The Last Dance

Working in Aged Care is like being a doorman at a really unpopular but always pumping nightclub. The music sucks, the toilets stink, drugs are rife and everyone is hard of hearing.  The great exception is when it’s time for people to go home you don’t kick them out you hold their hand. I was never good at this part.

When I lost my first friend his last words to me were, ‘Can you stop doing that? It’s annoying.’ There’s a bad day at the office. ‘What did you get up to today honey?’ I pissed off a guy who was being eaten alive by cancer. And you? I was young and didn’t know about the simplicity of holding a hand. Instead I chose to rub his leg until the lump in my throat cut off my oxygen supply. I nearly passed out on his colostomy bag. The first rule of being an Aged Care doorman; don’t pass out on a colostomy bag. I’ve also gone the other way and tried to feel nothing. I once had the audacity to wonder out loud what kind of chocolates the family would bring me as a reward for my efforts. There’s some witty office banter. ‘I hope I get a novelty sized Toblerone. Kevin was nothing short of hard work.’ Can you smell the humility? This bullshit bravado acts as a shield for a while but has a tendency to fall apart, usually when you least expect it. For me it was when I was buying toothpaste. ‘Check out that guy, he’s crying over Colgate, what a weirdo.’ Did Kevin ever stab you in the head with a toothbrush? No! You weren’t there man! Now can I have aisle three to myself for a while please?’ The truth is it’s not their demise that hurts but the reality of your own.

No one ever really thinks about their last dance. The egotistical amongst us speculate about our final words like they may provide the world with some deep meaning. ‘And then she said ‘caterpillar’ and it all made sense.’ Really? Unless your final hard fought mutterings come with a movie, your rosebud moment will get caught up in the bag they wrap you in. And the planning of anything beyond your life is nice and sweet like the biscuits you want people to eat when they chat about who you were as a person, but it won’t help you when the moment arrives. What moment? I don’t know. I’ve never been there. But here is a brief description of a good one.

He outlived two world wars and the countless others they put on to prevent the third. He started with a horse and cart and saw humanity park it on the moon. He was humble, funny and light. He had the strength to refuse his pills and I liked that. He loved his tea but he didn’t want his dinner and I liked that too. I knew what he wanted and he was getting it. The cheeky smile became focussed and then he turned away from his favourite drink.  His feet got cold, his eyes rolled back and his family came in.  I held his hand. That night he danced his final dance to his own beat and from all accounts his return home was beautiful.

The next day I was thrilled and had to explain to Lady Wife that I picked it. I called the family in at the right time. ‘You see sometimes you call them in and they don’t die for a week. It’s embarrassing.’ Unless you work in the field you’ll never really appreciate that conversation. As a Doorman I was happy that it all went well and I hadn’t been affected, but then I turned on the news and realised that the indescribable moment that you have to live through to die well has a lot to do with luck. 

Not angry just really disappointed.

I used to work as a disability carer because for a while there I was all heart and no education.  I enjoyed my time and met a lot of inspiring people & a few annoying ones.  On the positive, I once saw a lady with one arm and no legs pull herself out of bed, slide into a wheel chair, roll into the kitchen and make herself toast with jam. My first thought was ‘She’s doing her own condiments, I might be out of a job here.’ We’re talking lids, knives, undoing that plastic bread clip. It was an impressive display of chin work.  My second thought was, ‘Why isn’t this woman running the country? Clearly she’s a problem solver.’ Initially it was a wise crack for my mind only, but now I’m certain it will be asked en mass by those of us tired by the current heightened state of affairs.

We seem intent on getting tall able-bodied men to lead us, somehow believing height equals intelligence and strength. Every time it’s a tall guy sprouting the same rubbish. He gets ousted and we get another tall guy. I’m six foot three and I’m telling you, it’s bullshit, we’re morons. I’m basing that on no scientific evidence. Why? I’m a tall moron and that’s what we do. But as a tall man I will suggest that we put our prejudices aside and start allowing space for the more oddly shaped movers and shakers of the world, because they’d make fine leaders. 

First up, Minister for Communication: Someone with a heavy dose of cerebral palsy. I’ve met several folks with this condition and they’ve all been as smart as a whip. Talking to them is a pleasure as when you finally understand what they’re saying you realise it’s never rubbish. Every word counts. And wouldn’t we love to see journalists (I use that word like they still exist) have to pause and listen before realising they’re being told to bugger off.

 I’d like to see a legless man run finances. When your economy has no legs who better to run it? Actually anyone who can survive and prosper on a disability pension would be more than qualified for the position.

Minister for Policing: Someone with just enough autism to get the job done. I once had to help out a young man who was on the spectrum and wheel chair bound. Nothing got past this guy. You don’t know guilt until someone wheels up to you and says, ‘Adam, I know you steal biscuits.’ How did he know? The pantry door was shut! There was no noisy wrapping. I chewed with my mouth closed & covered it with a scarf. I was muffled! ‘I’m not angry I’m just really disappointed.’ As he wheeled himself out of the kitchen with his head shaking from side to side, I genuinely wanted to call my mum. There’d be no sweeping corruption under the carpet with this guy in your cabinet.  

I’d like to see the Minister for Defence be someone who has stepped on a landmine and survived. Our troops might not be sent to troubled zones if the person doing the sending is at least experiencing phantom pain.

The big job: I’d like to see a party leader who appreciates freedom, demonstrates compassion, someone who knows how to overcome adversity, a person who takes what they’re given and makes the most of it. Now I’m sure many people qualify for this position but I want the person most qualified and even a moron knows, they are probably not tall. 

Memory is a funny thing.

I was reminded last night by the very funny Robert White that back in '04 I did a gig holding a pool cue and waving it around at the out of control audience who, if my memory serves me correctly, didn't know comedy was on and didn't like that I was blocking the view of the cigarette machine. I vaguely remember grabbing the pool cue and shaking it whilst doing my gags because I was legitimately scared. Who knows maybe I thought the night needed it. I needed it.
The gig was so poorly promoted & run that, in hindsight, this made it the funniest aspect of the night.  The humour of which must have only be appreciated on the train home. Surely? I even remember hearing later that the headliner decided not to get up as the gig was such a shambles. It was no lights, no microphone bad. I like to think that the headliner was Lewis Schaffer but it may not have been. It's cooler if it was. It's all very vague. What I didn't remember, because up until last night I didn't know, was that the gig was held at a BNP pub!  Robert, who has aspergers and a memory for these things, suggests the gig may have been a lot worse and more dangerous than my memory lets me believe. How did this conversation come about? After not seeing each other for 8 years we met at a gig & had that moment of recognition before Robert smiled and said, 'Pool Cue.' What I like about this story is that my memory of Robert involves a gig in Crouch End where afterwards, we were both standing by the side of the road watching an old man drive his car up a hill completely unaware that one tyre was missing and sparks were showering the traffic behind. The poor guy kept driving with two hands on the wheel, eyes forward, wonderfully oblivious to the lack of tyre and the fact that his night time visual would be trumped by an obscured cigarette machine. 

Resurrection in the park.

I tell Boy Son that they’re simply called “Trees” knowing that greater men have walked this path and reeled off names like Almus Hybrid and Snowdrop and Flatspine Prickly*. I bet they had excellent posture and puffed on pipes whilst quoting Kipling. The leaves however, they’re just leaves & I take comfort in knowing that any man who deviated from this easiest of descriptions must’ve been an absolute wibberwasher**.  We push on. The yelling and thrilling of molly coddled children plays softly in the foreground as my boots squelch to the rhythm of avoiding puddles. I’m the forgotten warrior of the park, the man whose DNA once punched out a Yak but I’ve boiled down to sipping lattes whilst side stepping my own reflection. My DNA’s latest resurrection is having none of this and decides to chant at the nameless trees, throwing dirt into their face before running around each one, three times apiece. I secretly hope this crowd gathering ritual will unlock a tree Genie who’s been waiting for this exact pattern to unfold. ‘Finally I’m free! Thank you little boy. I thought the spell was broken last week but the little fucker only ran around twice… Not to worry, I’m yours forever. Lets grab dad and head to India. I’ve got a score to settle. To the spices!’ I squinted my eyes and crossed my fingers, hoping against hope that the oncoming floppy eared fuzz ball was in fact Mr Tree Genie himself. This was stupid and I had to unpack my mind bags. India would have to wait. Embarrassingly the futility of my squinting was highlighted by the sound of steamed up piss falling on my pram. But oh how we all laughed… ‘The dog pissed on the man’s pram… the inappropriateness of it all, that’s what makes it so amusing. Wibber, wibber wibber.’ I shot them all with my mind vibes and they vaporised into the kind of dust that only gathers onto broken dreams. Suckers. I sipped my latte and pushed on.

Boy Son opened the gate and stood mesmerised as fragments of the future ran around shooting each other with sticks. I laughed at the realities of playground war; A twenty second ban if you’re wounded, thirty if you die, forty if you die near family. These rules played underneath a far more depressing conversation, ‘Darling not too close to the edge you might fall.’ My parents would introduce me to the weekend by firing me out of a cannon with half an apple and a slap on the arse yet still, I’m a pale reflection of a Yak Puncher. Today’s darlings are shot well before they can strap on their boots.

Up he climbed and down he slid for long enough so that I might be considered a decent father. It’s 12 parts love and adoration, 3 parts stifling boredom and 6 parts hiding the 3 parts. Today I did it well. Tomorrow I don’t know? He may want details.

*Derived solely from Google; may not be the trees in my park.

** Wibberwashers are jowly grown ups possessing no sense of humour and often they sound like overly serious washing machines. 

So let me tell you about my week…

Context: When your wife is pregnant, as mine recently was, you lose testosterone so that you don’t beat her*. This may be controversial and I have no science to back it up but I have mentioned it at barbecues and it seems to hold up around salad. My testosterone is now bouncing back. But due to Lady Wife’s unfortunate C Section I’m house bound until she is strong enough to lift more than a baby.  Also, to add spice, I’ve spent the last 9 months trying to find the perfect segue between what my wife is talking about and convincing her to touch my penis. 

 I’m walking up the road on my way to buy cupcakes and my inner monologue is furious. ‘Cupcakes! Cupcakes!  I must be the only inner monologue bitching about cupcakes. ’ And so it went.  Meanwhile Lady Wife was talking about curtains. Not meanwhile back at home meanwhile, but rather, meanwhile by my side meanwhile. In context to banter about curtains, this is the worst kind of meanwhile.  (Curtains. Curtain rod. Emphasise rod and then look at your penis.  Avoid eye roll. Repeat.) The cherry: I’m pushing a pram with two kids in it. The kids are mine, they’re both under two and they’re just screaming ‘Be responsible dad! It’s embarrassing that you only have £13.25 in your bank account. Stop thumbing your cock during the day and get out there and bring home a slice of normal, at least until we get blinds. Step up and be a man dad.’ I love them but they’re little psychological bandits who know how to push my buttons.

I’m in the boutique cupcake shop, we’re buying some for the neighbours who helped with Boy Son during the birth of Only Daughter.  Just as we balance affordability with quality, in walks a guy ten years buffer than me, he’s holding a knife and he’s not happy about a previous cupcake sale. Finally I get a turn to shine. I take thirty-five years of anger and fear and crush this man with nothing but mind vibes. Mel Gibson in his hey day couldn’t beat my stare. Even as Riggs in Lethal weapon 1. My kids love me again, my posture improves, the cupcake lady dies because my vibes are new and need refining but no one cares because she died doing what she loved, combusting. As for Lady Wife, she tells me to snap out of it and open the door as ‘we have the cupcakes now Adam.’ Oh do we? Because from where I’m standing, we are a long way from cupcakes. ‘That doesn’t even make sense’ I know but this testosterone has got to go somewhere.’

And that was my week. No happy ending, not even a plot, just a man plugging along using his imagination to anesthetise the growing pains of responsibility. 

* Not so much her but the infiltrating demon that she never told you about.

1996

I wrote my first page of jokes when I was aged somewhere between eight and ten. I remember the moment I showed them to my Dad, who was paving the driveway at the time. He looked at the my efforts, smiled and then carried on lifting bricks. I’ve been needy ever since. Fast forward between nine and eleven years, and I’m walking up my local hill. The sun was setting, the air was warm and a man sporting loose pants, a tight T and a decent dose of Down’s Syndrome was heading in my direction. As my shadow lapped at his Volley’s he smiled and said, ‘It’s 1996 mate, it’s 1996.’ He repeated it three or four times and then carried on with his life. Now, when you grow up in the outer suburbs of Adelaide and an angel comes drifting down your local hill sprouting wisdom, you take notice. After our paths had crossed and my message had been received I remember thinking, ‘Yeah it is 1996. I should do something with my life.’ I’m not making this up. A lot of people get into comedy because they heard Bill Cosby on vinyl, or because they saw The Big Yin on television. Me, I got caught in the headlights of the ultimate truth and rarely do I look back. Clearly I had an interest in comedy but if I hadn’t met “1996” (I never got his name so I went with what I had) I may well be the slow guy on the Mitsubishi line. Happy and content? Maybe. But always wondering ‘what if?’. 1996 gave me courage. Don’t get me wrong, there have been times when I’ve wanted to punch him square in the nose, ‘I’m broke 1996! Broke and self involved! Why didn’t you tell me to be a Doctor? I could’ve been saving lives. I’d still be the funny guy at the barbecue. That’s all I need. A bit of attention and a side of coleslaw. Why 1996? Why?’ But 1996 wouldn’t have cared for troubles like these, instead he would’ve smiled at me and said, ‘It’s 2004 mate. It’s 2004.’ That’s the kind of guy he was and I miss him. 

My point is I’m just like you. I have thoughts and they are funny and poignant and surreal and serious and callous, sometimes even cold. My only hope is that when you see me I’m entertaining and that maybe, like 1996 did for me,  I inspire you in some way, shape or form to have the courage to do what ever it is that you want to do. 

Red shoes

‘We need an act for tonight’ was the tweet. I responded with a quick ‘I’m nearby, I can pop in.’ I wasn’t nearby, I was an hour and a half a way but you never know, this could lead to work, a big time agent might be in the room or a plane might fall into my house and, because I was proactive, I will be allowed to live. I caught the early train giving myself time to enter the gig with a, 'I was just over there' vibe. The room was in a WalkAbout pub that was made for vomit. Comedy came second to bile in this place but that’s ok, I thought, the audience will get me because tonight I feel gettable. I took off my brown boots and popped on my red shoes, the funny ones that make me look like I’m going places. I started talking to the guy I was sharing the bracket with. We were both given ten minutes. He was young, hung over and told me he’d just signed with a big agent. I’m thirty-five, wearing read shoes and have just signed with Boots to get a discount card.  I then discover that the night is run by a promoter who already hires me. Now I’m doing a try out spot for a guy who I’ve already tried out for. Curse you twitter. Lady Wife was right, you’re a vacuous whore. It became apparent that I was wasting my time and, if the gig went poorly, shooting myself in the foot.  ‘Ladies and gentlemen please welcome to the stage your first act for this second bracket Patrick Morris’. The kid was slick, confident, genuine and funny.  ‘Now keep that round of applause going for Adam Vincent.’ I was disjointed, dark, and on this occasion, a testament to mediocrity. I had just received a kick in the pants from a star of the future. At least I hope he is because then it makes my so-so gig more glorious.

On the tube on the way home I hunched over, it’s my posture of choice after an average performance. Briefly, my mind pressed pause on the replay of my previous efforts, allowing me time to discover that I was still wearing my red shoes. My brown boots! I jumped off the tube, ran down the stairs, lunged to the other platform, waiting two minutes for my carriage (a long lunge), said goodbye to some small talk, ran up some more stairs, tried not to cry, negotiated with a bouncer, dashed down some stairs, rekindled my 'I was just over there' vibe, only to see my boots being thrown about the room by the headliner, a man older than myself playing a character older than himself, which was fitting as he seemed close to death. The snippet I caught included no laughs and a needy tension that I’m not ashamed to say made me feel good.  It’s his own fault, had he been throwing my red shoes about people would’ve been in fits, the reds shoes are rarely mediocre twice in a row. I retrieved my boots, found a booth and popped them on like a school kid who had just been dacked. As I tied my laces a man came up and wanted to know where I am gigging next. 'You were funny. I really like your stuff' he said. It’s a fucking roller coaster people.  

I have other comedy stories that I only post on my website www.adamvincent.com if you're interested.