Fat cheques, thin smiles

When we performers talk about the dreaded 'C' word, we don't mean Christmas, we mean 'corporates'. (If columns had sound effects you would now hear a crack of thunder.) Those wonderful gigs where you start off thinking "this one's going to be different, they're going to listen, laugh uproariously, finish with a standing ovation and maybe I'll sign a few autographs afterwards."

Somehow it never turns out that way. I did one this year in a posh hotel which shall remain nameless. It was a lunchtime event and all female – a recipe for disaster.

Women talk non-stop and they get plastered quicker in the daylight.

They started with a champagne reception at 12 followed by a boozey lunch at one and by the time I came on at three they couldn't say their own names ( you try saying Felicity Plunkett-Murphy after seven glasses of Bollinger). Five hundred women in a ballroom out of the game, and me with a microphone in the darkness talking to myself.

It all started off fabulously, plenty of "hoy howaaaarya" and air kisses. I was met with open arms – "Slorse, the entertainment has arrived!". Lots of big hair and Betty Barclay and a bit of nouveau riche breastfeeding going on in the foyer (the babies had those big fat businessmen faces, and they were taking puffs of cigars between feeds).

I was fed royally, shown to a board room to change and offered a glass of bubbly. This was great, a walk in the park, they're going to love me! Finally they were finished their coffee and petit fours and it was time for me to go on.

I skipped gaily on to the stage but as soon as I took the mic and bid them good afternoon I knew I was in for the gig from hell. These weren't 'ladies who lunch' these were 'ladies who get locked and talk through your whole set'. One woman actually answered her mobile phone and had a conversation right in front of me – "Kate how aaaarya! Oh I'm having a ball! Food was fab, yeah, there's some pregnant woman up on the stage telling jokes...brutal. Anyway tell us did you sack the au pair?"

My throat started to tighten and a little voice said "get off the stage you big eejit". But I kept going. Then suddenly I spotted an old school friend waving at me from table nine. Of course it had to be Clarissa Millard, head prefect, perfect teeth, excellent skin, probably successful lawyer by now, oh Christ. "Get off the stage you big eejit". But still I stayed on and still they chatted. And no this doesn't have a happy ending. They didn't suddenly swap their all important conversation for a few minutes of entertainment, they continued to screech and chat and text.

"Get off the stage you big eejit." And finally I did. I told them I would normally finish with something like "You've been a lovely audience". But they weren't the words that sprang to mind. What sprang to mind was "Have a crap evening you ignorant cows". I opted for "To those of you who listened, thanks a million".

One woman who looked about a hundred and twenty and Clarissa clapped supportively. And then the long humiliating journey through the sea of mocking pan stick faces to the door, wafts of stale Chanel hitting my stomach making it hard not to projectile vomit all over the tables.

I escaped into the car park and found my little Starlet in a sea of jeeps. "Never again," I thought. "Never ever, ever, again". And then I noticed the envelope I was clutching. I opened it and put the contents on the dash board. As I drove home a warm glow came over me and suddenly the 'c' word didn't seem so bad after all. Oh and I don't mean 'corporates'. I mean 'cheque'.