The Ayahuasca Diaries

A few years ago I was doing stand-up on a nightly basis. Being on the bottom rung meant turning up early to secure a spot. The best way to wile away the hours was to talk to other comedians. Sometimes this was lovely, other times it was not. Comedians by their very nature are egotistical shitheads, deeming their thoughts worthy of amplification. At open mic level it’s easy to forget sometimes you’re a small fish in a big pond. When a gig goes well you feel like the most popular kid in school. For comics who were picked last at school, this can induce feelings of euphoria and delusion. Delusion because although for that moment you may feel like the best kid in the town, in reality you’re a drop in the ocean, small fry against TV's whale sharks. A lot of right-thinking acts are aware of this. Some less so.

The whale sharks of comedy.

Home Counties born, Doug Stanhope bred, this clique of deluded comics were from a school of thought that thought ridiculing struggling amateurs made them in someway counter-culture. Often these big-I-am comics were successful on stage because they had the coked-up self-confidence of Canary Wharf, only with material that spoke Shoreditch Anarchist: “Aren’t bankers wankers?” Yes, I’m being reductive here. These comics were all more talented than me, but my view of them will forever be clouded by the arrogance they wore off stage as well as on.

The people that I always liked spending time with before a gig were comics that were from the British tradition of stand-up. People that didn’t attack topics head-on, but took a sideways glance at them. Comedy is suited to broad brush strokes because audiences enjoy hearing certainty during chaotic times. On the other hand, I've always appreciated comics that mirror the uncertainty of their audience. None of us have a clue of what’s going on, what it’s for and what it all means, so why should performers pretend they do.

One of my favourite acts to socialise with and watch was Benji Waterstones. Benji was my contemporary at the time, but was always better than me. Where he got to the So You Think You’re Funny final, I got to the semi-final. Where he got to the Leicester Square New Act final, I got to the quarter-final. Where he won the Manchester Beat The Frog competition, I now spend my days dissecting them. (EB White: 'Analysing humour is a lot like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested in it and the frog dies.') I’m delighted that his career has gone from strength to strength, with this past year seeing him selected to spearhead the Edinburgh AAA, a showcase for emerging talent. He’s also written his first solo show, The Ayahuasca Diaries, which he premiered at Edinburgh this year. All in all, Benji’s career is on the up and up. (Did you notice I used strength to strength, all in all and up and up within a few lines of one another? I’m the Andy Warhol of writing: doing something interesting with the cliché. And to think you don’t even have to pay to read this blog. You lucky things.)

Benji beating the frog, whatever that means.

I didn’t go to Edinburgh this year because I bought a house (The Girl’s money too, some inheritance as well, the bank contributed 80%, but essentially I bought a house), which meant I didn’t have the money to watch comedy in the summer like I normally do. I was therefore relieved when he sent a notification saying that he was bringing his show to London. (This always sounds impressive, but given he lives in London and just has to carry his laptop to the pub, I feel this utterance is nothing more than showbiz hyperbole.) Using brackets is a really bad habit of my blog writing and I apologise if the last few paragraphs have felt stifled by them. I promise not to use any more for the duration of the piece.

 So this is why I find myself at The Bill Murray pub on a Thursday night. Before I get onto Benji’s show, I should just add that the venue is something of a marvel. Funded by a Kickstarter campaign, impresario Barry Fearns has created something truly special. Purpose built for comedy, open seven days a week, it is quickly becoming the go to place for London comedy. With an artistic façade featuring Robin Williams, Eddie Izzard and Victoria Wood, the establishment is becoming a Mecca for comedy fans. The fact that most shows are free-on-entry (put something in the bucket though- you’ve got to give me a pass on that bracket, because that was a selfless one, as opposed to the self-serving ones of earlier) means that anyone can go, irrespective of what they earn. Benji’s show is on the backroom and three more will take place that night, meaning the turnaround is quite tight: we must score quick laughs in the craic den before the fuzz turns us out.

It's free and brilliant.

The Ayahuasca Diaries is based around Benji’s odyssey to Peru, where he hoped to find some kind of enlightenment. A psychiatrist by profession, Benji’s stock in trade is mental health. This stand-up show is therefore something of a busman’s holiday, as he inquires whether ayahuasca, a Peruvian hallucinogenic, can really alleviate symptoms of depression. The tale begins with Benji introducing his self-effacing personality. These self-deprecatory jokes are important: in the wrong hands, any comedy on drug-taking can feel a bit try hard, an exercise in “Aren’t I dangerous?” With Benji though it feels like he’s scratching a professional itch: can this drug really be the answer to mental health? Should I be referring my patients to Peru, as opposed to western pharmacies? More than that, Benji was going though a difficult time in his own life: lonely in love and London, the anxiety he felt as a younger man was exacerbated by 21^st century life. A shrink searching for a solution to his own mental health is the premise then for this stand-up show, a piece of situational irony handed to him by the comedy Gods. Benji doesn’t let his good blurb goes to waste: he runs with it, eliciting great laughs along the way.

For a first show it’s expertly structured. Like I said the opening establishes Benji as a mild-mannered, lovelorn NHS worker. How couldn’t you root for someone with that description? The middle is smart too: because in telling the story of his trip to Peru, Benji manages to work in tried and tested jokes using his diary framework. Before going on his literal drug trip, Benji was told by the Peruvian go-between that he must write a diary, outlining his past problems and phobias. This gives him a washing line to hang his old material on. It’s a clever move in a debut show as it means he’s got solid gold routines in the middle. A routine about the FAQ’s of a Tesco Clubcard is particularly funny, so too being kept on hold by the Utterly Butterly helpline. When we get onto the trip to Peru, Benji brings in his holiday snaps, which prove as enlightening as the drug itself.

The promotional poster for the show.

For me, this end material really showcased Benji’s skill as a craftsman. Here, he manages to blend great jokes (I met my shamam Willow. She talked a lot about energies, which the doctor in me was skeptical about until she told me ... I had good energy), comments on photos (a girl rivalling Bez in the gurning stakes is described as ‘a returning guest’) and trippy visuals (the best way of describing Benji’s drug trip reconstruction is to imagine Alan Bennett in an Aphex Twin video). The use of short film to accompany stand-up material reminded me of Tim Key, a comparison I’m sure Benji won’t mind me making. The coda of the show is wonderfully feel-good too. It brought to mind a really wonderful documentary where you’re relieved to see everything has worked out ok for the participants.

I know I could be accused of bias for writing about a friend, but I’m completely sincere in saying how impressed I was. Morrissey once sang, “We hate it when our friends become successful and if they’re northern, it makes it even worse.” I don’t mind that Hull born Benji is heading for success. He might be a better comic than me. But he'll never be able to use brackets like me. I'll always have that. :)

Follow Benji @its_benji. Here's his website too: http://www.benjiwaterstones.com

The Butterfly Effect

A coincidence occurred this week. I’ve been preparing my class for their GCSE Mocks by reading Ray Bradbury’s A Sound of Thunder. The story is set in the future and revolves around Eckles, a big game hunter that wants to step into the past and shoot the biggest quarry of all: a dinosaur. The year is 2055, a time when the technology exists to make time travel possible. There is however one condition to Eckles journeying back in time: he must follow a circumscribed route. If he deviates from the path, he risks altering the very fabric of the universe. This is known as the butterfly effect: the theory that one small change can lead to huge consequences.

Sound of Thunder

The reason why I say a coincidence occurred is because I’d just started listening to Jon Ronson’s Butterfly Effect, a new seven-part podcast produced by Audible. Ronson has been writing for twenty years now, but I only began taking notice when I heard him interviewed on Richard Herring’s Leicester Square Theatre Podcast (RHLSTP!). On there, he talked about his oeuvre, along with his most recent work So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed. Plugging this, he spoke about how his own issues with the Internet made him want to investigate the effect it had on others. I’ve long thought social networking sites appeal to the worst side of our character, making us judge people not by the content of their character, but by the content of their characters. Before the Internet, we could make verbal mistakes and apologise to people sincerely, using our eyes and tone to show we really meant it. Now you can slip up and be set upon by a pack of keyboards that cry ‘justice,’ despite wearing a uniform that resembles mob rule. Difference is healthy; it gives rise to debate; on the Internet though, it often leads to shame-calling, something that really shouldn't happen in our ‘advanced’ age.

So last year I bought my first Jon Ronson book and absolutely loved it. It confirmed that people really are using their laptops as judge, jury and executioner. Ronson's books take the picaresque form, which mean we’re propelled from one story to the next. One particularly interesting tale revolved around Justine Sacco, a PR consultant, who in 2013 ironically tweeted: ‘Going to Africa. Hope I don’t get AIDS. Just kidding, I’m white.” Yes, this isn’t a great joke. She doesn’t have the comic chops to satirise white privilege; even if she did Twitter doesn’t have the nuance to prove someone is ‘just kidding.’ As a result, the tweet was re-tweeted to the firm she worked for. The firm made it known that this behaviour was unacceptable. Whilst Justine flew through the air, Twitter users rubbed their genitals with glee, taking pleasure in the enveloping storm. Justine was going to be fired. Before long Twitter was amok with flight paths and lookouts, all seeking her arrival. When she set off to South Africa she was a bright, educated woman; by the time she landed, she was an unemployable racist. If you look at how former Conservative cabinet minister Priti Patel was treated this week, you will see that online behaviour hasn’t improved. In writing So You’ve... Ronson caught the zeitgeist. I’ve read every one of his books since.

I've heard open mic comedians make worse jokes.

Ronson’s latest work is The Butterfly Effect, a podcast that’s been available to buy on Audible for a while, but has just been made free to all. I’d heard an excerpt on the brilliant This American Life and was really intrigued to hear more. Throughout the years Ronson’s dispatches have come from the hinterland of existence, taking in UFO’s with Robbie Williams, investigating the murky Bilderberg Group and befriending real life superheroes. This time round he’s turned his attention to porn – in particular, the porn industry. This then isn’t a Louis Theroux Weird Weekend episode where the focus is limited to the performers; this is an all-encompassing study of the economic framework that underpins the porn millions consume everyday. It is The Wire of podcasts, exploring the hierarchical structure from the top down.

In the first episode we’re introduced to the kingpin Fabian Thyimann, a German businessman raised in Belgium. As a teenager Fabian’s hormones led him to pornography. Being underage, however, meant he sometimes found it hard to come by. Before long he was on chat-rooms exchanging passwords with other users, ensuring access to restricted content. By harnessing the power of online users to satiate his needs, Fabian- unwittingly- founded a business.

Thyimann: the porn magnate.

Fast-forward a few years on and Fabian, along with a huge loan, buys up a Montreal company that specialises in user-uploaded porn. Just as Napster destroyed the music industry, many believe Fabian has torched the sex industry. With his bandit of tech whiz kids, Fabian purloined the money away from recognised artists and producers, putting it into his invisible corporation instead. To all extents and purposes, it is the heist of the century, one that’s netted him a reported $200 million dollars.

Each episode in the series follows the effect of Fabian buying that initial company - the butterfly effect, if you will. A theory that states a single flap of a butterfly’s wing in New Mexico can cause a hurricane in Japan. (This is because of something called Chaos Theory- a theory I have neither the intelligence nor the patience to understand.) Over the course of the pod, we hear how Fabian’s butterfly has created a hurricane that shows no signs of abating.

The first big casualty of the cyclone is San Fernando Valley, affectionately known as ‘Silicone Valley’: the Hollywood of porn. With users now putting pornography online, the producers can no longer make money through DVD sales. If they’re not making money, the porn stars don’t make any either. All of this has meant the producers, directors and artists have to work twice as hard for twice as less. As soon as their movies are recorded they find themselves online. Their only option is to be subsumed by Fabian’s business or walk away. For people who have worked in porn all their life, it’s difficult to leave (filming gang-bangs isn’t exactly something you put on your curriculum vitae). 

This establishing shot makes for a wholesome postcard. Don't send your grandma the zoomed in version though.

Some enterprising spirits have found a third way, however. Just as Arctic Monkeys and Lily Allen responded to the changing face of the music industry, pornographers have too. Episode two looks at bespoke porn that has been tailored to meet a client’s exact specification. These Saville Row producers have hired out their service to fulfil the quite bizarre fancies of their customers. So if someone wants a video of a porn star swatting a fly, they can have it. If someone wants their stamp collection destroyed by a group of DD’s then that option is available too. Nothing is off-limits. The people get what the people want. Bizarrely, the customer as auteur approach leads to much sweeter and gentler material than the ‘conventional’ kind beloved by so many.

Although my analogy puts Fabian as butterfly, many in San Fernando see him as the antichrist, hellbent on destroying their world. I see him as Oliver Twist’s Fagin. He has online users pick the pockets of Valley workers, consequently profiting big from it. In Dickens' novel, an innocent Oliver is unwittingly brought into Fagin’s lair: he never wanted to be there; but there is where he finds himself. Episode 4 shines a tragic light on children that have been affected by visiting a world they’re not meant for. With pornography accessible on every handheld device, teenagers are learning about intimacy through Sex Ed. teachers called Seamore Butt and Belladonna. Unfortunately in our society sex remains a closed lipped topic; until we talk about it these problems will only grow.

The Butterfly Effect culminates with Ronson presenting his findings to Fabian. With the evidence presented before him, will Fabian concede he’s more than an innocent butterfly? The confrontation is delicious, exhibiting Ronson’s skill as a journalist in friend’s clothing. 

Jon Ronson holding an umbrella.

I understand the subject matter might put some of you off, but this really isn’t a prurient look at porn, rather an intelligent dissection of it. As a fan of Ronson's work, hopefully this blog creates its own ripple, resulting in more listeners. I'll push the publish button now and find out ...

The Butterfly Effect is available to download now.

Ladhood

A few years ago I wrote about university, describing it as the best of times; the worst of times. Well, I’ve been thinking about it again while listening to Liam Williams’ Radio 4 series Ladhood.

I’ve been a fan of Williams for a while. I first became aware of him when I saw an excerpt from his debut Edinburgh show on BBC3. He was my kind of comedian: sharp, smart, self-flagellating. The following year I, along with the rest of the Guardian readership, queued up outside Edinburgh’s The Cellar Monkey to watch his follow-up, Capitalism.

Tinned like sardines in a venue that could double as a dictator’s final hideout, we laughed sadistically as Williams tore himself asunder, decrying his own inertia and privilege. Referencing Fight Club, Williams’ alter ego castigated him for feebly attempting to write a free, political show that would never get beyond the liberal bubble. By the end, having taken a microphone to the head, he lay supine on the floor, basted in blood, cooked by fatalism. Merging storytelling, theatre and stand-up, it was his tour-de-force calling card, bemoaning an apathetic generation that had bought the protest t-shirt, but hadn’t been there and done it.

When Williams was interviewed on The Comedians Comedian Podcast, he referred to this time as an unhappy one, explaining how stand-up left him anxious. The fact that he was critically lauded wasn’t enough to sate his loneliness. Perhaps this is why he’s spent the past few years working on other projects. Writing plays, panto and parodies, he's skewered an 'advanced' society that's vain, shallow and selfish.

For me, the most recent series of Ladhood ranks alongside his best work. The first series can best be described as The Inbetweeners meets a library card. It recounts an age where sex feels theoretical- not practical. The thought of it becomes an Everest of the mind: a pinnacle impossible to reach; a man-made mountain of neurosis and shyness: each setback a fall; each rejection an avalanche. Until... what’s this? A house party invite. Well, call me Edmind Hilary. Everest, I’m coming for you! The first series does a great job in showing those intense highs and lows all teenagers experience. 

Williams at school.

As much as I liked the first series, it’s the second that’s really struck a chord. Here, the focus shifts away from school onto university, with Williams leaving his hometown for Oxbridge. Now, I didn’t go to Oxbridge. I had the GCSEs to go. I had the predicted grades. I also had the ethnicity. After all, Oxbridge is more of a white house than an American political building, sketch comedian and 70’s censor combined. What I didn’t have was the confidence. My Head of 6^th Form said, “Ryan, are you going to apply to Oxbridge?” I said, “No.’ She said, “Ok.” And that was that. 

Given that I would go on to struggle at another Russell Group university meant, that in hindsight, I’m pleased my state school -unlike others- didn’t throw a bag over my head, kick me into the caretaker's cupboard, bolt the door, and only permit release when I agreed to the school newsletter headline: ‘Our Pupil Applies To Oxbridge.’ However, in going from a state school, where no one was privately educated, to a university, where it felt everyone was, I can empathise with Williams’ second series of Ladhood.

Williams at uni.

In the first episode of the new series, Williams is the idiomatic fish out of water. Displaced from his familiar home into unfamiliar surroundings, he is self-conscious and adrift. He can’t even speak the language of Oxbridge: words like bop, buttery and squash are alien to him. Everyone’s gone on a Gap Year but him (“I got fingered up Machu Picchu”), and people are genuinely called Portia. With three years ahead of him, he has two choices: adapt or die. In the Darwinist struggle, he chooses the former, feeling all the worse for it.

It wasn’t just what they were saying I couldn’t relate to, it was the way they were saying it. There weren’t many people with northern accents or many regional accents at all. As I nervously conversed, I felt my own accent changing like the protagonist at the mid-point in the Pygmalion story. (Liam Williams, Ladhood)

Feeling alienated, Williams trundles back home, seeking solace in his friends Cranny and Ralph. They aren’t so pleased to see him, thinking he’s become all uppity surrounded by posh twats that just want to ‘suck each others dicks.’ Like Rita in Educating the aforesaid, he’s trapped between worlds, existing in a social purgatory that seems a long way from home.

Education changes you.

By the next episode he has a friend, Aftab, and a Facebook account. Surely things are looking up. Trawling through Facebook, he notices how people seem to be having more fun than him. Before, when he was unconnected, he could at least imagine that others were as isolated as him; but here, now, was pixilated proof to the contrary. The evidence is overwhelming. He can only find himself guilty of the crime of having a shit time at uni. Not only that, but the sexual promise of uni seems as illusory as sourcing talent on a talent show. All the rugby boys, built on ‘chat’ and cliché, seem to be getting the girls.

Always striking specimens these lads, tall or well built, good-looking some of them, girls pecking the guy on the cheek faux-demurely, while he grins lasciviously. One or two girls even kissing the tie. What kind of sorcery was this? What sort of man was I while I was festering in my own lassitude while others were really living.
(Liam Williams, Ladhood)

After the debacle of hearing a pick-up artist address the Union, Williams’ life takes a better turn when he meets Molly at a comedy night. The two go together like Ross and Rachel, like Lois and Clark, like Jack and Vera Duckworth: they have accents in Cambridge. Soon they are kissing against a backdrop of dreamy spires, ancient bridges ... and an Ask Italian. Episode 4 looks at their relationship following university and how the pyjama days of box-sets and toast mightn’t seem so cute when you’ve got a crust to earn.

It's all throw your mortar boards into the sky now, but someone will have to pick them up in the morning. And that person will be you on a zero hour contract.

Ultimately, Ladhood does a fantastic job at documenting a life in transition: from innocence to experience; from selfhood to responsibility. Indeed, when The National’s ‘England’ scores the final scenes you’ll feel moved by Williams’ growth over the show. The song selection isn’t arbitrary: it was released in 2010, just like the year in narration. In this radio show, Williams has painstakingly crafted a modern period piece that could easily make the transition to TV. Possibly, a British Master of None. If not, this series at the very least requires another. A trilogy would be a fine thing.

Ladhood is available on: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b098sdt6 and the BBC iPlayer Radio