Praise for Ian Moore
'Don't miss a single word... Moore is a cultured comic'
LONDON EVENING STANDARD
'Relaxed, laconic, hilarious'
THE STAGE
'A brilliant storyteller'
THE BOSTON PHOENIX
Praise for la Mod
' la Mod is everything its author is: immaculately turned out, sharp and consistently hilarious'
MARK BILLINGHAM
'C'est Mod-nifique'
MARCUS BRIGSTOCKE
'There are a great many comedians who think that they can also write books, myself included, but very few who can rival Ian Moore's immediate warmth and skill with language'
JON RICHARDSON
'Take one life-long mod and chuck him into rural France, complete with pond-dredging, chutney-making, child-rearing and a horse with VD. The result is funny, revealing and oddly touching. Paul Weller meets A Year in Provence...'
MIRANDA SAWYER
'Ian Moore is a brilliantly funny writer and that's all there is to it'
ANNABEL GILES
LA MOD
Copyright Ian Moore, 2013
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eISBN: 978-0-85765-907-1
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For Natalie, without whom nothing would be possible
Contents
A Moore in the Loire
It was one of those moments that a stand-up comedian dreams of. That moment when you are on stage and you have the audience in the palm of your hand; you can lead them anywhere you want; you can tease them, raise them up, lower them down. You have total mastery over the room and your view of the audience and of yourself is almost from above the stage, like an out-of-body experience.
There is no better feeling.
I looked out at the room and at the faces convulsed with laughter; 450 people all dancing to my tune, I felt hang on! What's that bloke doing? That bloke in the second row with the goatee beard and the leather jacket what's his problem? Why is he not laughing like all the others? What's wrong with him?
I tried everything. I brought out the big guns, the infallible old material. My rhythm changed, my tempo increased; the rest of the audience looked like they may die from laughing, but 'goatee face' in the second row nothing. Maybe he has locked-in syndrome, I thought. Then he yawned.
The red light came on, showing my time was up. I thanked the audience and left the stage to deafening applause. 'That was Ian Moore!' shouted the MC, struggling to be heard as the noise increased, 'Ian Moore!'
'Wow!' said Chris, one of the newer acts, as I stomped back into the dressing room. 'That was brilliant. You must be really pleased with that?'
I took a long drink of water as Chris, obviously really new to the game, waited for my response maybe some advice, some words of comfort, before he went out there himself.
'There's a bloke in the second row,' I said, 'real attitude problem. Watch him, he might be trouble.'
'But they loved you!' he said, almost shouting. 'They LOVED you!'
'Four hundred and forty-nine of them loved me,' I replied, looking at him like I was his sensei or something and he was my protg. 'That bastard ruined it for me.'
'Well, I'd be happy with that!'
'Ha!' There was a derisive snort from the corner of the dressing room. John, another old hand like me, was sitting on a leather sofa with a bottle of beer in hand. He was due on next, but he was in no hurry; unlike the excess of nervous energy that prevented Chris from sitting down, John may even have to be woken up before he went on. 'Look at him,' he said to Chris, pointing at me, 'look at him. Look at the way he's dressed! If his tie was crooked or he had fluff on his sleeve it would ruin his gig for him. He's a mod. Have you not seen Quadrophenia? They're never happy!'
He had a point.
While mods have a well-deserved reputation for impeccable dress sense, with very English sharp suits and matching patterns, they also have something of a reputation for po-faced, standing-in-a-corner-trying-to-look-cool detachment; possibly also very English. If mods are anything, they are stiff upper lips in well-ironed trousers.
'Nothing wrong with perfection, John,' I said, putting on my 1960s Michael Caine Ipcress File mac, 'you should try it some time.'
Striving for perfection eats away at you though and the yawning, goatee-bearded man in the audience bothered me, and what bothered me more was that it bothered me and a four-hour, late-night and solitary drive home is no place to try and shake the demons.
I was in a hurry to get home. I'd been away performing in Manchester since Wednesday and now it was the early hours of Sunday morning. I wanted to get home and wake up in my own bed, next to my wife Natalie; to feel the warmth of my beloved Jack Russell, Eddie, at my feet and hear my three-year-old, Samuel, quietly breathing in the next room.
Only did I? Did I really?
Firstly, the constant driving was beginning to get to me. I had been up and down the motorways of the UK as a club comedian for six years now that's 40,000 miles a year, mostly driving bleary eyed through the night. There were times when I had got on a motorway in the North and a few hours later would suddenly realise that I was nearly home, the drive having been done almost subconsciously while my mind was elsewhere. Like a fighter pilot who had been on too many missions, I felt lucky to be alive, but also convinced that disaster was just around the corner. It had got to the point where Natalie almost had to talk me into the car to go to work.
And secondly, where was I actually going? Yes, I was going home to my family, but we lived in Crawley in West Sussex, and even if you love your family (which I do) and you are used to travelling (which I am), if your final destination is bland, concrete 'New Town' Crawley there's always going to be a part of you dragging its feet.
We'd moved there from South London seven years previously 'to get more for our money' and to help me to turn professional as a stand-up for a couple of years Natalie commuted to London every day, supporting us as I built up my career. It didn't take long for me to get the lie of the Crawley land. A local pub was advertising a 'comedy night' and I went in to offer my services.
