Last Night at Gunner's Wood

The first paragraph is a status I posted online that someone said sounded like the start of a story. Here is that story.

Because of improv, the first thing a stranger asked me today was ‘didn’t I see you get murdered in the woods?’. At least I HOPE that was because of improv.

I laugh (too loudly) and pretend to read my paper when in reality I was trying to figure out how long until the bus' next stop.

‘No, seriously’, the randomer insists, ‘were you near Gunner’s Wood last night?’

I faux-casually look up as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Me? No… Stayed home. Bake Off night.’

The bus pulls in. Finally. I leap up, then turn back as I walk off. ‘Sorry!’

*

After my show that evening, keen to avoid the risk of bumping into her again, I book a taxi to take me home.

As we take a series of seemingly endless country roads, I can’t help but worry if the woman had in fact witnessed a murder (if not actually my own). Eventually I decide I have to find out for myself.

‘Could we, er, divert via Gunner’s Wood?’

My driver nods, silently spins the wheel, and flicks on his indicators.

Am I really doing this? Should I be doing this? Let’s do this.

‘Stop here, please.’

We have reached the start of the woods. I get out. ‘Keep the meter running. I’ll only be a minute.’

I rush in searching for freshly turned over soil, dark stains, scraps of cloth. If something had happened here, there had to be an obvious sign.

After spotting nothing, I realise I’m paranoid. This is nonsense. Of course there was nothing. The woman must have seen me in a gig. Either that or she’s a rambling bumpkin who’s had one too many –

Hang on. Is that a finger poking out the ground? I bend down to examine it.

The crunch of leaves behind me suggests I’m not alone. I look. It’s my driver.

‘It’s fine, I’m coming back. You’ll get your money.’

‘Oh, I’m not too worried about that, sir. I was more thinking about who you’re going to tell about finding my ex-wife.’

‘Your… Oh, I’m terribly sorry. How did she –’

‘Painfully and slowly. Just how I wanted.’ He grins, revealing two rows of sharp teeth. I know now I should have stayed in the car.

I stand, put my hands up. ‘I’ll tell no one, I swear.’

‘You’re damn right you won’t…’ He draws out a long knife.

As he advances towards me, over his shoulder, I see a bus drive by. And, if I’m not mistaken, looking through one of the windows, is an old woman simply mouthing the word ‘sorry’.

'A whole load of fun': my tribute to DDG

Thanks to my endless bout of weekly plugs on social media, it is pretty easy to discover I co-host Duck Duck Goose. What is less public knowledge is I keep an extensive diary. To mark my one year anniversary of getting involved with London’s finest improv jam, I’ve scoured said records to collate this tribute to the only thing I ever want to do on Monday.

On Monday 13th April 2015, I went to my first ever DDG. I had an inauspicious start...…

I go the wrong way out of the tube and then, when I do get the right direction, I wonder if Google is trying to kill me as it leads down dark tunnels to what looks like a collection of wooden huts. One of these is the venue.

However my reaction to the show is anything but.

Such a great event. I’m definitely going back to return as often as I can.

This response is not a one-off. Indeed, judging from my entries, I use the word ‘fun’ more often than Jimmy Fallon.

‘Duck Duck Goose is a whole load of fun’ 

‘It's a very fun show’

‘So many fun friends in tonight’

‘[I had] Two great scenes. Lots of fun had’

‘Such a fun night’ 

My limited range of descriptions also include ‘ace’, ‘brilliant’, ‘incredible’, ‘great’, and ‘good’.

Exactly four months after making my debut there, this happened.

Vic and Mark invite me to officially be part of the DDG team… as I’m such a hard-core regular (ironically, I’ll miss next week’s sesh for [Kit]’s graduation)

I’ve been co-hosting and jamming with DDG ever since. It’s such a blast. Every show has something good.

‘The show is notable though for us surprising Liam… with a birthday card depicting bananas AFTER IT HAD BEEN HIS TEAM’S PROMPT. That is some Derren Brown shit right there. Or someone in the audience had signed said card. Whatever’

‘The room is packed... people had to sit on tables and the sofas either side of the room’ 

 ‘In a later group scene, I blurted out in a response to a mention of 'wigs', 'is that W-H-I-G or W-I-G?'. Mark then tagged all but me out so he could say how much he appreciated that joke'

Sure, not every moment has been amazing…

‘In the jam I only get in two scenes, one of which I used clumsy exposition setup “sorry Dorian Grey, I left my tent in your attic, could I go get it?”’

‘In the jam I came on in response to a call for a kid and, panicking, did a Mickey Mouse voice’

‘We’re all tired by the time we get to the stage which probably explains why some of the scenes didn’t go anywhere or were written off as the result of drugs or us being products of someone’s imagination. Oh well, at least I got to play a duck and a wrestler called The Bridge’

And onstage I can have doubts…

[Anand] says I’m very quick-witted and energetic which is nice to hear because when I’m onstage time seems slow and it seems ages since you said anything and if you do say something was it any good etc etc

Plus the occasional unwise impulse…

My one word prompt with Stef[f] is ‘delicate’. I immediately collapse to the floor, a move I regret as the back of my head hurts for a while after.

But when an event provides me with one of my favourite photos ever taken of me...

'All I know is I ended the scene cradled in Tai's arms as I napped'
Photo credit: Amar Chundavadra.

A team Christmas dinner can be described (in a manner which could very much apply for DDG shows in general) like thus...

‘One of the most enjoyable days of my life. The atmosphere is so relaxed… It’s such a warm loving safe environment. It feels like a proper family gathering’

And terrific line-ups leave me ecstatic enough to write stuff like this:

‘The two acts are totally different and totally brilliant’

‘There were two rounds of twoprov with no dud scenes between them’

‘Every scene in Duck Duck Goose is incredible’

It’s easy to see why I’ve stuck around. I love you, team! Here’s to the years to come.

Sketches VS Improv

Whilst discussing improv with my Granddad, he asked me a question I’d never considered before  - what is there to stop people writing up your scenes and passing them off as their own material?

Well, obviously there’s nothing (short of hiring a bouncer to frisk people for pens), but in response to this surprising query, I surprised myself with my answer.

‘Nobody would want to do that because sketches and improv scenes are very slightly different.’

Up until then, I had not considered nor articulated that point. I agree with it though.

Sure, on a surface level, the two seem to have a similar shape and use the same devices - recurring characters, catchphrases and callbacks. Only playing one idea at a time – but they’re different beasts.

The most glaring contrast clearly is how they’re formed. In improv, you organically discover something fun together. With sketches, it’s just you versus a blank page. Is it any wonder then that I’ve barely scribed any skits since committing my nights to improv? And I’m on the committee of the London Comedy Writers. I should be inspired to churn out pieces weekly!

But no. I can’t go back to scripts now. The creative process of improv is far more joyful. It produces exciting one-off ‘you had to be there’ moments every single time you go onstage. The audience gives you more leeway than they would with prewritten material because they know that you don’t know what you’re doing.

Which brings me onto a further distinction: audience expectations. Recently an improv coach called me out for being witty at the top of a scene. That’s my old sketch instincts kicking in – I’m used to aiming for that first laugh as soon as possible. You walk on with a joke at the top of a sketch and the audience love it because they’re expecting three minutes of wall to wall gags. You’ve given them what they want.

This doesn’t necessarily work with improv. As said coach pointed out, if you start with a witty line, someone has to follow it up with a wittier one in order to build momentum. A joke contest then ensues and any chance of a story or character developing dies. The audience is amused but you’ve robbed yourself and them of a more interesting scene that actually had no obligation to be funny. Improv can be straight scenes or impressions or games. There is no one tone or style.

And so to my third distinction: pacing. Sketches often race to get their premise out hence why they frequently start with exposition-heavy dialogue that nails their situation like ‘the delegates are late, ambassador’, ‘we need a new name for Cheetos’, and, famously, ‘ello, I’d like to register a complaint’.

Improv players, however, have the luxury of time. They can start scenes by making eye contact, silently sizing each other up, and assessing whether anything about their partner’s body language or position on stage suggests what type of dynamic or situation to play. They cannot rush to their premise until they have found and agreed upon it. Their first line doesn’t have to be funny or informative (although obviously if it’s the latter, that’s brilliant– specificity and context is reassuring. Once an audience gets the setup, they will follow you anywhere). It just has to be the first ball over the net in a tennis rally that gets the game going. Improv can be a far more relaxed affair.

And it’s this aspect that would get lost in the write up of a spontaneous skit. Yes, tightening scenes would make them more concise, get to key details earlier, but cutting to the chase would be far less fun for both performer and observer. For everyone involved, the Eureka Moment is exhilarating, the relief intense. The unintentional delayed gratification is what makes improv special. Sketches can withhold key details – on the radio you can reveal within the punchline that both characters were squirrels – but they do so on purpose because they knows when to play a trump card. Improvisers aren’t even sure they’ll have a card. That mystery is what keeps their form fresh and interesting and makes it ultimately more thrilling than sketch.

My Granddad’s other question was whether I get paid for gigs. Uh, pass.

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?

NFFD 2015

It's National Flash Fiction Day again!

Which means I should

a) promote The Flashnificents AKA the story collective co-founded by me. I write at least one jokey piece for it weekly. The group was inspired by our lecturer's attempt to write a story daily for a year.

Said lecturer incidentally founded National Flash Fiction Day. Which means today I should also

b) Write at least one story. So here it is.


WHAT'S NEXT?

Well, I’ve finished watching everything on Netflix. Time to go outside…

Oh God. What happened? The world is a wasteland. The landscape is flattened. The horizon is endless. Man, if only Netflix had streamed The Ten O’clock News…

I shut my front door and the house collapses behind me. Shit. Looks like I’m going to need to a new place to sleep. And another laptop.

I walk for hours in seemingly unchanging terrain. I see and hear no one. Am I the only person left alive?

The sun reaches its peak so I begin to get thirsty. The dirt around me is bone dry. I can’t see an oasis. I try to produce some saliva to suck on. I fail.

I walk some more. Soon my legs go on automatically and my brain disengages. The journey becomes almost relaxing.

Night falls. I keep on walking. Dawn. I keep on walking. I lose track of how long it’s been since I left home. I keep on walking.

Finally I see something in the distance that breaks the monotony of my view. I run towards the mysterious mass in the sky. It comes into focus. No…

Giant letters hover in front of me.

Next episode playing in 10 seconds.

9

8

7

I fall to my knees.

6

5

4

I sob.

3

WHY?

2

I hate myself.

1.

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.