Bragg’s Bootiful Brogues!

Christmas is over, New Year’s Day has passed, the mother has returned to her own abode, and it’s almost time to take the decorations down – what now? I, Jay Cool, am bored. Bored and deflated (I farted out the last of the mince pies this morning!). What now? Never fear, Jay Cool, you are not alone – Suffolk Punch Comedy Club awaits. The Brewery Tap awaits. PJ awaits. A pint of mango cider aw …

Okay, okay – I’m on my way!

And, I arrive at The Brewery Tap just in time to witness PJ, our comedy club’s emcee start up the action with a few jokes of his own. And he’s pushing all of our buttons with Melania. What? PJ’s pulled Melania? Melania’s even told him that ‘Donald hasn’t pushed her buttons for years’. No wonder PJ’s looking so pleased with himself. You been to the White House for Christmas, PJ? And where was your partner during all of this? She’s looking none too pleased with your jokes now. Think I’d better offer her a pint of something or other; a desperate distraction technique. It’s not working too well; your partner Whatshername is looking even more alarmed, by your joke about the ‘Aldi driver who denied using her indicators’. Your partner shop at Aldi, PJ? Get it right! One minute you’re thousands of miles away, touching it up in the USA, and the next you’re fluffing it up too close to home.

Just as well that Matt Bragg’s here. Well, his shoes are – not too sure about Matt himself – I’m kind of too distracted by what’s down below, to look up and check!

Matt Bragg’s foot

Matt must be relieved to have a good pair of leopard-skin brogues He’s just moved abodes to a flat ‘within easy walking distance of surrounding locations’. Who knows what’s out there in the wild – lions, tigers, cheetah’s. Go on, Matt – you can out-run them all! You say you’re relieved that at least your flat’s not an oil rig. But, I rather suspect that your shoe rack has just the tools for the job …

 

 

A Creative Commons image
http://echtvirtuell.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/flybee-ein-komisches-vehikel-in-sl-und.htmldd caption



Matt’s now on the runway, taking off, launching into a sob story about his aeroplane-phobic friend. On a recent flight together, Matt, bless his cotton socks, did his utmost to offer reassurances to his companion. Not sure why you bothered, Matt! He’d have been more than a gibbering wreck if he’d uncovered his face long enough to catch a glimpse of you:

Pig in rocket boots, by deviant art, labelled Creative Commons

Methane-fired shoes are really not the thing for wearing on plane trips these days, Matt. Keep up to date!

Take some advice from Jay Cool, Matt – have a clear out! Take your shoe collection to the next boot sale. Dylan Dodds, our next comedian, and very-confused ‘car boot sale’ enthusiast is sure to buy you out lock, stock and barrel – storage rack included, i.e. at the last sale he took off with a car boot!  But  keep an eye on your secondary mode of transport (not your rocket shoes!), because it seems he’s ‘still looking around for the rest of the car’.

 

 

Dylan Dodds – comedian


Poor wee Dylan! He’s here in the Tap, and he’s still confused. Thinks that our emcee, PJ, is ‘hitting on him’. But why would PJ go for Dylan, when he’s had a taste of Melania? It’s okay, Dylan, you’re out of Watford, and you’re safe here. Sudbury’s so safe that it’s Britain’s Number 1 property hotspot.

‘Britain’s top ten property hotspots of 2017 revealed: Picturesque Suffolk town of Sudbury leads the places where asking prices rose fastest’

Read more: http://www.thisismoney.co.uk/money/mortgageshome/article-5198957/Top-10-UK-property-hotspots-2017-revealed.html#ixzz53QpsTz1P
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook


Just don’t go for a property in Acton Lane; it’s had a few unfortunate car fire incidents in recent years. What’s that you said, Dylan? You’ve already bought a property in Acton Lane? And you’ve already bought Matt Bragg’s car boot? And you’ve let how many of our comedians park their cars on your driveway?

 

Creative Commons image

Danny Marks? Ciera Jack? Harrison Salter? Get on out of here! Yes, I know you haven’t done your sets yet. But you’re not on until the second half. Go rescue your cars! Go, go, go!

A free image available from clipartbest.com

I know it’s tradition to kick the New Year in with fireworks. But it’s now the third of January, and don’t you think this particular performance is a little OTT, Matt?

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, promoter for Suffolk Punch Comedy Club, January 2018


If you enjoyed reading about the comedians who perform for Suffolk Punch Comedy Club, please get yourself down to The Brewery Tap, Sudbury, Suffolk – first Wednesday of every month – and be an eyewitness to the next selection. Entry is free, but donations are welcome for prostate cancer research. And, if you feel brave enough, have a go yourself – tell your best jokes during our open mic slots!

Up for Grabs?

‘Seventy-three and up for grabs?’ It’s Janet Benisworth! At last a genuinely ancient comedian; not just some early forty something undersexed male, claiming to be middle-aged, trying to get the female sympathy vote. And, even better, I’ve never seen such an old specimen sporting such lustrous-dark locks. I sit up and take notice. A great fan of slapstick humour, I anticipate that the loss of Janet’s wig, is bound to be far more entertaining than her jokes.

I’m wrong (not the first time!).

Janet draws us all right in there, right through her wrinkly-old-outer casing, and straight into the depths of her heart. Seems that Janet, like myself, is a fan of the multiple-choice love questionnaire, made so popular by the seventies’ magazine ‘Jackie’ (No, I’m not that old!). She’s also a great fan of the ginger, presenting us with a Prince and the Pea scenario. I can see it now:

Janet Benisworth at The Brewery Tap
photo by Jay Cool

I’m in the great drawing-room of Mansfield Park, sitting sewing in front of a great roaring fire, which is being regularly stoked up by a range of handsome manservants, when I hear a knock on the door. Something tells me not to send the butler. It’s pretty boring in my grand abode, with my wealthy older husband on one of his business trips, in the company of the untouchable lower classes. I gather up my skirts and go to open the front door. It’s a ‘bedraggled, attractive young man with red hair, milk-white skin and snow falling on his torso’, asking for a ……..

No, I’m not going to satisfy your thirst by revealing to you the rest of the story; neither will I grace with the choice of a), b), c) or d) responses that Janet proffered up to us. If you want to hear the rest, you’ll have to come to one of our comedy nights at ‘The Brewery Tap’ and see Janet for yourself …

… because, only slightly disappointed that Janet retained her wig, I’m now onto Big Alex. He’s newly-hatched – not much more than a foetus. But, he’s as miserable as a corpse.

Alex – photo by Jay Cool

Barely recovered from Janet’s bouncing up and down and dancing around the punters, seeking out the ‘ginger’ in us all, I can’t believe that this young urchin wants to crawl back into his mother’s womb. It’s not difficult to guess at the source of his depression – he’s been deleted out of the life of his one and only true love (besides his mum) – his girlfriend broke up with him over Skype! But when he starts carrying on about his mum’s advice, ‘that female availability will get better in his thirties, when everyone’s divorced’, I start to sympathise with the lost ‘love’. Who in their right mind, would want to date this depleted bundle of nothingness? The answer is nigh – I spot Janet eyeing him up and down. No, Janet, this guy’s not ‘ginger’ and he’s a nothing, a nobody – an handful of dust. He’s been finished with. He’s at the end of his time, and your life – at seventy-tree – is only just beginning. You’ve got  an eternal future in stand-up (thanks, to Jay Cool’s blog)! Get yourself out of here and hit the big time. Leave Little Alex be!

Forget Little Alex, ‘cos Olly’s on next.

Olly Benisworth at The Brewery Tap – photo by Jay Cool

He’s tall, gangly and ‘ginger’ – just your thing, Janet! And he’s another story teller into the bargain:

‘How my mum and dad met? Well, it was a very cold winter’s night, and my mum was sitting in front of a roaring fire, when there was a  knock on the …..’

a Creative Commons image posted to flickr.com by the US army
 https://www.flickr.com/photos/35703177@N00/6807618677
Okay, okay – I get it. Olly’s not just your thing, Janet  – he is your thing – literally! He crawled right on and out of your womb … You and Olly are fresh. A mother and son about to take over the world! With opening and closing acts like yours, Little Alex – little pig in the middle – might well just go and hide in a cave somewhere. Somewhere in the middle of the cold, cold, Arctic circle.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, December 2017
If you enjoyed this blog, please visit The Brewery Tap for Suffolk Punch Comedy Club gigs, on the first Wednesday of every month, at East Street, Sudbury, Suffolk from 8-10pm. Free entry. Donations welcomed for prostate cancer research.
 

 

Beer Goggles

There’s something special about an ageing comedian.

 

ageing fruit pic – a Creative Commons image shared by flickr.com

There’s something especially special about one called Nigel, who claims to be ‘the only antique that isn’t overpriced.’ And what I really like is that, whilst I’m sitting here wondering how many more of the hairy parts of my body will have turned grey by the time he has finished his lament, Nigel scans the room to seek out something youthful. He’s just been ranting about the time when he pulled in a nightclub and arranged to meet the target of his desires for a re-run the following morning. It was one of those familiar moments when, in the clear light of day, without the involvement of beer goggles, you look at your date – suddenly, they are ‘older, fatter and uglier’. Only in Nigel’s case – that ‘moment of enlightenment was hers’! Nigel’s looking for some sympathy from the younger generations; his eyes inevitably settle on moi:

‘Bet you don’t have this problem, do you?’ he says.

‘No,’ I reply. ‘No, never, I’m too young!’

I really love this man – Nigel is my favourite comedian ever!

Things start to look up even further during the interval. I’m sitting, pencilling an observational sketch of the up and coming vegan comedian, Kahn Johnson, when the aforesaid just happens to mention that he’s approaching the grand old age of forty-four. Nigel, comedian extraordinaire, is shocked. ‘No, you can’t be!’ he protests. ‘You’re older than I am!’

I can’t believe it. This is wonderful stuff for the old ego. I’m feeling light of foot, and my skin is glowing. No need any more for the anti-depressant effects of serotonin-stuffed bananas. No need for Boot’s No.7 restorative ‘Age Renew’ cream. This is all I need. Kahn is forty-four and Kevin, who’s sought out the youth in me is even younger. I’m all made up. And all puffed up… On my next birthday (and, no, it’s not tomorrow!), I will be ..

… forty-eight!

This is cause for celebration. I head to the bar for another pint of Aspall’s.

It’s now obvious to me that my alcohol consumption is no cause for concern whatsoever. I’m rushing headlong towards the big fifty and, according to Kevin, I’m still a youth. I really like this man. But there’s a nagging and persistent voice in my head that keeps on replaying the words ‘beer goggles’ over and over and over again. And I momentarily wonder how many pints of beer Kevin downed before he got up to perform his set. No … that’s not possible. He’s a teetotaller – I’m sure he is. By his own confession, he turned down the offer of a ‘Goblin’ by the barmaid. A complete teetotaller …

‘Aspall’s please! No, no –  not a half! A pint! No, make that two pints – it’ll save me a return visit. Got a touch of rheumatism in my ….’

I settle myself back down, swapping my bar stool, for a high-backed armchair. I need to be comfortable – Jason Ventris is in on next!

Jason Ventris slapping away the Blogger

The last time I saw Jason, he was modelling for a Plus-Size Walmart fashion shoot – in The Brewery Tap of all places! Reckon he’ll feel more at home, here in Long Melford’s Working Men’s Club. The old folk here need a bit of a joke, a bit of a something to rejuvenate them (us), and there’s certainly enough of Jason to spread around.

It all starts to gets a bit too much, however, when Jason tells us about the time when he queued for a fast-food burger and listened to the serving staff give all and sundry the option of either a ‘large’ or a ‘super-size’ burger, then got to Jason and said ‘super-size?’! That really is mean and, in empathy with Jason, as a New Year’s resolution –  I’m never going to go shopping for beef burgers again. I’m a devotee of the self-help book section in Waterstones. NEVER SET YOURSELF A GOAL THAT IS UNACHIEVABLE. NEVER SET YOURSELF UP FOR FAILURE. And I’m a vegetarian. Also,  this is an excellent strategy for avoiding an over-consumption of bananas and, likewise, an over-excretion of diarrhoea (yes, it is true that vegetarians suffer from this problem, and that any savings from the non-purchase of meat products, are countered by an over-spend on extra-soft and moistened toilet wipes).

Jason’s bombed out. There wasn’t enough of him to spread around after all. But he was great. I love a bit, or even a lot, of hot fashion. (Which, PJ*, is why I’m going to accept that offer of a high-paid job blogging for Gucci. Suffolk Punch Comedy Club will just have to find itself another slice of youthful talent. This one’s now a fully-baked cake! (Will sit on the offer of the being slave labour for Walmart, until the Gucci letter arrives.)) And, in the interim, Chris Jones is here!

He’s here, in Long Melford, and he’s looking tropical in an orange t-shirt and a green jumper. With his cute beard (Must perform my ‘Why I hate beards!’ rant for Suffolk Punch Comedy sometime – watch that space, PJ!), fine head of curly hair, and trim figure he’s the perfect victim for consumption by my Minus-Size fashion blog. I forget all about listening to Chris’ jokes and start on a detailed sketch of his personage. What wonderful cheekbones and what a handsome beard. My sketch soon resembles my the best-ever explorer, Francis Drake. (The best because the surname Drake appears on my family tree, and the best because Drake’s beard is ginger – the only hair colour worth blogging about!). As Chris Jones becomes one with old Francis, I’m brought back to reality by a voice that insists on being heard through the fog of my brain …

‘And the life expectancy is just fifty-three …’

What?

‘.. in Glasgow!’

Phew!

‘So at twenty-nine I’m ripe for a mid-life crisis!’

Now, hang on Chris Jones. At twenty-nine, there’s no way that you’re stealing my anticipated mid-life crisis from me. I’m forty-seven, heading for fifty, and I’m still a youth. Get away with you! I was looking forward to daily visits to the gym, a new wardrobe of teenage clothes from the Size 12 is really a Size 6 shop, H & M, and I was looking forward to embarrassing my kids by letching at every man in the twenty-five to thirty-five age category. Please don’t steal away my pleasure, Chris! Get away with you! Get on out of here! Hang on a mo’! How old did you say you are? Twenty-nine! Hang on a sec – I’m getting on out of here with you!

Chris? Chris Jones? Where are you? PJ?

PJ? Any idea why Chris Jones just bombed out and disappeared? Did he catch sight of my sketch? What’s that you said? Can you please repeat it? I’m sacked! Hey, hang on a mo …

Ah well, there’s always tomorrow’s post to look forward to – the anticipated letter from Gucci …

Another couple of pints of Aspall’s please! No, make it three pints this time …..

Hi, Kahn! You on next? 

 

 

Sleazy Vegan, Kahn Johnson

And Kahn’s off on one. Claims he was married once. His wife made him sign the marriage contract in blood. It was a bit of a one-off for an off-the-edge vegan, hence, in return of the favour, Kahn asked his loved one to prove her devotion by ‘trying out something new‘ with him. She declined. She came back with another paper to sign – in blood again – either ‘have sex with me, or give up your veganism’. He declined the former. Hence, the divorce. I can sympathise with you about the divorce, Kahn. PJ wants me out of the comedy club ….

What’s that? PJ the booker says I’m not allowed to blog about you? Just remember this, Kahn, PJ’s not really your friend – he’s a carnivore! Us herbivores need to stick together. Stick with me and I’ll book you in for my break-off gig at ‘Jay Cool’s Launch Pad’. As you said yourself, ‘Try something new!’

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, November 2017

Disclaimer: Suffolk Punch Comedy Club has no known association with Jay Cool’s Launch Pad. Our usual venue at The Brewery Tap in Sudbury only sells meat pies, courtesy of Kahn’s barber,  and our up and coming big events will include mutton-burger and chips, with a Cooling spattering of ginger spice,  in the ticket price. 

But if, in spite of the disclaimer, if you wish to support our Suffolk Punch Comedy Club events, be at The Brewery Tap, East Street in Sudbury, on Thursday 4th January to welcome in the new year with some healthy laughter.

Laughter in the Tree Tops

Wednesday evening.

The Brewery Tap.

A man in his forties.

John Di Placito.

John Di Placito is here at The Tap and, in spite of the fact that he just skipped right on in and over the threshold with a spring in his step, in fancy dress, he’s claiming to be in his forties. Not at all sure that I believe him. There’s no way that a forty-something-year-old has never even tried, as he’s now claiming, a ‘teeny-weeny sample of tomato soup with croutons’. And it’s going a little bit far to arrive in Sudbury, Suffolk, in the middle of nowhere and miles away from the coast, kitted out in your wife’s wetsuit. Yes, we’ve all owned a snorkel and flippers, John, but that was when we were seven years old, and the all-corrupting shops at Felixstowe Beach convinced us that these were essential items for avoiding jellyfish stings – whilst paddling! And you can hardly claim you’ve got post-traumatic stress, not when you didn’t even get as far as ‘dipping your toes into your wife’s birthing pool’. Get yourself a therapist, John, sort it out, and – get that kit off! In your forties? Where’s the evidence? The grey? Your roots?

Just as well Sikita‘s up next. Sikitas with me, with I, Jay Cool. She’s a family historian. And, she’s in deep, stripping right back to her roots, planning a trip down memory lane, ‘a visit to her ancestors in Zimbabwe’! And, I’m right there with her, mapping out her family history in my head. Zimbabwe. Great stone walls. Stone sculptures. Stone games.


‘Mugabe.’

She’s back. Sikita’s back, her ‘roots firmly implanted in South London’. She is, after all a true Brit, just a short train trip away from Sudbury, and this is all well and good, because we’re all sitting here laughing ourselves silly. But what’s this?

‘Oprah?’

You think you look like Oprah, Sikita? No, forget ‘Oprah’ – she’s American! Stay here. Stay with us. Last month’s comedians have been and gone. Clayton Harris. Ollie Watson. Matt Bragg. Scott Adams. All gone. Inside. Come on Sikita, sell up! We need you.

But Sikata’s off, hopefully not back to Zimababwe,  and her replacement’s on!

Sean Patrick.

Depression.

Serotonin. Setralin (*). Sikita?

Sikita, come back! If you have to go, at least leave us with a little boost, a little kick.

Sean.

The Tap might need Sikita, but Sean needs The Tap. He’s got ‘puss oozing out of his ears’, and his ‘girlfriend’s abandoned him for a threesome with the neighbour’. Tells us he works ‘night shifts with the Samaritans’ feeding on folks woes and sorrows – avoiding the light.


PJ, who recommended this guy? I don’t suppose that your friend Carl Denham, Carl Denham the bloodsucker, had anything to do with it. The dark side is gathering. Or did you rope in one of the undertakers who carted off old-man-one-tooth at our Long Melford venue last week (**)?

Still, there’s nothing like a depressive to give us all a boost. Puts everything into perspective. My hairy-chin-mole, mid-life-hot flushes, cranky knees and thinning coverage. Nothing seems quite so bad anymore. Nothing’s quite so bad in the presence of Sean.

 


In fact, I feel such elation that I’m beginning to picture myself, myself and Sean, (and, yes, you can come too PJ!) flying up to the tree tops, Twilight style, hand in …. No, no, not hand in hand! With heads in our hands… A head in my hand …


I, Jay Cool, am back. I’m back with my ancestors. I’m Henry VIII. Sean’s Ann Boleyn, and – you PJ? You’re ….

…in The Tap.

‘Another pint, PJ? Aspall’s?’

 


Who’s on next?’

Martin Westgate?

So why’s that sleazy-underhand-back-stage vegan,
Kahn Johnson, laughing at our man Martin?



Take Jay Cool’s advice, Kahn – it’s time to look at things from another angle!

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, November 2017

*If you don’t know what Sertralin is, you haven’t lived!

**Please take a read of:
https://tapstand.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/immortality.html
https://tapstand.blogspot.co.uk/2017/11/bragg-adams-in-melford.html

Images: Photos of comedians taken by Jay Cool; bat photos courtesy of Pixabay.com by Creative Commons License.

Please support Suffolk Punch Comedy Club by being at The Brewery Tap, Sudbury, Suffolk on the first Wednesday of every month from 8pm. Free entry. Donations for prostate cancer research welcome.

 

Stone Toes

 

Joe Cool (1760-1833), Jay Cool’s Great-Great-Great Grandfather, from  Myddle, Shropshire

 

 

I don’t recall having too many conversations with my Grandad, Arnold Cool, as I spent most of my time during family visits to Single Lane, taking a wide berth around his armchair, for fear of my leg being grabbed and my foot tickled.
 
I think Arnold thought that the sole purpose of a Grandaughter was to be a victim of torture, but I hated having my feet tickled, so much so that I brain-trained [1] myself not to be respond – with the phrase: I am not ticklish, I am not ticklish, I am not ticklish …. on repeat play. This did eventually work and was a long-term success as, to this day, I can honestly say that I am not the slightest bit ticklish.

 

But although one-to-one conversations with Grandad were few and far between, I do remember, with some clarity (due to the volume) his rants, mainly aimed at my mother,[2]about the idle youth of today (or more precisely now, the idle youth of the 1980s).  During our stays at Single Lane, Albrighton, Grandad would descend his self-made-masterpiece-of-a-virtually-vertical staircase, having forced himself out of bed just before midday, and only just in time for his dinner – and proceed to hurl derogatory statements about his grandchildren around the sitting-room.

 



“What you all sitting around for doing nothing, you lazy good- for- nothings? Your Nan’s in the kitchen working hard, making sure you have food on your plates and what are you doing? When I was your age, I was out at work earning my keep. Scroungers – that’s what you are!

 

I’ll have you know that My Great- Great Grandfather got out of bed at five in the morning, walked nine miles to Shrewsbury, completed a whole day’s work shifting great big stones for Lord Hill’s Column (3), and then walked the nine miles back to his home in Myddle.

And what are you lot doing? Nothing! Just lazing around being waited on ……”



My brother and I didn’t dare point out to Grandad the irony of his statement; he himself had only just got out of bed. My Nanna, Joan Cool (nee. Tossem), had been up at half-past five clearing out the hearth of yesterday’s ashes and re-laying it with coal and wood, with the last day barely completed.
(WATCH THIS SPACE – PIC OF A BRASS COMPANION SET COMING SHORTLY!)
I loved watching her sweep out the white ash with a brass handled brush, and arranging twisted rolls of newspaper in between fresh coals and logs to give the new day a heads up. But, I wasn’t so keen, on accompanying Nanna, in the freezing- cold-winter weather, on miserably-dark mornings, to fetch coal from the bunker, or logs from the wood store adjacent to the outhouse.
[1] Why modern-day Nintendo game designers have claimed the concept of ‘Brain Training’ for themselves and made lots of money out of it, has given me cause for major concern; in fact, I have considered suing them for copyright. I may, possibly put this idea to the next cold-caller who persuades me to pick up my phone and respond to their declaration that I have suffered from an incident for which I can claim for. (I will let you know their response!)
[2] Nothing much changes. Even today, parents-in-law, perpetually torment their daughters-in-law about their complete lack of parenting skills.
[3] If only my Great-Great-Great Grandfather, Joe Cool, had known that his Great-Great-Great Grandaughter was going to blog about his efforts, he would have thought that every little pang from his aching feet was a moment like none other, a moment to be inscribed into stone – a moment to be immortalised! 
 
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, 2017
 
Images: The photo of Lord Hill’s Column was taken by Keith Havercroft, is Creative Commons Licensed, and is available at: http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/130898. The ‘stone foot’ is a Creative Commons image from Pixabay.
 

 

Bragg an Adams in Melford

I, Jay Cool, the one and only Blogger Extraordinaire, am back.

I’m back from the Lady’s (Yes, they do have one at the Ex-Serviceman’s Club in Long Melford – I was surprised too!),  and I’m just in time to settle back in to comfort (a pine of Aspall’s) for the second half of an immortalising evening of comedy.

But first things first. I’m just in time to witness Clayton Harris being snapped up, or rather snapped-in, by the local mafia. I get my Motorola out and snap away. This could be the big one. Jay Cool hits the big time, and is snapped up by national media moguls, being offered a salary in excess of Alan Sugar’s, as she’s first on the scene to photograph the news event of the year. Enough snapping.

 

This is Suffolk. I’m in Long Melford. Where? And it turns out old-man-one tooth, who propped up the bar in the first half (1), is actually an undercover member of Long Melford’s volunteer police force. (The locals tell me they can’t get the genuine article these days, what with Theresa May’s cuts and whatnot.) Seems it’s a case of rummage through the antiques to ‘make do and mend’!

Personally, I’m with our emcee PJ – chuck out the old and bring in the new. Bring in Matt Bragg! It’s okay, Matt – I’m topped up on Aspall’s, Watson’s gone, Clayton’s gone, old-man-one-tooth’s back propping up the bar. Your audience is ready! Bring it on!

Matt’s from Bunbury, and he’s not bragging about it but …. (Oops, sorry Matt! Forgot that was your pet hate of a naff joke!) But, Bunbury? Isn’t that where ….? Okay, over to you now!

And Matt’s off. He’s off and he’s ranting on and on and on about Clayton! Clayton? But Clayton’s gone, Matt – he was taken off at half-time. No, no, no! We’re not on the set for an American prison drama. It’s okay, old-man-one tooth’s not official – you can confess all!

And he is as well. He’s bragging about the time he got pulled over by the cops, a boot full of stale bread, a perk of his job at Safeways. But the cop (Full set of gnashers?), wanted to know what loot he had in his boot. “Bread for the pigs! Do you want some?” Not sure how Bragg got away with that one, just one down on a medium slice of bread. Must have been sporting his best blouse and matching hot heels!

Hot, hot, hot! Scott, Scott, Scott. Hot Scott Adams! Bragg’s off. Mind you don’t trip, or get wedged in, on your way out, Matt Bragg! Smooch on in a bit closer, Scott … that’s it!  No, I don’t want to take a peek at your ‘sweat jungle’, no, not even if it’s down there, rather than under there. Not that close! Really? Lick your what? Really, PJ? Were you short of acts tonight?

 

An escaped convict, a burst boil parading as an poet, a paisley pussy cat on the run and now you’ve brought in a pesky poodle. Look at him, the poor miserable wee pooch! Se’s down on all fours. He’s panting and perspiring and his perky tail’s right up there. What have you done PJ? This isn’t Rodbridge. This is upmarket Long Melford, and not-so-hot Scott’s asking for volunteers to …. lick his bum hole!

PJ?

PJ? This is your fault! Your responsibility. You did this. You need to put it right. Scott? PJ? Time to make amends. PJ, this time I’m leaving you to it … or, at it!

(1) If you missed the first half of the show, get with it and read Jay Cool’s blog post ‘Reinvigorating Treatments in Long Melford’.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, Blogger Extraordinaire & Promoter at Suffolk Punch Comedy Club.
 

Be at the Ex-Serviceman’s Institute in Long Melford, Sudbury, every first Thursday of the month for an evening of unstoppable laughter! Free entry. Donations welcome for prostate cancer research.

Images: The photo of high heels is a Creative Commons Licensed image, available from dreamstime.com. Photos of the comedians are the author’s own. All other Creative Commons Licensed images are courtesy of Pixabay.com.

 

 

Reinvigorating Treatments in Long Melford

Fresh.

Invigorated.

Early.

With all the delicateness of a newborn (and of one still bouncing on the after-effects of last night’s mango cider), I, Jay Cool – Jay Cool the immortalised Blogger – I, am back.

I’m feeling as good as new and I’m dizzy with anticipation. Suffolk Punch Comedy Club is back with me, and we’re in a brand new venue. It’s not The Brewery Tap and it’s fresh. I find a good perch – there are plenty empty perches to choose from and take a look at the talent.

PJ, our emcee, is here already – there’s no keeping him down! And he’s wrestling with a microphone, trying to get it’s position just right, not quite upright, but just at the halfway-house angle of 45 degrees, slowly teetering up towards 35 degrees, in anticipation of the massive audience about to burst in through the door. The mic, tonight, might just get lucky!

I, tonight, with my soulmate (mango cider), might just get lucky too. So, I head over to the bar. With caution. With caution, because the bar is either being propped up by, or is itself propping up, a network of have-seen-better-days old regulars. None of them are smiling and, at least one of them, is glaring at me – eyes popping out, like it’s the first time in about fifty years that anyone under the age of ninety has dared venture out into his vicinity. Still, I’m here and I’m fresh so I go for it.

There’s no mango cider, so I order an Aspall’s. Already, I’m feeling little-wizard Oz’s* helpful spell of immortality starting to wear off, but I hear a snigger from the old man on my right, so bold as a Jay Cool can be, I smile at him. He smiles back:

So this is why they’re all so miserable. They’ve been keeping their lips pursed for good reason. But, I see now that there is hope – a lot of hope. On ‘very’ close inspection, I see that this single tooth is a pearl. It’s all shiny, smooth and sparkly and I realise – I feel it in my once calcium-deficient-menopausal bones – that we are just the thing. Suffolk Punch Comedy Club has found it’s true home.

We are here at the Long Melford Ex-Servicemen’s Club and we are needed. We have a duty towards these men. We need to give them the full treatment. We need to make them laugh again.

And, right on cue, the crowds burst through the door. It’s not exactly a crowd – more of a threesome. But they are making enough noise to qualify as the latter, and I can see why. One of them is dressed in an orange jumpsuit, an escaped convict, with his giggling rescuers. Must have come to the wrong place. These ex-servicemen are law-abiding types. And the barman is reaching for his phone, no doubt about to dial up the law-enforcers. No, I tell him. No, stop right there! It’s just Clayton. Clayton, our first comedian – our opening act. Let him through!

And the reason for Clayton’s strange attire is becoming clear. He’s clutching onto the mic (it’s still only at half-mast) and he’s offering up his childhood hard-luck back story. Mum took him to the Barber’s for a nice haircut, to smarten him up for a trip to the Doctor’s – whilst he had blood still gushing out from a large hole in his scalp. Seems he was a ‘clumsy twat’, accident prone, with a smarter-than-smart Scottish mother.

This is all a lead-up to Clayton’s confession that he’s just escaped, not from a high-security prison, but from a mental institute. He’s almost reduced me to tears of anger and rage at the authorities who locked him up, without consideration of his ADHD and multiple-personality disorder diagnoses, when I recall that – hey – we’re at a comedy club here.

You’re supposed to be making these old men laugh, Clayton, not sending them further into their grave-yard of post-traumatic depression. What is going on here?

And such lies, Clayton, such lies! You have no friends you say, no friends! Such woe and sorrow – just imaginary ones. “No friends!” You’re the only one in this venue with any friends! Your two rescuers are the only ones in here laughing and guffawing at you. Your friends (okay, and PJ as well) are the only people in here. Take a look over at the bar.

Where have all the regulars gone?  The bar and the old men have nodded off into a deep slumber – they have merged – a merger of splintered old wood and skinless bones. Look at what you’ve done, Clayton! You’ve brought in a graveyard of doom. “I may be a leper but I still like a hug. Come here!” What? No, Clayton, you cannot rescue the situation by going from escaped-lunatic-this-is the-only-job-I-can-get grave digger to enigmatic Cult Guru. We will not all gather round for a group hug (there aren’t enough us, and who’s fault is that?). Get on out of here!

Ollie Watson – get on in! Cheer us all up! Exorcise our spirits and bring in the light!

Ollie. So glad PJ’s booked Ollie for this  evening. Thatcher, turned poet, turned comedian and failed Britain’s Got Talent auditionee (that, I can personally empathise with!). So, I’m all ears. A suicide bomber, hacked off by the appearance of his rucksack in a CCTV video – why did he buy boring beige? The consumption of a meat-free mountain at the Toby Carvery, whilst fixated on an old lady’s bulging neck boil. Pus. Spunk. Glass. Explosions of obscenities and urbanities all round.

And a Thatcher too, a Thatcher who I thought was going to tell me about the delights of the English countryside! A Thatcher who can’t even climb up high enough to hoist his marker up to half mast (the mic is now virtually vertical, almost 180 degrees, head hanging low, heading on down to the floorboards). Another loon. His late arrival clearly a cover-up – an attempt to disassociate himself from Clayton. Just another escapee!

Pick that phone up, Barman!

Call in the Undertakers!

Let’s get our men standing up straight again! No?

Another half of Aspall’s anyone? No takers? Okay, I’ll make that a pint for myself then …


Copyright owned by Jay Cool, October 2017
 
Sources: The photos of the comedians are the author’s own. All other images are Creative Common’s Licensed images, available from Pixabay.

 

Late Laughter – Going Viral!

Late.

No, I haven’t died. And, no, my descendants are not about to change my status on their family trees from ‘living’ and ‘private’ to ‘deceased’ and ‘public’. Unfortunate really, as this might be just the push I need in my bid to go viral. Still, I,  Jay Cool, may be a little on the drag, when it comes to arriving on time for a full dose of comedy on Tap, but ‘late’ I am not; in fact, having officially just reached middle age, I am now relabelled as ‘newborn’.

So, out with the old (Yes, I did just miss out on listening to the full set of the imminently distinguished comedian Chris Jones, but no-one with any credibility gets themselves a time-slot in the first half!), and in with the new! Time to be born again ….

With Kevin Moore! Kevin Moore, one half of the ‘born again’ Christian duo known as The Monks. Being fresh and new does have its issues. Kevin’s carrying on about his passion for rugby. As a black man, he was apparently criticised for singing along to English national rugby songs, on the basis that one of these songs was plagiarised, stolen from the black slaves of the British Empire. Who knew? he’s saying. Who knew that the slaves also supported England?

Ian Miller with his new-look white hair (the poor sod’s just found out he’s unwittingly been tricked into performing at an unpaid gig!), propped up by The Monks!


 
And, now. Now, I, really am being born again. Memories of my being-English-in-Scotland childhood come flooding back, as I find myself pig-in-the-middle, in a full blown (No, not that kind of fully blown, PJ!*) , a full blown Scottish versus English playground war. Only, this one’s transported itself to The Brewery Tap.
*PJ, Go and remove your ‘Full blow jobs available here at the Tap!’ sign from the gent’s hand dryer! That’s just wishful thinking and, anyway, little-wizard Oz the barman, has taken off all the special offers this evening!
Chris Jones is grabbing the mic from Kevin, in a rather brutal manner, and is launching into a somewhat belated political speech about Scottish Independence; cursing and swearing about all the Scots who voted ‘No’ and wishing all their future winters ‘cold ones’! So bitter! And a comedian as well! I take note to learn from his example. When I am old, I will be truly immortalised, and accountable to the ‘public’. I will be ‘deceased’, and my grudges will go viral!
But my thoughts are interrupted. PJ, the Booker, has emerged from the gents, and is shaking a collection bucket in my face. I think he’s dropping a hint. Time for Jay Cool to fleece the punters. Time to smile sweetly, and to convince the regulars that, if only they give away their life savings (not much, as they are only here this evening at the comedy club because they are here every evening, sitting on the same stools, and propping up the same bar, drinking the same beer; the only thing changing in their lives being the size of their overdrafts), if only they give it all away, all into the pot for prostate cancer research, they will be spared the side-effects of alcohol, and will remain forever virile. (With the sub-clause that all future offspring are guaranteed to share their fine genes and good looks with a very respectable hand-dryer!)
I make my way over to a gaggle of handsome(ish) comedians: Ian Miller, Josh Massen and Chris Jones. It’s an opportune moment for a photo-shoot, so I snap away with my Motorola…
Josh Massen looks particularly cool in his snazzy checked shirt and I tell him so. All the best salespeople at DFS do exactly the same when they give elated descriptions of the fine fabrics on offer at knock-down prices. Then, fat on offers of free publicity via my blog, the generous threesome dig deep into their pockets, pulling out wads of twenty pound notes (just a few miserable coppers!). A few coppers in the bucket and I didn’t even get to see Josh Massen perform – he was all over and done with in the first half, before I even set foot through the door; before I was even reborn!
Late.
Going viral.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, October 2017
 
Before The Tap Treatment
Scaly footnote: Please support Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s bid to raise unprecedented funds in aid of prostate cancer research, by retweeting this blog post and sending it viral. As you may have to wait a long time for the immortalised-newborn Jay Cool’s status to change to ‘deceased’ and ‘public’! Go on – do it! Help our men to stand up and for their genes to go viral!
 
 

 


After The Tap Treatment

 

Be at The Brewery Tap in East Street, Sudbury, Suffolk, the first Wednesday of every month for an evening of ‘Laugh Out Loud Funny’ courtesy of Suffolk Punch Comedy Club. Comedians start performing at 8pm. (Please be there for the first half and give a full report on the proceedings to Jay Cool, the Blogger, just in case her employer refuses, once again, to see why Josh Massen is far more important than her unfinished paperwork!)

Sources: The photos of the comedians are the author’s own; the scaly and newborn feet images are courtesy of Pixabay and available for reuse by Creative Commons License.

 

Dug-Out

 

Pencil-black brows,
Painted-pink overflow,
Sludge-brown pasted over,
Features
Still to be
Dug-out.
A baby at sixteen years,
Still to be born.
 
 
 
Copyright owned by Jay Cool

Beyond Southwold Pier

 

Step out.
Walk the golden footpath.
Transcend normality.
Shiny pebbles underfoot.
Grinding, then separating.
Threatening, pulling, wrapping around plimsoll-clad feet.
Waves teasing.
Follow on.
Step out.
 
 
Copyright owned by Jay Cool