Eeeee that was a very fun show. I was also very anxious during it. Lots to ponder there, especially the you-would-think contradictory nature of those opening sentences.
I wasn’t hosting the show, or performing in any sketches. So why was it so stressful? My friend (and debut NLS cast member) Kat, as revealed in a message to me the morning after the show, clocked what was going on and probably put it best:
“It’s really enjoyable watching someone *else* being incredibly anxious. Sorry, but it’s not an experience I get a lot. A real eye opener.”
Kat arranges comedy and music sessions for dementia sufferers in a community centre in Kempton, and I join to be silly and to sing some old songs. I’ve seen how stressful organising it is for her. Now it was her turn to watch me stew.
And, from the Mayor out of The Mayor & His Daughter, shortly before the show, when I was wondering why I was worrying about the arrival of an act when absolutely everything was fine:
“You don’t have your usual things to worry about, so you’ve found something else to worry about instead.“
There are many elephants and many rooms, and the big old betrunked lad in this particular situation is alcohol. I had decided not to drink and was determined to stick to it. I had a sudden and troubling realisation, you see: in five years of Next Level Sketch shows, I’d always had a drink at some point or other. Either before performing / hosting, to settle the nerves, or after the show, as a reward.
Here’s that nexus, then: develop a better relationship with drinking, but still enjoy the show without being entirely subsumed by anxiety.
As you can see from the above, this is still something of a work in progress.
There’s a lot going on here. Some of it is people pleasing – the fear that people “prefer” the version of me who’s had a couple of pints and is more confident and a bigger personality. I’ve known the NLS lads for a while now and am entirely comfortable in their presence. They could not care less what my booze, drugs (caffeine, sertraline), or even food (forgot to have dinner) intake is.
They like me just as I am. I know all this, implicitly, and explicitly. And yet I still feel I’m letting them down if I don’t be that version of myself that exists , seemingly, at the bottom of an empty pint glass: the outgoing, networking, rabble-rousing, extraordinary soul who makes things happen, not the guy who is very much already mentally looking forward to the train home.
And the point also is – I *like* that guy too, he’s great. But I can’t be him all the time.
As it was our Pride special, I’d hit upon the cunning ploy of getting Dian Cathal , our usual tech host and a trans comic of award-winning repute [1], to host, with me instead doing the tech – or rather, shadowing Dian and figuring out how the tech works.
It’s very Next Level Sketch that we randomly know a brilliant, award-winning trans comedian and actor, and hide him away behind the tech booth.
Audience members began to arrive, including my dear friend Chloe, my old uni friend Helen, and my Guardian partner-in-crime (often, actual crime) Carmen, who I had not seen for far, far too long and arrived, as usual, as a ball of barely containable energy into my life. How I had missed her and her ways, but this was another string to the violin of my evening, and I had mislaid my bow somewhere on the train up to London Bridge.
What I’m trying to say is, I was a bit overwhelmed.
Our (probably) most famous act of the evening, Sam Nicoresti, arrived stressed, as she had a new cat that she didn’t want to leave for too long. So stressed, in fact, that I said Sam you can just go on first if you like, which she immediately agreed to. So I once again rejuggled my accidentally-too-big list of special guests in my head, told the people who needed to know, and told Dian to start the show.
Dian absolutely did me up like a kipper. He had told the others that his plan was to not show me how to do anything, and then berate me for it from the stage. He hadn’t even turned the stage mic up before he went on, and I had no idea which of the many faders was responsible. In the end, guest act Baba had to come and save me when I had no idea which fader did the lights, as Dian began his opening without stage lights.
I took all this in the correct spirit “the only button I know is the blackout one”, I said, plunging him into darkness – but given my anxiety levels were already very high, this bit was perhaps unfortunately timed. But me and Dian have quite a decent rapport, and I played my role as hapless stooge to perfection. It was easy – some would argue method, as I genuinely didn’t know which buttons I was supposed to be pressing.
Dian went on a bit too long in his opening bit, but it was all extremely excellent material, and the crowd were thoroughly warmed up for Sam Nicoresti, our headliner turned opening act. The difference between Sam’s offstage nervousness and huge, confident onstage persona is staggering, and as always I adored watching her perform. A special shout out for the mention of Mark Fisher’s capitalist realism, a reference within a joke that I think might have been written specifically for me. I mean, it wasn’t. But I was the only one who, like Captain America in that film I’ve not seen, got the reference.
It was now time for Next Level Sketch. And dang, we were good. I should even say *they* were good, as I hadn’t written anything for this set, and wasn’t performing, tho as Paul pointed out afterwards, I had cast it. Everything was pieced together via a specific narrative, in this case the conceit that Sir Kier Starmer is asleep and dreaming many odd things. This worked really well – who knew that audiences enjoy narrative structure – and a special mention for Annabel Edmonds who put all of her natural exasperated energy into the role of Sir Kier Starmer’s Wife, Sir Wife Starmer.
For this show we had more submissions – and more EXCELLENT submissions – than any show we’d had over the past half a decade, with new writers and actors bringing real energy to the whole process. Our should-be-motto of “go big or go home” were perhaps best encapsulated by Madeleine Kasson’s extraordinarily stupid and intense therapist, or Greg Davies’ opera singer or general air of menace and chaos.
As always, our transitions took too long, and the set as a whole lagged towards the middle, but the material and the performances were as strong as I’ve seen them. We’re in a good place, and we’ve come a long way.
Closing the oh-god-is-it-already-9:15pm first half was the wonderful Kit Loyd, who bills himself as a one-man sketch comedy act but is, at heart, a brilliant physical comedian. I was a bit worried (that word again) that his stuff would be too similar to ours. I shouldn’t have – his was a masterpiece of gurning, timing, and very carefully timed and prepared musical prompts, expertly curated by… himself. Genuinely. He brought his own Bluetooth speaker. The tech – Dian, as by this point I was hiding in the audience – had absolutely nothing to do.
A break. A pint bought for me that I didn’t want to drink. And so on to the second half.
I love The Mayor & His Daughter, and I was mildly worried I was making them miss their train home (Sam, as mentioned, had cat fears, and Kit hails from Oxford, hence them being on in the first half).
I needn’t have worried. They love us, and the space we’ve created, and we love them. This double act are… well, if you’d not seen them, I don’t want to spoil it [2]. Chloe didn’t get it, a few were terrified, but I’d happily join their cult if they ever fancied setting one up. I could prepare squash.
Next up was Han Whyte, aka Roger Prick, who I booked after seeing her act at the Sketch Off final at the Leicester Square Theatre.
Roger Prick is a 1970s pornographer trying to make sense of the modern world, and is an absolutely delightful creation. Again, I do try and put on a mixed, interesting bill, and seeing a somewhat old-fashioned (in both senses of the word) character act after the jazz madness of TMAHD felt like good programming. This is a good show, James. Stop doing yourself down.
Finally, it was Baba [3] – on last, despite arriving before anyone else, and absolutely delightful and fine with that.
I’d seen Baba at Brighton Fringe, in a terrible room “run” by the appalling Half a Camel productions, with a small audience who had no idea what she was doing. Seeing her do the same migrant everywoman clowning to a receptive, alternative, London audience and have it go off raucously was my own personal highlight of the evening.
I don’t know where to start with Baba. She skateboards on stage for reasons I cannot explain. She has a bit which is just taking sunglasses on and off. She is the world’s greatest re-interpreter of 1990s and 1980s hits. She’s a singular and unusual clown, and I am looking forward to seeing what she comes up with next.
Friends in the bar. Hugs. A long, delayed train ride home. Belated food. Sleep. Much to ponder, but plenty of joy. Next Level Sketch will be back in September.
[1] I reviewed both his Brighton Fringe shows – here, and here.
[2] Here’s my review of their Brighton Fringe show. I’m very proud of this review, and they said reading it really gave them confidence half way through their run. Which made me happy.
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