Jesters Comedy Club

By David Trew

David Trew is just an ordinary bloke. After leaving college in the 80s, he took up a career as a corporate salesman. He did well, but hated it.

So, after moving to London to follow his sales career, and having to be medicated to get through it, he decided to set up a comedy club. He did this back in his beloved University (Polytechnic, but who cares?) city of Bristol.

How difficult could that be?

Join David on his journey through the yuppie 80s and the early 90s, as he made his comedy-club dream a reality. For a bloke with zero experience of running a club, catastrophes were never far away. Despite many near (and a few actual) disasters, the likes of Peter Kay, Catherine Tate, Alan Carr, Jimmy Carr, Sarah Millican, Sean Lock, Jon Richardson, Dara O'Briain, Phill Jupitus, Bill Bailey, Russell Howard, Marcus Brigstocke, Rich Hall, and many other (now) very well-known people performed at his club. These were the days when stand-up comedy was the new rock n'roll. The glitterati types were yet to become household names.

If only David had known this at the time, he might not have worried so much.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Trew
• Release date: Nov 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838257019

Book preview

Part One

CORPORATESVILLE TO STAND-UP

INTRODUCTION

If you’re anything like me when it comes to selecting a book to read, you’ll pick a few that look appealing from the shelves in front of you, open up and read a line or two. From this, you’ll judge whether it’ll be enjoyable enough to read cover-to-cover.

So, if this is what you have done, and you have landed here, what can I tell you?

Well, all I can say is that it is a real-life reality story of a comedy club called Jesters, based in the SW of England, UK, in a city called Bristol. It spans the first four years, (give or take), of the last 24. It tells the story of an average Joe (me) who at 32 years old, had a career as a corporate sales drone, thought ‘fuck it’, and risked everything on a dream. This is that story.

The full version will take another two books (meaning that this is the first of a trilogy).

If all you want is the story about the club itself, then skip straight to part 2. If you want the full story including what it was like to be a young buck in the corporate world of the late 80s, then read part 1, too. I hope that I have done justice to the 80s. Imagine a time before smart phones, sophisticated computer gaming and the internet. This was how life was back then. It was a time when owning a car phone could lose you friends who thought you were a status-driven, yuppie idiot. Now, my 10-year old son has his first mobile phone. He mocks me by text message.

It is fair to say that in my time as a comedy-club owner, I have met many, (now) household-name comics. If, however, you are expecting a kiss n’tell account, or juicy stories about any of these, you will be disappointed. This really is not what this book (or the two that I plan to write to cover the outstanding 20 years) is about.

If you might like the idea of reading an anyone could have done this account of how I set up and ran a comedy club, with some toe-curling disasters along the way, then this will be right up your street.

My only hope is that you enjoy it, and that some parts make you chuckle. Often, I look back, and in all seriousness, ask myself how we got away with it. We had some very hairy, near catastrophic moments. These included events that only the more naïve, more determined, younger version of me could have endured. Now, writing an autobiography at a PC and running comedy shows at someone else’s venue, make for an easy life compared to the massive stress and difficulties in which I found myself so often, with my own venue, back then.

I will leave it with you. I am sure Stephen King or Dean Koontz will have a great new book out if you decide against this one. (Winky-face emoji).

PROLOGUE

A NOVEMBER SATURDAY IN 1996

I scanned the club for the fiftieth time that night. On duty nights, my adopted position was a corner of the bar, near the front door. From there, I could see nearly everything: How well we were doing getting everyone in and seated, (never very well), how the bar was doing, (did I need to change a barrel of draught or put up a new bottle of spirits?), and if the customers were behaving themselves (yes, usually).

The sixth sense that most club owners and security staff develop, told me it was a bit louder and noisier than usual. Our club had a reputation for having a buzz about it; I was never sure whether this was a good thing. In hindsight, it was great. At the time, as someone anxious to give the comedians the best chance of a barnstorming performance, all I wanted was for people to sit down with minimal fuss and pay close attention thereafter. Always one for wanting to have his cake and eat it…

The bar was four deep; blokes waving four-pint jugs in the air, keen for a quick refill. These beer-monsters would elbow their way into the smallest of gaps as the recently-served turned back towards their seats. The young bar crew busied themselves pulling pint after pint, trying to clear the scrum so that we could get the show started.

At the opposite end of the club near the stage, the hapless food waiter was involved in an animated debate with a customer, most likely about why the burger and deep-fried chips he had ordered over an hour ago had not arrived yet. Customers squeezed into their seats at our Hogwarts-style rectangular tables. For most shows these folks would be bumping knees with the person opposite; the edge of their table digging into their midriff. Four rows of ten scuffed, scruffy, second-hand office chairs sat parallel to the stage, often just a few inches from the chair in front. These were the seats that were the most feared and resisted. Who wanted to be the butt of the comedians’ jokes all night? It was not uncommon to see people in these row seats with their knees around their chest, soles of their feet on the edge of their chair. For some this might have been body language for leave me alone, but for most, it was the only way they could squeeze into their seat in our Tesco Express-sized club.

Packed houses were common, particularly at this time of year. Dark, rain-soaked nights and rubbish weekend television made live stand-up comedy a popular offering for people keen to make the most of their Saturday night.

The all-we-could-afford air-conditioning system whirred away. It was barely two years old and way past its service interval. Its filters were clogged with smoke and dust. Reluctantly, it chugged out a lukewarm version of the gaseous mix our two hundred customers had created under a ceiling that was only eight feet high. When the club was this busy, the build-up of heat and smoke made it like a bonfire night indoors. This was way before the indoor-smoking ban became law. Condensation dripped from the metal pipe-work. A haze of cigarette smoke gave the darkened stage a blue-grey shimmer. (This made it look pretty cool, I thought. Prior to each show, we would illuminate the mic in its stand, using a single lighting can, pinned to the ceiling in the corner. The blue-grey smoke generated by the smokers, gave it a kind of sunlight-through-the-clouds effect). One of our mixed-music CDs belted out Oasis, Dandy Warhols, The Levellers and other assorted 90s pop-rock through our surround-sound PA.

At the front door, the security guys were dealing with the usual set of folks who did not like their allocated seats. Some of them would not even have made it from booking sheet in the office, to seating plan on the front door. Punters still queuing listened to every word; some would join in occasionally, offering us advice on our seating issues. A farcical, Saturday night, ad-hoc seating-committee comprising our security and doorperson, the disgruntled punter, and yet-to-be-disgruntled-punters, was not uncommon. Jim, who had done the table plan earlier that day, had gone home by now. It was our job to decipher his work and appease the disgruntled as best we could. This was never very often. We really should be doing a better job than this, I thought. The only comedy in here should be on stage…

Our stand-up comedy club was on the ground floor of a one-hundred-year-old Edwardian building. It was situated in an area of Bristol that had been earmarked for regeneration for decades. It nestled in a block of semi-derelict and fully derelict buildings. To the locals, and the possible eternal shame of the local council, these derelicts served as monuments to the urban decay. Drug-dealing, prostitution and violent crime were rife. In an area you might associate more with the young, daring, and naïve, we were rammed to the rafters with the well-heeled, older, middle classes. Slumming-it for Bristol’s moderately wealthy was a fashionable pursuit. Stand-up comedy and its associated venues seemed to fit the slum-model people expected.

Despite the discomfort and disorganisation, no one really seemed to mind. The occasional complainant was usually given a shrug of the shoulders and dismissed. It all added to our shabby charm.

I looked at my watch. It was 8.55pm. We were due to start the show in five minutes. As happened all too frequently, there was no sign of the first act. I had booked a northern comic who had never played the club. This was a situation that always made me slightly anxious. On feisty nights it was always better to have comedians who knew their way around a bit, rather than some poor, unsuspecting sap who might be okay on stage at an arts centre comedy night. We imagined this type of arts-centre gig to be full of fiercely, politically correct, chin-stroking, Guardian readers. People like this only ever came to our club once! As far as I could tell, none of them was present tonight. This was a good thing, as Jesters could quickly become a a bear pit. This difference in club type (Jesters and the rest), was usually identified in the local media. I figured that it was their best attempt to keep their brands of political-tub-thumping comedy alive, against what they saw in us, as relative anarchy. Whatever the reason, it seemed not to affect us one jot. If anything, it played into our hands. With Jesters and its roster of comedians, I was very keen to represent what I saw as the U.K. national circuit, in all its world-beating glory. I was adamant that I wanted to present Bristolians with the best performers in the U.K.

Lisa, the northern lad’s agent, had talked me into putting him on the bill. She had told me just how popular he was becoming, and that TV work beckoned. It was typical, comedy-agent rhetoric. I rarely trusted any of it. I’d seen too many soon-to-be-famous-so-book-them-while-you-still-can comedians die on their arse on our stage. This was horribly embarrassing. Our audiences paid top dollar to see line-ups we advertised as The best comedians on the UK circuit. I trusted Lisa though – she had never given me bad advice or foisted anybody rubbish onto me.

So, here was Mr Northern comic, on our bill for the first time in his life. I hoped he was better than just okay. As we always did a good job of upsetting most of the punters before they had even got past our door staff, the acts had bloody well better make up for it. Usually they did. We had developed a reputation for being one of the most difficult clubs for any comedian to get a booking. Blessed with being just one of seven nightclubs around the UK dedicated solely to stand-up comedy, this was an enviable position to hold; it afforded us many luxuries we probably did not deserve. Regularly, we committed the business-bible-sin of upsetting our punters before the show had even started. Besides, after two years, I really did my best to avoid queues of punters looking to tell me just how rubbish they thought this act or that act had been; it was stressful, embarrassing, and not good for a business that relied almost entirely on the quality of live comedy people paid to see. Our venue, and its service could hardly be expected to make up for any shortfall in how the comedians performed.

So, where the bloody hell was this northern comedian? I could not even remember his name. I looked on my line-up sheet to see if I had a mobile number for him. FIRST ACT: PETER KAY. Blank space where I should have written his mobile number. Fuck it! I ran the usual scenarios through my head – could I get the middle act to go on first if I could get hold of her? MIDDLE ACT: DONNA MCPHAIL. No number either. I called myself very rude names for my lack of preparation. Well, if it runs too late and he hasn’t arrived, I’ll just have to get the compere to do the first section on his own… I took a deep breath – I hated it when this happened. I waited another 15 minutes, helping the bar staff, and making announcements on the house PA about how we would be starting the show very soon.

A large, angry-looking bloke – maybe the same one whose burger and chips had not arrived within an hour of ordering – cornered me at the end of the bar.

Excuse me mate – when’s the show due to start? It says 9pm on your posters, and it’s 20-past already.

My watch said 10-past, but I was not about to debate whose watch was more accurate.

Yeah, very soon mate, sorry for the delay – just really busy tonight, and we’re trying to get everyone served and sat down.

My perfunctory shoulder-shrugging routine had little effect.

Well it’s a bit shit isn’t it? We got here at quarter to eight, and have been waiting over an hour and a half now.

Well, we’re just about to start, so if you could find your seat, I’ll get the show underway as soon as I can.

Looking wholly unconvinced, he sloped off, hands in pockets. As he wandered away a lip reader might have translated words I would not have wanted to hear.

My pulse had picked up – I was beginning to feel slightly panicky now. This was the nightmare scenario I lived far too often. I wondered how it could ever be avoided – I always confirmed that the acts were booked a couple of days before the show and always asked their agent to have the comedian at the club by 8.30pm latest. If they had not walked in through the door by then, what could I do?

I went over to the front door to see whether the staff had managed to persuade the disgruntled into the seats we had allocated.

Yeah, usual story Dave, said Raymond, one of our regular doormen very used to getting an earful from queuing customers.

I shrugged in my wish-we-could-find-a-better-way-of-doing-this way, and told him that I was still waiting for Peter Kay to arrive.

Oh, he just walked in, said Ray.

You serious? I asked, suddenly feeling a lot better.

Yeah, I sent him straight upstairs.

Thank Christ for that, I said, already heading for the green room up the very stairs Ray had just mentioned.

I raced up the single flight behind the door signed ‘PRIVATE’ and bounded into the green room. Our green room was just a few paces inside the door to ‘upstairs’, a place we never really referred to by any other name. ‘Upstairs’ housed our work office, the green room, and a storeroom at the back behind my desk. The storeroom had a lethal forehead-height, knock-out beam running its length. Upstairs also had a lobby-cum-open-plan space to the front of all three of these rooms. This was the only part of upstairs that did not have a name. It was usually filled with broken furniture waiting never to be fixed.

Peter Kay was standing just inside the down-then-up steps that allowed guests greater than four and a half feet tall into the green room without needing to crawl. I almost bumped into him, as I burst into the room, breathing hard from my staircase race. During mid-conversational flow with Roger Monkhouse, the comedian we had chosen to host and compere the night, I interrupted Peter with a mini rant.

Jesus Christ – where have you been? I was getting really worried that you’d had an accident. You might have phoned to let me know you were going to be late. I’ve had punters galore nagging me about the late start time. You ready? We need to get going.

All conversation stopped, as Peter Kay turned towards the slightly sweaty, stressed-out comedy promoter that had just given him a bollocking. He looked me straight in the eye without blinking, offered me his hand to shake, and said, Nice to meet you too, mate.

I do not embarrass easily, but I felt the heat flushing my face. Everyone in the room burst out laughing. Donna MacPhail had also arrived by now. She looked at me as if to say you deserved that. I could only agree; being a say-it-as-you-see-it kind of bloke has its advantages, but clearly not on this occasion. I offered a withering apology about being stressed out because of how busy and late we were. I led Peter and Roger downstairs, still feeling the heat in my cherry-red cheeks.

I would love to say that the mighty Peter Kay absolutely rocked the room after all that stress. He was a consummate professional, very confident and very funny, but sometimes audiences just don’t go with it. As was the Jesters way, most of them were still trying to get over a long wait for their food, a long queue at the bar, or not being seated where they had hoped. These things never helped give the comedians a room full of people in a good mood for the start of the show.

Peter did not have a terrible time, by any stretch. He got laughs in the right places; it just was not the gig you might have expected knowing the garlic bread Peter Kay as we all do now. The older comedians had told me stories about Harry Enfield in his early days trawling the live circuit, with his Stavros the Greek character. This was way before BBC executives offered him a series of shows. According to these comedians, Harry often died horrible deaths as audience members genuinely believed that they were listening to some real-life Greek bloke with pidgin English, having a go at stand-up. Comedy audiences can be so fickle, I thought. Give them a TV star and he/she could fart their way through half an hour to roof-raising applause. Give them an unknown and they would reserve judgement until said unknown had had them rolling off their seats. In a room full of people with several beers on board and expecting to see the best, this was never an easy task for any comedian not yet known through the great medium of television.

After Peter’s set, during the first interval, I helped the bar crew by serving drinks. I did this until the mad-rush/four-deep bar had settled back to just one-deep. I took Peter’s gig fee in cash from one of the tills. I walked back upstairs to pay him. The green room was empty apart from Roger sitting on one of the ancient sofas.

Where’s Peter? I asked with a furrowed brow.

He’s gone, said to sort the fee out with his agent.

This was the first time any comedian had left the building without being paid.

Wow, that’s weird. Was he okay?

Well, not really, Donna accused him of stealing her material and they had a bit of a row. (Donna was nowhere to be seen).

I was intrigued. If capital punishment was legal in the world of comedians I knew; you would hang for material theft.

"Really? Which bit?

Roger told me that it was Peter’s trademark, mistaken-lyrics routine with a handheld tape recorder. He told me that Donna had claimed that she had thought of this first, or some such. I always thought that Donna could be very confrontational. Having heard the circumstances of Peter’s rapid departure, this situation didn’t surprise me. I thanked Roger for telling me. I left the green room to carry on with the business of running the club. That was the first and last time I met Peter Kay. I imagine that he’s wiped that night from his memory; a shitty three-hour drive from up north in filthy weather, followed by a ticking off from a stressed-out promoter, a mediocre gig in a dark, smoky, sweaty room, and a row with a fellow performer. I would like to bet that even before he became a global star, he had had better gigs than this. All of this for 200 quid. (Whenever friends or customers would tell me what easy money they thought it must be for a comedian, for just 20-minutes’ work, it would make me laugh). How life changed for Peter Kay in the not-so-many months that followed his gig at our club!

The rest of that night panned out like many others – a good enough show overall, followed by a club full of drunks wobbling away to our DJ’s tunes. This was 1996 – late-night licences across the sector, would not come into force, for a few more years yet. So, come 11pm – kicking-out time for all pubs, we would have a queue of people at our door. These were people looking to crowbar some late-night drinking into their evening for the price of the few pounds we would charge them to get in at that time of night. Our 1am licence served us well.

By 3am, I imagined that our customers had made it home, or to someone else’s house. Failing that, some of them might be in a police cell, a hospital A&E ward, or were being sick in a doorway. The key thing for us was that we had got them all to leave without incident.

We finished resetting the bar, stacking the furniture, and mopping the floor. I sat down with the staff – all of us completely knackered after a long weekend. Time for beers and politics. Most of the staff were students, each one with strong opinions that rarely matched any of mine. I poured a few beers for the staff before sitting down to debate the issues of the day.

How did you get to own a comedy club Dave? Alex, one of the newer ones asked me.

The ones who had been there a few months rolled their eyes – they had heard my two-minute version a few times already. At least it was slightly rarer than who have you had that’s famous? Asked that question a few years later, I always said Peter Kay. His name, amid quite a few others who were now bankrolled by television production companies rather than comedy club promoters. Peter Kay, in our early years, would become by far the best-known comedian we had had perform at the club.

It’s a long story, and I’m sure these other guys don’t want to hear it again, I said. Though a lot happened for me to end up doing this.

The others looked relieved – they could get on with moaning about drug laws, and other subjects pertinent to their teenage lives.

Perhaps you should write a book one day, said Alex almost sarcastically, while glancing sidewards for recognition that he had got one over on his new boss.

Many a true word spoken in Jesters, perhaps… (which is the nearest I hope to get to a proper gag in this book!).

CHAPTER 1

1987–1995

A CAREER IN CORPORATE SALES

1) The Big Wide World

In June 1987, after six years as a professional student (very little course work and lots of beer), I lost my re-election campaign to continue as Entertainments Officer for the Bristol Polytechnic Students’ Union.

Another year of beer, booking bands, organising lavish student balls, DJ’ing and of course, more beer, was not to be. I had come second to a mate of mine by just five measly votes. I was totally gutted; I thought my world had fallen apart. I really had not planned for this. I wandered round miserable and despondent for days. This was the day I had been dreading; that inevitable real-life experience due to last the rest of my life. It came a poor second to the glorious bubble of the Students’ Union and its cheap beer. I had put off this moment very successfully until now; the thought of pushing paper around an insurance office or dying a slow, lingering death in a bank, had always been my nightmare visions of the future.

I needed to come up with a life plan that would pay me, not bore me. If the choice were as simple as that, I suspect I would have taken no pay if it meant not being bored.

I spent the summer of 1987 living in a mate’s house, while he languished at home with his parents. I was doing bar work to fund my meagre lifestyle. He was due back that September for the second year of his course. By then, I would need to move out and give him his room back. Time was pressing. I spent much of each day, during the hot summer of 1987, studying a body-builder-mate’s book on nutrition. I followed its very sensible diets. Six years of student life had left me with a waistline that embarrassed me. I also sported my first set of moobs. I was determined to get back into shape after six years of low-priced lager and pre-packaged, salty noodles. As the slightly obsessive type, I ran myself into the ground, pumped weights like a pro, and calculated my daily consumption of calories, carbs and fat on sheets of paper. After four months, I had become a lot happier with my reflection. Many of my clothes now hung off me. Each pair of trousers needed a belt to stay anywhere above my knees. I could run six miles in less than 35 minutes – nothing to worry an Olympic athlete, but compared to the wheezy, fat boy I’d become as a student, I was very proud of this achievement; I’d lost over 40 pounds, felt way more confident, and much more ready to face life in Corporatesville.

I decided that a career in sales might best suit my personality. Perhaps this was a way to avoid my pathological fear (and the real possibility) of being locked at a desk from nine to five. (I came to discover that my picture of what a sales job entailed was about as realistic as the England football team’s chances of ever winning another World Cup). I figured on getting a company car too. Nice. At least I would not be in an office all day.

Somehow, despite having absolutely zero experience, I got myself a couple of interviews for car-showroom sales jobs. On both occasions, I was humoured by patient interviewers rather than given any serious consideration. Deflated, one day, slightly despondently, I wandered into the offices of a new, but doing-very-well-for-itself recruitment agency in Bristol’s thriving city centre. This was a large, open-plan, first-floor office, full of big-shouldered suits. Every one of them had slick-backed hair, and shiny brogues. They all spoke slightly too loudly, using short, clipped tones, littered with management clichés. Every sentence contained a positive, back-clapping platitude. These sentences always ended with a question. In any conversation, you would hear your own name several times.

Great to meet you, Dave. Boy have we got an opportunity for you on our books? You’re just the type of guy they want. Interested?

Simon became my assigned recruitment guy – he modelled himself on Gordon Gecko from the Wall Street movies – a must-have image for any aspiring salesperson in the late 80s.

Yeah, of course, I said, playing the game. What is it?

HVCG sales. Best sector to be in Dave; none of this FMCG nonsense! They’re holding preliminary interviews next Thursday. I’ll get you in. That good for you?

What do HGVC and FM err… stand for?" I felt slightly uneasy for not knowing.

H-V-C-G, Simon corrected me, slowing down his speech and emphasising each letter. It’s High Value Capital Goods – office equipment mostly; lots of commission and a good basic salary with a car; much tougher than FMCG – fast-moving consumer goods. You don’t want to be selling sweeties to a newsagent, do you? Only the best make it. You’re a winner, and you’ll be great. Sound good?

Despite feeling the need to laugh at how much of a stereotype I felt like I’d become already, I liked Simon; the language and jargon these guys used was intoxicating. Who could resist sales patter from a real-life Gordon Gecko?

Just one thing old boy… get a decent suit and a haircut before the interview eh? Jeans and a T-shirt don’t cut it in sales.

2) My first proper job.

I disliked nearly everything about my first sales job. A small, local, photocopier dealership, on an industrial estate on the outskirts of the city. Overnight, I had gone from getting up when I liked and putting on yesterday’s clothes, to a daily routine of shaving, wearing a suit, ironing shirts and polishing shoes. Worst of all, was the need to be somewhere at a time of morning I had only seen if I had stayed up all night. Inevitably, I was late on several occasions. I had this pointed out to me by my boss every time I tried to sneak in unnoticed. One morning, I rolled in ten minutes late, after screaming across Bristol in the little company car they had given me. I changed from my bed clothes into my suit, inside the car, as I drove. I would have to wait until I pulled up at traffic lights or was queuing in traffic to swap an article of clothing. If you can’t be bothered to turn up on time, Dave, then you might just as well fuck off, was my new boss’s way of dealing with that particular transgression.

Luckily, I liked most of the people who worked there, though I reserved a place in my heart for the loathsome bully who was my boss; a small, ginger-bearded man who took delight in making me feel stupid. I figured that this was most likely to get revenge on the world for the bullying he had received in his junior years. He would probably have it that he was chiselling me into shape to be able to withstand the hard knocks of the corporate world. I did not see it that way of course. His favourite (and my least favourite) mannerism was to roll his eyes as if to say, Are you some kind of twat? Keen to learn and stupidly loyal, I was forever asking questions. Whenever I did, I would be treated like an annoying fly at an outdoor pub lunch. I was several inches taller and still as fit as a butcher’s dog from my summer boot-camp regime, yet I felt nothing but anxiety whenever he was around. I had regular fantasies about beating him to a pulp. I would stand over him and watch him bleed, saying something like Let’s see you roll your eyes now, you horrible little prick.

For an enthusiastic, happy-go-lucky, personable bloke, keen to impress and launch a successful sales career, I understood quickly that this was not a healthy way to be. Success was always greeted with Well that’s what we pay you for, while any kind of failure was jumped on and demolished. If this was HVCG sales, I wanted out.

As if it needs words, I had also completely misjudged just how damned difficult corporate selling was. It was nearly impossible to get appointments to see anyone. I appeared to spend my new working career taking no for an answer. It was probably time to go and revisit Gordon Gecko.

One Monday morning, when it