Friday Night Comedy from BBC Radio 4 - Summer Comedy Festival - Sara Pascoe

Episode Date: August 21, 2020

Superstar stand-up Sara Pascoe curates her dream festival; one for the miserable. Featuring readings from Rhik Samadder, comedy from Sophie Duker, music from Emmy the Great and a new character from Steen Raskopoulos, join Sara as she celebrates all of the things that make us tick. Producer: Leila Navabi Production co-ordinator: Caroline Barlow Sound design: Chris MacLean A BBC Studios Production

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It's time to take action. Subscribe to Power Out on BBC Sounds. Power Out. Power Out. Power Out. Power Out. Power Out. To be continued... I'm Sarah Pascoe, and this is my Summer Comedy Festival. When I pitched my idea for a festival for the miserable, people frowned.

Well, they're still frowning now, if they're not sobbing or colouring in to help their anxiety. now if they're not sobbing or colouring in to help their anxiety. Summer festivals have traditionally celebrated stuff, you know, music, friendship, cider, smoking rollies, even though you quit 14 years ago. Whereas this festival, Tear Jerkers, is catering for all the people who don't want to have a nice time. It's kind of a collective mourning. We're all longing and lost, pining and pathetic. I didn't know if it would be a popular idea, but 45 million people got tickets. It has been a tough year. I should be rich, but it didn't seem right to charge money. I wouldn't want to exploit the wretched. To get in, people had to write a sad

haiku. I read every single one, so it's lucky that haikus are short, but unlucky that they were very depressing. Here's an example. Parking ticket. Why? I didn't want to be here. I sleep in my car. Haunting, isn't it? And from a child. This one really resonated with me. Someone stole my dreams Now I wake up with pigeons where hope used to roost That was from my friend Susie, who turned 18 in the year 2000 She told me she remembered dancing to the song Millennium by Robbie Williams and thinking, oh, adulthood is going to be really fun It's all been downhill since then

Susie always moans. Robbie hasn't released a good song for absolutely ages. There are some celebrities who've come today. Here's a haiku from a disgraced TV presenter. The sun loves the moon, chasing him daily, nightly, forever alone. Oh, heartbreaking. And that from someone who probably killed a man.

You know, if gut-wrenching writing is what you're after, I should take you to the literature tent. The star speaker is Rick Samada. He writes very funny articles usually, but his book, I Never Said I Loved You, made me cry so much it ruined my holiday. I hope your mascara is waterproof. Thank you, thank you.

First of all, I'd like to say how happy I am to be here. But I hate festivals, so I can't. I think a poem might better express my feelings on being asked to play the Tearjerker Festival, and perhaps yours in listening to it. This is In the Desert by Stephen Crane, first published in 1895. In the desert, I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

who, squatting upon the ground, held his heart in his hands and ate of it. I said, is it good, friend? It is bitter, bitter, he answered. But I like it because it is bitter and because it is my heart. It's jolly, isn't it? Well, no, it isn't. But there's something comforting about darkness shared through art. Because misery is our common denominator. All of us will fail, have career dreams we do not reach, lose love,

find ourselves crouched in a desert eating our heart and eventually die. That's the deal with being human. Yet we can summon the courage to face these things as long as we remember that we are not alone. So, if I have to attend a festival for unavoidable work-related reasons, and my accountant says I do, I'm glad it's this one, for proud miserablists. My people. I wrote a very sad book recently and immediately felt better. I'd like to read a bit. This is a letter to my dead father. He came here from India in 1965, worked tirelessly to provide for my mother and I, and we never spoke much.

Even on his deathbed, I found I was only able to talk about the boiler we'd recently had installed, rather than what I really wanted to say. I think the boiler was a metaphor. Took me ten years to realise, to stop beating myself up for ruining our final hour. I was trying to speak your language. Not Bengali, I never learned that and didn't know why it was important to you when all I wanted was to blend in here, to be invisible, I suppose. I know it was hard for us, not having the language to talk to each other in. Maybe you became a parent when that stuff wasn't really done. More likely, I shut down the possibility of anything smooth between us because I needed things to be jagged.

I'm sad I never asked you about what it was like when the Beatles, well, when the Beatles, or England winning the World Cup. And maybe you wouldn't have had good answers, but it could have paved the way towards asking what it was like to be you. Because I think you're an interesting person and I should have been braver. Ma told me you moved here to escape Indian caste hierarchies. When she arrived you told her to free herself of the old ways, to live free. I found the workers rights pamphlets of your youth in your study. In later days you were working for an AIDS awareness charity for black and minority ethnic sufferers, the people most left behind. You didn't waste your days.

Now that you're gone, I understand how much it takes to keep the wheels in motion. How did you do it? You kept us going, Mar and me. Dug out a life big enough for us. It must have been bare hands in winter earth. Every brick of the house, every penny of education, every money worry and health difficulty I was shielded from was an act of protection that weighs far more than words. But words are all I have, which Ma says I inherited from you.

The further we get from each other in time, the more I see you. the further we get from each other in time the more I see you anxiety, bunker mentality I have those the determination to make a place too I found it hard without you and I know you wouldn't have wanted to leave us alone but it's okay

if I was the last thing you saw it's as if you placed some part of yourself in me. A final gift. Like Columbo always says, One more thing. Everything you did showed you wanted me to live free too. And I never had time to say thank you. And I never said I loved you.

What I talked about when I talked about the boiler, what I meant was that we were going to be okay. We're warm and watered and the winter can't get in. We had a magnetic filter fitted to keep the rads clear of sediment and there's a lifetime guarantee. Also, we had to get a new freezer, but I guess you don't know about that. Don't worry about it. It's a really good boiler.

I love you. Oh, dear. I'd better take you straight to catering. Oh, not for food. There isn't any. All the vans are serving napkins for people to dry their tears and blow their nose. We were fortunate to get some corporate sponsorship for the beer tent, but unfortunately the sponsor was Lemsip, which isn't alcoholic or nice, which has helped in keeping the atmosphere very muted. We may be out and about, but psychologically we're all in bed with a cold, wanting our mum.

Oh, that tent. We won't go in there. That's the political arena. They're having a relentless referendum, I believe. And here's the twist. They're making everyone in the tent vote first and then explaining to them afterwards what they voted for. Oh, let's go somewhere quieter. This is the health and wellness tent. They're running Shavasana classes. You know, that bit at the end of yoga where you lie down and relax.

Yeah, well, that's only nice if it's after exercise. By itself, it's really long and boring, with nothing to distract you from your awful inner monologue. If you fancy something else, there'll be a game of rounders later, but with both teams fielding. So everyone's just spread out and standing there, waiting for nothing to happen. We did have the walking between the holes bit of golf on the schedule,

but the first group loved it, so the rest was cancelled. Hey, ladies. Do you know the difference between you and the other girls? They're not talking to me. We're not talking to you, Theo. You just did, and how do you know my name? Um, it's me. Sarah, we went out for six months,

until you ghosted me. If I ghosted you, I must be dead. And if I'm dead, you must be an angel. Stop flirting with me. I hate you. Go away. Go away. So you do want to be ghosted. See, that's how you do it. I've got her inflamed. She's not my type though. You know, a bit old. Who are you talking to? I'm training people how to pick up women. That's my job now. I have a show on Radio 4 called the You, Me, Now show. This is my show. No, it's my show.

Get out of it. Go away. I'm sorry about that. I think I need cheering up now about how old I am. Let's go to the comedy tent. I know. I shouldn't really have one

at a festival for sadness, but the comics have promised to only tell jokes about human pain. Oh, my God, it's Sophie Duker. I love her. Woo-hoo! Oh, I mean, I mean, fine, whatever. Hey, unhappy people.

I would say I'm delighted to be here, but I'm not. That's kind of the point, right? My set is on the two most depressing things, parents and transport. I don't know how you guys got to this gig, but even though the planet is dying, the ice cap's melting, and Greater Toonba is mad at us all, I defied expectation and charged Pasco for an Uber. We all know Uber. Uber's popular because it's cheap, and Uber gives you three verifications as soon as you book, all to

make you, the passenger, feel better about the identity of your potential killer. You get three things, a name, a face and a star rating. But last year I got a bit of a shock. I ordered an Uber, got my three verifications and two out of three things was fine. My driver's star rating was high, his face was friendly, but my driver's name harrowed me. Because when I got my Uber driver's details through, my Uber driver's name was Daddy. And I know what you're thinking, we're a multicultural nation, is that an abbreviation, a different spelling? No, it was very much Ready, Sorted, Daddy. D-A-D-D-Y, original glazed daddy.

I looked at my phone. All that I knew is there was a black man called Daddy. And he was coming for me. And that throws up a lot of complicated emotions for a girl from a single parent family. Because on the one hand daddy is coming in six minutes great on the other six minutes is not enough time to prepare everything that i have to say and then the stakes get higher it's like daddy will wait for two minutes before driving off and i'm like no daddy not again no i made a resolution this year. Not a New Year's resolution.

No. I don't like New Year's resolutions, and that's because New Year's resolutions, if you look really closely, are often about losing weight, except they don't say they're about losing weight. They say they're about self-care. And self-care is like someone said,

take a diet, but make it spiritual they're always saying things like oh i just want to be more active why being inactive is one of the best things there is and oh i just want to drink more water in 2020 i'm just a bit thirstier this year i made a summertime resolution because I love admin and I hate fun. You guys want to know my resolution? I decided to see less of my mum.

Some of you won't get that because you were probably born by your mother's in the ideal way. You know, the ideal pregnancy to birth scenario. Mum gets pregnant on purpose. She eats all the right vitamins for nine months. She gets bigger and bouncier. And then when she's ready, she finds a quiet dry corner and lays you like an egg.

So I was not born in the ideal way. I was a different baby. I was an early baby. I was a cesarean baby. And that means I was untimely ripped from my mother's womb. Before I was ready, before I was a cesarean baby, and that means I was untimely ripped from my mother's womb before I was ready, before I was willing, and ever since then, my mum has had a problem with boundaries. My mum's flat has a small single room.

There's a wall, a single bed, a corridor for staff, and then another wall. And my mum treats that single room like her womb in that she thinks she can come in and out at any time. I've told her I need space. I've told her I'm an adult, but I think that changed something fundamental in her brain chemistry because she started doing a very weird thing when she wants me, wherever she's sitting in the flat,

whatever she's doing in the flat. When she wants me, without saying a word, she gets up, walks over to my room, pushes open the door, walks through the door, spreads her arms wide and shouts, knock, knock! She doesn't call out when she's in the other room, she doesn't make a sound as she's moving through the house,

she doesn't even strike the wood of the door with her hand, as is customary in most civilised societies. She just bursts through the closed door at any time of night or day and shrieks, knock, knock. My parental relations are complex. I wish I could give you closure on Daddy,

i.e. my Uber driver. I wish I could tell you what got in the car, but no, I didn't. Because Uber driver Daddy turned out to be just as unreliable as my actual father he couldn't find my pickup point just span on the map like a lazy susan so I had to do it I had to cancel on my daddy I know the hardest thing to do is just let go.

Except he didn't just pop out for some milk, and even if he did, it's still been 20 years. That milk's undrinkable. I thought, yes, I can do this. I'm old enough. I raised my finger to press the cancel button, and just before I pressed the button, the screen switched to black and a message popped up, and I saw the truest and most depressing sentence in the English language, which is, you and daddy couldn't connect. And then it says, six pounds for daddy's time. So on top of the missed school plays, as a therapy, Daddy invoices for being a no-show.

This is unacceptable service, so I gave him four stars. Screw you, Uber! Oh, no! This won't do at all. Everyone's in a great mood now. They're not supposed to be enjoying themselves. How can I ruin this? You. I'm glad I found you. I wasn't lost.

You want to chat everyone up? Get up there. Everyone? Challenge accepted, Zara. Hello everyone, what's your name? Don't care, boom, negged you. Now I have to say, before I start, if you do not want to fall madly in love with me, then please leave right now. Wait, where are you going? Oh, to the bathroom? Sit down. Boom.

Dominant and commanding. Status and relationship set. Now if you are still listening to me, my voice is vibrating against your eardrums right now. So technically, I am inside of you. Technically, I'm inside all of you and it's possible because I have a lot to give. Ask what is Schiffer? Famous supermodel from the 90s? Yeah. Did I date her? Probably. Can you trust me? Almost definitely not. Women love confidence, though.

How do you get it? You can say whatever you want as long as you slow down your speech and lower your voice. For example, did you know Halloween was invented so that spies could practice their disguises? Oh, it's true. You don't believe me? Oh, okay. Then Google it. Here, use my phone.

Oh, you're going through my phone now. You don't trust me? How can our relationship work if our foundation isn't built on trust? Boom, I'm single again and can now say that to the next babe my relationship didn't work because she was crazy and had trust issues.

Oh, what's that? She's in all fours, calling back, apologizing because she's made a grave error? Sorry, babe. This boat has sailed. Never go back to them. Unless they're willing to swim after you. And if they do, they've been at sea and haven't eaten for months and now have a sexy swimmer's body.

Boom, she's ghosted you. Boom, you're single again and now live on a yacht. Oh, what's that? She's an angel now and wants to have makeup sex? Sorry, that would be a sin and you'd lose your wings and I don't want that to happen to you. Boom, nice guy. that to happen to you. Boom, nice guy. Boom, God respects you. Boom, Christian values, a.k.a. husband material.

I guess I'll just stand here with my arms out like Jesus for you to adore me. Well, that is the worst thing I've ever heard. Oh, good. He's getting arrested. And that's perfect. All these people seem to be having a terrible time. They're hungry, the Lemsip is wearing off and... Fantastic. It's started to rain. Just in time for our tear-jerker headliner. Quick, everyone, to the portaloos.

You know when you're in the toilets at 2am and there's a drunk girl pouring her heart out and you can't get away? Yeah, it's so bad. That's what I've told Emmy to go for. Yeah, Emmy the Great. If we weren't having such a sad time, this would be the goddamn best. She's starting. Hi.

Hi. Could have been at Glastonbury. But we've got this. It's not very safe having all this electrical equipment near all this urine, huh? Shouldn't have left the white stripes. How are you all doing? Doing?

Let's make it worse. All I know I want to see you tonight what's the point all we do is fight loved you so long I don't know who I'd be without my head hurts I wish I'd never woke up. I feel worse than when S Club 7 broke up. I hate the day it hates me. So does everybody else. I sit here drooling on my own again. Another routine episode of Friends. What does it mean to be American? Is it coffee?

Feelings and I'll be there for you Later on me and a bottle will hook up to have some fun Then I'll call your house at night to let you know that I'm drunk Say I'm sorry Mr. C, I was just looking for your son How is he incidentally, do you know if he's out alone? There is this book he lent to me something like seven months ago I'm gonna burn it in the street be so kind to let him know

that I'm dealing with this badly and could he please get back to me since you've got my only friends at Billy Bragg and the Jam Though my time with you has got me feeling oh so Katie Lang I think you're right about the new kids on the block And I agree now Billy Joel does not rock Wish I could show you all the things that Diane Keaton helps me see I hope that something's gotta give turns out to be my life story Took a while to come to terms With David Bowie's last CD And it's much too late to give back

Your Magnetic Fields EP Can I keep it by my pillow? Really loved it How I long to tell you so When I get to sleep I'll dream again Of canopies and drapes And wake shaking In the knowledge That the mattress Holds your shape

I'll assume my phone is dead Because it hasn't rung for months If tomorrow is the funeral Do you think that you could come? I could give you back your music and your t-shirts and your socks. Run to Jazz's house in Soho, cry into her letterbox. Take some time out to resuscitate my soul. Take up smoking and drink carrot juice and grow. Teach the mattress to raise you from its folds Then dry my eyes and keep on moving Till the motion makes me strong

Till one day I realize I don't remember that we're gone We'll be strangers who were lovers I'll recover It's so weird how time goes on Oh my God, that was amazing. Emma the Great is so good. You should look her up. She's got a new album coming out soon. So good.

Excuse me a sec. That's it, everyone. Show's over. Get off my land. There's a fleet of shuttle buses outside ready to take you to Luton, whether you live there or not. Bye, see you later guys. You might be wondering why I have purposefully orchestrated a bad time instead of a good one, and I guess it's because I'm fed up of ignoring

how much of being alive is hard. We put happiness on a pedestal. It's the ideal state where we want to be. Then we berate ourselves as failures for spending so much of our time outside it. I think our loneliness, our sadness and rawness and grief are all valid states. But we keep making comedy programmes to escape them and distract ourselves pretend they don't exist the fact that we cope all of us with so much that is not happiness deserved a festival and instead of a come down tomorrow perhaps you'll have a come up you'll yawn look outside the window and think thank god i'm not standing in a field drinking Lemsip,

waiting for a rounder's ball that will never arrive. Misery, just like a radio show, will end. Thank you so much for joining me. You know what they say, a problem shared is a problem given to someone else so they can be sad too. And you get to see the pain you're experiencing reflected in another's contorted features.

Bye. That was my summer comedy festival, written and hosted by me, Sarah Pascoe. It featured Rick Samada, Sophie Duker, Steen Moskopoulos and Emmy the Great. The producer was Leila Navabi and it was a BBC Studios production. It's so weird how time goes on. Are you still there? Good.

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