I laugh in the face of normal
Never date a comedian. No, seriously, never date a comedian. You’d think it would be a barrel of laughs, but I can assure you it isn’t. Remember those nights when there was nothing to snack on in the house but a packet of Cadbury’s Mini Rolls and there was nothing on telly but the UK Gold biopic of Kenneth Williams? Or Spike Milligan? Keep those in your mind AT ALL TIMES if you should ever be tempted to date a comedian.
Remember how surprised you were when you first found out that Kenneth Williams was a manic depressive? Or that Spike Milligan was a manic depressive? Or that Frankie Howerd was a manic depressive? Or that Tommy Cooper was a manic depressive that drank himself to death? See where I’m going here?
The other terrible fact I discovered (and I’m not knocking comedians, I toyed with a bit of stand-up myself here, but my liver stopped me) is that, off stage, they’re just not funny. To be fair to them, it would be a bit like dating a doctor and expecting them to reel off diseases over coffee; or dating a teacher and for them to keep telling you how to live your life properly and keep correcting your sentences. (I added that last one in for a joke: I am a teacher and that’s exactly how I behave.)
Remember my telling you how I had a bit of a penchant for beardy guys with guitars? Well, I’m not completely shallow and single-faceted; I also have a bit of a thing for men who can make me laugh. Come on, I could have a thing for men with giant Rolexes, huge bank balances and flashy Mercedes, but I kid myself (having never dated them) that they do not have giant other things.
So, when a comedian popped up on the dating website, replete with bafta-nominated beard and a cheeky smile, I couldn’t resist. When he told me he had a channel on Youtube, I was fourteen year old in love again.
On reflection he was, at best, mildly amusing. But he had potential and he had his own Youtube channel; hurrah! What more could a middle-aged woman re-living her teens want? The most I could hope for when I was physically fourteen and not just mentally, was a dead arm from a fellow teenager who thought it was the funniest thing ever and expected you to laugh along. Or someone who thought “get your tits out” was acceptable banter over a can of coke you’d gone halves on. So, you know, mildly amusing stand-up with no sexual abuse or physical violence wasn’t too bad.
Or so I thought. After our meeting I would’ve longed for someone to ride past me on their bike, shouting “hello you two” whilst looking at my chest and laughing hysterically, or to date someone who thought “Are you coming?” “No, it’s just the way I’m stood,” was worthy of three days of being doubled over with hysteria topped off with a quick and disappointing fumble in the ginnel. Oh, the days when fourteen year old boys were really funny.
So we chatted for a bit and, despite the fact that I seemed to be making him laugh more than he made me laugh, we decided a date might be in order. He seemed fairly normal. Now, I know what you’re thinking. So far, they’ve ALL seemed fairly normal, you’re a poor judge of character Tallulah Fruitbat, but I didn’t really care. There’s nothing like being single in your forties to give you a true taste for reckless endangerment.
Forget extreme ironing, or naked windsurfing; go and find out what a newly single woman in her forties gets up to if you want to see real extreme sport at its best. It might not look pretty, and we’re past our best for wearing leotards or wetsuits, but we could give Zola Budd a run for her money in enthusiasm and flexibility and we’re not even old enough to fracture our hips trying.
When I was younger I was too small and too chubby in games to make way over the vaulting horse. After three weeks of creeping stealthily to the back of the queue and not being noticed, the sadistic games teacher noticed me. “Just go over the best you can,” she screamed at me, “You’re supposed to be clever. Be as creative as you can.” I took her at her word. I clambered very ungraciously onto the box and looked at the rest of my class. I smiled, pirouetted, did a forward roll and generally did as many enthusiastic and comical moves as I could think of to do. Gangnam style was invented by me on the box that day and my MC Hammer moves thrilled the whole class as the apoplectic teacher bawled at me to get down and let the others have a go. I like to think I’ve rediscovered that girl. I’m still small and a little cuddly, but I like to think my enthusiasm, imagination and refusal to stop go a long way to perhaps making up for the deficiencies caused by my lack of legginess and inability to fasten myself into a corset without getting it stuck back to front. (That really happened, I had to be cut out and it was the least sexy night of my life. They’re not like bras – don’t put them on backwards!)
So a comedian would be right up my street, I mused. Surely he would appreciate my moves and my ability to incorporate an ‘80s dance routine into the bedroom antics? (Although I would like to point out I have stopped singing “You CAN touch this: Hammer Time” as I got more mature )
How wrong I was. I have never, ever left a date more depressed and more desperate to drive and keep on driving, even if that meant over the edge of a cliff.
To be continued.