The author as a clown, circa 2003

Between 2004 and 2005, I was recommended to work as a
children’s entertainer.

A friend of a friend was working for a company, mostly performing magic for kids. I auditioned, got in, and was invited to do an all-day training session. Halfway through, they announced that one of their entertainers couldn’t make it to a party. They normally sent two, and they couldn’t leave one by himself. The owner of the company looked at me and said, “It’s going to be you.”

“Hmm? What? Come again? Lil’ ol’ me? Why, I do declare…”

But I kept that all inside and just said, “K.”?They gave me the address, ordered me a cab, and that’s how I began my career as a children’s party performer.

That first party went well. I stuck with it and eventually ended up doing a few corporate gigs too. I taught myself balloon animal modeling from a book and learned a few magic tricks as well.

There were a lot of themed parties: pirates, wizards, that sort of thing.

During the week, I had a day job, But on the weekends, I did parties. I was minted.

Once, I had to dress up as an elf and entertain kids as they waited to meet Santa Claus. Very David Sedaris. Although, I’ve never read The Santaland Diaries, never really felt the need. I lived it.

At no point did a child ever ask about the second cave entrance, the elf over there, or who might be down there.

Spoiler alert: another Santa Claus.

My Santa seemed nice. He looked the part, at least, close enough to the image of Santa that lives in my head. My neighboring elf wasn’t so lucky. Her Santa smelled of Scotch and had a beard that looked… a little ropey, even though it was real.

A lot of kids at the time wanted Beyblades for Christmas. I had to pretend I knew what those were. Smartphones weren’t really a thing yet.

Eventually, when “hey man” moved in with me, I found out he was a children’s party clown too. He mostly did freelance gigs through word of mouth, probably with a different company.

He suggested I create my own clown costume. Until then, I’d just worn whatever the party company supplied. He was right. I was interested in Chaplin and Keaton, and clowning, sort of adjacent to all that.

There are three types of clown: Whiteface, Auguste, and Character, sometimes called Tramp or Hobo. Chaplin’s Tramp came from the Character clown. There have been clown figures going all the way back to Ancient Egypt. Modern clown evolved from Commedia dell’arte, an Italian form of professional theatre dating back to the 15^th century.

I figured the best way to minimize the risk of kids being scared was to go the Character route. No bright colors, no clown shoes, no outrageous makeup. Just white around the eyes, blacked-out eyebrows, pink cheeks, and a red plastic clown nose.

At some point, my friend whom I shall call “hey man” who also performed as a clown started dating a woman who had coulrophobia – a fear of clowns. Which didn’t make sense to me.?His dating her, I mean. Not the fear part. The fear I understood. I could even see why he was attracted to her. But she couldn’t be around him when he was in costume.

And the thing is, he was in costume a lot.

When I did parties, I’d arrive early, meet the hosts, find a bathroom I could change in, and get ready for the show.

“Hey, man” preferred to arrive on time. Which meant getting into costume at home and using public transport, already fully dressed as a clown. And if his girlfriend was over, they’d say goodbye, she’d go into a different room, and he’d get ready and leave.

I tried to talk to her about it once. I asked her to imagine me putting on clown makeup.?She said, “See, you’re becoming a clown now, and I don’t want that.”

Around this time, I was experimenting with character monologues instead of just stand-up. I wanted to draw more from my background in theatre. I had taken my solo show Please Stop Trying To Kill Me, Dad to the Edinburgh Fringe in 2004 and was itching to go back.

I’d seen Whoopi Goldberg’s one-woman show, Whoopi Goldberg: Direct from Broadway, and it really inspired me.

So I developed this piece about a clown who’s in the middle of performing a show when he gets a phone call from his girlfriend, and she breaks up with him.

I took the monologue to a comedy club, one of those rooms-above-a-pub type places. I was in full clown makeup. At one point in the piece, I take an unused condom out of my pocket by mistake. Then I pull out a balloon animal from another pocket and start pumping it up. My phone rings. I launch into the breakup part of the monologue.

After I, as the character, gets dumped, in the world of the piece—I smear off the makeup across my face, like tears.

Most of the audience sat in stony silence, not really sure what they were watching. But there was one guy, somewhere near the back, laughing continuously. He was my guy. I performed for him.

I did that monologue twice. The next time I came back to the club, I was planning to do a regular stand-up. The booker looked at me and said, “You’re not going to do that clown thing again, are you?”

Some years later, I felt that monologue was my strongest piece. So I focused on that.  As I said, I had planned to go back to the Edinburgh Festival, but I realized my heart wasn’t in it, and neither was my bank balance.

I abandoned the idea of a one-man character show. And realized that there was probably something in this clown break-up character.

Over time, this became the source material for what ended up being my first feature film, Falling for You.

In September 2001, I watched a one-woman show by London-based performer/theatremaker Peta Lily. The stand-up theatre show, Topless, was about ‘life and death and love and hate and sex and sticking plaster and breasts.’ It was fantastic, very funny. I thought to myself, “this! This is the sort of work I want to be doing. Handling serious subjects with equal parts laughter and poignancy.

I said to myself, “I wish I had something to talk about.”

Two months later, my father died. Then I said to God, “No, not like that.”

After his passing, I spent a lot of time writing. Not with a view to doing anything, but I found it helpful to try to process my feelings. I wrote about anything and everything—a lot of stream of consciousness stuff.

I re-evaluated a lot of stories from my childhood. Experiences I shared with my dad. It helped me find some humor again, and that was valuable.

It was around this time that I was living in a flat in East London and my then-girlfriend broke up with me. This was exactly the sort of emotional fallout I needed to add to my grief. It was 9 months after my father passed away. It’s only now that I realize, in a way, this moment gave birth to a new version of me.

It was somewhere around this time that I thought about ending it. This might seem like a bit of a gear shift, but it was for me when I was experiencing it. I felt like a failure. I’d failed in my romantic relationships, failed in my career, and I’d lost my dad through no fault of my own.

But I had a moment when I was looking out my living room window at a luscious, dark green bush in the front garden. I thought to myself, “I could be dead, and that bush will continue to grow. The bees will continue buzzing around.” And I also figured that I wouldn’t be very good at it. I seemed to suck at everything else, so I’d probably suck at that too.” That would be embarrassing. This may sound like I’m trivializing this moment, but this is how I felt about it at the time.

I decided to take an acting workshop. Giving myself something positive to focus on might help. I got there, and the teacher was stuck in traffic and so the class got cancelled. Great. One of the staff members from the professional development organization where the workshop was being hosted suggested that we put our names on a list so they can contact us to reschedule. So I did that.

Not long later, I received an empty email. So I replied, “Hey, I attended your workshop when you got stuck in traffic. Looking forward to arranging a time when I can attend in the future.” Then I got another reply:

“Who are you, and how did you get my email address?”

This was a moment that really stumped me, as I’d opted in for this teacher to have my email address, and she had emailed me first.

So I replied:

“You emailed me. I put my name on the list for the recent acting class. And I received an empty email that I thought I had to reply to.”

“What acting workshop? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m based in San Diego and you?”

San Diego? No wonder she had issues getting to London for the workshop.

Turns out she was a student at a university in San Diego. And she wasn’t the acting teacher whose workshop got cancelled. This didn’t make any sense. Somehow her Hotmail address had spammed mine. It was so odd, and a moment that was ripe to read a lot of meaning into.

For this story, I’ll call her Sandy Iego. We got to emailing a little more frequently. I began to share my recent experiences, and she shared about her struggles.

I felt a lot of negative thoughts and emotional weight during this time. Years later, I learned the term “head trash”, and that seems to fit what I’m describing here.

I decided I needed to go out of London and go traveling. Get away from things. Even though I couldn’t get away from myself, a change of scenery might help me. Some people go traveling before college or immediately after graduation. I figured this was my time to do that. Travel around Europe. I’d been to France, Italy, and Germany before, so maybe I’d do that again. Go to Austria this time. Maybe Spain, even though I see Spain as a hot country, and I’m never really a fan of hot weather. The opposite of a lot of people who like to go on holiday. I’m more of a city break person, not a beach person.

I shared that with Sandy Iego, and she said, “If you go traveling and don’t come and see me in San Diego, I’ll be very upset.” That was an unexpected reply from someone I’d only met via email and the occasional video chat. Also, that wasn’t exactly the direction I was thinking about traveling in. I was essentially going to go backpacking around Europe.

So traveling around Europe became a two-week holiday in San Diego.

Seems a little weird as I reflect that I would embark on this journey without really knowing anything about Sandy. I saw it as an adventure at the time, but it was also just a teeny tiny bit reckless.

I stayed in a motel and would occasionally get together with Sandy Iego and hang out with her university friends.

But I also spent a lot of time in coffee shops and diners.

I had some questions I wanted to answer for myself. What the hell did I want to do with my life? Did I want to keep acting? So, I found myself writing again. I needed to sort through a lot.

I reconfigured my goals. Even though I thought about that John Lennon line about making plans. I needed to cling onto something to try to haul myself out of my quagmire.

What did I want to do? I wanted to create my own work. I had somehow lost track of this. I had worked quite a lot during my first two years and changed out of drama school. But I was no longer in my creative circle I was in before drama school. And I didn’t have a new one. My friends from drama school were off doing their one thing.

So I had to try to forge something on my own. But what did that look like? Forming my own theatre company? Bringing back Group Hug? I thought about the Peta Lily show I saw. Maybe I could do something like that. I think that’s the answer. I had these stories and this loss, so why couldn’t I?

When I got back to England, I managed to take a class with Peta Lily called Delivering Comedy. There were some valuable tips I picked up as Peta came from a mining and clowning background, not a stand-up background.

We also had a few minutes where we spoke about solo shows. I shared some of the stories I had so far in really rough form. A prominent one was about my dad accidentally running me over when I was nine. I suggested calling the show Please Stop Trying to Run Me Over, Dad. Peta suggested kill instead of run me over. Ok. Please Stop Trying to Kill Me, Dad.

I started trying out some of the funny elements in comedy clubs. I didn’t have a good way to monitor and track the effectiveness of the jokes. How do I know if they’re going to land? If they don’t, was it the joke, or was it me? Or was it the audience? I did the best I could and rewrote endlessly.

I somehow decided to perform the show in the village I grew up in. I rented out a village hall, put posters and flyers up around the place, and did a one-night stand in 2003.

I pulled in an old piece of stand-up, as that made me feel confident, as I was so unsure about the rest of it. Stupid decision as it threw me for a loop and I had to improvise and get myself back on track.

It was pretty well received. Someone I only vaguely knew suggested that if I was any good, I’d be performing it in London, not in a small village.

What she didn’t realize was that first, it was emotionally important to me to do the show where I grew up. Second, shows don’t always open in the West End or on Broadway first. They get worked on out of town. But I didn’t need to justify myself. So I just said: “uh huh.”

Somehow, I decided to take the show to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Among the ways I managed to raise some money through jobs, to fund the entire Edinburgh festival run and had a small amount of money to hire Peta Lily to give me some directorial assistance. Not enough money to call her my director. But it was a win and a nice full-circle moment for me.

Edinburgh went ok. Nothing spectacular. Got some audiences. A couple of average reviews. I think part of the problem I had was my writing. Instead of honestly telling the stories and trying to uncover the humor, I was so desperate to be accepted as funny that I ended up forcing a lot of the jokes. Jokes where they didn’t need to be. And some of them, quite frankly, weren’t that great.

What didn’t help me was that I took suggestions from multiple people, and it ended up being a patchwork of my voice and the voices of others. I failed to see that at the time.

The other thing that let me down, I think, was my performance. I think stand-up, even though this was kind of a hybrid between stand-up and theatre, works best when it’s delivered like you’re a person who is real.

Told simply and as straightforward as possible.

I was too over the top is the best way I could describe it. In my years before drama school, my secondary school drama teacher was big into German Expressionistic theatre. The actors employed exaggerated physical gestures, stylized movements, and heightened vocal delivery to convey the inner turmoil and psychological distress experienced by their characters.

This fit with my teacher’s areas of interest. He liked actor and playwright Steven Berkoff, whose works combined elements of physical theatre, mime, and expressionism.

My teacher was also into Devised theatre. This is a collaborative process where theatre is created without a script and is created by actors, designers, and directors, who work together to develop the show through improvisation and other creative techniques.

He was also into the French artist and theatre director Antonin Artaud and the German director Bertolt Brecht.

Artaud’s work and theories called for a communion between actor and audience using gestures, sounds, unusual scenery, and lighting. He wanted to abolish the stage and auditorium. He was a leading voice in the Avant-Garde movement.

Brecht, on the other hand, believed an actor should present a character in a way that wasn’t an impersonation, rather a narration of the actions of the character. So no method acting there. The aim was to not let the audience get invoked so they could analyze the themes of the play and know that they were watching a play.

So this was my background. It really heavily influenced my style of performance. When I got to drama school, I didn’t realize I was doing things differently from how they were expected. I didn’t have the language to communicate what my background was. So it looked as though I couldn’t act and was over the top. Which, I guess, by film and TV acting standards, I was.

This meant I had to unlearn everything or, at least, set it to one side and learn to act like you might see on TV. It was hard to unravel and it all in my head.

This is what I defaulted to when I did my show. It’s where I was the most comfortable and what I knew and what I felt the piece called for. So instead of just being me, a person, I was some amped performing pretzel.

In retrospect, I think I was wrong.

There was a moment during my Edinburgh run when I was up there early, by myself, and I ran into a group of drunk guys, and they were headed for Chinese food. We got chatting, they invited me along. So I went. I think they ended up paying for my meal. Not quite sure how that happened.

In 1994, I had some friends who were really interested in theatre. My friends, whom shall be known as Big S and Little G, had already worked together writing sketch comedy. I was interested in doing that too, so I had written some sketches but didn’t really have anyone to do them with. I had also begun to write little monologues and some stand-up as well. They were a couple of years older than me and I looked up to them. They were inspirations.

We had all been hanging out for about two years when I believe it was Big S who had suggested we put on a production of a play by English playwright John Godber called Bouncers. It’s a play for four men who play a multitude of different characters that all revolve around four Bouncers outside a nightclub. I think there were times we performed too fast. The fast bits were too fast, and the slow bits were too slow. But that’s what happens when you’re performing in suits at a considerable rate of knots.

We also knew that there were four budding actresses in our year in Secondary School. And we suggested they stage a production of Shakers, written by John Godber and Jane Thornton, which was essentially the female equivalent of Bouncers, but set in a cocktail bar. 

We decided to take it seriously.

Well, as seriously as a bunch of teenagers could, and we formed an amateur theatre company. No, Ltd, no LLC (which is American), none of that. Just a “doing business as” bank account. And a theatre company name – The Group Hug Theatre.

We had been involved in enough theatre games and exercises over the last couple of years, where we learned about the notion of group hugs. So, with tongue firmly in cheek, we decided to use that to name our theatre company.

So we work on our own shows and secure a few nights at a restaurant theatre in a local town. From there, we decided we wanted to do a mini tour. We did a few nights at our Secondary School, however, I don’t recall if the Shakers team joined us or not. Then we managed to convince the owner of a local bar to let us stage the show there. Right in the corner of the bar. Not the most ideal of places to do it. Never good to take over a bar from the locals. Much better to do it in a separate events room. But we didn’t know that then.

Anyway, we made a little bit of money. And then… never did anything again. I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it was because we never found anything that we were interested in staging. In retrospect, maybe we could’ve done what The Mischief Theatre company  would do just under a decade later.

And, to be honest, I forgot all about this until very recently. As I think about it now, it was a little audacious for a group of teenagers to decide to put on a mini tour of a play and make a little beer money. I;ve been told that sort of thing isn’t normal. Normal to whom?

I didn’t realise it then, but that silly little tour, huge at the time, though it never crossed my mind that we shouldn’t be doing it, planted a seed.

I’d learn later that this kind of thing is called entrepreneurship, but back then, it was just what we did.

What I came to understand is that doing my own thing, even creating my own work, which I was already doing, was going to seed the rest of my creative life.