One hundred and one – Free London Comedy

I started my Meetup group, Free London Comedy, three years before beginning this ridiculous quest. A year earlier I had accidentally blundered into the world of the London open mic comedy circuit; a friend had invited me to one of her comedy gigs. There was a misunderstanding; it wasn't a gig: it was a stand-up comedy workshop.

Picture the scene: a tired function room above a pub in Camden Town. Approximately twenty people sat nervously on uncomfortable stools. Each person was asked to introduce themselves. Someone introduced themselves as a clown. Another person introduced themselves as having done eighty gigs. A loud woman said that she ran her own comedy night in Bournemouth. It was my turn: 'hello, my name is Chris; I thought my friend was going to be here, but she isn't.' Everyone laughed. I took a breath and continued: 'I haven't done any comedy gigs. I have come here by mistake'. By the end of the session, the facilitator, a chap called Ivor Dembina, had helped me to uncover a seed of comedic confidence. His mantra was simple: 'don't be boring'.

I set up Free London Comedy for one main reason: I wanted the acts on the open mic circuit in London to be seen by real comedy-hungry audiences. Every night of the week, aspiring comics would play their hearts out in nights all over London, delivering astonishing performances, to half empty rooms. Often, the audience were fellow comics, or their long suffering friends, lured to gigs with the promise of pints of beer and a good night out. I wanted to add something to the London open mic circuit: to help promoters, to help acts, and to help audiences discover new comedy nights. There was also another reason to do this: it is a cheeky way to get spots, especially if you're not as funny or as talented as loads of the other people who are out there.

One evening, when I was talking about my Meetup quest, a friend offered me a suggestion: 'why don't you run your own Meetup, and invite all the leaders of all the Meetup groups you've been to?' This was a brilliant idea! I had my own group, so why not do it? The idea quickly mutated into a new idea that filled me with fear and dread: 'why not write a whole show about all your Meetup experiences?'

The thing is, I'm not a natural performer. I'm a computer scientist who can't really speak properly. I had never done anything more significant than deliver a vaguely competent five minute set about not being able to, well, speak properly. Ignoring the obvious need to have a modicum of innate talent to both write and perform in your own comedy show, I decided I would do it: I would run a gig called Meetup101. In some respects, this show would represent the pinnacle of my mid-life crisis anxiety. It also reflected a toxic mix of confidence and self-delusion.

First things first: I needed a venue. I asked around. Two days later, a date had been set and a basement room close to Kings Cross station had been booked. There were more jobs: I needed someone to design fliers, and I needed to write the description of the one hundred and first Meetup and advertise it on 'Free London Comedy'. Before doing that, I needed to figure out exactly what was going to happen on the night.

I soon had the answer: I would book some really funny open mic comics; some great people who I know and had seen before. The idea was simple: have a show of two halves, and have it run by an enthusiastic and experienced master of ceremonies. For the first half, I would have six (or seven) acts on, and have the second half dedicated to the Meetup stuff. Since this would be an unpaid gig, the audience get to see some funny people for free, and the acts will (hopefully) get to play to a really big crowd (if I managed to promote it well). There was an implicit contingency plan in all this: if I died a terrible comedic death (which has happened a number of times before) the audience won't mind so much, since everyone would have had a good time due to the really funny people who had trod the boards before me.

The next bit was to invite all the members of all the Meetup groups I had visited. To entice them to the gig, I sent each leader a copy of the write-up of their Meetup. Dan, the tax accountant, seemed to be most surprised: 'I don't believe what I'm reading!', he replied. Emily, from Dance Walking London, seemed to really enjoy the write up. Lucy, from the French Public Speaking group decided to sign up to the gig straight away, and Nina from Teddington Laughter and Relaxation commended my summary. There were others too: Anka from 500 miles said that my summary had been an antidote to a terrible day at work. Andy, who helped to run the Gay Mates group wrote: 'if you're interested in doing something else that is different, do check out the Men in Touch Meetup'. Andy's Meetup offered massage, meditation and naked yoga, all with other like minded men.

I arrived at the venue on the evening of the gig ridiculously early with my mate Jo. The marketing had gone well: the gig had been advertised across three different Meetup groups, including the London Netrunners group. If everyone who said they would come turned up, there would be approximately one hundred and thirty people, and this didn't include all the fliers that I had given out. The room had a capacity of one hundred. On one hand, I was worried there wouldn't be space. On the other hand, I was worried that nobody would turn up.

After an hour or so, people started to arrive. There was Grace, who I proposed to in the Flashmob group. I remember Mandy from the visit to Playhubs. There was also Rob from Geekpub. My friend, Helene (who is also a member of Free London Comedy) who I met at the Experience French group, gave me a huge hug. Suddenly, I recognised three women I had received a balloon massage from. There were friends: my mate Dave, who had flown in from Hungary, our mate Nigel, who had given me the idea of running the one hundred and first Meetup, and an old mate called Bob who I hadn't seen for over ten years. There were members of Free London Comedy, and other people too: Jason, who ran a performance poetry night in South East London, and my mates Tom, Shabs, Sarah, and Stephen.

And then there were the acts. They were all different. There was Declan, who describes himself as looking like everyone's favourite geography teacher. Next on the bill was Cheekykita, who was planning on shrinking a man and performing an exorcism. Cheekytika was followed by a lovely musical act: a fire cracker of a woman called Katie who is known for her 'tudor history' material and ukelele playing. Then there was Ashley, who was going to do dark stuff about politics, Houssem who had asked to do three minutes, and my mate Michael, who carries around a toy washing machine. The final act was Nigel, who delivers slick self-deprecating jokes about being Malaysian.

It was then my Meetup moment. I stepped onto the stage, and was immediately blinded by the spotlights. I should have been ready for them, but I wasn't; I felt uncomfortable and unnerved. I had rehearsed, but my opening routine had suddenly disappeared from my brain and I inadvertently skipped a big section, and delved into a very silly part of my routine. I regained a bit of composure, but I had no idea how long this show was going on for, or how long I was going to talk for. I soon got to that bit of the show that I had only delivered once, and it had accidentally gotten a laugh. 'Write that down!' someone had told me. I had taken their advice, and I had no idea whether the same material would work again; I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard a wave of laughter.

I was outside my comfort zone; I should never have been trying out what was, in essence 'new material' but I had no choice; I have never had the opportunity to get up on stage for more than ten minutes at a time. I spoke of Sam, the life coach. I told the story that he told me; about a German psychiatrist who encouraged his patients to take a banana for a walk. It was as if, in that moment, I was the psychiatrist's patient, taking my banana for a walk down a busy high street, filled with anxiety and worry, whilst at the same time, just about keeping it together. I also mentioned the German woman who I met at the Biodanza group, who said that she was in the middle of her third mid-life crisis.

This connects to a question that I've been struggling with for some time: perhaps I haven't really been having a mid-life crisis at all; perhaps I've just been struggling to live a little more than I ought to have been. In that moment, with the spotlight shining down on my bald head, in a basement not too far from Kings Cross station, I realised that was exactly what I was doing: living a whole lot more than I ever have done before.

I had really enjoyed every last moment of Meetup101; I had enjoyed the excitement of visiting every single group and meeting loads of kind and generous people. I realised that I would do it all again, if I could. I suddenly had a thought: perhaps I could do it again. Perhaps I could do Meetup101 in a different city: Manchester or Edinburgh, or maybe even New York or Chicago. Or Sydney or Melborne, Toronto, Adelaide or Auckland. I had a new question: how would the cities differ? Would I be as confused?  Would the people as accepting? Would there be even wackier groups in, say, Los Angeles? Also, how would I cope living somewhere totally different?

As I enjoyed a celebratory beer with my friends Josh, Jo, Kay-Anne and Andy (who I met at the first ever Meetup I went to), I began to think about what I wanted to do next.