The MC gallops on and gets various groups of people whooping; those from London, those from ‘UP NORF’, those from far, far away. A fella in the front row gets a grilling about working in IT. It’s standard amusement, but it’s fun to be sharing a group experience, laughing amongst a crowd. I watch Florrie. She’s unable to keep still, nosing around the whole room, perhaps looking for somebody or counting heads. Whatever she’s doing, she’s not listening to the jokes. Her applause lacks vigour.

‘Righto, boys and girls,’ the MC shouts, ‘Give it up for … Ross Robson!’

Wearing a corduroy blazer over a creased Metallica t-shirt, Ross Robson combs back the tangled curls hanging over his eyes with his free hand, the other holding a half-drunk pint. He sports his fed-up face and a downhearted grin, dimpling at his jawline. Although he’s very tall, he doesn’t adjust the mic stand. Instead, he ducks.

The skinny-fat fella mouths to Florrie, ‘You okay?’ and she nods with a whole-body jitter, giving an equally jittery thumbs up. He gives an OK with his hand.

Ross begins. He doesn’t say an awful lot, and when he does, it sounds like he’s woken up with a hangover. At one point he drinks his pint and waits for a burp. He furrows his brow and releases loud sighs. Silence is padded with the odd ‘fuck’. He tells a weird story about his ex-girlfriend’s mum. It’s really, really funny.

Florrie is sitting on the edge of her seat. She’s less frantic now.

Her whole table is roaring, hanging onto Ross’s every word. Jack would definitely have been here tonight. He was the first to buy tickets for the Greenwich show and promoted it like crazy on Twitter. There’s no way he would’ve missed this one. Which means I was always coming, too. I do belong.

I clap loud at the end, wishing I knew how to whistle.

The MC returns and Ross takes an awkward bow, gives a wave-salute. Florrie is on her chair, cheering. Security wander over and tell her to get down. She’s overly apologetic – bless her – and the skinny-fat fella holds up a cigarette, widens his eyes. She declines. Ross has run straight past the crowd out into the bar. The MC is introducing the next act, but I want to catch Ross, so I slip out to congratulate him.

‘’Ello mate,’ he greets me with his deep, throaty voice. ‘Chloe? I got that right, yeah?’

We kiss each other’s cheeks awkwardly. He has this natural expression that’s both worried and smug. It’s probably his dimples, combined with his need to pull comedy out of every single situation he finds himself in: the curse of the creative.

‘That was great, Ross.’

‘You’re from Liverpool. Aren’t you supposed to say “Eh, that’s boss, that!”?’

‘Sure. Boss. How’s it all going?’