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How I was almost called a twat by a second-rate holiday camp compere
A story of apathy by Adny Warren

Yes, I think the title pretty much says it all. But then, were that the case, any further writings would be pointless, but they're not, so it's not true at all. I was lying. Sorry. Anyway, perhaps I should provide a little background information, such as how I came to be in the position to be called a twat in the first place...

Well, believe it or not, for me that's not hard. Most days I do things that someone, somewhere would quite happily call me a twat for doing. Why, only the other week I broke a china duck over my head in a moment of spontaneity, leaving myself dazed and the duck cleft akimbo. I don't doubt that many, many people wouldn't hesitate to call me a twat for that. But I digress. This instance in question was a few weeks before the duck parade (sorry, I can't think of the word to describe my cranial mutilation of the ornament, so parade will have to suffice), when myself and my partner (in a purely "comedy" and not even slightly gay way) Phiblo were down in Burnham (actually "up" in Burnham (well, Bruton), what with it being north of us) watching and supporting (what was at the time) Phib's long suffering girlfriend Emma.

You see, Emma's a bit of a talent freak, in the sense that she has some, and dated one. She was entering a talent show at a shoddy Butlins-a-like holiday camp in the not very sunny town of Bruton, doing her usual thing of singing a few songs and wiggling provocatively at the judges. We were on hand to offer support and suchlike, from the safety of the crowd under a canopy of comedy hats. At least, that was the plan. We arrived at the "amusement" park area of the camp a little before her performance began, so we took the chance to walk around the area and assess the kind of place that she was gracing with her presence. We were not impressed. Everything that makes the British holiday tacky and depressing seemed in some way personified in the carnival of misery that was the park. Garish neon lights whored cheap prizes on dismal game stalls, imagination seemed to have taken a back seat for crass commercialism and tired clichés of fun fairs the country over. Now don’t get me wrong , I like a good fun fair, but this fair was anything but good, or fun for that matter. Everything seemed slightly neglected, like an old dog waiting to be hit with a spade in the name of kindness, and yet early-teen townies gathered like cockroaches around a fresh puddle of piss. The sickly smell of day-old candy floss filled the air, and what few people there were queued like lambs outside a kebab shop, just to be whirled around at less than mid-sonic speeds by unenthusiastic waltzer operators. In short, it was shit.

After quickly coming to this conclusion, we decided that perhaps it would be a good idea to leave the festival of despair, and find the actual hall where the alleged talent show was to take place. After much walking we finally found the place, which thankfully had a fully stocked bar and almost a thimble full of atmosphere. Realising that the only way to really support someone in the twistedmindz style, is to do so in comedy hats, we were suitably attired. Phiblo was wearing a ridiculously large sombrero that I acquired many years ago in Spain, and I was wearing my traditional flat cap and shrek ears combo. In case of comedy hat emergencies we also had a monkey hat and a large, generic jester hat that I procured from the Belgium beer festival (in *snigger* Diksmuide). However, our plans of comedy hat wearage were soon to be scuppered, as we happened upon Emma talking to the owner of the bar/club. Her tone was almost as bitter as I was, after having only just survived the fun fair of shite, when she informed us that comedy hats were not permitted in her bar. Truthfully she sounded like she was joking, especially since I just laughed and carried on in. In the back of mind, of course, I was thinking to myself "go on then you bitch, throw me out for wearing a comedy hat, your clubs rubbish anyway". But, not wanting to annoy Emma by getting myself thrown out, I just smiled and carried on.

Phiblo, on the other hand, terrified at getting asked to removed the hat a second time or being thrown out, opted to remove the 4 foot wide sombrero, which wouldn't have even blocked anyone's view since we were sitting such that there was no-one behind us. To be fair to the man, in the spirit of comedy he did don the monkey hat, but at one point later in the evening I felt compelled to wear the other 4 hats at once. Now that's comedy. The bar area itself was less depressing than outside, the lighting was alright and there was a good supply of beverages. It wasn't until I'd got my first pint back to the table, however, that I noticed something decidedly odd about the drink. See, the thing about cider is that it tastes like cider. Not like appletise. Except this cider didn't even taste like appletise. It tasted like something extracted from a prehistoric mosquito, who'd sucked an apple a million years ago before being fossilised in a tree. It was weak. And it was a known brand, so it had clearly been watered down. Now very little annoys me more than watered down drinks, especially if it's cider. And then the compere came on...

He doesn’t have a very hard job to do, let's be honest. Most of the crowd are friends or family of the performers, so you could pretty much whip them up with a piece of dental floss. But still the gentleman on stage in the creased suit manages to make them less excited by the end of his first skit. For a moment we ignore the fact that his cheap, tatty suit and rough, unshaved face give him the appearance of a poor redcoat impersonator who doubles as a tramp, and concentrate on his delivery. It's the usual thing, a couple of poor gags before the introduction of the first act, which would be acceptable except that the gimp on stage tells jokes like a girl after five glasses of babysham. I'm sure I've heard it before, and it later dawns on me that it was in an email I'd received a few weeks ago. Coincidence? Nevermind, we can let that one slip, I tell myself. Then he's into the introduction of the first act, a disco dancing lunatic going by the name of "Disco Dynamite". Wondertramp expertly informs us "his ambition is to one day work in the movies", before slickly adding "he's already worked on Mike Bassett England Manager, and is in London tomorrow working on another film." Not much of an ambition then is it you muppet? I think the word that your alcohol shrunk brain is looking for is "career". The poorly executed spiel continues for at least another five minutes, by which point even Mr Dynamite is getting bored, until finally our host departs the stage, making way for the true talent. This isn't a review of the evening, so I'm not going to say anything about the dancing guy, except that I met him after the show and he seemed like a jolly decent fellow.

Anyway, this pattern continued for the next few acts, with our dear vagrant becoming more and more desperate as the evening progressed. His poor writing and general lack of any kind of presenting talent lent him the appearance of an embarrassing uncle trying desperately to get a laugh from a racist joke at the Christmas dinner table. With your new black girlfriend there. Sure enough, it's not long into the evening, just after the mid-time break, that the "Englishman Irishman Scottishman" joke comes into play. I can't even remember it, but I know it was rubbish, and by this point the watered down cider and comedy hat dissing from the owner is adding to the stress of the lame twat trying to convince the audience that he's not a lame twat, when everyone can see that he is. I am not a happy person. His speeches on stage are about 5 minutes longer than they need to be, and so far he's done a lot of them, so the only thing in my mind is a scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I've had about 5 pints (equivalent to about 2 proper pints, but there you go), so I'm open to suggestions to ease the lethargy creeping in to my mind, and as he starts his drawl for the next contestant I just can't stop myself. He's now arsing about behind the curtain because something's not quite right. It's now or never.

"Get on with it!"

I didn't realise I could shout so loudly, but I could, oh yes. I'm waiting for Phiblo to assist me with a cry of "yes, get on with it!", but he's too scared of being thrown out and missing his girlfriend perform, which is fair enough I suppose. By this point I don't give a fuck, I just want to see how good this moron handles hecklers. I find out soon enough, as he appears back on stage.

"Who said that?" He addresses the audience, who don't really seem to care. Before anyone can finger me (or point out to him that I said it) I throw my hand in the air like a smartarse in a maths class and shout again.

"It was me. Get on with it." I'm really going for it. I realise that I'm still wearing the flat cap and shrek ears, but by this point I don't care, they just reinforce my twistedmindz mood.

"Oh really?" His retort knocks me aback "I used to get like that after one pint as well. Security!" He semi-jests for someone to throw me out, but no-one does. After all, I likely said what was on their minds as well.

"Yeah," I reply "I bet you did!" His otherwise flawed heckle-retort then degenerates into schoolyard banter.

"Well it's not my fault you're a tw..." And it fades into silence. I would continue, but my point is made. Not only is he a rubbish host, but his retorts are crap. And why did he stop short of calling me a twat? Was he….scared of me? Or did he realise that by lowering himself to such poorly executed insults, he was showing off his true nature as a useless conversationalist? In fact I think it's more than likely that he just forgot how he was going to end his masterful insult. Whatever the case, at this point I'm bent over double in fits of laughter, while the security to escort me outside are nowhere to be seen.

And strangely, on the way out, the woman who told us to remove our hats shakes my hand. Hmm