Week 23: Stand Up Showcase

 


Hi, I’m Jude and I know what you’re thinking: ‘Aren’t I a bit old to be doing comedy.’

No, in all seriousness, it’s good to be out tonight. Nine months is a long time to be in the womb. It’s quite poky in there, not much light, difficult to move around. I can just imagine a London Estate Agent showing someone around: ‘Sorry about the door there- a bit tight. Just going to make our way through the bladder – apologies about the drips: we’ll get someone at maintenance to look at that. Let’s go up into the uterus now. As you can see it’s a very secure property. There are three main walls there: the outer, middle and inner. With cost-of-living you’ll want to keep those energy bills down and with this level of insulation you’ve got every chance. Yes I appreciate it’s cosy at the moment; it might be 7cm to start with, however there's room for extension. Well, why don’t you crawl around. See how it feels.”

Coming out of the womb, it’s terrifying right? Like going from solitary confinement to The Bellagio in Vegas. The lights are intense. Rather than swaddling you in a blanket, they should be putting a pair of Ray-Bans over your eyes. You know I’m right. And that first drive home: how slow do they go? They treat you like they are transporting the most precious cargo, like you’re The Holy Grail, Rosetta Stone and Shakespeare’s signature all rolled into one; then, before you know it you’re one month old, they’re late for work, no time to check the straps - there's something over you, that'll do- they’re going the wrong way down a one way, maiming a sleeping policeman, breaking the land speed record on a residential. And you get there and they take you out of the car so delicately. And you're thinking, "Where was this level of care when you did a handbrake turn to avoid a diversion?"

So I’ve recently discovered smiling. Any of you guys doing that? Yeah, I started last month. Can’t help myself now. I just enjoy it. I like playing a trick on my dad though. Who here likes playing a trick on their dad? Yeah, they’re the best ones to prank. I like smiling at everyone in the room, then when it comes to my dad and he’s all like a kid at Christmas, ready to receive that Xbox he’s been waiting all year for, already playing Call of Duty in his head; well, what I like to do is just ... stop ... smiling. Give him a cold hard Paddington stare, just to shit with him. Then, when he’s really hangdog, down in the doledrums, upset by the slight, I give him a little pick-me-up, a shot of smile, and he’s drunk on me again. You gotta shit with these parents because you know they’re bringing out the baby pictures when we’re older. It’s a pre-emptive strike, guys, I know; but those baby pictures are atom bombs of embarrassment: we’ve got to get in first, otherwise they’re blowing our dignity to kingdom come.

I’ll leave you on this because I’ve been doing this for five minutes and frankly I need a nap. What’s the difference between a baby and Tory MPs: one makes a complete mess and doesn’t clean up after themselves; the other is a baby. Thank you. I’ve been Jude Theivamanoharan. Good night.

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