Neil Kotre admits he’s not a big fan of people. But he needs you.
I might be described as a top tier Regent’s comedian. This is accurate – if there is a ‘God tier’ which tapers to a single point, a grand total of two tiers, and TikTok aficionados are excluded from the tier system entirely. Therefore, upon being asked to write this piece, I quickly concluded that the editor of this blog is suffering from the same problem as me: we’re both running out of material.
This is not an entirely alien feeling. I don’t have much range as a performer, so the effectiveness of my stand-up rests largely on my writing. So I spend several occasionally frustrating hours on each set, fine-tuning every detail, ensuring that I’m satisfied with the whole thing. At which point my ego takes hold, and I become convinced that material I had once regarded as utterly meritless is now a work of sheer genius. But on the whole, I enjoy the solitary pursuit of comedy writing. The problem is that, when I look at a complete set in all its carefully formatted glory, I begin to regard it as the purest distillation of my efforts. Which is an unfortunate delusion: comedy relies on the responses of other human beings. And I’m not a big fan of them.
In her article for this blog, my esteemed compeer Caitriona Dowden made the characteristically astute observation that audiences are generally composed of people. When I’m on stage, I do my best to forget this. Rather than perceiving distinct and potentially intelligent faces through the haze of wandering spotlights and disinterested conversations, I prefer to picture a single entity which, like the mob in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, may be swayed with a tactful phrase or hasty gesture. But I’m always afraid of individuals breaking out, or losing half the room with a joke that doesn’t quite land. You might imagine, therefore, that conditions in which any comedy I write cannot be compromised by the knee-jerk reactions of crowds more used to lapping up the insults of Frankie Boyle’s imitators or comfortable ‘satire’ of Nish Kumar would be favourable.
Be careful what you wish for.
All joking aside – to the degree that would be considered appropriate for a self-described comic, at least – there’s something intensely frustrating about writing comedy without a suitable outlet. And though I’d love to romanticise my involuntary isolation, likening it to the experiences of numerous ‘70s progressive rock bands who decamped to a countryside manor for musical inspiration, the four walls of my study aren’t exactly stimulating. Regardless, I have finally managed to compose a rather erratic ten minutes concerning a possible Terminator sequel inspired by a Yuletide sausage shortage, the socio-religious beliefs of left-wing Swedish musicians, and the deficiencies of using Echo Falls as communion wine. If you’d prefer a lazier analysis of Margaret Thatcher or Love Island, other comics are available.
As an only child, I’ve had to rely on my parents for validation in these times of comic strife. You could say that I’ve had mixed results. After trying one hitherto successful joke on my Mum, she turned to me with a philosophical stare. “Perhaps men and women have different senses of humour?” As my material has sometimes been criticised for being too intellectual, I thought it tactless to confirm or deny this. Regardless, based on her line of work, we have begun writing a six-part sitcom for Dave called ‘Radiographers,’ a tenderly satirical view of exactly what happens in the basement of a Newcastle NHS hospital. It may not sound appealing, but the scene where Adrienne irradiates Steve in episode five is hilarious.
Meanwhile, doubtless alert to any emerging interests which might distract me from my studies, my Dad has been typically encouraging. “Son, I can’t really imagine you as a stand-up.” Given his own sideline as a jazz trumpeter, playing long and seemingly directionless solos to baffled crowds – often no more than three people, but at least one leather jacket and pair of red chinos among them – this surprised me: surely I have the right genetics for my new vocation? Nevertheless, a few weeks ago, he sent me some potential stand-up material about a zombie virus outbreak in IKEA, which wasn’t perhaps entirely suitable for comedy given the present state of the world. Yet it was still an exciting read, deficient only in its almost complete absence of jokes.
But after weeks of reminiscing about past successes and countless failures, the end of involuntary isolation might be in sight. Perhaps I’ll return to Oxford one day as the first leg on a huge World Tour of Bicester and Middleton Cheney. Until then, I’ll keep my nose to the grindstone and my fingers hovering somewhere above a tattered keyboard in perpetual frustration. And, when all this is over, we might just have something to laugh about.
