FURTHERMORE
By Gerry Moran
The Cat Laughs Comedy Festival is upon us and I have some great memories of it down the years. And some not so great. Take for instance the year I brought my 14-year-old to a show in Langton’s. We sat in the front row; we had to as the place was jammers. Foolish I know but I didn’t think a comedian would pick on an innocent, 14-year-old. But heSo, there we were in the front row and, while Des Bishop was warming up the crowd, I slipped to the bar for a pint. Next minute I hear: “Hey, kid where did you come from? You look like an orphan and by the way where are your parents?”
“At the bar,” replied my son who has been taught never to tell a lie (though I’d have made an exception this time). “AT THE BAR!” roars Bishop. “Christ what kind of parents do you have?” And he went on, and on, and I remained at the bar until Mr Bishop had finished his set.
Now to sit in the front row of a comedy show once is, to paraphrase Oscar Wilde, unfortunate, but to sit there twice would be downright careless. So the next year I brought the same son, now 15, to a show in the Rivercourt Hotel. This time round we sat in the second row out of the line-of-fire of these maniacal comics. Problem, however, was that no-one and I mean NO ONE sat in the front row which technically meant that we were sitting-ducks yet again. And we were.
The comedian in question was Dara O’Briain who immediately zoned in on my son (don’t know what it is about this son of mine but he seemed to be some class of a magnet for stand-up comics). “And you,”
O’Briain asks, pointing to my son, “what’s your name?”
“Richard.”
“And what age are you, Richard?”
“Fifteen”
“FIFTEEN,” exclaims O Briain as if he’d said a 115.
O’Briain immediately sniffed exams. “Doing the old Junior Cert then, Richard?”
“Yes”.
And O’Brain duly wove numerous references to history, geography and maths into his act. He also went into a spiel, a very colourful one, about the vital importance of all the information that students have to cram into their heads. “Why just the other night I was at a party,” he went on, “when a woman asked me which was the biggest of the Great Lakes. Michigan, I said.”
“Right,” she said,” I’ll go to bed with you”. (It sounded funny on the night, okay?) But he didn’t leave it that. No, sir. He had to drag me into it. “And what kind of parents are we rearing nowadays that they allow their 15-year-old Junior Cert student to a gig like this?”
Oh, oh. Ah, but, seriously, it was all good fun and made for some great memories which my son and I occasionally recall over a pint or two. I’ll leave you with a joke, a tad risqué, but I laughed heartily at it.
Defence Attorney: “Will you please state your age?”
Little Old Lady: “I am 84 years old.”
Defence Attorney: “Tell us what happened the night of April 1st?”
Little Old Lady: “I was sitting on my front porch when a young man crept up and sat down beside me.”
Defence Attorney: “Did you know him?”
Little Old Lady: “No, but he sure was friendly.”
Defence Attorney: “What happened then?”
Little Old Lady: “He started to rub my thigh.”
Defence Attorney: “Did you stop him?”
Little Old Lady: “No.”
Defence Attorney: “Why not?”
Little Old Lady: “It felt good. Nobody had done that since my Albert passed 30 years ago.”
Defence Attorney: “What happened next?”
Little Old Lady: “He began to rub my breasts.”
Defence Attorney: “Did you stop him then?”
Little Old Lady: “No.”
Defence Attorney: Why not?
Little Old Lady: “Because it made me feel all excited. I hadn’t felt that good in years!
Defence Attorney: “What happened next?”
Little Old Lady: “Well, I was feeling so ‘spicy’ that I said: ‘Take me, young man. Take me now!’”
Defence Attorney: “Did he take you?”
Little Old Lady: “Hell, no! He just yelled ‘ April Fool!’ And that’s when I shot the little bastard.”
