The Thirty List. Eva Woods

      I was pretty sure where Emma was after the end of Gary’s piece, as I could hear her sighing loudly every time he made an off-colour joke about car boots, duct tape, Rohypnol cocktails and many other topics that were about as funny as a colonoscopy. It was this in itself that made me glad I’d tried it—otherwise I and every other woman in the world would spend eternity sitting in the audience listening to men tell jokes to other men about assaulting us. The world was our bad comedy show. At the very least we deserved to get in a few one-liners about penis size and tampons.

      Then, thank God, Gary was off, to lacklustre applause and a clear ‘SEXIST RUBBISH’ heckle, I suspected from Emma, and Patrick was shambling on stage in his cords and curls, looking for all the world like a posh TV expert on antiques or civil war battlefields. I almost felt more nervous than I had for myself.

      He ‘did’ the microphone with a quick flick and rooted himself at the front of the space. Rule number four—don’t move about the stage too much. ‘Hello, London Borough of Lambeth!’ Some laughs. ‘I’m Patrick, and I recently found myself becoming a single parent.’

      Some real ‘awws’ from the audience this time. Whatever.

      ‘Thank you. When I want to really impress women, I pretend my wife died in a tragic threshing accident on our farm and I have to raise little Billy all alone, but there aren’t that many threshers in North London, so in reality she’s fine. Just not fine with me. Apparently, she thinks I’m not stylish enough.’ Another laugh, as he indicated his brown cords and fisherman’s jumper. ‘She says I’m the only man she knows who thinks the eighties were a genuinely good decade for fashion choice.’ He shifted slightly. ‘I’m getting used to being a single dad. I used to work in a very busy office, and now I do the school run, but you know, I’ve noticed a lot of similarities. For a start, in my office, if people don’t get want they want, they also sometimes lie on the floor and have a tantrum, or pee in the managing director’s shoes. But the CEO didn’t take it too kindly when I offered him nap time and a snack of Dairylea Cheese Slices.’

      Laughing. People were laughing. I could see why. He was very natural and appealing on stage, smiling, eyes open, gesturing to people in the front row and addressing them directly. It was all going to be fine. I let out a big sigh of relief.

      ‘You were amazing! Hilarious! Much better than all those rubbish misogynists. In fact, who do I complain to about that?’

      Cynthia bustled past a ranting Emma to hug me. ‘You were great, darling. One of the best, easily.’

      ‘Thank you!’

      ‘I just wish Rich had come … We had such fun at the tango class, but since then he’s been working non-stop.’

      I wasn’t sure Rich would like it much here. Even though to me, in the grip of a serious adrenaline rush, the grotty pub looked sublime. The flat beer tasted like Dom Perignon, the sticky floor looked glorious and I had never loved my friends more, even if Cynthia had her BlackBerry glued to her hand as usual, and Emma was scowling around her and wearing a T-shirt that said ‘A WOMAN NEEDS A MAN LIKE A FISH NEEDS A BICYCLE’, and Ian was looking decidedly hangdog with jealousy.

      ‘You know, I think I should give it a go. This.’ He waved his arms around.

      ‘Comedy? Or opening a smelly pub?’

      ‘Comedy. Most of those guys were rubbish.’ He was just as loud as Emma. ‘I could do way better than that. I mean, you were OK, I suppose, but the others …’

      ‘Well, do it, then. It’s not that bad.’ I had conveniently suppressed the entire weekend of gnawing terror beforehand and the fact I hadn’t slept in two days. ‘That’s the whole point, isn’t it? The rest of you are meant to do things with me?’