Gerry is a professional stand-up comedian, MC, improviser, comedy coach and script writer.
His own comedy is about the challenges of life, and using humour to make life more bearable
His DIY comedy courses are held regularly around Brighton UK
Doing stand-up at Brighton Comedy Festival:
Gerry improvising spontaneous speaking on an unrehearsed subject:
Gerry ranting on about how annoying people are:
Gerry messing about, making up a spontaneous song about life, with bad ukelele:
Gerry doing stand-up to a class at the Brighton Dome Centre:
Doing comedy on The Local Papers:
Gerry doing stand-up: “I never said I was perfect…”:
The expectedness of the unexpected: a ground-breaking theory:
Reading from his humorous book: the trouble with relationships:
Performing live comic poetry and songs
Gerry’s spoof Country-and-western song (sound file)
instrumental backing by Richard Durrant:
“Ode to a stool” – reflections on being asked for a sample:
A humorous poetic diatribe against bad language:
An exploration of just how many other words you can get to rhyme with one word:
An affectionate ode to Seamus Heaney (see Heaney’s comment, below):
Nobel literature laureate Seamus Heaney praised Gerry’s comic poetry, saying:
“Thanks for the poem, Gerry. Great swing and relish! Once upon a time I rhymed ‘stirred’ with ‘word’, but now I see that there was another alternative!” (see below)!
Ode to Seamus Heaney: an affectionate tribute by Gerry Maguire Thompson:The never-ending summer of our youth Was thick with fecund nuts and crunchy roots Daily we'd garnered berries, cram our guts and faces, with fermenting fleshy fruits. Or gather at the green-pond's fetid edge And jellied-eyeball toadspawn freely take; Pull turgid eels from every slimy nook, Drag dark-striped pike from out the sloe-black lake. We followed in our father's plough-worn path And learned hard lessons from his belt and cuff; We mastered crafts of taking up plump spuds - the roughish cut and thrust of turf and stuff Or else we'd dig for rotting bones and skulls, Shrouded from ancient times in mist and fog; Poke at the shattered ribs of murdered Celts, Or pull full-festering corpses from the bog. Then, in the midst of summer's sultry bake, Where the river's sinewy outline twists and curls, We'd dive into its chilly waters, nude - Then show our shrivelled willies to the girls. My digging now is for the poem's truths; My hunt no longer for primeval turds; My gathering of fruits the verbal kinds - All I flash, now, is metaphors and words. For recognition's hit me with brash clout Now all I do is look, and sit, and write; Gone are the days of grime and dirty work - II am a bloody lucky oul' gob-shite!
Copyright Gerry Maguire Thompson 2012
Please acknowledge if quoted – many thanks