I've often spotted the Red Lion pub on Whitehall from the bus and vaguely thought it would be a good place to run a comedy night. It was always a pretty superficial thought, as I'd never set foot in the place. For all I knew, it might have been one of those miniscule pubs, about the size of a first-time buyer's flat, containing two tables and seven stools, and in which large people have to stand sideways. Then again, I have played a gig in a pub like that (all hail the Nell Gwynne) and it worked. Well, perhaps "worked" is too strong. It happened.
I thought the Red Lion would be a good place for a gig because of its location on the boulevard of power. I liked the idea that it would gain a reputation for bleeding-edge political comedy and that the audience would be entirely made up of spin doctors and special advisers, taking the political temperature of the country, and offering lucrative work to comedy writers. "Hey, I loved your joke about the public sector borrowing requirement - we need someone to write some jokes to pep up the spending review. How about it?"
Turns out I'm too late. Someone's already running a gig at the Red Lion - and as it happens they've booked me for tonight. I put it in the diary with the intention of trying out some new material, but I arrive having not properly planned any. Through sheer force of habit, I ask to go on earlier rather than later, if possible. I also reckon that if I get away at half-time, I'll get to Tesco's before it closes. The bad news for me - and for Tesco's fragile profit margin - is that they want me in the second half.
I decide not to watch the first half. There is a chance that this will be an excellent night, where the small but appreciative audience cackle contentedly at every gag, be it new comedians taking their first steps, or hoarier pros trying out something new. But there is also a chance that the (so far) two audience members might not manage to give the acts the love they need, and the evening's squib might be damp. So rather than run the risk of witnessing this, I decide to protect my chipper mood by retreating to a pizza restaurant.
I spend an hour eating unhealthy food, trying to think of jokes about Prince Harry going to Iraq. At the end of dinner I might have one idea which, if I work on it for a few weeks, could last 10 seconds and raise a titter.
So I go back to the gig, arriving at half-time, which suits me fine. I don't ask how the first half went, so as to keep myself in a positive state of mind. The half-tonne of carbohydrates now circling my system seems to want me to hibernate, but I know I will be able to fight this with adrenaline once I stand up in front of the audience, which is now nothing short of double-figured.
They seem to enjoy my hotchpotch of old ideas and ill-thought-through new ones, all held together with an appropriately postmodern awareness of the shortcomings of the set. Vintage London open-mike circuit performance. I leave on a wave of low expectations fulfilled.
What's more, I notice I also have time to get to Tesco's just before they close. It doesn't get any better than this.
