Life & Style

Stand-up comedy: I never knew that five minutes could feel like a lifetime

‘In reality, being a comedian isn’t as good as I thought, and it isn’t as bad as I thought’

Richard Gadd in the Netflix series Baby Reindeer: 'With each silence, with each cough, the further away a laugh feels,' writes Stephan Mullan
Richard Gadd in the Netflix series Baby Reindeer: 'With each silence, with each cough, the further away a laugh feels,' writes Stephan Mullan
Stephen Mullan
Wed Jul 24 2024 - 06:00

I remember the first time. A south London pub. I could feel the weight of the silence in the air, my breath echoing through the speakers, followed by my damp “hello”. Then the white noise in my ears, followed by the voice inside screaming, “Do something!” It was my first time performing as a stand-up, and it was my first time feeling the death of stand-up. The irony being that the one laugh I got was a moment of authentic thinking aloud: “I got the bus this morning… I probably should have jumped in front of it so I wouldn’t have to be here.” Their laughter was in agreement, and I never knew that five minutes could feel like a lifetime.

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I’m still shocked when people smile upon hearing my occupation. “Comedian? Cool!” The fools have no idea of the trauma. Obviously, there are moments of magic, euphoric highs, gods and stars aligning in unison, illuminating my comedic genius, my all-powerful ability to break audiences into convulsions of laughter with a deft raise of my eyebrow. However, those moments are what are known as dreams. They’re not real, and like the addicts we are, the first hit – a glimpse of comedy heaven – has us hooked, unbeknown to the reality that we must die many times to even approach that heaven.

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My deaths have not changed much from that first night in south London. It’s slow. The breaths become short and quick, and I develop a complete allergy to silence. The room will instantly become warm and then hot. After the first two minutes, I’ll feel the single bead of sweat roll from the top to the bottom of my spine. With each silence, with each cough, the further away a laugh feels. I’ll notice that my mouth is dry and my tongue is heavy and hard. And I will never realise in that moment that the panic has meant I am speaking way too fast. No one can understand a word I am saying, and most importantly, neither can I. The smile on my face is a lie, and I have no idea of what I have just said.

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Dying on your arse is a spiritual experience. I’ve seen pictures in my head in those moments. Jesus there on the cross and me feeling sorry for him, but I look closer and he’s crying because he’s here, watching my show. I pray to God for help, but I can only hear him loud and clear saying: “This is your fault. Could you not have been thankful for all the things you had beforehand, a job? I bet you miss the building sites now, don’t you? I bet you miss self-respect?” Then all the lists of things I should have done appear, but number one on the list? It’s the same as most comedians wish they had learned – how to write a joke.

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Instead, I was stupid enough to have feelings, dreams, opinions, ideas and think that they matter. Even worse than that, think that they’re funny. The moment of dying on my arse cuts deeper as the years pass. All experience allows me to do, as I write new hour after new hour, is to bury the tears deeper and deeper down inside. So deep that the audience doesn’t even know it’s happening. We just fall back on the hack crutches of “What’s your name? Where you from? You’re a baker? What’s your favourite bread?” Eventually, I began to die with dignity. To stick to the idea no matter what. To sit in the silence, to sweat, to panic, to fail, and leave the stage with the dream of becoming a postman instead.

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Yet at no point does my mind, body or soul – or even God himself – tell me that it’s time to give up. That first hit was too much. The possibility of hitting gold is what stand-up comedians live for. The hope of a laugh, and the willingness to die many times to get to that place, drives us. We can sacrifice a lot for it. Is it worth it? I don’t know. But as I walk into my fourth Edinburgh Fringe Festival, I know exactly what is ahead: moments of joy, contagious laughter, silence, dry mouth, litres of sweat, victorious fist pumps and tears in the pub. But most of all, I know that of the hundreds of people who will come to see me, a large majority will think the same thing. To me and to most comedians, this is life or death. In reality, it wasn’t as good as I thought, and it wasn’t as bad as I thought. To most of them, it was grand, they had a laugh and then got on with their day.