What's the worst that can happen?

One of the things I like to ask in my seminars, is “What’s the worst that can happen?”

If a talk or a presentation goes badly, what is the worst possible outcome?

It’s a question I like asking, because I already know the answer. 

It’s this. 

A sold out comedy night, Bristol. Mid December; the night comedians dread and call “Black Friday” on account of the chaos-fuelled stag parties, wine-crazed hen dos and disinterested work groups making up the audience like a patchwork quilt of festive dregs. 

I’m on stage, doing the night’s middle spot, 4 minutes into my 20 minute set. There’s about 200 people in. The table nearest the stage is a party of 12 lads. Sorry, Lads. They’ve been well-behaved enough; it turns out they’re Marines, who have come along to see the headliner, who gigged for them in Afghanistan. Immediately I can tell I’m boring them, which is a pity, as I have 16 minutes left to go and the rest of the audience seems quite engaged. 

They start whispering to each other. I feel sweat bead on my forehead, Whispering is bad. Heckling is OK (we’ll come to that) - you have something to work with, and often the audience hates the heckler as much as you do. 

But whispers. Please, Lord, don’t let them escalate to quiet conversation. 

Oh they have. 

I know I have to address it, as the rest of the audience is getting a bit distracted and one of the key ways of succeeding onstage is showing you’re perfectly in control of, and in tune with, the room. 

I start nicely.

“Lads, could you keep it down a bit? I’m trying to work up here.”

No-one looks up. The conversation drones on. My mouth goes dry, sandpaper chewing gum taking up space where my tongue was. 

I switch tactics and target the obvious alpha male of the group, trying to goad him into a response  so I can run rings around him and prove I’m in control. 

He doesn’t even look at me, just carries on chatting to his mate. 

I’ve been effortlessly out alpha-ed and I’m lost. My mouth is so dry I have to grab a swig of an audience member’s beer in thinly-disguised desperation. He looks sorry for me. I’m sorry for me. I try and push a joke out. It’s lost in the conversational hum rising from the front of the stage. 

Then I hear it. 

A clap. A single clap. 

There’s a couple of seconds until it’s joined by another, and another. 

These are not good claps. They’re not building to a crescendo. They contain no joy. They’re flat, inanimate and sarcastic. 

It dawns on me I’m being slow clapped. 

I know there’s no coming back from that. I smile meekly at the other 188 audience members, shrug, apologise and slink offstage, wishing the sticky floor would yawn open and swallow me whole. 

I’ve just learned a lesson; two in fact. 

1) Sometimes you just can’t win, despite your best efforts. 

And that’s OK. It’s never the end of the world. It’s just an embarrassing blip. 

2) Some audiences are just dicks. 

More importantly, I had crashed into rock bottom - the worst of the worst had happened, while being up on stage in public. It couldn’t have been any more demoralising. 

And it was fine. 

We all survived. The headliner smashed the gig. I went back the next night and had a lovely time. The Marines enjoyed the rest of the show. The crowd forgot me, although a few did place bouquets of flowers at the steps to the stage where they saw my spirit leave my body. The worst had happened. And it wasn’t that bad.