I’m trying to control my breathing and settle the rising feeling of panic in my chest, but I know this game is over. I jump on stage and attempt to mimic the confidence that usually serves me so well. But mimicry of confidence never works. That’s what few people realise – standup comedy is not just about being funny, it’s about being confident. The comic with the best jokes is nothing if his hand is trembling. Equally, a disgustingly confident comic can ace a set with subpar jokes. I’ve been both of these comics.
My reliable showreel of whoppers is evoking titters, at best. I’m thrown, and speed up. My performance is all over the place. I hate it, you hate it, but I’ve got seven more minutes. I flounder and hear my partner loyally laugh from the middle of the room, which only highlights how much I’m bombing.
A flash from the back of the room indicates my set time is over, early, which means it is going as badly as I feared. I fumble, lose my last joke and cannot get off the stage fast enough. My partner squeezes my hand, but I whisper, “It’s OK, I know it was shit.” He tries to spare my feelings, but doesn’t understand I want him to acknowledge it was bad.
Every comedian bombs. With practice, the bombs come fewer and farther between, but they sting more as you progress. The high of several hundred people roaring at your jokes, even at your glib asides, is glorious. To experience the flip side of the coin, just days later, is achingly awful. I sit, not hearing the other acts, and wonder if I should give it up. But my competitiveness kicks in and I become determined to kill it in the next gig.
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