Ian McMillan: An audience with... an extended family

The other day I was reading my poems and telling my stories to an audience in a village hall somewhere in the North of England. I almost put “adoring audience” but I know that Yorkshire Post readers appreciate honesty above all things, so let’s just call them an audience. As I strode into the spotlight I scanned their eager faces for The One. That’s The One as in There’s Always One. The One who, in the midst of a crowd who are laughing, or at least chuckling, sits there with a face as stony as a stony stone. The One who, during a particularly quiet passage in a sensitive stanza, blows his nose with a sound like the mating call of the Okapi. The One who, despite the noise around him, falls deeply asleep and snores gently. Or not so gently. When I’m in an audience I always try to be good, especially if the venue’s a small one and the performer can see me. I grin and chortle in the funny bits; I look thoughtful in the serious bits. I sigh in the wistful bits. I look scared in the scary bits. If only every audience member took their responsibilities that seriously, the world would be a better place.

As well as Stone Face and Nose Blower and Nodder Off, there are others among that extended and disfunctional family known as the “turn-baiters” an old Working Mens’ Club term that has widened its usage to include all the entertainment industry, including my little backwater. For a start, there’s The One Who Can’t Believe Their Eyes and Ears. I got one of those the other day: he sat, inevitably, on the front row. When I came on he stared at me as though I should have been somebody else: Ian McKellen, maybe, or Ian McEwan. I started telling stories and people began to laugh. The whole front row was having a good time, some bursting into spontaneous applause and borrowing tissues from their mates to dab their streaming eyes. Apart from this chap. He leaned over to look at the people who were laughing next to him, then shook his head; he turned round to look at the people who were laughing behind him. The unspoken words hovering above his hair were “Why are they laughing? This bloke’s not funny”. By the end of the show he was standing up to look at the people on the back row. And he still could believe his eyes. Or his ears.

Then there’s the Easily Distracted One. He or she is alert at the start of the show but then drifts away. They notice a fly, or they look out of the window or they get a bus ticket out of their pocket and examine it, thoroughly. I always try my hardest to get them back but as far as they’re concerned, an insect is much more interesting.

Then there’s The Note Taker. You start talking and they whip out a notebook and start writing. You say something funny and they don’t laugh but they write it down. You say something tragic and they don’t cry, they just scribble. They look at you with a kind of eager curiosity and write and write and write. At the end, instead of clapping, they knock their pencil against the spine of their notebook. Look, no offence, but just smile. And clap. And laugh. And cheer. And a standing ovation would do nicely.