God Comic

God Comic

Alf Uman, the 'Fun Lovin' Gagster' of a thousand rundown working men's
clubs was tired, very tired indeed. One-time all-time numero uno and
doyen of the end of the pier pattering classes, he now stands before
the Darby and Joan Club, Eastbourne division, trying to do what he once
did best, 'bester' than anyone else.

Once loved more than any other entertainer by more loving women, and
perhaps a handful of men. Alf Uman, 'have a joke and a smile!' Alf
Uman, the Levenshulme comedy cowboy, 'shooting from the hip flask!'
Once, but no longer.

Had it really come down to this? More coughing and choking than
laughing and smirking. Nurses replaced waitresses, gifting out
Temazepam where once flowed bitter and lager. If Alf died on stage
today, he could well be matched by a few of his audience, for the scent
of death lay heavy in every corner, as profound and unwelcome as his
trademark orange suit.

The first set was a nightmare, the tape cassette containing Alf's
signature tune - he couldn't afford a band these days - chewed up in
the machine as he walked on stage with his flies down, feedback
screaming from the speakers, but worse than this, nobody noticed a
thing. The audience just coughed, or choked, or stared somewhere
between something and nothing. Some held bingo cards and pencils
thinking it was Thursday. Others sat sadly, waiting for it all to
end.

Alf fumbled his way through a known routine, jokes so old they'd long
been forgotten, but now replayed as fresh as a well pressed daisy. No
response. Even the sure-fire hits went amiss. At the interval Alf left
the stage, uncertain whether to return. He made his way to the gents
and sat himself down in the best cubicle he could find.

How much longer could he keep doing this? There hadn't been a decent
gig for years. He lit a fag and rescued the hip flask from his pocket.
It was a gift from Bob Monkhouse when Celebrity Squares still topped
the ratings some twenty years ago. The silver-plate now dented and
worn, revealed the cheap metal beneath. He drank deeply and drew on a
cigarette.

Now, someone once said that 'comedians never die, they just stop being
funny,' but Alf never stopped being funny, people just stopped
laughing. What Alf needed was an audience, a real let your hair down,
devil-may-care, honest to god, good time audience.

Alf adjusted his suit and prepared to leave. It was time to hit 'em
with an Alf Uman retrospective. Alf's greatest hit's of comedy with a
line or two from his special bag of tricks. These thoughts flew through
his head as he left the stinky toilets, walking out to...

...Nothing he knew. The club and crowd had gone, and a warm reception
room replaced them. At the end of the room sat something impish and to
the side, a large gateway leading elsewhere. If this was a set-up, that
Candid Camera crew were heading for trouble. Alf was not a man to be
meddled with.

Yet, as he moved closer he could see what was indeed an imp, an
administrative imp, more interested in toasting crumpets than dealing
with customers. He looked Alf up and down, sniffed and then scribbled
something unreadable on a piece of paper.

'Welcome to Hell,' the imp eventually said. It stamped the piece of
paper and handed it to Alf. 'The Deuce is currently indisposed, but if
there is anything you need to know, I'd be happy to fill you in.'

Alf looked about him and then at the document in his hand. It reminded
him of his tax returns. Effectively, he held an afterlife P60 listing
his non-financial contributions, headed 'Now You Are Dead' and footed
'Do Not Destroy'. It seemed that Alf was in arrears, penniless and
bankrupt in Hell. So reassuring to see that bureaucracy, the devil's
own invention, still flourished in death.

'You mean, I'm dead?'

'That's it. Heart attack in a gent's loo. Not very
distinguished.'

'I'm dead!'

'Yes.'

'Oh. I see.' There was no doubt now; Candid Camera didn't have the
budget to set up something like this. 'So what happens now?'

'As I see it,' the imp scratched at its long bony nose, 'there are
options, possibilities. Eternal burning in the deepest depths of
darkest Hell is one.' It flickered its fingers in a gesture of flame.
'Not very nice, not very nice at all. Uncomfortable in fact.'

'Or...?'

'Or!' the imp paused with a flourish, stretching out the torture - it
was a perk of the job. 'Or, you might eventually go to Heaven, or
somewhere in-between, or both, or neither, or one or the other...' he
was toying with Alf as imps are prone to do.

'So, I have a choice then?'

'No, whatever gave you that idea?'

'You said there were options.'

'Indeed there are, Mr Uman. However, the decision is not yours. For
now, your allocation allows access to Comic Hell - we segregate by
profession. First door on your right, if you please.' The imp gestured
to a series of revolving doors - a statement of uncertainty if ever
there was one - and Alf complied.

For the first time in years Alf was entering the unknown, all his
boredom, all his preconceptions removed, leaving a strange childlike
curiosity. He thought of his last performance and the slow-dying
audience, trapped as they were in a drug induced half-life and he
smiled; there was always hope, always options, always
possibilities.

What he actually stepped through to was a carbon copy facsimile of the
Darby and Joan Club, Eastbourne division. Only, this time on seeing
Alf, everyone in the room applauded, out of their chairs, whistling and
cheering. Music started, known music, Alf's very own signature tune,
not on cassette, but played with life and vigour by his old band. A
sharp suited compere whipped up the audience, firing superlatives and
waving his arms. 'Ladies and Gentleman, the one, the only.... Alf
Uman!!!' and turned towards Alf, smirking rather than smiling, horns
growing out of his red sweaty head. 'Goodbye, Mr Uman,' he laughed
without humour.

And then Alf saw the imp, its bony hands pulling him back and saying
something he couldn't hear amongst the throng, until finally they were
back in the reception room.

'I'm sorry,' said the imp, 'wrong door. I'm always doing that. My
mistake though. No hard feelings. It's the first door on the
left.'

'You sent me there deliberately,' said Alf.

'No I didn't.'

'Oh yes you did!'

'Alright. Don't start that, we'll be here all day.' The imp knew better
than to joust with a pantomime master. 'It's the first on the left Mr
Uman, if you please.' He moved his head up and down and picked up
another crumpet ready for toasting.

'And that man, he's the...'

'Oh yes, the Deuce,' the imp interrupted. 'Devil sounds so sinister,
but Deuce, it's so much more friendly. Don't you think?

'Now that you mention it...'

'Yes, yes. Anyway, he likes to meet his new recruits and say hello.
Well, time really is getting on, Mr Uman.'

Alf stepped through as directed and went down. Down, down lower than
he'd ever gone before.

The stairs led to a cavernous room, damp and clammy, yet at the same
time unbearably hot. There were no cheers to greet him here, only dead
comics of ages gone by. They walked around in circles of uncertainty,
blank of face and free of humour, some simply cowering in the shadowy
corners, whispering long forgotten catchphrases. So this was Comic
Hell.

In the centre of the room rising high into the air burnt the licking
and lashing flames of damnation, whipping out at those inhabitants not
quick enough to avoid them.

Out of the gloom, a particularly charred chap walked up to Alf and
began scrubbing clean his face with equally filthy fingers.

'Alf, Alf Uman? Is that really you?'

'Topper!' cried Alf, for it was Topper Thompson his one-time sidekick
from the early days. The two men shook hands and Topper smiled for the
first time in his death.

Topper died young, but he'd been a top comic and a good friend. Now it
was his job to deliver the awful truth. For his was the same story, of
the imp and the smaning Deuce. He'd been down here all those years,
dodging the flames and waiting for a decision, confined to Comic
Hell.

'But, why don't you all just leave?'

'We can't. The flames stop anyone who laughs or tries to escape. No one
laughs here, no one leaves here, no one.' He pointed to a sign on the
wall that said, 'No Laughing &; No Leaving' - it said it all.

'We've got to do something. They can't just leave us down here to rot.
We're entertainers,' he paused. 'We are comics!'

Alf thought he saw a sparkle in the eyes of Topper, but it was only the
reflection of flame reaching out and snapping at Alf for daring to
think the unthinkable. It hurt like hell, catching him near his elbow -
his funny bone actually.

The irony made him laugh out loud and as he did so, the pain increased.
Another flame jostled him, almost pushing him to the floor, but Alf
couldn't help it, he laughed out his loudest laugh - the best laugh on
the circuit '73 to '79 - and the great fire retreated a little. It
seemed that those flames feared laughter more than Alf feared
pain.

And then, one by one, the other comedians came to his aid with missiles
of snorts and guffaws. In no time at all they were all telling jokes
and laughing the blaze into oblivion. With a final whoosh and a
retreating thud of smans, the fire was gone.

And slowly the laughter changed to a chant, a joyful chant of one man's
name; the name of the man who had led the comics to freedom, the name
of Alf Uman the comic - but it wasn't over yet.

Alf led the comics up and away from Comic Hell as imps began descending
with jeers and heckles. Murmurs of 'rubbish' and 'get off' could be
heard from above and many of the weaker comedians fell, but still Alf
led them on, returning their rebukes with unrepeatable and eloquent
expletives, spurring on his army to do the same.

Finally at the top stood the last imp, blooded and dying of laughter.
'The Deuce will be wanting a word with you,' it said and
vanished.

The comics were now free to seek their own salvation thanks to the
humour-ridden antics of Alf. Each would find their own door, leading
back to something still unaccomplished and for Alf, that door led back
to the Darby and Joan Club, and the Deuce.

Alf walked through the other revolving door and there was the Deuce
staring daggers back at him.

'Laughter,' said the Deuce, 'shouldn't be funny, or painless. It's
about victims,' but Alf was fearless.

Shaking his head, Alf walked up to his enemy and offered up a hand of
truce. 'Can't we just learn to get along?'

The Deuce responded - a small electric buzzer hidden away in his
devilish palm. Alf shot back across the room like a burst balloon,
smacking his head and deflating to the floor. The Deuce couldn't help
it, his face cracked and the laughter flowed, a fissure splitting his
body in two, the halves jiggling in unison. Alf stood up and seeing the
opportunity, performed his funniest walk, tripping toward the bits of
the Deuce whose chuckles had become ballistic - but Alf didn't stop
there, he carried on that famous saunter of comedy all the way to the
stage.

And the crowd were frenzied, berserk in wonderment of Alf, the comic,
the God Comic. Alf Uman, the Levenshulme comedy cowboy, still 'shooting
from the hip flask!'

And the dead 'Fun Lovin' Gagster' of a thousand rundown working men's
clubs and still tired, very tired indeed. The one-time all-time numero
uno and doyen of the end of the pier pattering classes, still standing
before the Darby and Joan Club, trying to do what he once did best,
'bester' than anyone else. And now and again and forevermore... Alf
Uman, the God Comic.