Geraint Dafydd Evans on sacrificing everything for that elusive 'five'

There is one thing that I did not expect when I started doing comedy, the complete shift in my priorities. I expected to, maybe do a gig a week, write a joke or two in between and basically get on with the rest of my life as normal… Then I got that laugh, that first laugh, the one you remember, the one that will always be there with you on stage, good gig or bad gig, there is that laugh that tells you “you are funny, you did that.”

Life changed. I moved from the lush Welsh valleys, my home for 24 years, away from my friend base, my support network, and almost every other part of my life. I miss them, but somehow it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that I don’t see them every day, every week… ever? They’re there, they always will be, won’t they?

I know what the answer is, for the majority at least, but I don’t care. Enough.

Suddenly, after years of working late, a day job is essential. I get one, as a cobbler. I am not a man that has ever been handy, I’ve never bothered. Now I cut keys, repair shoes, engrave things and fix watches and jewellery. I did English at university. I’ve learned these things because I HAD to, jobs aren’t exactly prevalent and I HAD to have a job where I finish at 5pm. My thumbs hate me.

So does my girlfriend. Well, she loves me. This is worse. I don’t have time, ever. The guilt is massive, painful, unbearable at times, but I always manage. Because this is it, this is what I want to do. How have I gone 24 years without this feeling? Absolute certainty.

After work I’m going to any gig I can get to, not to perform, to watch. To meet the comedians, to build a base, to pester the promoter. It’s important to be seen, I realise this, if you’re not part of the scenery you won’t be part of the scene. It’s not a scene, it’s a circuit and I’m going round in circles. There’s a lot to learn. Etiquette between comedians. Can I ask them what they thought? Is that allowed, or am I supposed to figure it out on my own. I ask. I shouldn’t have. I’m not a comedian yet.

Do I need to eat? Yes. Ok, I do eat, but not well. I only eat at work, greasy spoons or greasier fast food. My body hates me. I’ve always kept fit, now it doesn’t matter. Fit people aren’t funny. Neuroses are funny. Suddenly my most embarrassing and depressing memories are my greatest triumphs. Those friends I love that I don’t txt back are my characters, my act. They don’t get invited along.

I’m learning to drive. I hate it. I’ve resisted for seven years. I’ve never had the desire, inclination or need for it. As soon as I realise my comedy radius is limited to a two-hour train ride I booked a lesson. I need to be able to gig.

I write, a lot. My first ten gigs never featured the same joke twice. This was stupid, but useful. I have material. Time to hone. I gig, whenever I can, wherever I can. Sometimes at great cost. It doesn’t matter. Money’s for the rich and I’ll never be that. So I carry on. Gig after gig, I repeat the same stories, I tweak the words, the intonation and the performance. Finally I re-create it, or something like it, that first laugh, it’s taken all this time and I have it.

Five minutes.

Published: 10 Mar 2011