Natalie Haynes: journalism

Lembit Opik

Of all the MPs which the Commons unceremoniously shed two weeks ago, Lembit Opik was surely the most unexpected. The people of Montgomeryshire obviously felt less affection for the panel-show favourite than the panel shows did. He appeared on Have I Got News For You within hours of being given the boot, muttering that he needed a new job. And he appears to have found it: he is reported to be planning a new career as a stand-up comedian.

Stand-up is a tough world: the travelling (2^nd class or car share: no taxpayers are paying), the boozing (lager, not sherry. Sorry), the hecklers (it's like Prime Minister's Questions, but they can throw bottles). So, after ten years on the circuit myself, here is my survival guide for Lembit.

Open with your second-strongest gag. The audience will usually give a comic about 60 seconds to prove they're funny. If they're a really nice crowd, they'll give you 60 seconds to prove you aren't funny. Lembit probably has a little more time than a total newbie, because he's been on TV. Say 70 seconds. If they haven't laughed in that time, they probably won't laugh at all.
Make eye contact with the room. You need to look around the room and make eye contact with as many of the audience as you can. Don't deliver a line in just one direction, or those on the other side of the room will stop listening and start chatting. Just because this happens to you a lot doesn't mean it isn't a problem.
Talk about yourself. Seriously. Not the asteroids, though. No-one cares about those. Either Bruce Willis will sort it out or we'll all die. So focus on dating a Wonderbra model. The men in the room will listen for advice, even if they don't laugh. The women look at you in a new light. You could maybe get them a free Wonderbra...
Be self-deprecating. Lembit once had a look-alike who couldn't get any work. That's about the saddest thing I've ever heard. Imagine being an actor who can't get work. Imagine looking in the mirror and thinking that maybe the reason you can't get work is because you look a bit like Lembit. Imagine signing to a look-alike agency in the hope of turning around your fortunes. Then imagine the sound of the phone not ringing for ever. That's a pretty sad story. But not for Lembit. For Lembit, it is a rich seam of comedy to be mined.
Don't fear hecklers. Actually, do fear them. Sometimes they follow you home. But have some lines in mind when they shout at you. The comedians' favourite is 'I don't come to your place of work and knock the c*ck out of your mouth, do I?' Sorry to be vulgar. But swearing is pretty much always the best way to deal with hecklers. It shows you mean business. And swearing is always funny (see below).
Swearing is always funny. Sure, it's not big or clever. People get upset if you do it on the BBC, or before the watershed. But those people aren't in comedy clubs. And in comedy clubs, swearing is king. Channel Peter Capaldi. He is your master now.
Don't pick on people when they're whispering. It's tempting, sure. They're talking while you're talking. They're making you feel edgy. If the talking spreads, you'll lose the gig. But try to resist the temptation to ask the whisperers what they're talking about. They will almost certainly say that they were discussing whether to leave, because you aren't funny. Or - worse - it will turn out that one of them is translating for the other one, who only speaks Spanish/German/French. They were being nice. You now look like a bully. And a Eurosceptic.
Check your exit strategy. If it's going badly, don't stay. You don't need to do your time, and no-one will think the worse of you if you bail after 5 minutes. They already think the worst of you - that's what a bad gig is like. So don't stay on, antagonise the audience and trash the gig. Someone else has to go on after you, you know. Make sure you can get to the door without getting too close to the audience. Jack Dee used to leave his early gigs with his motorcycle helmet on, so he could get out without anyone realising it was him. You might like to have a hat, a stick-on beard, or some other disguise.
Add jokes. What gets a laugh in a serious context - the House of Commons - may not get one in a comedy club. People expect a lot more laughs from ten minutes of stand-up than they do even from ten minutes of a funny film or play. So make sure you have enough jokes. Good ones.
End on your strongest gag. Test it on people before the gig. Not on your loved ones - they will laugh to be encouraging, little realising that you need them to save you from the ignominy of leaving a stage in tumbleweed silence. Above all, leave the audience like you didn't leave the electorate: wanting more.

Good luck, Lembit.