Max Dickins - Improvise!: Use the Secrets of Improv to Achieve Extraordinary Results at Work

I am flustered already and I havent even started my first improvisation class. Rushing down Brick Lane in East London, glued to Google Maps on my phone, furtively looking up at street names: Im running late. One minute behind schedule becomes five, becomes ten. I have no good reason for being late. My tardiness is almost certainly a subconscious act of self-sabotage. Being late gives me plausible deniability. Im not a chicken for quitting, I think. Its common sense. After all, Ive missed the first ten minutes of the workshop. But I dont give up. Not yet.

My heart racing and my back sweaty, I finally find the turn-off. I can see the entrance, 100 yards down the street on the right. The urge to quit suddenly grows more urgent. I suppose those of an artistic bent would describe the venue as bohemian. Less forgiving folks might opt for shanty town. Officially, its a converted fabric factory. The little voice in my head becomes louder still: This is obviously a ramshackle operation. Come on, cut your losses and lets go home. But still I dont throw in the towel. I check my watch: fifteen minutes late. Its rude to go in now, I conclude, and finally I turn to leave. Thats when Im spotted.

Are you here for the improv class?

Shit.

Its quite hard to find, isnt it? The man who has just emerged from the factory entrance is dauntingly cheerful. Its a bit hidden away. Dont worry. We havent started yet; everyones running a bit late. Were all upstairs.

I smile weakly, my heart sinking. There is no escape now. Before I know it, Im climbing a rickety outdoor staircase up to a converted attic. Inside are fifteen people sat on chairs in a circle, like some sort of therapy group for people addicted to damp. Except everyones chatting jovially; laughter fills the air. One lady is even handing out home-made brownies. Ive appointed myself Snack Captain, she explains, with such an easy joy that it makes me feel worse about myself.

I am not as nice as these people, I think, and I never will be.

I put my bag down and search through it, pointlessly anything to avoid making small talk with the person sat next to me. Soon enough the class leader announces the beginning of the workshop. The chairs are pushed to the back of the room and we all gather in the middle again. Its a real mix of people: a hotchpotch of actors, accountants, management consultants, housewives, students and more. The actors have all taken their shoes off. This is a really lovely space, says one of them, quixotically. (I will eventually learn that space is what actors call a room.)

Our cheerful teacher asks us to suspend judgement of everything in the workshop: to suspend judgement of the exercises well do, of each other and most importantly of ourselves. What a wanker, I think, before realising that maybe Im the wanker.

OK, were going to start with going around the circle and sharing our name, he says. Simple enough, I think, already practising saying my name in my head, as if its the solution to a particularly difficult equation rather than a word Ive said a million times before. But the twist is, he says, youre going to add a word before your name, but it must begin with the same letter. And youll combine it with an action. So, for example, Chris, you might be Clapping Chris.

At this point I genuinely think of feigning a heart attack. But before I have the chance to throw myself moaning onto the floor, we begin to go round the circle, everyone coming up with their alliterative names, and then all of us repeating them back, all while doing the matching action. We have Jumping Jenny, Karate Kate and Digging Daniel. When its finally my turn I panic and designate myself Manky Max, choosing an action which is sort of a spasm-cum-fit of no discernible form. It feels offensive but in a way that no one can really put their finger on. But everyone joins me in my mistake, leaping into their own version, as if Ive just choreographed the most wonderful dance in the world. Seconds later were on to Raging Raj.

OK, everyone, so this next exercise is called Bunny Bunny. The teacher, Stirring Steve, is grinning like a loon. Its hard to know if hes grinning because hes having a great time or because he knows how stupid were all going to look in a few seconds. We begin the game and immediately I want the ground to swallow me up. The person to my right, Graham, an enthusiastic divorcee in a Hawaiian shirt, is facing me, making bunny ears with his fingers. Bunny Bunny! he says, gleefully, miming the actions with every word. Bunny Bunny!

I promise myself that this first improv class will also be my last. I smile unconvincingly at the delirious Graham, before turning to face another member of the group. Bunny Bunny, I say, no louder than a whisper. Bunny Bunny

The blizzard of eccentric exercises continues. At various points over the following hour I am pretending to be a dog, a shopping channel presenter and a sentient fridge, until finally and mercifully we take a break. The Snack Captain goes back on patrol. I mutter that Im going to the toilet, but really I am about to sneak out of the building and never come back. But as I pick up my bag, Stirring Steve corners me, as if he has a sixth sense for people who are thinking of doing a runner.

Manky Max really made me laugh! he says.

I bashfully look at the floor. Im not great at thinking on my feet, so

Steve asks me what has brought me to this workshop. Oh, you know, just fancied doing something a bit different.

I cringe when I hear myself say this because this is a lie a lie I dont have to tell but which I tell anyway, presumably because I am too embarrassed to tell the truth. On the face of it, I am a confident and adventurous person. I make my living from doing stand-up comedy. For most people, this is the epitome of swagger and spontaneity. But appearances can be deceiving. Because anyone who has done stand-up will tell you that confidence and spontaneity are con tricks. You can learn to look confident without feeling it at all. Its a simple matter of presentational technique. Similarly, spontaneity is a stubborn myth of the art form. The truth is, almost every syllable of a stand-ups act is pre-planned, pre-written and pre-rehearsed. Even the so-called mistakes are repeated on cue, every night of the week.