I’ve been knocked out of the Laughing Horse competition at the quarter final stage, which isn’t very good.

I’ve just come home from the show. Nan, my girlfriend, is already in bed…it’s lovely that she’s there, but it doesn’t help.

Outside on Tottenham Lane, men are shouting at each other. Perhaps it started in The Queens. I don’t know, I never go in there anymore. It doesn’t matter.

The only really important fact is that tonight, I just wasn’t funny enough.

Why start a blog now? Why blog this? Dunno. Feels like I should, though.

I just wasn’t funny enough. Not anywhere near funny enough.

I may think I’m better and smarter than some of the four who went through, but that means nothing. I could, if I were being a real dick, blame the fact that one of the four who went through brought about 20 friends down, and if they hadn’t been put through there’d have been a riot. But that’s no good – if I’d been good enough to look like a potential finalist I’d have been put through too.

I could even wonder to myself why at least one of the other acts went through when he clearly didn’t get the laughs that I did. It really doesn’t matter at all; he was lucky and I wasn’t – but the fact is, luck shouldn’t have been an issue. It came down to luck because nobody really stood out.

The night’s winner, Joe Baker, absolutely deserved to win, by the way. He was good. But nobody killed. And if I wasn’t funny enough to stand out from that, then I just wasn’t funny enough.

And that hurts.

It hurts because I’ve done 6 gigs in the last 8 days. In that time, I’ve only spent one evening with Nan. These were supposed to be the gigs that got me ready for the competition quarter-final. I’ve been writing loads of new stuff, often thinking ‘this is the stuff I’ve been trying to write for years!’, only for it to come out to distinctly lukewarm responses when I’ve performed it.

Why work so hard for so much disappointment?

The shouting outside is getting louder. I’m going to the window.

There’s a crowd of about 50-60 drunk young men and women outside The Queens, and two police vans have turned up. About 20 police have got out of the vans and are sweeping down the street, mobile phones stuck to their chests glowing like a slow wave of blue fairylights. The shouting is getting less frequent but still vicious and shot through with shrill, violent panic. A man in a polo shirt smashes a car window and the blue fairylights surround him. As I come away from the window, an ambulance siren is coming closer.

I could have been out there tonight, and I’m glad I’m not.

But then…I could have been funnier tonight and I wasn’t.

Out of those two thoughts, perhaps the first ought to be concern me more.

But it won’t.


Welcome to my blog, by the way; I’m Charlie Duncan and I seem to be a self-obsessed whinging arse of a failing standup.

It’s good to meet you. 🙂


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