing to lend a helping hand. What a jackass’.

Stupid sexy Randy.

This show did so much right and very little wrong. Plus, they really struck lucky with the cast. Everyone in that ensemble proves they are worth a place in the team. They commit and sell every line. I could single out Ashton Kutcher as one of the best – this series really showcases his gift for physical comedy – but truly each of the team are great. They make their characters so endearing you mostly overlook their seedier sides (I still find Fez a little unsettling).

While this may not be my favourite show - that honour goes to 30 Rock - it has certainly jumped straight into my top five. Kelso playing with six dogs at once ranks as one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen, as does his repeated failed attempts to understand what his dad’s job is. I found myself heavily emotionally invested in Eric and Donna’s relationship and hoped so much they’d work things out. I appreciate that the adults weren’t portrayed as sexless dullards, but instead were as sympathetic and screwed up as the kids.

This show was smart and treated its viewers as such. I’m sad it’s over. I'm really going to miss hanging out in the basement.

Home Sweet Home

In September, my mum moved house. No big deal, right? People relocate every day! I’ve changed address four times in as many years. This occasion is a little different though. In September, my mum moved out of my childhood home.

Now, I prefer to look forward, not back (an approach which has ensured I don’t repeat my college feat of power walking into a lamppost). I am not one for nostalgia. Consequently, I can’t tell you what my earliest memory is (although that might have something to do with said lamppost).

It would be ridiculous though for me to have lived in the same village for twenty-two years and not have a single thing to recall about life there. After all, Peter Tavy was the backdrop to so many firsts for me. My first stand up gig was at the local variety night, my first job was at the pub, and my first pet tore into the neighbourhood’s shrubbery. Admittedly I can’t remember the latter but I’m reliably informed that Thumper was as violent as his moniker suggested and nowhere near as adorable as his Disney namesake.

Whilst I may never have finished learning how to drive around Peter Tavy’s narrow winding lanes and tight bends, I did explore all other forms of transport here (except, much to my mother’s consternation, the weekly bus into town). I have skateboarded down my hill, rollerbladed outside the village hall, sledged down my neighbour’s snowy banks, and blissfully floated around a river on a big black rubber ringer whilst chased by adults desperately trying to stop me from drifting out to sea. Ah, happy days.

Typical family photo.

I spent two decades in this eccentric little village and, as a result, have grown into an eccentric little man. It’s not hard to see why. Only in Peter Tavy could I have walked around a drained Mill Pond. Only in Peter Tavy could I have been followed by a cat called Smudge whenever I headed out to wonder in the woods. Only in Peter Tavy could I have been enlisted to play a Dalek. Twice.

I perform in London now but my first crowds were back in Devon. I danced all evening at Harford Bridge for them. They provided my first heckles (but fair enough, I admit the village quiz we Way boys wrote was alternatively too difficult and too easy).

And at this point, we come full circle to my first first. If I had to pick a key formative moment that sums up the fun of Peter Tavy life, it would be my inaugural spot as a comedian. That night in January 2009 was my first truly solo turn. Previously I’d written and performed humourous skits with my siblings but now I was to be onstage on my own.


Yes, another snowy scene. I only have access to Winter pics, okay?

I was waiting backstage ahead of my debut. The only other people with me were my previous collaborators AKA Kit and Joe. I’ve no idea why they were there but it’s great they were because they helped me relieve my nerves in the most novel way. We had a sword fight.

In retrospect, the clacking of wooden sabres would have no doubt been heard (we were, after all, only a wall away from the audience) but it really helped provide a welcome distraction from my imminent display of mediocre gags. This moment of silliness combines so many elements I love – family, joking around, and a good show. All of these are qualities I associate with Peter Tavy.

So yes, I may have to learn a new address and phone number but I won’t forget the old ones. They will remain as much a part of me as the former farm that was our home and the village which was occasionally the recipient of our post because our family name makes us sound like streets.

How, then, to sign off this farewell to my village? Well, as well as refraining from reminiscing, I’m also not particularly emotionally articulate so I’ll just keep it simple. Thank you, Mr Peter Tavy.