It’s 10:30pm. A rainy evening in Soho. One of the less prestigious comedy clubs. You’re a struggling comedian, newly arrived in the big smoke, hoping to make your mark. You peer out at the audience before your set. A sea of bored looking blokes with big arms –– ah it’s the LADbible crowd. You know this audience you tell yourself. You can smell the cloud of Lynx Africa from here. You open the folder on your iPhone labelled “PureGym material”.

You take to the stage, warming up with your newly crafted witticisms about growing up in Bristol and having acne in the shape of the London tube map. Some muted chuckles. Ok, time to go for the shock factor. The Wayne Rooney and the Welsh nan story — a can’t fail crowdpleaser. Pause for laughter. Silence. From the back row a man says, quietly but audibly “mate”. 

Sadiq Khan???

OK not what you were expecting — guess these guys really love their grans? Plough on. The gym bunny one — “so she was using the squat rack and every rep her arse was flying in my fa…” “maaaate”. A perfect harmony from two South Asian lads in the front, shaking their heads in blokish exasperation. Your heart is hammering in your chest. Is this hazing? Am I having a stroke? Should I try and riff off it? You look at the pair of judgemental eyes. Hmm maybe not.

Sweat has broken out on your forehead. This is your big chance. You’ve committed to the shock factor already, you can’t back down now, it’s too late for your gentle observational stuff, that window has passed. It’s time. The one-legged Albanian midget gag that launched your comedy career, such as it is, in a grotty bar in Leeds. You get about 30 seconds in before a wall of sound almost knocks you off your feet “MAAAAAAAATE”. Simultaneous, total outrage, a baritone blast of masculine disappointment with your conduct. As you stand there, swaying, too shocked to move, reality seems to come unstuck around you. A sea of ethnically diverse men, their muscles bulging out of their t-shirts and skinny jeans rushes the stage like a metrosexual tidal wave. 

Strong hands seize you and lift you up, gym bags and backpacks are kicked aside, and you’re borne bodily out of the doors as shouts of “Mate!” “Maate!” “Maaate!!!” echo out into the grey, dripping darkness. You cry out at nearby pedestrians as they pass you in the street, but they just avert their gaze. You beg, you plead. You yell out to one kindly looking middle aged woman “come on love, do something”. This earns you a sharply whispered and horrified “Mate!” from one of your kidnappers. 

I just want to go back to Bristol

Fear. Confusion. Sack dropped over your head. Back of a van. Cold surface. Try not to vomit into your hood. Hustled down steps. Warmth. Overwhelming scent of deodorant. “Mate!” The hood is torn from your head. Sadiq Khan???

Yes, the Mayor of London is there, standing over you. You’re underground, a disused tube station. Light flickering from braziers and torches. He’s dressed in a dark robe, the hood pushed back. He’s looking at you, not unkindly, but with sadness, like a disappointed father. “Mate” he says, “have a word with yourself”. 

“Please, what’s going on, I’m just a regional comic, I just want to go back to Bristol, please…”

“Mate” he stops your pleading. He has something in his hands. He holds it up to your face. It’s a mirror. “Mate, have a word with yourself”. You look at yourself in the mirror. Pallid, bags under your eyes, thin, cynical mouth. What have you become? What happened to that bright eyed kid who used to canvas for the Greens, who signed a petition at Uni to ban the Sun from the student common room until they removed page 3? Who cared about social justice?  

“Mate, have a word with yourself. Then have a word with your mates”. Yes, that would be nice. To stop earning gasps and shocked giggles. To get applause, to have these nice young blokes still gripping his arms give him a firm pat on the back. “Well done mate” they’d say. 

“Mate” — wait, who said that? You look around. “Maaate”. Your image in the mirror is moving its lips. “Bro. What are you doing? That’s enough. This isn’t a joke any more”. He’s right. You’re right. It’s all going to be alright. Bright light, blinding. Darkness and sleep.

You wake up, head pounding. You’re back at the flat. Crashed out on the sofa. What did you do last night? 

“Morning sweetheart!” It’s your flatmate Colin, grinning down at you, holding a mug of tea. “You got in late — shag any fit birds?” That’s not right you think, that’s not OK. You turn to him, shaking your head: “Maaate”.