Ray Presto R.I.P. 1938 - 2012

Obituaries are a fickle sort, especially when written about someone you hardly, truely and deeply, know. Ray Presto (real name David Shaw), a retired magician and stalwart comedian on the London open-mic scene, passed away from the ranks of the down-trodden and frail, a small and weak man with all the characteristics of a downtrodden and beaten entertainer, but with the amazing twinkle of a professional who consistently plowed through to find his audience.

A lot of comedians and audiences recently remember him from his abnormal sets at the Comedy Store Gong Show, a gauntlet of boo's and hisses from punters willing to give him the benefit of the doubt based solely on his own innocence and lack of self-awareness at his own fickle delivery.

What I didn't know was his accomplishment as an author, publishing a book in 1972 called Choose Your Pleasure, a collection of essays of the pros and cons of hedonism and self-indulgence. You can find two more remaining books (I bought the cheapest as of writing this post) here.

ADVICE

Digressing back, my point is of my own meeting with him, my first and only time so far I've ever had to share the stage with such an amicable character. Above the Coach & Horses in Soho, prior to the Health & Safety incident with Laughing Horse beau Alex Petty (where a speaker fell on his head), we gathered in the upstairs room with a tiny group of audience members unaware of what self-destruction they've just got themselves in for after paying the admission fee, and us likely mirth-soldiers made awkward attempts at laughter while the survivors stood to the side pondering their failures.

And Ray, his trousers high above his waist, his spine impossibly bending to the will of the situation, went along with extremely bad puns, raising his arms in the air like Christ but with a joke, and painted everyone's face in the room with looks of shock like a wall-painter with a brush.

I was not awed by his performance, but I was envious of his resolve. And I made the leap, which I hardly do, to ask his advice on stand-up.

Eyes as huge and reminiscint of the late Marty Feldman (Igor in "Young Frankenstein") he glanced at me with what could only be described as incredulity at my question and then dashing his eyes left and right, responded:

"Young man, I don't know."

Ray Presto at The Comedy Store London

Ray Presto | Myspace Video

Ummm...two copies of each original document??

At some point, administration turns into an angry beast hungry for more paperwork and red-tape. Not content with a single copy of a document used to prove your worth, the Administrative Monster's appetite can only be satisified with original documents provided in triplicate, not QUADRUPLICATE!!!

But in most cases, I'm not quite certain exactly what official people actually mean. If official people were as nice as what us little kids used to imagine them being thanks to helpful government-provided media would allow you to think, they'd be sugar-plum fairies dancing on a needle, holding your hand as you photocopy each document required to let you pass through customs and into the ever-glowing arms of your loving family.

But lo, for it is not so.

The Administrative Monster is a fearsome beast, furious at its anger for not feeding it oodles upon oodles of information which could one day be used against you in some superflous way. Long ago in a time of rapid economic growth and positive outlooking, the Adminstrative Monster recruited said fairies, plucked their wings off, made them sit in damp, uninteresting offices with drab window-views and awful dance-music playing from a tinny radio bought for £5 in the kitchen, and created a cloud of depression that transformed these helpful little fairies into its army of malcontented minions that further fed its evil hunger.

So, my point is, I'm not sure what they mean by, "two copies of each original document". Is it:

1. Two copies of the same document with the original tucked away?
2. Two originals of the same thing, meaning they can't be photocopies?
3. One original and a photocopy of the original?

Help.

Gee oh gee oh wow, was last night awkward

It is an alternative 1994, and Nelson is sitting in the school recruiter's office, looking over his application.

"So Nelson, in school you're going to learn Geography, Mathematics, Science, History, Art, Biology, Woodwork and Accounting.

"You will ensure that your homework is completed on time every day to the best of your ability and punctual, else you will fail. The cost of your failure? A point lost on your score, and our respect for you will drop to the point of you becoming someone else's problem later in life before you wile your existence away using drink and drugs which, again, will not be our problem. Any questions?"

Nelson looks around the room. "Hi, yes, Nelson here, a human being, tiny bit shy on how to interact with people. Sometime in the future I may stand in front of a young crowd and make jokes, but may be perceived to be insincerely racist. How do I cope with that?"

The recruiter gives Nelson a incredulous stare. "That....will be someone else's problem."

"Ah."

The Offspring said it best...

The past two performances, involving me in a small speakeasy dungeon that helped little for my burgeoning claustrophobia, and the other in a themed comedy night about "love" where I spilled out a new joke at the beginning and was not helped by the competitiveness of winning £100, made me realise a fundamental flaw in my mental machinery.

I have low self-esteem.

There, I said it, I hate writing these where I sound like I'm looking for pity, and in reality it's exactly what it sounds like. I'm actually yearning for a group of people to raise me up and say, "Don't worry about your self-esteem, everyone has that, what we want is for you to continue trying, please, we want to see more."

Cos, in my head, everyone else gets that.

I usually have phenomenally wonderful ideas about activities to partake in, including creating tiny little webisodes, radio podcasts that involve scripted events, even a sitcom within a sitcom, a photographic makeover involving friends together posing as the Avengers, or just a stand-up routine featuring me ironing a shirt to Queen's "We are the champions".

And inherently, I never do them as I think I'll be crap.

Before I used comedy as a small step in self-therapy, getting out of my shell to do something spectacular that I believed I cold never do, and now with 15 minutes under the belt and a lot of experience with small tiny rooms of willing guinea-pigs eager to hear the ear-candy I spout from my verbal blow-hole I find comedy less theraputic and more of a job.

Which I don't mind, getting paid to make people laugh is amazing...if I got paid.

It take something special now for me to get out of my shell, find a niche target that involves something other than trying to "tell jokes", but I realise my support to go forth and experiment comes only from one source here in London...myself. Me, I, alone.

Don't know how it will be in South Africa, la familia isn't too concerned with how to entertain people and I'm fearful of becoming the younger reject that depends on them for food and shelter. But my instincts say that if I gamble on trying to do comedy there, I will have to REALLY work hard just to avoid the sight of me on the couch writing notes and the first reaction to hear would be, "When are you getting a job?"

Meeting two people I hadn't seen for a while did help me out quite a lot. First, the lovely Sara, with her amazing partner in crime that looks different I see him, Alfred. She's the purveyor of hard work, studying Greek and Latin at university while at the same time also entering the stand-up circuit with both verve and tenacity, and herself supporting stand-up so much she has a blog with recorded interviews and reviews, which you can find here, www.comedyblogedy.com

And Steve Allen, one of the sexiest voices on radio. Why he doesn't have more work and we have to keep listening to Z-list celebrities churning out their babble on L'Oreal adverts is beyond me. His podcast about the news is, to be frank, spectacular, you have to listen. It's so professionally well-edited and funny that I'm equally surprised iTunes hasn't sent a team of engineers to his house to edit his recordings hourly, having breaks inbetween for tea and Jeremy Kyle. His amazing talent can be heard here, www.somenews.co.uk

My point is, is that even with writing a blog-post now in this current state, being brave to hear the ridicule and scorn from my peers about "oh Nelson, stop looking for sympathy." well yes, yes I am, but I don't need sympathy, I need a deadline. I need to be told to produce something different and then it will be scrutinised, reviewed and dissected for me to understand what both people want and what I wish to give, regardless of how sad and weak I feel most days.

So, I'll pick myself up from the hole I've dug in slowly, carry on trying my absolute best, and one day remind the people that helped me out that there's free milk and cookies in the French chalet I'm gifting them with (future fame assured).

FYI, this blog-post is emotionally sponsored by Mr Steve N Allen, www.mrstevenallen.co.uk