What a Difference a Day Makes: How losing a contract job made me fight for my comedy 

My dad looked at me. He said, ‘Ross, the whole place downstairs is destroyed.’

And it was irreparable for a long time — they had dehumidifiers in for about a year after. That morning, Dad said, ‘As of right now, I have no work for you. I don’t know if I can even pay you on Friday.’

One of my daughters was five, the other one-and-a-half. When you’re working week to week, pay cheque to pay cheque, to keep the bills paid… The pressure of having two children compounded it. 

At 22, you can move on to the next thing, but I was just about to turn 30, I had stakes in the game, more at play than just myself — I felt like I was failing other people.

When you’re dealt a blow where you might not even have wages on Friday, there’s a feeling of hopelessness, panic… you’re trying to figure a way out.

Within two hours, I’d made a decision. Up to now, I’d sacrificed all other jobs for a career in comedy — none of my jobs had longevity.

I’d left something that could have been a job for life because it meant the comedy couldn’t progress if I was in a factory five days a week. You need flexibility to be able to take on gigs and bookings.

So now I had to either quit my dream of comedy and get a normal civilian job — ‘it’s emergency mode, I have to find a job’. 

But something kicked in — I felt I had to take control, I couldn’t be at the whim of somebody else. I thought, ‘What if I dedicate as much time as I can, work as if this is my job, sit down like it’s an office job, just to try to book myself in to do gigs.’

I went to Google Maps and I zoomed in untiI found a small grey area in the middle of Kerry. I landed on Listowel. I googled every pub, music venue, and arts centre. 

Then I went on Facebook and looked at their pages to see which looked lively, like they had a nice young crowd, or were running regular gigs. I basically stalked them all.

I landed on a bar called Mike the Pie’s — his grandmother used to sell pies out of a hatch in the ’30s or ’40s. 

I thought, ‘Let’s see if I can book a gig for maybe €300.’ I cold-called them, gave them my pitch, said who I was, told them I’d worked on The Fear, a hidden camera show on TV.

I said I was booking a tour, I already had 10 venues confirmed, and if they’d like one of the spots — ‘they’re filling up quickly’ — if they paid me a flat fee, I’d rock up, do a show, bring my own support act, the whole shebang. They said yes.

I repeated this process — loads of places said no. As I saw it, if they weren’t going to pay the flat fee, it probably meant they couldn’t fill it, so it wasn’t the right venue for me. By the end of the next day, I had 25 places willing to do the shows.

It was liberating, exciting — and kind of hard to believe. I was after a massive knock the day before, and was still reeling. So even though it was positive, I felt it could turn into a negative.

Once I booked those gigs, I had to become my own one-man promoter. All my gigs were off the beaten track, the places no one went. I was creating my own little circuit that nobody else knew about.

I’ve been presenting on radio since 2016. That was a massive turnaround, providing me with stability while still working in the comedy realm.

But 2014 — staring down the barrel of ‘destitution within four hours’ — it left a mark on me, the fear that everything could be gone again. Since then, I have quite an amount of anxiety and stress… if I pass a homeless person, I think how many wrong decisions will it take for me to be there.

Luckily I had something — the comedy — I could take autonomy over. I’m well aware some people don’t have something they can push.

I’ve always worked best under deadline or in the middle of a catastrophe, when my back’s against the wall, because there’s no other option.

Without that time in 2014, I’d probably be more relaxed in my everyday life, less anxious. But I also think I might have settled for mediocrity.

The worst thing for creativity is comfort. That’s why I refused to go to college or get a ‘good’ job at the outset, because I think when you’re comfortable in life, creativity dies.

• Ross Browne’s national tour with his new show, ‘Only Joking’, begins in Cork Opera House on September 21. Co-presenter of ‘Lorraine and Ross in the Morning’ on Cork’s 96FM, he has also written three episodes of the fourth season of ‘The Young Offenders’.