John Ryan - Crackin' Up - Because the mind is important

I often sit with the Comic Voice manager Ian Franklin and throw the names of countries at him. It is my way of trying to get a holiday at the same time as working really.  “What about Tonga, they must have a comedy club there?” I ask “or Mauritius?” He has become more used to me over the years I think. Where most other acts might want to get on to TV I am trying to get a gig in Iceland.. Well, I have never been and it sounds like a nice place and I just want to do different stuff really. He knows that I like a lot of variety in what I do. Just doing the comedy circuit would drive me nuts. Don’t get me wrong, it is great to perform in front of a room full of paying customers in a well run club. But I like a bit of a challenge. He asked if I would be interested in working on a Mental Health project.

“It would be about Depression and Suicide”. I looked at his face to see if he was being serious. There is comedy in tragedy I suppose but sometimes it is hard to find it. How can you make jokes about people wanting to take their own lives?

 
The people funding it hope that by involving some of their service users and creating a show, they can raise awareness of the problems faced by men who have experienced despair. This is a very difficult thing to do, as ‘madness’ is not generally the sort of thing you would talk to strangers about. Men are reluctant to admit to a problem, seek help and receive treatment. I wondered how hard it would be to get fellas to admit to any problems? The manager gave me some leaflets to read. I read some facts about it. ‘Suicide rates are on the increase amongst Young men and it is now the most common cause of death among men under 35’. The woman coordinating the project rang and told me “Around three-quarters of young male suicides never had contact with specialist services”.  I gulped at the thought of trying to make that fact amusing. I wondered how a group would respond to me turning up. What would they be like, would they want to talk and if I am really honest would they be a load of lads rocking back and forward dribbling in straight jackets? I carried on reading the literature. For some reason men from Irish families are more likely to receive treatment than men from other European groups. That struck me as very odd. Being from an Irish family, this immediately grabbed my attention. I realised I had a lot of reading to do if I am to make this work. He said that the people running the project would want me to go along to a preliminary meeting and then maybe try some workshops. If it went well I would then have to write and perform a solo show about it all. I went along to a day centre to see how I could make it work. There was a group sitting around waiting for me. “Welcome to the funny farm we are the nutters how do you do?” A few of them laughed. I must have looked thrown, as one lad said, “Don’t worry we wont start eating light bulbs till you are gone!” I felt very uneasy. “Relax you will soon get used to the place” said the ringleader. And what a place it is. People are referred by the local health service as part of their rehabilitation. All of these lads had suffered a breakdown, a crisis or an episode and they were no different to any of my mates. Carl told me how he had been attacked on the way home from work. Someone cracked him over the head from behind and he remembers a knife being held against his throat. He said that he spent months having flashbacks. This made him unable to go out of the house and was part of his post-traumatic stress disorder. It led to him having depression and anxiety attacks. He lost his job and was now using the centre to get back into the ‘groove’ as he called it. I was mortified. “It means I can’t go to the shops, the wife does that,” he said before adding with a laugh “I can’t do the washing up or the hoovering either!” The kid that robbed him made off with more than just a mobile phone and twenty pounds. Carl lost everything. Peter told me that he had always been a depressive but had managed to control it by working and drinking. When his business collapsed the drinking took over. One night he decided to end it all and made a noose. He wanted to die listening to a particular piece of music playing, went off to get a CD and ended up in the pub. Meeting an old drinking pal prevented his suicide. The lads then decided to have a big conversation about music to kill yourself to. I got the feeling that they were putting a brave face on things but felt I should let them. Kevin started smoking cannabis aged twelve and then moved on to other drugs. By sixteen he was hearing voices and knew that only fire could make them go away. He began burning buildings and is currently serving a custodial sentence that allows him to visit the centre as part of his rehab. I was only meant to stay an hour but ended up there all afternoon. It was a world I knew nothing of. I sat on the train on the way home feeling very humble. These fellas are working on a daily basis to get back on their feet. I am meant to write an hours worth of material and felt that I had heard a lifetimes worth. The mind is a fragile thing, who knows what may happen to any of us. The manager called to ask how I got on. “If you don’t fancy it I can get you the gig in Iceland?” he said. I told him that Iceland could wait. The journey that we all need to take is the one that makes us question ourselves and our attitudes and it is one I shall be taking. The show will be called ‘Crackin Up’ and If nothing else it will make for an interesting experience.

John Ryan on Stage

Big night tonight. The club holds five hundred and they have their senior managers in. The venue manager is stressed and worries about what they might say. I arrive an hour before the gig and count down the minutes. Soon after arriving we hear the words all comics dread. “Sorry but we are running late!” But then they send someone to check you are okay for food and drinks. You don’t get that in a normal day job. I can’t imagine mechanic being told “ere ya go Dave a nice bacon sandwich to make up for the exhaust not arriving”. Most comedians would agree that you can run as late as you like if there is food involved in the compensation. I read through the menu and my stomach cheered. I am sure a nice juicy steak will take my mind off of the clock.
So, we have time to kill and loiter backstage. The dressing room is a funny place. I am like a child waiting to open Xmas presents. I can’t sit still. I try to look like I am focussing on the job in hand.  I am surrounded by the other acts looking professional as they prepare themselves. I try not to annoy people as they all have their own mannerisms and rituals. I have been in dressing rooms with acts that will go through their entire set list with you. Others sit moodily brooding as they prepare to do ‘battle’. I guess we all have our own techniques for preparing.

The headline act sits strumming his guitar and fills the room with gentle music. He looks sharp in his best suit. He spent five minutes cleaning his shoes. He even brought a proper brush and polish. How cool is that. I don’t even own a proper brush and polish. I looked down at my scuffed footwear and wondered how I could clean them discreetly. I am incapable of doing anything discreetly. I make a half hearted attempt at cleaning up before deciding that if I move around the stage really quickly no one will have time to concentrate on my footwear.
Apparently an audience decides within thirty seconds whether or not they like you. It is down to the little things, how you walk on, how you take the mic and what you are wearing. I catch my reflection and decide that I look clean. The other acts appear occupied so I pose in front of the mirror checking myself out. I am at the age now where my hormones seem to only make long nostril hair. I move about to see if they are noticeable and do a twirl. No one is watching as I curtsy. It makes me giggle.
The Opening act reads through her set list and hones her material whilst talking on the phone to her boyfriend, another comic at a gig miles away. “Yeah love you too Bunnykins!” she says. “Bunnykins?” He likes to see himself as a serious political comedian. That could kill his reputation completely!  She licks her top lip smearing her lip-gloss seductively. I try to lick my top lip to see how it feels. I think I might have found a bit of tomato soup and make a “Yummy” sound. She ignores me and looks at the ceiling. I raise my eyes and catch my reflection in the mirror. I think it amusing to poke my tongue out and pull faces. The middle act arrives and catches me grinning at my reflection. “G’day everyone. Hey Ryan you losing the plot pal?” he throws a cushion at me. I catch it and return it immediately, bang direct hit! Unfortunately he stumbles back onto the headliners guitar case. Oops. Musicians do not like having their stuff touched or played with. “It was his fault,” says the Aussie. The headliner is calm but authoritarian. He has been on the circuit for years and we respect his seniority. “You two should save your humour for the stage”.
The opening act tuts, “Men are so childish!” before texting her boyfriend to remind him to take a chicken out of the freezer for dinner. Oh the Glamour. The Aussie goes outside to smoke and the room falls calm. The headliner does his vocal exercises whilst The Opening act reminds her boyfriend to empty his pockets before doing the washing.
Lots of Comics get nervous before a gig. I watch them and wonder what the problem is? For many normal people I suppose the thought of walking out in front of hundreds of people can be a bit daunting. The idea that we presume we can make you laugh is a bit egotistical. But the way I look at it these people have paid money and are out for a good time. No one goes to a comedy club intent on being miserable do they? My compensation steak arrives and I tuck in.
“It’s Showtime in five” the announcement is made and we make our way downstairs. The Opening act is still on the phone. We see the room for the first time. It is packed and the air is charged. Aussie lights another cigarette and inhales deeply.
 I don’t know if my clowning around is my way of dealing with the pressure, but I don’t feel nervous at all. Never have. I have performed in front of thousands and not been phased. Although performing a kid’s show at my children’s school filled me with fear. I know I can muck up on stage and bring it back, but if I goofed in front of my eleven year old daughter’s mates I would never hear the end of it. Now that is pressure.
The Show manager gives us the signal and the music kicks in. The audience start cheering and off we go. There are good jobs, and there are bad jobs. But mine, it’s fantastic! You get to travel, meet people, talk about anything you want and get paid. And you know that no matter what anyone calls you it could be worse. Somewhere in the UK there is a comic who gets  called Bunnykins.

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More of John Ryans’ musings on the world can be found in his weekly columns in the Irish Post.

I am gigging in Edinburgh and have to take a flight. This presents a bit of a problem. I just don’t like flying. Most people will say it is just the taking off and landing that is the problem. Nope, it is being in the air. It isn’t a fear of heights it is a fear of Flying. Even as a child when most kids would be excited about the thought of getting on a plane I would be petrified. It might be because I never got on one until I was twenty one. Whilst kids at school went off to Spain and Greece every year we only went to one place. We always went to Ireland on the Boat from Holyhead or Liverpool. My schoolmates thought it was because we were poor, but it was more sinister than that. We were sent back to Ireland to find a partner to breed with. It was every Irish parents dream that they would have little Irish grand children running around in Celtic football shirts. Like Salmon facing a perilous journey to the breeding grounds, we too had to have an arduous experience on the journey to make it worth while. The boat was the civilised way to travel. On the news there were never stories of ships sinking, only planes crashing and we feared flight! My dad used to wind us up by threatening us with the airport. He would then relent and say “ok you been good we’ll take the boat”.

At school we had the story of Icarus the Greek bloke who flew too close to the sun and melted his wings. He died and that was all the proof I needed that flight was wrong. It was the start of my phobia. Even years later when I read that it gets colder the higher up you go so he couldn’t have melted anything. It merely reconfirmed my belief that the sky is for the birds and lunatics.
So why then am I yet again sitting on an aircraft headed for Scotland with cabin crew looking at me? Do they know I don’t want to be there? Are they like cats that just know I don’t like cats yet still want to stare at me?
How can any sane person work in a job in the air? Why? I couldn’t do it. It is hard enough sitting on the thing. If I am lucky enough to fly with Chambers and Nettleton they will let me hold their hands, Rudi Lickwood isn’t quite as keen on the idea. I go through a ritual starting by staring at the pilot and flight crew to see if they appear happy. I am not getting on a plane driven by someone who appears hungover, depressed or looks like they have debts that a hefty life insurance policy would eradicate. Ours today look okay although the pilot grins manically which means he is either very happy or a big eejit.
At a party a Pilot told me that the crew look for signs in all the passengers to see who might flip mid air. I said I had seen that on every flight I have ever been on. No one else in the room had. Okay so I must be drawing attention to myself and need to appear calmer. I try to be logical and not worry about death, disfigurement or diarrhoea.
Today’s flight is from London City airport and that has my worst combination of variables. The Air Hostess had seen me standing still on the runway “Come on sir you are holding up the passengers”. The Propellers transfixed me. “Where is the real plane with the jet engines?” She laughed. I was being serious. Propellers are for ships. I don’t want to be 10,000 feet up in the air and one of the propellers sees the water and decides he wants to go hang out with his mates. I want jet engines. I want the latest technology not the height of 1930’s innovation. Propellers? It is the 21st century. I don’t want leeches in hospital, horses pulling carts or coal to heat the house. And I don’t want propellers.
Rudi Lickwood grabbed my elbow. “Stop clowning around and get on the plane”. I took a deep breath and walked. The flight is only an hour long. Last month I flew to Barbados. Eight hours. I was petrified. Only one way to get through it, get drunk. So I had some whiskey at the airport. Okay three. The first problem was that I am not a drinking man and so I get pickled very easily. The combination of being tipsy and a having to pass a gadget shop on the way to the departure gate is a lethal combination. I sat on the plane clutching my newly bought toothbrush with MP3 player and compass whilst wearing my torch on a headband. Two great bargains may I add.
The Plane took off late and I prepared to die. I became a small child and after the third “Are we nearly there yet” the Airhostess suggested I find something to do and have a drink.  I relaxed slightly after a couple of small glasses of wine, although I do like a bit of a singsong when I have been drinking. I fought the urge and started reading about Geoff Norcott’s Edinburgh show. Half way through reading it I realised that the wine had killed the fear and the flight wasn’t bad. But then I did something daft and looked out the window. My brain realised that we had tricked it with alcohol and that we were in the air and panic set in. I looked around realising where I was and must have looked distressed as the woman sitting next to me said. “Must be a great writer to get you that emotional”. “No” says I “it is comedy” she looked at me like I had escaped from a clinic. The flight to Edinburgh went okay. I only used the toilet a dozen times so at least I had clean hands.
We landed and I hugged the crew as we got off. “Thank you for not letting me die” says I to bewildered looking stewards.. As soon as we were clear of the terminal I switched my phone on to ring home and tell them I had survived. I instantly received a text from the management here at The Comedy Club “Do you want to go to Hong Kong for a gig”
Hong Kong is 18 hours in the air, my liver couldn’t take the alcohol. Maybe I could take a Slow boat?
Tonight the gig goes well and I am happy, but tomorrow I have to get on a plane home…..

No smell of sea air on the M11, just the stench of diesel and the heat of other drivers tempers on a Friday evening.
I have strategies for dealing with sitting in traffic. I go over my set for the show. I try to think of gigs that have gone well to put me in the right frame of mind. I put the radio on. I never listen to talk shows though as I get caught up in the emotion of it all. I once sat outside a gig for fifteen minutes listening to the end of a talk show. Another act knocked on the window and asked why I hadn’t got out. I explained that I was waiting to see if Andrea from Coventry was going to get back with her boyfriend. He looked confused and walked away. I realised I was becoming fixated with talk radio. Nowadays I listen to upbeat music
It passes the time when I am sitting on the M11 trying to work out if I can go 58 miles in an hour. Course I can.
 It is tempting sometimes to think about taking an early exit and rejoining the motorway later on. But I would have to look at the map and I am a man and that would be a sign of weakness. No, I cannot get help for I am a hunter. Not for me assistance from bits of paper, I can rely on my innate instincts to navigate. I know my ancestors didn’t get about with maps, they used the stars. It is raining on the M11 and the stars have all gone home. Maybe I should think about leaving the motorway?
I ring Rudi Lickwood for advice, on the hands free kit of course. I explain situation and he reminds me that the last time I took a shortcut to avoid traffic I added two hours to a forty-minute journey! Okay I will stay put and be patient.
The Traffic on the M11 is still not moving.
I look at the other drivers and wonder where they are going and why they can’t just move aside as I am clearly more important than them. I want to shout “I have to get through to bring laughter to Cambridge” I don’t think it would stand up in court if I got done for speeding.
Last week I gigged in Liverpool. And there was no traffic, none. I got more and more excited the further up the M1 I went. By the time I arrived I was near hysterical with excitement. But that is in the past and now I am paying for my luck and we move along the M11at about an inch an hour.
 My mind tries to work it out; can I do 25 miles in 45 minutes?
I finally make it to the front of the queue and am greeted by the sight every motorist dreads. Not a car crash. No. Workmen!
As usual the great British Highways Agency worker, a highly inappropriate job title, doing nothing, is causing the traffic jam. They stand on their shovels watching a stream of irate drivers trying to squeeze through tiny gaps amongst traffic cones. I think they give each other points for whoever can cause the longest jams.
I believe comedians as well as the emergency services should be allowed to use the hard shoulder. Maybe us comics could get a flashing light “he haw, he haw, he haw” traffic would have to spread out to let us through.
I get through the roadworks and laugh each time someone gets flashed by a speed camera. Some people are so impatient!
The M11 is behind me. 10 miles in 25 minutes will I make it to the on time?
I got to the gig bang on time and without getting flashed by speed cameras. I walk out on stage and am greeted with “Did you dress in a hurry” the audience laugh. So did I. Not because of the heckle, but because when I looked down I see I am still wearing my slippers. Oh well it will give me something to think about on the way home if I get stuck in traffic.

 

Comic Voice Comedian John Ryan