Tag Archives: stand-up

Glad I’m not a comedian’s wife

As funny as my fiance is, I’m really glad I’m not marrying a comic because their wives cop it, big time.

We know the drill all too well here in Dubai. Unfortunately, many of the stand-up routines we see on tour here in the Middle East rely on old (or let’s be generous and say, timeless) material. Or they focus on material that is personal rather than sociopolitical because they don’t know where the line is here. For whatever reason, too often the comic’s wife or partner bears the brunt of a gag. But I’ve never heard a spouse cop so much abuse as Tom Stade’s wife at last night’s [Aussie beer-branded] Laughter Factory.

It’s mind-numbingly normal here to hear the one about about the wife’s nagging or her waning sexual interest (think about cause and effect here, funny men). Last night however, we heard about the brunt Stade’s long-suffering wife of 17 years is forced to bear: anal rape, in graphic fluid detail.

Don’t worry, Mrs Stade (Trudy, according to Wikipedia) loves it, behind her crying, he says. Hang on, that’s really not funny.

The Edinburgh-resident Canadian’s jaw-aching humour – and Trudy’s indignity – didn’t stop there. I had been wishing the ten-minute setup about his Groupon addiction would just end, but little did I know it would finally have a donkey of a punchline. Not even having forced himself into Trudy’s rectum (well, he slipped in there by accident, but stayed on purpose) could stop him extracting himself from her to retrieve his phone when the Groupon app announced a new sale.

I walked out of his routine at this point, through a packed house at the Grand Millennium Tecom, because I didn’t have the stomach for Trudy’s real or fictitious degradation being made a mockery like that. It was sick-making. Especially with all the woman-hating going on in Australia over the past week, I’m over the one about misogyny-as-humour.

Worryingly, his rape jokes obviously got some women going. Laughter Factory MC Gail Clough (who’d presumably been watching their shows all week) was so enamoured of Stade’s humour she introduced him as her favourite; a slap in the face for the rest of the line-up, which was hardly devoid of talent. Both incredibly funny and musically gifted to boot.

Charlie Baker seems to have missed his calling as a jazz singer. Some of the notes he was belting out (as a Cornish Frank Sinatra) stopped me breathing. I’d have to say he was my favourite, if only because it’s the first time I’ve snort-laughed at the Laughter Factory (did you know Devonshire women lactate clotted cream?).

Jim Tavare accompanied his dry wit with comedic skills on woodwind and strings. His rendition of Hendrix’s ‘Foxy Lady’ on the cello was unique. Tavare might have been trying to warn us about his fellow comedian’s sexual “humour” but we all thought he was being self-deprecating at the time and laughed along: some comedians are brought on to talk about sex to get you moist, he said, I’m brought on to dry you up.

I only hope Trudy avails herself of some moistening. Or listens closely to Tavare’s routine before she reaches her 18th anniversary of this, so she can hear that the Bridal March is only the Death March played backwards.

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