David spent much of his twenties working between Cairo, Moscow, Seoul and Paris in a heady mix of English teaching, tour-guiding and trying bizarre foods. For the past five years he has been freelancing in broadcast and print journalism for – amongst others – The BBC, the Independent, the Daily Mail and Huffington Post. Outside of the media world he works as a stand-up comedian and runs his own (rather hilarious) weekly comedy club in north London.
As a Story Terrace writer, David interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know him better: you can read an autobiographical story of his own below. Get in touch today to work with him!
Go Easy On ‘im
“…So ladies and gentlemen, go easy on ‘im!” beseeches the cockney compere. “It’s only ‘is first bloomin’ gig! Please welcome…David Lewis!”
For a split second I’m paralysed. I remain at the back, safely ensconced in the dark. My brain implores me forward and barks GO! but neither knee will bend. The last guy up has just been heckled repeatedly by the boozy barstool boys on the stag do a metre from the stage. It was hellish to watch.
I stay put keeping ten yards’ grace. My mind is racing. I think back to the dinner when friends urged me to try my hand at stand-up comedy. “Oh, go on Dave, you’ll be great! We’ll all come. And we’ll laugh. At you or with you, but we’ll laugh!” It seemed so easy then.
I manage to push off the theatre wall and pivot sideways. My left leg lurches ahead and so does my right. I’m moving. I’m five yards from where I need to be. I can make out the perforated mesh on the grey microphone; my vessel to sink or swim.
I snake past the other comics clinging like limpets to the low rafters and clamber on to the raised platform. I’m a metre from the mic stand now. But breathy. My heart is beating so hard it ricochets off my ribs up to each collarbone and reaches my throat.
I arrive and look down on the crowd. The room morphs into a thick brick of blackness as the spotlight tears into my face and eyes. I catch one of my friends peering through the gloom. She’s got her hands clasped together and looks a little like Madonna at prayer.
Everything is still. I look out into the the silent darkness and open my dry mouth to speak…