With no help from the government, the newest talent in stand-up comedy won’t survive coronavirus

The sadness of the situation is unbearable, says Jenny Eclair. What else do you do when the only thing you know how to do is make people laugh?

Jenny Eclair supplemented her income from early comedy gigs with waitressing and bar work. No chance of that for today’s young performers (Rex Features)

It’s hard to make a comedian laugh these days – particularly when our industry is reeling from the recent news that the great theatrical government bailout, designed to protect jobs in the entertainment industry, doesn’t cover stand-up comedy. Like circus folk, we don’t seem to count. In the coming months many performers, promoters and venue staff will be looking to find other jobs that have already ceased to exist.

Back in the day I used to supplement my stand-up career by doing lunchtime bar shifts and odd jobbing as a waitress. That sort of work was easy to pick up 40 years ago. Not any more. If a struggling bar or restaurant is looking for employees in 2020, they’re going to want someone who will dedicate themselves to the job, not someone who is going to crack jokes and steal chips off the customers plates.

My heart goes out to the younger stand-ups, the potential big names of the future, who have been honing their craft for some years. How many performers are in danger of missing their boat to the big time now that indoor gigs are banned and comedy clubs are struggling to survive?

There is often a small window of big opportunity for stand-ups, a sweet spot when their stuff is ripe for the public and their time is right now. I could name at least 10 female comics who, in my opinion, were on the verge of really breaking through this year. But now that coronavirus has put a stop to shows, tours and festivals, their frustration and upset must be terrible – especially when, lets be honest, a lot of comics aren’t particularly mentally robust at the best of times.

In addition to those destined for telly, there are many more performers who want nothing more than to gig live, happy to share bills and sit in dressing rooms with other comics. For huge numbers of people these are the only places where they feel they belong. Comedy is a peculiar club; it welcomes those who don’t particularly feel welcome anywhere else. It disregards background, colour and academic success. It couldn’t care less about your gender. Be what you like: as long as you’re funny, and you don’t nick anyone else’s material, then you can come in.

Up until now I believed that most comedians had a cockroach-like ability to survive. But without any financial support through the government’s arts bailout, that’s increasingly unlikely. The sadness of the situation is unbearable. What else do you do when the only thing you know how to do is make people laugh?

Most comedians are borderline unemployable – that’s why they’re doing stand up – and I thank my lucky stars that I had 40 years of live gigging before a pandemic came along and knocked the mic from our hands.

Back in the early 1980s, when I was first performing in London on the brand new “alternative comedy” circuit, regular clubs included a vegetarian restaurant called The Earth Exchange on the Archway Road and Bunjies, a tiny basement on Denmark Street. As time went on there were lots of rooms above, below and behind pub venues. Years later, driving through London, I can still spot them in just about every postcode and immediately I’m transported back to a 20-something me with an A-Z, a notebook full of handwritten jokes, my make up bag and a packet of 20 Silk Cut.

Over the intervening years, lots of small- to medium-sized dedicated comedy clubs have become more sophisticated with backstage dressing rooms and loos – nice, yes, but a comic will gig wherever a crowd gathers, dressing rooms or not.

Indeed the only silver lining for the future of comedy venues, so far as I can see, is you don’t need much to create a place where comedy can be performed. As soon as this terrible situation is over venues will quickly mushroom up again all over the country. I once did a gig at Bangor University which consisted of me standing on a beer crate whilst someone shone an angle poise lamp on my face. Basic is better than nothing.

Of course a brave stab at keeping “the show on the road” is currently being made by a series of ambitious new drive in comedy shows. These are being produced anywhere big enough to house a stage and a load of cars and have so far met with various levels of success.

The ideal scenario for a drive in comedy gig, is great weather and a fabulous sound system beautifully synced and a big screen. Oh, and an audience fortunate enough to own cars.

When you have all of these things, then your chances of a good night out are pretty high. But when you have none of these things – when foul weather and malfunctioning technology spoil play – then, as my mate Dom Joly said, the experience turns into the “ultimate dystopian anxiety dream”. A confession, which actually made me laugh more than anything else had for days. Cheers, Dom.