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…but I’m gonna.
You remember I won two tickets to a comedy night? I went. Friday. The day the comedy died.
I learned that Stockport County/Sale’s ground, Edgeley Park, has been hosting regular comedy nights for at least one week. Tickets are £15 per head, for buffet, comedy, disco.
That’s what they claimed, anyway.
It started at seven, prompt. We got there at seven, prompt. Apparently, we were the only people in Stockport who understood the concept of ‘prompt’. We were the only people in that room for almost forty-five minutes, apart from the dj (still setting up), MC (still setting up) and bar staff (they were ready, of course).
We were amongst ten winners of the competition, courtesy of ImagineFM, and we had a table to ourselves. The winners, that is. Except, none of the other winners showed up. We – the Hub and I – had a table for ten to ourselves. Talk about Billy and Betty No Mates.
By eight o’clock the dj, at least, was ready. He had asked for requests when it was just us in the room; we said anything from the Eighties, and he gave us everything from the Eighties. That kept us there until the food arrived.
Ah, the food. What is your idea of a buffet? A varied selection of edibles, savoury and sweet? Mine too. Try chicken curry and vegetable curry with naan bread. I did; the Hub didn’t; he dislikes curry. There was nothing else. No puddings. N.o. p.u.d.d.i.n.g.s. No puddings. Can you believe there were no puddings? Unless you count the organiser.
By this time it was eight-thirty and the Hub, who really does love me very much, had accepted there was no way he was going to catch the England game now. We spend most of our days together so we had exhausted our conversation by seven-ten. It was time to bring out the pen and paper. There we were, out for the first time in maybe sixteen years on a Friday night, playing hangman.
My first one for him was: This is a shambles of a night out, which he got without even one stick of the hangman’s gallows; and without playing it the proper way, starting with the vowels. Freak. His first one for me was: Bollocks. Who can blame him? He loves me enough to give up an England game. But not enough to give up a City game, I’m betting.
At last the comedy started. The Hub told me to write down the names of the advertised up-and-coming stars of comedy, in case they were famous one day. That was a waste of good ink. The MC arrived in a smart shirt and trousers but changed into quasi-lumberjack gear. He was amusing in parts; claimed he was a mental health nurse by trade; and made fun of his patients. Not funny. Though it was fun to watch him at a loss for words when he asked if we were all having a good time, Yes! (the half-cut audience; not us); and wasn’t the food great? No! (the half-cut audience and us). Once he’d caught his breath he asked why? No puddings! was the universal cry. This was a northern English audience, after all.
The warm-up act was so Irish, the few words I could make out all seemed to be the same: feckin’; though he was the funniest of the lot, particularly when he heckled the audience before they could heckle him.
The headline act should have hung his headline in shame. Not funny, not funny, not funny. We seemed to be the only people who felt that way, however, as the whole-cut audience were screaming with laughter at…well, you tell me; I have no recollection of anything he said between nervous gulps of his ale. Each of those gulps necessitated a long walk to the windowsill where he kept his glass, and back to the floor. That’s how he stretched thin material even thinner; he had maybe five minutes’ worth of ‘jokes’ in a twenty-minute slot. To add to his sins, he gave out the final England score, making the Hub’s taping of the match a waste of time.
We didn’t hang around for the disco. My verdict: thanks, ImagineFM, but Edgeley Park really shouldn’t do comedy. Ever.
The Laughing Housewife 
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