“All Humour Is Rooted In Pain”
Richard Pryor
A decade ago my life was an inconceivably rancid miscarriage. By rights, I should have been put out of my misery like a fallen horse running the Gold Cup. Fifteen years of amoral wretchedness usurped the better years of my life, robbing not only my youth but my health, sanity and everything that I loved.
Addiction left me an embittered, twisted and intolerable bastard. My inner world was such a screaming, howling wilderness that I would do just about anything to escape it. The miserable contortions I subjected myself to to not be myself for a few hours are beyond comprehension. It left me vulnerable, alone and impoverished. Were it not for pure spite I would have succumbed to the insatiable void and overdosed on my cold, concrete floor.
So excuse me while I suck my own dick for a minute. Like it or loathe it. But I’m going to celebrate how far I’ve come. This communication comes not from ego or arrogance, but from the fruit of years of gruelling discomfort, discipline and sacrifice.
I may indeed be a low level comedian. I may still have much to learn. I may well be flagrantly still very unwell. But if you were unfortunate enough to have met me ten years ago and to suffer my company; I have no doubt that you would not recognise me. For that, I commend myself.
But I could not have done this alone. I have been nurtured by a small host of brilliant people who have put up with my worst nature and enabled my best. Such friends and intimates have tolerated the intolerable. They have fed my mind, body and soul, enriched the greater tapestry of my life and brought colour to the bleached coral of my wretched life. For this they have my eternal love and loyalty. Disreputable bastards that they are.
I was still an addict when Comedy Unleashed began. The minute I found their channel, I didn’t want to do anything else. That was the goal. Theirs was the standard. If it took me twenty years I would play at Comedy Unleashed.
I never wanted what seemingly every other comedian wanted. The notion of ending up on Taskmaster or Live At The Apollo renders me violently incontinent. I’m so opposed to the idea that if given the opportunity I would stage a dirty protest and paint a mural of Bobby Sands on my living room wall in my own feculence.
Up until last year, what I had experienced of the comedy grassroots scene was repugnant and bore no resemblance to what I understood comedy to be about. There was such talent that was constrained with authoritarian ideology and cultish mantra. Nobody of any note was ever going to see a decent minute on stage due to vicious organisers and cowardly sycophants.
Given my style and content it had become impossible to make substantial ground via comedy’s conventional pathway. There was no way to develop my craft. Not without inevitably running into the wrath of some gatekeeping ideologue who would shut me down with methodology that is anything less than psychopathic.
In February of last year I was ready to throw in the towel after being punched on stage when Comedy Unleashed announced that they were opening a new night in Leeds. Low and behold I was booked to play on their second show.
There is no way to convey what a departure it was to gig to an audience who expects nothing less than carnage. To be actively encouraged not to self censor. To push the boundaries and bring your worst. Where the audience have the last word.
From a comedian’s perspective it was not only a fabulous professional opportunity but a chance to study masters at their craft. Comedians with decades of experience who had been otherwise had their livelihoods stolen in a typhoon of viral outrage.
When you’re sharing a stage with Andrew Lawrence, Eddy Brimson or Adam Bloom it forces you to raise your game at breakneck pace. From there I was embraced across similar events that helped me raise my game. To them I also give thanks for these opportunities.
If by some miracle you haven’t noticed or have sustained a serious head injury of late, I possess a voice like a tramp’s pocket and can’t fucking breathe. This has become progressively worse. As have a number of health issues arising from stress, grief and living like a toxic waste dump for two decades. The details of which I will rant endlessly about in a follow up post that will render you bulimic. Consequently I am sacrificing precious livestock to Osiris in hopes of recovery. This is a preliminary action before other, more extreme actions may need to be taken. Such as exercise.
As unwell as I have become, cocaine as made me immortal and I shall survive. I’ve come too far to fall apart now. There will be no cancellations. There will be no compromise. More will follow. And the material will only get worse. That much I promise. But in the meantime, enjoy my latest outing at Comedy Unleashed, London.
Predictably brilliant.