Laughtermath

The Oxford Comedy Festival was on Saturday.

But I'm really, really tired. Do I have the energy to launch into a full breakdown of the event; the highs and lows; an analysis of the acts; a prolonged self-assessment?

Do I?

I don't think so. But let's see what I can manage.

There were two shows; one in the afternoon and one in the evening. I was the compere for the first one, and did stand-up at the second one.

It took place at the Old Fire Station in Oxford, which is a really nice theatre venue and seems very well-suited for comedy.

The standard of the acts was very high. There was sketch, improv and stand-up, and I laughed many a big laugh. The shows were possibly a bit long. I was certainly very tired by the end of it, but that might be because I'm thirty-one.

Many of the other performers were young and full of vitality. I remember when I was young and vital. Actually, that's not true. I've never been vital. Even as a young man, I was strictly optional. I think the best I ever got was that one year when I was ancillary, but that seems like a long time ago now.

I won't write about the other acts individually, because I'd worry about leaving people out. They were all excellent.

(But if you contact me privately, I'm happy to give you a full list from best to worst, including snide, unprofessional barbs and a reductive analysis on which of the performers was the most attractive. [Untrue.])

I really am tired. Luckily, I wrote a long email about the gigs to my friend and occasional writing partner Alex 'Dice Cricket' Clissold-Jones, so I can chop out some bits of it.

It will also create the impression that there's a certain level of journalism going on here, even though I'm only quoting my own sloppily-written correspondence.

Here is local comedian Paul Fung with his take on his compering performance in the afternoon:

I compered the afternoon. I was just OK. The crowd was pretty small, but loud enough, and seemed to enjoy the acts. My audience chat was variable, as were my little bits. As I said, there wasn't much time to spare, so a lot of it was rattling through the acts. It was pretty tiring having to be 'on' for that long. At one point I did a bad joke, that got an audible 'Jesus...' from the audience, which was nice. I would describe my overall performance as 'acceptable'.

In the evening, I was doing a ten-minute slot towards the end of the show. Here's bearded misanthropist Paul Fung with his take on the events leading up to my performance:

So anyway, I was scheduled to go on as the penultimate act, with the Dead Secrets closing. But as time went on (and on and on), it was clear that we were running out of time. Prior acts were asked to shorten their stuff, as was I.

My prepared stuff was all new and was mainly one big bit, so I struggled to think of what to cut. As the act before me was on, I decided that I'd cut a whole massive chunk from the middle and just do a couple of short bits, and spent a while panicking about which I should do.

Then, seconds before going on stage, The Dead Secrets (amusingly dejected, already in their elaborate costumes) said that they'd decided not to perform because it was so late, so I was the last act.

I didn't know what to do. I'd reconciled myself to my really short set (which I'd also decided would build up to the Dead Secrets), and now had to stick some stuff back in.

I ended up doing most of my prepared material.

It included the scariest stretch of performance I've ever done. I have a whole bit where I make fun of racists who have protested about a film version of the musical Annie with a black cast. I jokingly express my support for their views in a way which is supposed to satirise what they're saying (in a winking "isn't this ridiculous?" kind of way), and I'd tried to make it clear that I was making fun of them. Obviously it wasn't clear enough.

Silence. Intakes of breaths. Disapproving noises. Basically, they just thought I was doing racist material. And there I was, the last act of a long show, destroying all of the good will in the room.

But luckily - LUCKILY - I'd begun the whole thing by saying that this topical material was my audition for Mock the Week as an off-hand comment. And I ended with a callback saying "It's not clear who the victim of that joke is  - it seems like it's satirising bigots, but is still attempting to get laughs from bigotry... and that's why that's my audition for Mock the Week" (in a slightly hacky "and then I got OFF the bus" kind of way). And to my huge relief, it got a laugh, and I think everyone realised what I'd been trying to do. It was all delivered as written, but I didn't think I'd have to wait until the last line for people to understand my point.

If I had been being racist, the Mock the Week framework would have been a pretty shitty cop-out (and it probably was anyway), but it saved my bacon.

The stuff before that was pretty good, and I ended on my LSD/LEDs joke, to make sure I got an actual laugh. Then I got the fuck out of there.

Scary. I'd rather die on stage than have everyone think I was a racist, or even a Ricky Gervais-style ironic racist.

There you have it - right from the horse's face.

(By the way, I didn't mean to make fun of The Dead Secrets there. They brilliantly organised the event - and it was a real shame that they didn't get to perform in the evening. It's just that there's something quite funny about disappointment in costume.)

Anyway, I was generally quite pleased with my evening performance. The event as a whole was really good, with enthusiastic, supportive audiences (including the smaller one in the afternoon, and the sell-out in the evening). I'm really grateful to have been invited to take part, and I'd definitely recommend going along if they do another one in the future.

And it was all for charity. I'm going to pat myself on the back as soon as I can. Maybe I'll go and do it in the toilet cubicle. For half an hour. And if anyone knocks on the door, I can bellow: "Yes, this is exactly what it sounds like! I'm proud of the selfless work I've done!"

I should write reviews for a living. Look, I've even formatted my comments as block quotes! I can do anything. I'd be happy to review comedy, or even write serious political think-pieces, for The Guardian or any other left-leaning publication. My only requirement is that I will only ever quote myself. Even if it's about the Euro, which I know nothing about.

The money that people in Europe use is the Euro, when it used to be all francs and the German ones (in Germany), but it was hard and now things make people think they should have not have done that please and pounds is better?

Can British people win the Pulitzer Prize? The only winner I know about is Lois Lane, and she's from Metropolis, USA.

Oh dear. The quoting and colours seem to have interfered with my formatting. It looks a bit messy now. Also, I used a split infinitive earlier on that I'm reluctant to change.

But that's not really my job, is it? Leave it to the subs.

Good Circulation

I might found my own magazine. Print isn't dead, it's just sleeping. We just need a publication with enough electricity to wake it from its slumber.

My magazine will do just that.

It's not a fanzine.

I'm not a fan of anything, and I don't want to appeal to fans. As far as fans are concerned, I'm not a big fan. People who show an interest in anything make me suspicious. That's why I've cultivated such a small number of readers. And I've made sure that they're all generally indifferent to everything I do. Fandom is not a place I feel comfortable.

It will be a magazine. A proper magazine.

It won't be an online magazine or "web site". Anyone can have one of those. I need to reach the people that really matter. People who like paper and ink. People with lots of storage space in their magazine room.

Another thing it won't be is one of those industry magazines. You know the ones - they have them at the end of Have I Got News For You. It's always some sort of terrible pun, like Here's Looking at Glue (the glue industry), Beer's Looking at You (the beer industry), or Here's Looking at Neve Campbell (opticians).

I don't want to reach a small, but passionate fanbase. I want a small, but dispassionate fanbase. I want a demographic so precise and aloof that anyone who even learns that the magazine exists will immediately kill themselves.

I need to consider a few things:

1) Content

What will the magazine be about? I don't know. It could be a lifestyle magazine. They seem to have the widest remit. Because everything is "lifestyle", isn't it? "Lifestyle" is just existence. The only restrictions we'd have would be: a) no articles on what it's like to be dead, and b) limited zombie coverage.

I can't get too specific, because that would attract people interested in that specific thing. I need to be as vague as possible. I want to include material that is so poorly-defined that people aren't even sure that they're reading anything. It will just be a magazine-shaped mist in front of their face. Mist with a barcode.

2) Staff

I can't run a whole magazine by myself. Even with my prodigious workrate. I'd need to hire some people to work under, over and adjacent to me. But again, I'd need to make sure they had no transferable skills whatsoever. Their CV would have to almost be blank - or just peppered with smudged fingerprints.

Every week we'd have a team meeting, at which taking minutes would be strictly prohibited. And we'd all be muffled by scarves, so no-one got the gist. The gist should be a fluttering, flittering snitch-like ball, and no-one would be allowed a broomstick.

People would get paid per word, but I wouldn't tell them which word it was until well after the relevant issue had gone to print.

If you'd like to apply for a staff job, please state your name and experience in the comments section below. Remember: if you know anything, or have ever done anything, we don't have anything for you at the current time.

3) Title

What will the magazine be called? As I've said, I'm not a fan of the pun-based title. We need something punchy, but not memorable. We want to recreate the concussed, addled haze of a retired prize-fighter. Our name will be on everyone's lips, but immediately washed away by drool.

It should also be difficult to spell.

Slueuve?

I'm just throwing it out there. We'll finalise plans in our first team meeting (which will be conducted underwater).

4) Distribution

We want a traditional business model. No marketing, no online presence, no headquarters. We want our magazine to be in the shops, but not prominently displayed. No supermarkets. That would be crass.

Ideally, we'll be placed in greengrocer's (near the red onions), or in stationery kiosks at the side of the motorway.

5) Price

Fifteen, I think. But we won't give a currency.

***

This project is just getting off the ground, so some of these suggestions are bound to change. In fact, I don't want it to get entirely off the ground. You need to stay partially grounded, even if you're a fictional magazine.

Imagine a pumpkin hoisted by balloons. You only want it to float so much that the belly of the pumpkin is brushing tall grass. If the pumpkin rises above waist-height, you've got yourself a problem.

I'm speaking to my accountant about this on Tuesday, so I'll let you know what she or he says (I have to find an accountant on Monday).

I'm cautiously optimistic. I've already pencilled in the outline of my first editorial and erased it. I have a feeling my readers are going to be pleasantly