Unless a vacancy for a newsreader comes up at Channel 4, comedy is stuck with me
Published 28 August 2008
After appearing at Edinburgh, most performers need reintegrating into society
Tonight is the last night of the Edinburgh Festival. It’s like the last day of school: you empty out your comedy drawer, taking home all your old pens and pencils, and then worry about going to big school.
I would love to be able to tell you the truth about what’s been going on here over the past month, but I’m not in a position to do that just yet. All I can say is that I long for the day when I’ll be allowed to be who I am without having to apologise for it or justify it. My struggle is not being on stage; my struggle is about being allowed to get up on stage.
When I was younger, my parents never wanted me to be a comedian. They said: "You'll never be accepted in show business. It's best to stick to medicine - the NHS can't survive without our lot." But I said no, show business needs a hairy Asian woman asking such profound questions as: "Why is everything in Oxfam made of lambswool or tweed?"
Nowadays, I am an outsider in a world of outsiders. It's like I've gatecrashed the comedy party and I'm standing in this room with everyone staring at me, asking: "Where's your invitation and who invited you?" Some people advise me to keep a low profile and hope nobody will notice I'm there, while others are bitching to the bouncers to have me thrown out.
It takes a while to realise that the host of the party is the paying public, who come back time and time again, and in the face of all this hostility, it's reassuring to know that it is the public who decide whether you stay or whether you go. The bearpit at the front of the stage is mild compared to the bearpit at the back. It's a bit like my parents' garden: the front looks like Alan Titchmarsh's Chelsea Flower Show entry and the back looks like the garden of Fred West.
To be honest, after a month at the festival, I feel there are some people who don’t want me in this business, and if it were legal, they would drive a stake through my heart to get rid of me.
But I don’t have an alternative. Teaching won’t take me back, and no Muslim man wants to marry me now that I’m “damaged goods”, having dabbled in a few jokes and fingered a few white men on the number 38 bus. So, until there’s a vacancy for a newsreader at Channel 4, I’m here to stay.
I wish someone would try to force me into rehab, because I would go go go. There should be mandatory rehabilitation for performers coming back from the Edinburgh Festival. In a way, it's like Belmarsh: you get incarcerated for a month - in my case in an immobile caravan - and now that it's ended I feel like I'm going to need help reintegrating into society. I might have relapses where I start cracking jokes about Wags in the library, or begin doing my Oxfam routine in Harrods.
The most terrifying thing is having to face how your home looks when you've been away for a month. I come home and it feels like living in a doctor's waiting room - NHS, of course. The toilet is dirty, the carpet's got crabs and there's baked beans up the walls.
I managed to buy the last two tickets to see Joan Rivers’s Work in Progress by a Life in Progress. The play is about her life. The gay men and menopausal women near me laughed like mad, cried hysterically, then laughed and cried at the same time, and one woman wet herself (that was me).
Joan swore with panache, using swear words beginning with the letter "c". I tried to imagine my mum doing that, but she's 65 and can't open her mouth without passing wind and her dentures falling out. The play was brilliant and Rivers's story amazing, and it made my struggle seem . . . well, like I need to struggle a bit more.
Seeing her, I felt that while I may have gatecrashed the party, this woman has broken in, supplied all the party poppers and relieved herself in the garden, and is still the only one body-popping on the dance floor.
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