My compadre and I, both suffering from debilitating back pain, took the questionable decision to drop 100mg of Tramadol each before making the hour-or-so journey up the M42 from Birmingham to Nottingham, and, by the time we hit the sheriff\u2019s town, I, for one, was itching like a \u00a310-bag-a-day-merchant in the waiting room of the man. Prescription drugs, huh? <\/p>\n
Now, I\u2019ve always like Nottingham \u2013 three-girls-to-every-boy, as the nursery rhyme went when I was but a whippersnapper \u2013 and thus the stroll through the town centre towards the venue began as a joy in the unseasonably warm spring evening\u2019s dying rays. Venue located, and bearings nailed, we decided to hunter-gather in search of fish and chips, but our joy, our fun, our seasons in the sun soon turned to conflict. No sooner had we taken our chip and Coca Cola place, seated on a concrete plinth in the centre of a square around the corner from the venue, when our relative peace was shattered by a local Celtic pisshead, intent on sharing his vin blanc with the red-haired-fella with the chips. His breath stank worse than his demeanour, and I stridently refused his offer of swigage, explaining that I had won with my battle-with-the-bottle some time previously, and forcibly, but not aggressively, declined a sup at his paper bag sheathed teat. Thus followed an uncomfortable few minutes when he, at first, congratulated me on my abstinence, indulged in flattery, then stood and wobbled, getting ever-angrier, and started swinging his arms in a threatening manner. I sat my ground and remained unfazed, eventually agreeing to watch his bottle while he bought fish, and, on his return, told him plainly that we were offski. Our parting cuddle was both moving and repulsive, in equal measure. Alcohol, huh? <\/p>\n
The venue was perfect for comedy, and rammed to the proverbial. A single microphone stood centre-stage, next to a table that would soon be plied with alcohol. We took to our seats, and the chap next to me introduced himself, loudly, in a Yorkshire accent. He was, he explained, a massive Doug Stanhope fan. He\u2019d been into him for over ten years, and seemed to snort derisively when I confessed to have only been \u2018into Doug\u2019 for a mere half-decade. He was drinking pints, fast, and his much-younger girlfriend kept disappearing to the bar, keeping him constantly well stocked, and, before long, well oiled. We discussed Doug, and compared Doug DVD stashes. Again, he appeared to snort when I confirmed that No Refunds was the only one I owned, and got even more annoyed when I suggested that Doug fronted a comedic lineage that drew a straight line through Bill Hicks all the way to Lenny Bruce. He declared Nirvana his biggest moment in the history of popular music. If there had been any Doug Stanhope t-shirts, this guy would have had his on over his jacket. By the time I\u2019d asked him how many punters he reckoned were in the house, had calculated how much Doug stood to make, and commented on how comedy sure paid better than rock and roll, it seemed, he was looking down his not inconsiderable nose in my general direction. Obsessives, huh?<\/p>\n
Doug hits the stage to rapturous applause. As per usual, he makes his \u2018not worthy gestures\u2019, knocks back a short, rips into some sad-fuckers filming him on mobile phones, then the rampant rant of invective-filled, stream of consciousness rhetoric commenced. For those of you who know little of Doug Stanhope, he trades in misanthropic deconstructivist nihilism, posing as social commentary, and it\u2019s by far the funniest show in town. He carries a picture of his dead father around in his wallet to show people who insist on showing him pictures of their babies. He asks if anyone in the audience with a big black dick fancies having it photographed across his face so he can show that one to people who approach him to bite him out for his use of the word \u2018faggot\u2019. Inevitably, the heckles begin, and, wouldn\u2019t you know it, Yorky-The-Number-One-Doug-Fan can\u2019t keep his fucking mouth shut. He\u2019s desperate to get involved, the comedic equivalent of chanting the chorus to \u2018Smells Like Teen Spirit\u2019, I guess: \u201cI Love you Doug!\u201d… \u201cAre you sure\u201d, spits back Stanhope, \u201cI don\u2019t believe we\u2019ve been formally introduced, you may hate me!\u201d Fan worship, huh?<\/p>\n
Meanwhile, back at the plot, the laughter is constant. We weep tears of comedic salt, hold bursting sides of splitting gut, resisting the urge to get our jeans as pissed as Yorky Boy, yet beside us, on the other side, sits a young lady who laughs not once throughout the entire show. Obviously, one man\u2019s comedic liberation is another woman\u2019s ambivalence. No target is sacrosanct, no mercy is shown, no quarter given, no punches pulled. Alcohol fuels Doug\u2019s show, and he\u2019s hilariously aware that he is as hopelessly addicted as the poser-addicts he rips so mercilessly during the AA portion of tonight\u2019s set. He claims that whenever he tells his AA mates he\u2019s going to perform sober, they respond with, \u201cNot tonight, I\u2019ve got tickets for the show!\u201d As the show progresses, Doug gets drunker. The shorts go back with regular aplomb, his face ever-redder, words becoming slurred. Doug introduces his closing riff on relationships with the line: \u201cI once fucked a nine-year-old!\u201d Luckily, it transpires, Stanhope was nine-years-old at the time, so paedophilia is something you can\u2019t add to his ever-growing list of socio-comedic crimes. By the time the show closes, it\u2019s hard to work out where Stanhope The Stand-up Comedian ends and Stanhope The Drunk begins. It\u2019s getting hazy… it\u2019s hard to see the join. Alcohol, huh?<\/p>\n