It’s rare, these days, to find myself in the windowless basement of a pub in central London. I used to be a regular at parties in pubs when I was a young dreamer (boozer) on the comedy club circuit before kids, dogs and a growing sense of my own mortality had me striding to the underground station early. They were a lot of fun, those nights. They often ended with shame and regret, but the beginnings – gathering with fellow comedians after our various gigs about town and heading to somewhere dark and dank – those bits were brilliant.
I found myself back in just such a basement recently, invited by a young comedian who was hard to refuse. The pub, on Great Portland Street, was an old haunt of mine. Parties still happen here! I felt a little foolish for being surprised that the scene had carried on without me. Why had I imagined that when I went to bed, all my friends also did? I am not, I reminded myself, Bagpuss.
Of course, most of the comedians I used to shindig with also go home early these days, preparing to be woken up constantly by their kids, dogs or their seventh pee of the night. But what a thrill, I thought, as I made my way through the gorgeous pub, to be an old bat and still have friends with very strong bladders.
The invitation (a WhatsApp message) said the party was from 7pm to 2am. It was 7.15pm, I was very early, which meant I could leave in a couple of hours and still be in bed by 10.30pm. The perfect crime!
I pushed open a door with a note stuck on it with tape, saying “private party”, and carefully made my way down the narrow flight of stairs, gripping the wobbly handrail tightly. I was focused on keeping my balance, when suddenly an apparition of 20-something-year-old me whooshed past without a care, fizzing with excitement for the night ahead, with no thought as to what damage a fall down the stairs might do to 50-something-year-old me. Tsk. Young people, eh?
Never mind. I had promised myself to stay for at least an hour. The party was already full of people who had never owned an address book. I joined some familiar faces and enjoyed some top tier banter with young stars of the comedy world. I told them all tales of the 90s and noughties comedy circuit – the days before camera phones or social media, when people could behave as they wished with little repercussion. Very few young comedians these days have tales such as the time their manager spotted Jim Davidson in a bar, leapt over to him, got him in a headlock, screamed obscenities in his face before finally letting him go and sauntering back with a dismissive “that’s that c**t sorted”, before resuming their chat.
I was made a fuss of by various women in their twenties who are always very nice to me, now I am their mothers’ age. I told them how, before internet pornography desensitised everyone to the point of being able to have it on in the background whilst eating a lunchtime sandwich, fishnet tights were considered “kinky”, while licking squirty cream off each other’s bodies was absolutely “wild”. “Squirty cream?” enquired one of my new young friends wrinkling her nose, “is that even gluten free?”
Later on, a merry crew of Instagram stars decided to declare me a “legend” because I had been a stand up back in the days when it was “the new rock and roll”. I was the only person over 40 at the party and it felt good to be one of the gang, but it was important to know when to go. There is a fine line between “legend” and “wacky aunt hanging around the youngsters who are all now drunk and want to cop off with each other”.
So I left them all to it, thankful that I am no longer lured by oblivion. As I opened the door to leave, I saw the apparition again, 20-something-year-old me, glassy-eyed, slurring into the ear of a guy who was not in it for the chat. The warm bright lights of the tube station called. I headed towards them, looking forward to my herbal tea and a cuddle with the dogs.
