Somebody's done their research... (Hey, I like this guy!)

Sundays are well-known for being lazy, drawn out, finding it hard to do anything and generally seeming the longest day of the week. This was especially true last sunday at the BBC Blackstaff House during the Find Me The Funny auditions. Although there were a few delights to be had.

Much of the day, starting at 10am (well, I say "started", due to the huge number of applicants, a two hour wait ensued before we even got into the building) and ending at 1am, consisted of waiting around. Ad nauseum. Which was nobody's fault I suppose, such is television I'd imagine.

For the first eight hours (which was how long it took for me to get to do my initial audition) there was a lot of jollification, chat, piss-taking, bitching at the BBC and clandestine trips to The Crown to keep our spirits up and general standing about amongst most of the regular amateur comedic scene, as well as people new to the world of comedy.

Eventually when I was seen to in the studio, I was faced by Kurtis Matthews (the main judge; American comedian, toured with Bill Hicks, Jim Carrey etc), a comedy director and (worringly) a runner-up from another reality show. Both their names escape me. They sat behind a bizarre edam-sized, shaped and coloured desk which didn't look as if it could fit all three behind it, but somehow did.

I answered a few basic questions and did my prepared material which included a few of my comedic haikus. Which was fine, then, they produced some of my other writings. Namely this blog. Specifically the entry (not long ago) where I slated the show. The very show I was on at that moment in time. It was surreal enough with them behind their edam slice, the bright lights, the white set, cameras in my face, without one of the judges who partially decided whether I went to Edinburgh this summer scott-free, reading my blog out loud, word for word, with special emphasis on the word "cunts"; which as Simon Cowell Angry he was being, seemed to especially relish saying, repeatedly. I thought I was having a particularly spiteful out of body experience.

Expecting me to walk out/cry/shite myself (as I later found out) I instead opted to argue my point, which I won't repeat here as most of it is in the entry anyway. In the end, they more or less went "fair enough" and let me through to the next round. Which I thought was fair enough too.

Anyway, after the first round a healthy number of people were culled, one of which, a particularly dramatic and "WOW FUCK, LOOK AT MY QUIRKY DRESS STYLE AND COOKY ATTITUDE" type of borefuck person exclaimed to many as he was leaving, "Hmph! Too good for this!". Yeah, see you later, mate. A workshop/exercise took place (9:00pm), with half writing punchlines based around one feed-line and the other half (the poor sods) doing improv comedy with props. Thankfully I was in the punchline group.

I say "thankfully", but I rarely write punchlines. I almost sort of hate them. Most are horribly obvious. Instead my routines are a sort of monologue and kind of ramble on...

However, I was vaguely pleased with a good few of them, and did the next round with a feeling of extreme exhaustion (it was around 11pm at this stage) and cautious optimism. I was going to share the list here just for the sake of it, but I used them at The Pavilion the night after, and it went well, so I'm keeping the one decent bit of new material for live performances, tough luck.*

Then back downstairs in the holding pen (11:20pm), cabin fever had set in to the extreme. The remaining contestants were either getting incredibly tetchy or bouncing off the walls. I went through phases of both of these. One moment I was joining friends in making the telephone sockets on the walls talk and faux vomit using our fingers and another moment I was loudly and irritably bitching in the vague direction of the BBC staff. Who seemed to feel very much the same (and in retrospect took our tirades in very good nature).

Ultimately, I got a "no" when it came to the crunch (12:45am). But Kurtis did say some flabbergastingly complimentary things, which I won't repeat here as it'll just look as if I'm polishing my own pole. All this even though I called them "cunts" publicly before I even turned up.

All the best to the folk I know and met throughout the day who got through. Least of all Stacey Mead and Scott Calinco who are supposed to be headlining the Alternative 4th of July at Safehouse Arts Space this saturday because, well, they're American. However, they're supposedly filming solid from friday to sunday this week, so it screws the gig up. Their names are on the flyers and everything.

Perhaps the BBC will let them off for an hour or two to do it. And maybe bring a camera crew. And Kurtis too; he's American as well. He'll enjoy it. Do it. I know you're reading this thing anyway, you sleuths.

Anyway, in he meantime, I'll just leave this picture here. The folk who were held prisoner for 14 hours throughout the day will appreciate it.



* The feed-line is "My grandfather died a peaceful death in his sleep..." if anyone wants to comment with their best efforts. Which I promise not to steal, because when you're left in a room for over an hour with that to do, you tend to whittle through them fairly quickly.