Onstage, two minutes, eighteen seconds into my routine about life at the Centre. I knew it was funny. Perfectly, mathematically, funny. But although my material was pure-hewn art, every word died in my mouth. I sucked the joy from every syllable. The marrow of each word dissolved into an insipid paste. During the third disastrous minute, as I continued dying horribly, the audience started their disaffected mutterings. I switched my mouth to automatic. My mind presented the horrible truth. To these shallow comedy-consumers, my material was unimportant, the vapid cult of personality paramount.