This Is Your Life by John O'Farrell

can you lean back with the satisfaction of the replete diner, taking care not to stab yourself in the leg with the grubby cocktail sticks you secreted in your pocket earlier in the evening because there was nowhere else to put them.
    The waitresses dispensing these morsels were petite and skinny as if they had been raised on a meagre diet consisting only of this negative-calorie food they were now bearing before them. They appeared like holograms around the edgesof the circles and the guests acknowledged the platters but never the bearers, as if the selections were somehow hovering in front of them by magic. It puzzled me that no one was talking about Billy or even bothering to appear particularly bereaved – even drinking champagne seemed a little odd. I thought you were only supposed to have that when you were celebrating something. Then an approaching waiter offered me a glass.
    â€˜How much is it?’ I enquired.
    This prompted a big laugh from some nearby guests.
    â€˜Yeah, I wouldn’t put it past him, the old bugger. That’s just the sort of thing Billy would do, isn’t it, charge for the champagne at his own funeral!’
    â€˜Er, yes, ha!’ I said, taking a glass from the tray.
It was free.
Obviously it was free. I can’t believe I could have been so stupid.
    â€˜So where do you fit into all this?’ I was asked.
    I had prepared for such a question on the drive up from the coast. Someone was sure to ask me, ‘How did you know Billy?’ and I would reply, ‘Well, we were sort of neighbours . . .’ and then if necessary I could talk a little more about us occasionally jogging together . . .
    Unfortunately the question was asked by a very striking young woman, who added the irresistible bonus query, ‘Are you in the biz as well?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I tutted long-sufferingly, immediately realizing that more information was expected. And then I thought about my teenage letters and how they’d reminded me what I had always wanted to be; what people had always said I was good at.
    â€˜I’m a comedian.’
    â€˜Really,’ she said, sounding impressed. ‘I always think that must be the hardest job in the world.’
    â€˜Er, sometimes . . .’ I quipped effortlessly.
    â€˜Are you doing the circuit at the moment?’
    â€˜Oh yeah, The Circuit,’ I said casually, ‘and, you know, a few other clubs beside that one,’ and then they all laughed some more and I wondered if I really was just naturally very funny.
    â€˜What’s your name?’
    â€˜Jimmy Con way?’ I replied, tentatively phrasing my name as a question that could only prompt the answer, ‘Never heard of you!’
    â€˜Oh yes . . .’ she said hesitantly. ‘Yes, I’ve definitely heard the name . . .’
    â€˜Can’t say I’ve ever seen you on the telly,’ said a posh man dismissively. He emptied his glass and clicked his fingers to summon more champagne. I wanted to assert myself, to stand up to this showbiz snob.
    â€˜No, I won’t do television,’ I said defiantly. ‘It’s killing real stand-up.’ I had read this line in a magazine in an interview with some comic who had clearly repeatedly failed to get his own television series. ‘Pure stand-up comedy is just the comic, the microphone and the audience, nothing else, live, right there in that room,’ I declared, emboldened by the free champagne. ‘Sure, telly might pay more. But which is better – to make a million people mildly entertained for five minutes, or to have a hundred people in the palm of your hand, weeping with laughter for a whole hour or more. Telly’s a sell-out.’
    It was my best performance since my tribute to Billy on the news and they all looked a little dumbfounded.
    â€˜That is so refreshing,’ she said. The woman introduced herself as ‘Arabella from the
Sunday Times
’ and we chatted a