Dealing with hecklers is part of the job. Photograph: George Konig/Hulton Archive
When talking to non-comedians about comedy, the question I get asked most often is, "How do you deal with hecklers?" It's actually quite a small part of the job, but it fascinates the layman. When I meet a fireman, I'm sure I'd probably ask something about sliding down the pole, which surely makes me endlessly more annoying than my questioners.
(A family friend, who's a fireman, was once on TV being asked about his work. The TV presenter, fearless of cliché, gravitated towards the pole, and asked if they really slide down it when the alarm goes off. "Only if we're upstairs," he replied.)
Tonight I'm at East Dulwich Comedy - so called because it used to be in East Dulwich. The owners of the East Dulwich pub turned the upstairs room into a restaurant and kicked out the comedy. So the promoters relocated, but took the long-established name with them. They could now call it Forest Hill Comedy, I suppose.
Tonight's compere, who is excellent, tries manfully to get the audience to find their fun side, but they are stubbornly reluctant to play. I am grateful to be just one of the acts this evening. At least I can go on, tell 20 minutes of jokes, and get off. This is not an evening for freewheeling improvisation. Tonight, I feel, I am more artisan than visionary.
But surprisingly, about halfway through my set, someone decides to contribute. Not with the usual "Oi!", expletive or unintelligible noise (hecklers are not often the room's soberest occupants) but with a single word: "Interestingly," he begins. And that's as far as he gets. Hecklers should only contribute if they are going to add to the comedy - if you don't get a laugh, you've wasted everyone's time. I'm disinclined to believe that a contribution starting with "Interestingly," is going to end with chuckles. As I prevent him from making his interesting point (observing that the show's title "East Dulwich Comedy" might shortly be inaccurate in every regard) he protests that he is being "serious".
Yes, I admit, comedy can be serious and interesting. But just for that moment, I chose to pretend that it can't. The audience had bought tickets for a comedy night and, however interesting and/or serious his contribution, it was unlikely to be funny. The rest of the room, bless them, sided with me.
A few minutes later, by way of proving that self-importance is contagious, we have a second contributor. I am giving an amusing definition of the sexual practice of "cottaging". A definition is useful for a small proportion of people unfamiliar with the word. More importantly, the definition needs to be amusing, so as not to bore the majority who do know it. She interrupts this by saying, "I think we all know - we are from London, you know."
Such baseless purporting to speak for the majority - in this case not just the majority of this audience, but this audience unanimously - is something I find particularly objectionable. I admit I turned against her for the same reason I find it hard to read the Daily Mail.
So, for the first time in my career, I tell an audience member that she is banned from listening to the next joke, as it is a particularly funny one, and she simply does not deserve it. I wonder if it'll be the last time.
