Originally published on Panic Dots.

My first mistake was drinking the leftover beer in the fridge without eating. It’s not my fault, I asked my wife if I should have a beer, and she told me I deserved one. Who was I to say she was wrong? As my head swelled around me, I remembered the Jamaican lamb patty I’d been saving for lunch on Monday. I attacked it, cold, short crust pastry taking residence in my beard like a swarm of delicious head lice. I had less than 2 hours to get to the crawl, and I still wasn’t sure of the line up schedule. Cue a quick email to the PR company, and – hey presto! – one line up pdf.

I leave the house and meet my first obstacle. A gaggle of Londoners without the foresight to check TFL before setting off on their journey, blocking my path to the ticket gates. In an age where even Mount Everest has 3G and Wireless hotspots, this never fails to make my blood boil. Especially when it results in me missing my train. Despite the initial setback, I make it to the media call early – and it’s complete chaos. The beer garden of The Black Cap is filled to breaking point with cameramen, soundmen, and people mooching around waiting for Rich Fulcher and Tiernan Douieb to turn up. I mistakenly thought this would be set up as a press conference – turns out everyone’s jockeying for a brief one on one interview with the two comedians. I spend half an hour inside the pub, watching footage from the Royal wedding on a loop, with shots of a crowd who are STILL gathered outside Buckingham Palace (seriously, have they nowhere better to go on a sunny Saturday?), then decide to pull the rip-cord, and spend the next two hours wandering the streets of Camden, looking at stereo equipment, and taking residence with the local winos on the bench by the memorial at Mornington Crescent tube station. When the sun becomes a little too overbearing, I scope out a small park in the shade and sit on a bench. After 15 minutes I’m pretty sure I’ve contracted hepatitis by osmosis – this is not a clean park. Why didn’t I bring beer? I have no money until my wife turns up, and a thirst growing.

It’s time to kick this festival off – my wife and my friend Rich have turned up and the first stop is the Hope and Anchor. There’s no comedy yet according to the schedule (which as it turns out, isn’t the case – the comedy started at 2, but no one knows about it), so we’re lining our stomachs with lager. Over the course of the conversation I find out that Rich has started compiling a list of things he says that he knows will annoy me: Anything with finger quotes, Starting any sentence “Speaking as a journalist”. The man knows me far too well, and I’m quite flattered that my over the top displays of annoyance have inspired the people around me to alter their behaviour.

Camden, as always, is filled with my two of my least favourite sub-cultures: hipsters and tourists. This weekend has seen the appearance of a new hybrid group – the hipster-tourist. My soul shudders within my black cynical heart. There’s also a couple of interesting fashion choices on display this weekend – white patterned tights and torn leggings. One makes the wearer look like a burns victim, the other like an assault survivor. Both are worn in abundance this Saturday.

7pm Lock 17

We arrive slightly late, but it doesn’t seem to have mattered. There’s hardly a crowd, and it’s not even clear that this is the right venue. There’s a lonely mic stand stood in front of the smattering of people, but no comedians, and the bar staff aren’t even sure if anything’s happening this evening. This doesn’t fill me with much confidence. I head to the toilets quickly before it all kicks off, and get accosted by a toilet attendant as I try to leave. He hands me a towel, and gives me a sarcy “thank you” when I don’t leave him a tip. I tell him I’m not in the habit of taking my wallet with me to the bathroom. While I’ve been away, my wife has discovered a discarded thong underneath the venue’s fire extinguisher. It’s only half past seven. The back-story behind that lone, crumpled piece of lingerie would probably outsell the whole collection of Jordan’s autobiographies.

I’ve spotted Adam Bloom, the first scheduled act, and Brendon Burns, the compere, outside having a cigarette. They don’t look like they’re in the best of moods – and who can blame them. The stage looks like it was thrown together in a matter of seconds, and there’s no lighting to speak of. I’ve moved on to vodka and Red Bull. This could get interesting.

I realise we are dangerously close to the front of the stage, and the start of the festival. Burns comes on to muted applause, and the grumpy ramblings of whom I can only assume is another journalist. He’s called Brian, and he’s upset the show is running 40 mins late. Never one to resist a challenge, Brendon Burns harangues the man until he breaks a smile. It’s actually a great start to the evening, and breaks the tension that’s been building up. It’s nice to hear some of Burns’ new material, including an extended skit on why New York is one of the worst cities he’s ever visited and why he doesn’t really get on with their comedians, or their undeserved sense of superiority. Then it’s time for Adam Bloom.

Adam Bloom

Adam grabs the crowd immediately, assaulting them with a relentless barrage of jokes that barely give the crowd a chance to catch their breath. The crowd’s getting a lot more into it now, and it starts to really feel like a comedy festival. Then it happens. One of the haircutted buffoons decides to shout out “rape”, in what I can only assume is his attempt at a heckle. Not one to be put off, Bloom takes it in his stride, confronts the heckler, then dedicates a huge portion of his set to rape jokes, mostly focused directly at the heckler. It’s genius. This isn’t the easiest of crowds, and Adam Bloom has completely won us over. There is an awkward moment when he looks directly at me and proclaims, “I know you! How do I know you?” I tell him we have a mutual friend. This depresses him, as he now reckons he recognises more audience members than audience members recognise him. He has a very post modern twist on his set (for want of a better description), and his ability to deconstruct his jokes, while keeping the audience’s attention is a wonder to watch. He also uses the space of the venue to great effect, refusing to stay cooped up in the oppressive corner the organisers have laid out in a pathetic attempt at creating a stage, and branching out into the middle of the crowd, playing his set in the round. Towards the end, the heckler tries to pipe up again. Everyone ignores him.

Sean Hughes

An aged, greying, overweight man heads up to the mic. To my horror, I realise it’s Sean Hughes (he’d been scheduled for later in the evening). The years have not been kind to this man. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him either on the circuit or on television – which is odd. In the 90s, he was one of the best things about Nevermind the Buzzcocks, and Sean’s Show will always be one of my fond memories of British comedy in its prime. He notices me scribbling in my notebook, and asks me what I’m writing.

I tell him I’m reviewing him.

He asks me who for?

I tell him the Northern Irish website, Panic Dots.

He replies, “Never fucking heard of you”.

It’s an odd way to open the act – there was no reason to start off in the negative, and I can’t help but feel it’s affected the crowd’s response. A lot of his material falls flat, and he comes across like an embarrassing relative who’s had a couple too many at a family gathering, who insists on regaling anyone who’ll listen with a lame collection of observations about the ageing process (hair loss – check, impotence – check, inability to drink as much – check) under the misguided notion that they’re hilarious. Unfortunately, the crowd doesn’t seem to think so.

I should have told him I worked for Michael McIntyre.

It gets so bad, that we decide to try and make a break for it during his set, only to have Brendon Burns sit directly beside us, blocking our path to the exit. I don’t know if this was coincidence, or a well-known compere trick to ensure the audience stay put. All I know is that it makes a mildly uncomfortable situation into a complete and utter mind fuck. Both comedians start to get visually and vocally agitated at the lack of stage lighting in the venue. I doubt we’ll be returning to Lock 17 over the course of the festival – it has an odd atmosphere. Red Bull may have been a bad idea.

9pm – 11pm Belushi’s

We eventually escape the venue, and make our way to the other end of Camden for Belushi’s, and the Fat Tuesday’s/Old Rope stage.

We walk in just as Tiernan Douieb is introducing Nish Kumar. Halfway through his intro, he beckons the crowd to take the front row. Never ones to back away from a challenge, we saunter up to the comfy couch, and take our seats. There’s some banter about my beard, – which is friendly: Tiernan is a man who appreciates facial hair – and then we settle down for the evening.

Now, I must warn you. At this point, I had consumed at least 8 drinks in the past 4 hours, most of which were mixed with Red Bull. I am labouring under the common misapprehension that I am stone cold sober, when in fact a single drop of my blood could probably kill a herd of wild African elephants. I don’t know why I feel the need to specify the elephants be wild, but I get the impression that those tame zoo elephants have a lot of time on their hands, and have probably discovered the joys of mid afternoon drinking to soak away the boredom. My notes at this point have become sporadic and nonsensical – plus, because I’m sat at the front, I feel a bit awkward writing anything in full view of the acts. The last thing I want is another Sean Hughes fiasco.

Nish Kumar

The overall theme of this festival so far seems to be technical difficulties. The acts are overcoming this with great aplomb, but it’s still hard to ignore that the people who have put this together may not have fully understood that you need more than just a mic and a stage to put on a comedy gig. It becomes so prevalent, that Nish Kumar‘s set becomes an extended sound check. To give the man credit, it’s absolutely hilarious, and he keeps the audience on side throughout, creating a strange blitz like spirit, where everybody feels like they’re in this together. The crowd even start to help out, shouting out when he becomes inaudible, so he can work out the best place to position his mic. He couldn’t have planned it any better.

Bethany Black

This doesn’t happen all that often, but as soon as Bethany Black takes to the stage, I know I’m going to like her. By her own admission she looks like the bastard child of Marilyn Manson, and Harry Potter, and there’s something about her presence that is completely mesmerising. I’m a bit of a sucker for the goth look (as my wife well knows) but it’s not just that – there’s an air of self-deprecation about her that creates an instant rapport with the audience. She’s not above shocking the crowd either. It would turn out that over the course of the weekend we’d see her act 3 times, and each time the tales she told were just as effective. I will never be able to look at a strawberry, or a Muller fruit corner, again in quite the same way. If you like your comedy dark and blue, she is a must see. Arguably the best act I saw all weekend, and a lovely person to boot.

Kent Valentine

Who’d have thought, an Australian comedian in London? Next they’ll be working behind the bar (sorry – too easy). Kent Valentine puts on a great show, and has truly experienced everything our wonderful culture has to offer, including our delightful street theatre – or, as it’s more traditionally known, random acts of violence. It takes a big man to admit he’s had the ever-living crap beaten out of him first thing in the morning outside of a Bristol library, especially when the temptation is to “sex up” the details. Kent does not. He knows he can’t fight, and informs the audience, in great detail, just how badly he is able to get beaten. God bless the man for wanting to stay in this country – God knows I wouldn’t.

Hal Cruttenden

The last act of the night is another change to the schedule. Hal Cruttenden has taken over Phil Nichol‘s slot. This is a shame – I was very much looking forward to seeing Phil‘s show, and wanted to meet him in person after our phone interview. I never manage to find out what happened to him, but I soon warm to Hal‘s deliciously camp style. To allow you to gauge just how camp the man is, despite being married with two children, his mother still won’t accept he’s straight. He shares this with all of us, and it makes me like him even more. At one point he turns his attention to our little group, my wife and I sat on either side of my friend Rich (who is wearing a sailor shirt). He asks us if we are married – we say yes – he asks who the person in between us is. In my drunken overconfidence, I proclaim that he is my hetero life partner. I doubt Rich will ever forgive me, as it resulted in Cruttenden shifting his attention from me, to the overt and obvious campness of my very straight friend. Rich hadn’t even said anything. He was just sitting there, being camp, in a sailor top. Hal tore him to pieces and it was hilarious.

Aftermath

Tiernan wraps up the night, and drops a clanger of info that chills me to the very bone – the comedy kicks off at 2pm on Sunday.

Now, all the info I have received has led me to believe that the Crawl kicks off at 7pm. I was banking on this. Had I known this to be the case, I certainly wouldn’t have drunk as much as I have. You could bottle my saliva and sell it as Red Bull and vodka shooters at this point. To make matters worse – the two hours I had spent earlier in the day milling around Camden, could have spent watching comedy. It turns out the comedy started at 2pm today as well. This rather important titbit of information appears nowhere on the official Comedy Crawl website. So If I don’t know, I doubt any of the crowd knows. It’s a puzzling marketing ploy, and I wonder if it’s been completely effective. But, anyway – let’s worry about tomorrow when it arrives. All I want to do now is hide under a duvet until it’s time to go to Camden again.

NOTE: Rich spent the night pondering his campness, and whether it was really that prominent. He did this while hugging a pillow on the couch, face buried in the soft down. He admits, his pose answered the question for him.

NOTE 2: After consuming enough Red Bull to keep me awake until 4am, and making me gurn like an Ibizan DJ, I have come to the conclusion that the only difference between energy drinks and Cocaine is that NO ONE has been surrounded by a group shallow and vacuous “pretty” friends just because they have a crate of Red Bull at home.