Wendy Ivers


Home About Wendy My life as a Comedian Comedy Capers Contact Me
Gigs Photo Gallery WendyTV
The Comedienne from Aberdeen A piece on the trials of developing as a comedienne whilst living in Aberdeen I've had six cigarettes in sixty minutes. My stomach is seething; the butterflies are sending shock waves so far south I send a sexy text to a secret spectator. In my blue suede boots and bright pink mini-kilt, I'm like a boxer psyching myself up for a prize-fight. I'm buzzing. I'm the sole female contender in the Aberdeen heat of the J2O/Jongleurs Last Laugh Comedy search. I've seen four competitors so far and I have no fear of them, I know I'm funnier, it's those that are on after me that I'm worried about. Scott Forbes, a newcomer I've been nurturing, is a threat. I'm wishing I hadn't told him about the talent quest, his material appeals to a wider audience, I just pulled mine together on the toilet while having a cigarette and pleasuring myself I scan the room. The beautifully crafted venue is unsuitable for comedy. The long narrow hall is hollowed in the centre by an impressive staircase leading to a bar area. I'm not on stage, but, the constant babble from below is like being heckled from hell. The second rate PA system means people at the back pay scant attention to the proceedings, even the experienced compare can't contest with their conversations. I need a big entrance; I decide to come on from the hall. The compare is building up to my introduction; the audience are stamping their feet and drumming the tables. He points to my conspicuous figure mingling with the mob. "Please give it up for Wendy Ivers". I join the crowd in the cheer and applause and launch myself onto the stage. I start impromptu, "Right you lot, I'm the only bitch on stage tonight, I'm asking for five minutes of your time, so shut up, listen, laugh, and respect this ass!”I swing round, bend over, hoist my kilt up over my hips and bare my backside. That shut them up. "I'm not bothered about winning this, I'm already famous, and some of you may recognize me as Britney Spears body double."A collective giggle reverberates throughout the room. "I'm serious."I pull a beginner's bondage kit from my bag and display its contents, "/ got this as a good luck gift from my students today (true). It wouldn't be so bad if I was a college lecturer (I am), but, I'm a primary school teacher, the kids mum's are not happy with me..., their dad's think I'm fantastic.” I put the blindfold on, spin round and ask, "Am I facing the right way?" I'm overdosing on adrenaline as I unleash my superannuated set '...like a toddler with Tourette’s throwing a supermarket tantrum,' (Evening Express, 06.03.04) I'm a resounding success and go to Glasgow with Scott, but, I realize how upset I'd be if I'd lost. I love making people laugh: I thrive at the centre of attention; the buzz is better than any psychoactive drug (from what I've read about them); the rush is raunchier than sex (from what I've heard about it). But, unlike sex you need several dozen high quality performances before you're good enough to be paid for it and a few hundred to be at your peak. Maybe it's like sex after all, except that I know I'm good enough to make a living from comedy. But, unless you win a competition it's hard to get the breaks from Aberdeen. I'm a two to three and half hour drive from the established central belt circuit, that's a tiring journey for a five minute open spot. It's also expensive, you have to meet your own travel and accommodation costs and take time off work. I've done six open spots in comedy venues since first setting foot on stage in July 2003; at this rate it'll take me ten grand and ten years to be headlining a club near you. But, I have developed over time, because I have taken every other opportunity to get on stage. I've performed in old man's pubs during song recitals, at friend's parties, at community events and from behind a rot iron fence during a street market. I've entered slam poetry nights and a break dancing competition. Between heats I introduced a day of music and comedy in aid of Greenpeace and am talked through, "/ drove the two miles here in a sixteen valve, 1.6litre car, fuelled by ESSO!" There was instantaneous hissing and booing and a few flying objects. I smirk, "Oh, you were listening after all!" One young guy launches a tirade of abuse and ends, "Your evil!" "You have a big gob for a little shit." The audience likes it. "At last something funny," he retorts. "If you'd been listening you would notice I'd shared an amusing story or two with you. Would you rather I did jokes about hating men?" "That would be original." "What? Like your designer jumper, no doubt made by children in a sweat shop?" The tables were turned; I'd won that battle but soon conceded the war and stuck to introducing the bands. These attempts are like dry steering in a space that's too small. You prey you can pull it off, but you shouldn't even try. In October 2003 I started running and hosting a monthly comedy night in Cafe Drummonds. I source professional comedians, write the press release, prepare the posters, manage the email list and run and compare the night. I take no payment and meet telephone and email expenses from my own pocket and all for the sake of a gig! The nights have been highly entertaining but loss making, the venue have been supportive but are pulling in the purse strings. Now all I have to do for a gig is get money out of sponsors, but, before then there is Glasgow. I planned a surprise evening meal on the Sunday before it with my brother, his girlfriend and my parents to celebrate their 35th wedding anniversary. I went to collect them; they'd been fighting and were talking about living separately. On the Monday I discover a friend has been seeing my secret spectator for over a month and I was the last to find out. Repressed memories of my teenage years come flooding back and linger with me for days. I wanted the day off work so I could drive down the night before, catch some comedy at the International Comedy Festival and relax. The college cancelled all leave because of an HMIE inspection so I had to stay till the end of day. I got near Glasgow around 11pm, missed my junction by miles and came in at the wrong end of the city. I got to my accommodation at midnight; paid for parking and realised I was at the wrong hotel! By Wednesday I'm not worried about not winning; I'm more concerned about having a nervous breakdown live on stage. I wanted to focus and prepare well in advance, to properly script my material and develop my act so it appealed to a wider audience. I'm on a downer, it's an hour before the gig and I can't get all of the crap out of my head; the negativity is exhausting. I order everyone from the hotel room to clear my thoughts and relieve some tension (don't ask). All the way to the venue, I'm praying that I'm not on first. If answered I'll have the time to psyche myself up and to assess the reaction to my competitor's material. This would allow me to adapt my set and delivery according to the audience (that's the teacher in me). I am drawn first. I'm running through a selection of stuff in my head and decide what I am going to do as the compare calls me in. I go for broke, I'm twice as cocky as I was in Aberdeen and am getting applause as well as laughter. I come off pleased and the compare tells me I have good material and a nice attitude. I start on the vodka, but, my own spirits dampen as the night goes on, the competition is good. By the end, I figure I'm in with a chance alongside three others. I don't win but I'm not disappointed. I did my best in the circumstances; I've been highly commended by the organizers and assured of a great future (Evening Express 03.04.04). But, like a prize-fighter, I've never doubted it. Look out for me in an arena near you soon.

The Comedienne from Aberdeen
A piece on the trials of developing as a comedienne whilst living in Aberdeen

I've had six cigarettes in sixty minutes. My stomach is seething; the butterflies are sending shock waves so far south I send a sexy text to a secret spectator. In my blue suede boots and bright pink mini-kilt, I'm like a boxer psyching myself up for a prize-fight. I'm buzzing.
I'm the sole female contender in the Aberdeen heat of the J2O/Jongleurs Last Laugh Comedy search. I've seen four competitors so far and I have no fear of them, I know I'm funnier, it's those that are on after me that I'm worried about. Scott Forbes, a newcomer I've been nurturing, is a threat. I'm wishing I hadn't told him about the talent quest, his material appeals to a wider audience, I just pulled mine together on the toilet while having a cigarette and pleasuring myself

I scan the room. The beautifully crafted venue is unsuitable for comedy. The long narrow hall is hollowed in the centre by an impressive staircase leading to a bar area. I'm not on stage, but, the constant babble from below is like being heckled from hell. The second rate PA system means people at the back pay scant attention to the proceedings, even the experienced compare can't contest with their conversations. I need a big entrance; I decide to come on from the hall. The compare is building up to my introduction; the audience are stamping their feet and drumming the tables. He points to my conspicuous figure mingling with the mob. "Please give it up for Wendy Ivers". I join the crowd in the cheer and applause and launch myself onto the stage.

I start impromptu, "Right you lot, I'm the only bitch on stage tonight, I'm asking for five minutes of your time, so shut up, listen, laugh, and respect this ass!”I swing round, bend over, hoist my kilt up over my hips and bare my backside. That shut them up. "I'm not bothered about winning this, I'm already famous, and some of you may recognize me as Britney Spears body double."A collective giggle reverberates throughout the room. "I'm serious."I pull a beginner's bondage kit from my bag and display its contents, "/ got this as a good luck gift from my students today (true). It wouldn't be so bad if I was a college lecturer (I am), but, I'm a primary school teacher, the kids mum's are not happy with me..., their dad's think I'm fantastic.” I put the blindfold on, spin round and ask, "Am I facing the right way?" I'm overdosing on adrenaline as I unleash my superannuated set '...like a toddler with Tourette’s throwing a supermarket tantrum,' (Evening Express, 06.03.04)

I'm a resounding success and go to Glasgow with Scott, but, I realize how upset I'd be if I'd lost. I love making people laugh: I thrive at the centre of attention; the buzz is better than any psychoactive drug (from what I've read about them); the rush is raunchier than sex (from what I've heard about it). But, unlike sex you need several dozen high quality performances before you're good enough to be paid for it and a few hundred to be at your peak. Maybe it's like sex after all, except that I know I'm good enough to make a living from comedy. But, unless you win a competition it's hard to get the breaks from Aberdeen. I'm a two to three and half hour drive from the established central belt circuit, that's a tiring journey for a five minute open spot. It's also expensive, you have to meet your own travel and accommodation costs and take time off work.
I've done six open spots in comedy venues since first setting foot on stage in July 2003; at this rate it'll take me ten grand and ten years to be headlining a club near you. But, I have developed over time, because I have taken every other opportunity to get on stage. I've performed in old man's pubs during song recitals, at friend's parties, at community events and from behind a rot iron fence during a street market. I've entered slam poetry nights and a break dancing competition.

Between heats I introduced a day of music and comedy in aid of Greenpeace and am talked through, "/ drove the two miles here in a sixteen valve, 1.6litre car, fuelled by ESSO!" There was instantaneous hissing and booing and a few flying objects. I smirk, "Oh, you were listening after all!"

One young guy launches a tirade of abuse and ends, "Your evil!"
"You have a big gob for a little shit." The audience likes it. "At last something funny," he retorts.
"If you'd been listening you would notice I'd shared an amusing story or two with you. Would you rather I did jokes about hating men?"
"That would be original."
"What? Like your designer jumper, no doubt made by children in a sweat shop?" The tables were turned; I'd won that battle but soon conceded the war and stuck to introducing the bands. These attempts are like dry steering in a space that's too small. You prey you can pull it off, but you shouldn't even try.

In October 2003 I started running and hosting a monthly comedy night in Cafe Drummonds. I source professional comedians, write the press release, prepare the posters, manage the email list and run and compare the night. I take no payment and meet telephone and email expenses from my own pocket and all for the sake of a gig! The nights have been highly entertaining but loss making, the venue have been supportive but are pulling in the purse strings. Now all I have to do for a gig is get money out of sponsors, but, before then there is Glasgow.

I planned a surprise evening meal on the Sunday before it with my brother, his girlfriend and my parents to celebrate their 35th wedding anniversary. I went to collect them; they'd been fighting and were talking about living separately. On the Monday I discover a friend has been seeing my secret spectator for over a month and I was the last to find out. Repressed memories of my teenage years come flooding back and linger with me for days.

I wanted the day off work so I could drive down the night before, catch some comedy at the International Comedy Festival and relax. The college cancelled all leave because of an HMIE inspection so I had to stay till the end of day. I got near Glasgow around 11pm, missed my junction by miles and came in at the wrong end of the city. I got to my accommodation at midnight; paid for parking and realised I was at the wrong hotel! By Wednesday I'm not worried about not winning; I'm more concerned about having a nervous breakdown live on stage.
I wanted to focus and prepare well in advance, to properly script my material and develop my act so it appealed to a wider audience. I'm on a downer, it's an hour before the gig and I can't get all of the crap out of my head; the negativity is exhausting. I order everyone from the hotel room to clear my thoughts and relieve some tension (don't ask). All the way to the venue, I'm praying that I'm not on first. If answered I'll have the time to psyche myself up and to assess the reaction to my competitor's material. This would allow me to adapt my set and delivery according to the audience (that's the teacher in me).

I am drawn first. I'm running through a selection of stuff in my head and decide what I am going to do as the compare calls me in. I go for broke, I'm twice as cocky as I was in Aberdeen and am getting applause as well as laughter. I come off pleased and the compare tells me I have good material and a nice attitude. I start on the vodka, but, my own spirits dampen as the night goes on, the competition is good. By the end, I figure I'm in with a chance alongside three others. I don't win but I'm not disappointed. I did my best in the circumstances; I've been highly commended by the organizers and assured of a great future (Evening Express 03.04.04). But, like a prize-fighter, I've never doubted it.

Look out for me in an arena near you soon.