Herald Sun - Switched On - - Saturday -

ADAM is dy­ing. Not just in a ‘‘ that joke wasn’t ter­ri­bly funny’’, kind of way. This is a full-blown pub­lic melt­down. He’s on stage at Syd­ney’s Mar­ble Bar and he can’t re­mem­ber his first line.

He keeps check­ing his notes and try­ing to restart, but it’s like his brain has stopped be­ing able to com­pre­hend the English lan­guage and he can’t get any words out.

It’s hor­ri­ble to watch, even from the safety of your couch. You don’t want to take de­light in some­one else’s suf­fer­ing, but you also can’t look away.

Wel­come to Com­edy School, where you too can suf­fer pub­lic hu­mil­i­a­tion, for a fee, of course.

I once told a friend who is gen­uinely funny that he should do stand-up. He replied that any­one could do com­edy, be­cause you had all that time to shape a rou­tine — it was much harder to be hi­lar­i­ous in real life. So what pos­sesses peo­ple to do Com­edy School and to pay for the priv­i­lege?

And can you re­ally learn to be funny?

Co­me­dian Rob McHugh thinks so. Though he does run a com­edy school — maybe what they call a vested in­ter­est.

All these peo­ple are amus­ing to watch, but I don’t think it’s in the way they’re hop­ing for.

‘‘ She’s 28, she’s sin­gle, she’s un­em­ployed, she’s back home liv­ing with her mother.

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