Glasgow Comedy
"At the legendary Stand comedy club, promoter Fiona takes a chance on a nervous English comedian—and discovers his jokes aren't the only thing that lands."
The Stand was sacred ground—Glasgow's legendary comedy club where careers were made and egos were destroyed. As head promoter, I decided who got stage time and who went home crying. My reputation was built on brutal honesty and flawless instinct.
"You're booking me?"
The English comedian looked like he might faint. David Chen had been doing the circuit for years without breaking through—good material, decent delivery, zero confidence. I'd watched him die at three open mics before seeing something worth saving.
"Five-minute slot. Friday night. Don't make me regret this."
He didn't make me regret it. His set was sharp, self-deprecating, unexpectedly political. The Glasgow crowd—notoriously hostile to outsiders—actually laughed. By the end, they were cheering.
"That was incredible," he said backstage, still shaking. "I've never had a room like that."
"The room didn't change. You did." I handed him a beer. "What happened out there?"
"I stopped trying to be someone else." He looked at me with an intensity that was new. "You told me to just be honest. So I was."
"You're welcome."
"Can I buy you dinner? To say thank you?"
"I don't date acts."
"Then let me buy you dinner as a fellow professional. You clearly know something I don't. I want to learn."
Dinner became drinks, became walking along the Clyde, became ending up at my flat because neither of us wanted the conversation to stop.
"You're different from what I expected," he said. We were on my sofa, closer than strangers usually sat.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone harder. The reputation makes you sound terrifying."
"I am terrifying. Ask anyone I've fired."
"You're also brilliant, perceptive, and have been making me laugh for four hours." His hand found my knee. "And you're beautiful, which no one mentions in the reputation."
"Beauty isn't relevant in comedy."
"Everything's relevant in comedy. Including the way you look when you're listening to a set that's working." He moved closer. "Like you're experiencing joy directly."
"I am experiencing joy. Good comedy is transcendent."
"So is finding someone who understands that."
He kissed me on my own sofa, in my own city, in my own world where I made the rules. His mouth was tentative at first—nervous, the way he'd been before the set—then growing confident as I responded.
"This is a terrible idea," I said between kisses.
"My best material comes from terrible ideas."
"I'm your promoter."
"Tonight you're just Fiona. The woman who saw something in me when no one else did." He pulled back. "Unless you want me to stop."
"I don't want you to stop."
We didn't stop. The sofa became the bedroom; the professional distance became irrelevant. David touched me with the timing of a good comedian—knowing when to pause, when to build, when to deliver the punchline.
"You're incredible," he said, tracing curves that my work wardrobe usually hid.
"I'm a Glasgow promoter. We're not known for being delicate."
"I don't want delicate." He kissed down my body. "I want real."
He got real. I was loud—Glasgow loud, the kind of volume that doesn't apologize—and he matched me, both of us finding rhythms that had nothing to do with comedy and everything to do with connection. When I came, it was with a sound that probably disturbed the neighbors.
"Comedy taught me timing," he gasped afterward. "Glad it translates."
"You're terrible."
"I'm hilarious. You just laughed."
I had laughed. I was still laughing, tangled in sheets with a comedian I'd sworn never to get involved with.
"This changes things," I said eventually.
"It could."
"People will talk."
"People talk anyway. At least they'll have something interesting to discuss."
He stayed in Glasgow. Became a regular at the Stand, built a following that wasn't based on being the promoter's boyfriend. The relationship was complicated—I couldn't book him anymore, had to recuse myself from every discussion about his career—but we made it work.
"Was it worth it?" he asked one night. "All the complications?"
"The alternative was pretending we didn't feel this." I pulled him closer. "That's the only thing I've never been able to do—pretend."
"It's why you're a great promoter."
"It's why I'm a terrible professional." I kissed him. "But I think I'd rather be human."
He headlines the Stand now—earned, not given. I still promote the club, still make and break careers, still terrify everyone who doesn't know me. And every night, we come home to each other, finding comedy in domesticity and passion in partnership.
Some relationships are punch-up jobs—fixing what's broken, making it better. Ours was written fresh—two people who found each other in a Glasgow comedy club and discovered that the best material isn't the jokes you tell.
It's the life you build together, with perfect timing and impeccable delivery and the courage to be honest when honesty might cost you everything.