Why do audiences take themselves so seriously? I could understand if we were trapped at the National Theatre watching Bosnians burying babies, but for fucksake this is comedy and I’m a dick joke teller. It even said ‘comedy’ on the wall behind the stage. Are these seated cunts illiterate? Or just unimpressed? My arm hurt for two weeks.
GT July 2008
Scott Capurro
NEWS FLASH: I’ve discovered a boundary! Usually I value free conversation, like free trade, and I’m capable of at least comically bull-shitting my way through most subjects. Who knew I’d hit a wall in Belsize Park?
Admittedly I was stressed. I’ve returned to the legitimate (my mother’s word) theatre, and that day, I’d dropped my pants twice, in both a matinee and an evening performance of Fucking Men in Earl’s Court. At 9 pm, I rushed to Chalk Farm tube so I could stumble, exhausted, up a slight incline to a posh pub full of checkered shirts and disdain.
Once on stage, I flitted through my impressions of Sheffield homophobes and misogynistic Obama supporters when I noticed that some blond woman had been whispering to her male partner through me ENTIRE act.
Knowing I had a cab waiting to rush me to another gig, I still went to her. I couldn’t help myself, and that’s why I’ll never be content.
“I must punch a lot of your buttons, hon”, note to all: when I say ‘hon’, it’s not good, “cuz for the last 20 minutes you haven’t shut your cunt.”
“You’re boring,” she slurred, in any one of a variety of eastern European accents.
“No, I’m not. I might be annoying, and you’re a lazy, stupid Polish whore who doesn’t get the joke, right?”
“No, you’re just…” I hate redundancy “boring.”
I turned slightly to her male neighbor, and said, “You brought this? Or, sorry, bought this? Have you checked her for worms? Either way, I bet your flat has never been cleaner.”
Then she said, “I don’t have to take this from some fucking queer.”
The room went quiet. But I didn’t.
“Oh, so that’s what this is all about.” I had a glass of water in my hand. Clever me. “I suggest you cool down.” And I pitched the water her way. She was drenched.
But wet or not, the gal could throw, and she quickly retrieved her beer bottle and chucked it my way. I blocked the glass with my arm, now scarred, and my back was soaked with beer.
A battle ensued. The comedy room became a schoolyard, and I was 12. My snotty, sweaty peers were throwing food at me, leaving dissected squids, which made me squeamish, in my parka pockets, telling my girlfriend I was a ‘fag’, poking sticks in my orange, slightly camp bicycle wheel so my bike froze and I flew over the handlebars. The Grouse brothers, both ginger, pinned me down, shouting ‘faggot’ at me as Brian, the taller, spat in my face. I was surrounded, like I used to be in the boy’s toilet, and I felt threatened, but in comedy, I’ve learned to never apologize.
I ran to the window behind her, but I couldn’t open it, because of its fucking 18th century decrepit design, and it must have looked like I planned to toss her out. Actually, I wanted to dump her purse onto the sidewalk two floors below, so she’d have to leave. Instead, I grabbed her black leather and ran back onto the stage. Search it? Unconstitutional. Run with it? I had an act to finish. Which I did, to numbing silence. Some people were walking out, maybe to piss, who knows, and one woman in the front row, dyed black hair and pinched, gave an approving thumbs up to the Pol. Nobody came to my defense.
I know the Brits like to see a fight, especially in a pub, and yes, I’m confrontational, but I was the comic. I was joking, which I’d, almost to the painful point of needling instruction, pointed out. Had I been dark skinned and she’d dropped the n-bomb, the crowd would’ve rioted. However middle class guilt doesn’t extend itself to sexuality.
Obviously gay men are not only the last office joke; we’re also the last people to be openly bullied. Even the homeless get money thrown at them. We get bottles, or worse. And frankly, throw what you like, but don’t call me ‘queer’. That’s my word, our word, like ‘fab’. We’d like that one back too, please.
The show’s host wanted to continue with the evening. I protested, and the lovely barmaid walked the ‘lady’ out, who stared menacingly, as I collected my 80 pounds and dashed off to Crouch End, for more verbal abuse, because the show biz glamour never ends. Luckily, I took the later show much less seriously. And the chatty females played along, flirting, giggling, matching my charm.
Please include:
Scott Capurro will be delving, barking and biting in Scott Capurro Goes Deeper at the Edinburgh Fringe, August 1 - 25, Underbelly Venue, 9:15 pm
