‘Get off!’ the women yelled at him. ‘Our comedian’s ten times better than you!’ They meant me. I was cajoled, persuaded. I found myself up on the stage, microphone in hand. I cleared my throat, cleared it some more, the sound filling the room. Someone called out for me to get on with it, and then somebody else twigged that I was pretending to be the production supervisor: he was always clearing his throat before he gave you bad news. There was scattered applause and laughter.

‘I’m sorry to have to inform you all’, I said, ‘that Christmas has been cancelled this year. You lot might not be happy, but I’ve two thousand capons in the back who’re over the moon.’

Now everyone understood; they’d all clicked into my act. And it felt wonderful. The hair on my arms was standing up. It seemed I’d been up there a couple of minutes, but I was told afterwards I’d done a twenty-minute set. Women were kissing me, telling me I was the best.

‘You should turn professional,’ one of them said.

And eventually, plucking up courage, that’s just what I did.

I started out at pub talent nights, winning a couple of contests. The publican might then invite me back for a three- or four-week run. I kept up the factory job, but now I had a girlfriend, Emily, who’d sung ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’ at one of the talent shows. I’d asked her about the song. She’d no idea what it was all about.

‘Just got it from one of my mum’s Joan Baez albums.’ We had a laugh together. Emily had a day job, too, in a shoe shop. She came up with the idea of me going full-time pro. She said she’d support me till I got rich and famous. She said it wouldn’t take long. Her argument was that with my job, I’d no time to write new material. She was right: I really needed new material. So she became my manager, finding me bookings, and I lay in bed writing jokes and stories.

It all went well for a while. Then we realised I was just treading water. It was still pubs and clubs.

‘You need a portfolio,’ Emily said. ‘Something you can show to agents and the TV companies.’

‘What I need are some decent gags,’ I replied.

The writing wasn’t working. It was never how I’d worked. I was spontaneous, my material came from life. Now that I spent all day mooching around the house, there was nothing for me to write about. If the act was going to go anywhere, I needed to take a few risks. And that was what I did. I invested in a tape machine and other electronic stuff, so I could use funny noises and sound effects in my act. Then I got measured for a sharp suit – blue and sparkly, with shirt to match. I looked ridiculous in it, but then that was the point, wasn’t it?

I now looked the part. Problem was, none of it came cheap. Emily asked where I’d got the money.

‘Savings,’ I told her, lying through my teeth. Soon enough, I knew as I said it, I might not have any teeth left to lie through. Because I’d borrowed the money from Black Alec.

Black Alec had almost fulfilled his ambition of becoming ‘number one’. He was now one of the most feared men on the east coast. He ran a string of clubs in Fife, owned two pubs in Edinburgh, and had so many fingers in so many other pies, it was a wonder he could pick his nose. He also ran protection, prostitutes and pornography – or so the rumours said. I’d never worked in any of his clubs – he said they were ‘upmarket’, ‘mostly music-oriented’. He said I was low-class.

But still he loaned me the money. And now, with the act flagging, it was time to start paying it off, beginning with the interest. I knew Emily was broke: the shoe shop had gone bust, and she was on Jobseekers. I knew I didn’t have any money. And I knew it wouldn’t matter to Black Alec that I’d once been his next-door neighbour and personal jester. Nothing mattered to him but repayment and violence against the person. There were those who said he preferred it when people couldn’t pay up. That way, Black Alec got to play.

Eventually, I broke down and told Emily. I’d been fobbing Alec’s men off as best I could. They’d repossessed the electronics, and soon it would be time for them to start taking possession of my limbs, lungs and lights. So we did what we had to do: went on the run. Thing is, to keep running we needed money, and I only knew one way to make money – keep on with the act, which made it hard for us to stay ahead of the GBH brigade. We’d turn up in a town, and while I tried to hustle a gig, Emily would be checking departure times of buses and trains. I’d do my stint, grab the cash, and we’d make for the station. Up and down the east coast we ran, as far north as Montrose, and south to Eyemouth, finding that the travelling was using up most of the money I made. At this rate, there was no way I was going to be able to pay back Black Alec.

‘We’ll go to London,’ Emily said. ‘That’s where the agents and TV people are. One spot on Des O’Connor and you could pay Black Alec ten times over.’

‘How are we going to get there?’

‘First thing is to talk to Des’s producer.’

‘I mean, how are we going to get to London?’

‘We’ll hitch,’ she told me. ‘All we need is a bit of money for food.’

Which meant one last show. There weren’t many places left to try. Word was out that Black Alec wanted to see me. Worse still, the rumour was I was washed up, that I stank.

But a pub on Rose Street in Edinburgh was under new management, and looking to kick-start a comedy club. They said they’d give me a fifteen-minute spot. If they liked what they saw, there’d be a twenty in it for me.

Twenty quid: I’d earned more winning talent shows. But I said okay. Of course I said okay.

That night, when I took the stage in my blue sparkly suit, there were about two dozen punters in the place: a smattering at the tables, most of them chatting at the bar. The last thing they wanted was me up there, spoiling their conversation and meaning the jukebox was turned off.

But I kicked off anyway. Nobody was laughing. Emily was in the DJ’s booth, supposedly keeping an eye on my mike level so that there was no feedback. Right then, I thought feedback had a better chance of getting a laugh.

And then Black Alec walked in. Someone had tipped him off, and here he came with three of his lads. They took a table right at the front. Alec not taking his eyes off me, a little smile on his face – it was the first smile I’d seen all night, but it didn’t exactly cheer me up. A bottle of champagne arrived, and just the one glass. Alec toasted me as he drank. Suddenly, horribly, my mind went blank, not a single joke in my repertoire could I remember. There were slow handclaps from the bar and cries of ‘Get off!’

‘Does your mum let you out looking like that?’ I told the heckler. ‘Look at him, face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.’ The heckler’s pals laughed at this, and I was on a roll. I knew only one thing: the minute they booed me off, I was in for a doing. I had to stay on that stage, and the only way to do that was to be funny.

And I was funny. Inspiration took hold, and the stories started pouring out. I had stories about working in a factory, about shoe shops and working-men’s clubs, even stories about schooldays. They clapped and cheered. More punters were coming in, and no one was leaving. I’d been on stage about forty minutes, but the owner wasn’t about to signal time-up. The only person in the place not laughing was Black Alec. Even his lads had sniggered at a couple of the routines, but Alec just sat there stony-faced, finishing his champagne.

Eventually, tiredness got the better of me. I could fall back on lame material, or stop while the going was good. I’d have won an audience and be losing my mobility. Alec looked like he was getting impatient. I never liked to keep an old friend waiting.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said, ‘you’ve been a great audience, even old bulldog-features over there. This set was dedicated to the one thing I’ve always enjoyed until this evening, namely good health. Thank you and goodnight.’