Paramilitaries, Punchlines & Panic Attacks: A True Story When Comedy Nearly Got Me Shot | Irish Comedy | Stand-Up Near Me | Edinburgh Comedy

Following the fallout of the last gig — you know, the one with the actual paramilitary lads in the crowd — you'd think things couldn’t get worse. You’d be wrong.

Despite the intimidation and the growing tension in the Waterside, interest in my shows was building. I was determined to keep the nights going — more audiences, more laughs, and more risk.

At the time, I was regularly hopping over to Scotland once a month, connecting with class comics from the Glasgow scene. So I figured, let’s use the £500 gig budget to fly over three Glaswegian comedians and a Kiwi comic living in Galway. Easy.

The Icon bar manager was buzzing about it. I had lined up local press, a radio spot — the whole shebang. On paper, this should’ve been a belter of a night.

Being the generous host I am, I sent the Glaswegian lads ahead in one taxi while I followed in another with the Kiwi comic. When I arrived at The Icon, something was off. The place was quiet — eerily quiet.

A Gig ill never forget

The manager greeted me like he’d just seen a ghost — awkward, avoiding eye contact. Then I spotted the Scottish comics huddled in the corner, radiating rage.

Turns out, the gig was cancelled.

Not only had he called it off without telling me, but he told the comics that I already knew. I didn’t. He hung me out to dry.

When I demanded he pay the acts anyway — he refused. After a heated, red-faced back and forth, the truth came out: the bar had been warned off. Our paramilitary friends from the last show had paid the manager a visit and made it crystal clear that there’d be consequences for continuing these comedy nights.

Apparently, in some twisted logic, a Catholic running gigs in a Protestant area is bad. But a Protestant working with a Catholic? That's even worse.

God forbid anyone share a laugh.

In a desperate effort to make things right, the manager walked us down the road to another bar he owned — Upstairs Downstairs — where it was karaoke night. Packed house. Drunken sing-alongs. Absolute chaos.

His solution? We’d “jump up and do a few quick sets.” Comedy at karaoke. A terrible mix at the best of times — and this was not the best of times.

We walked in, uninvited. Five stand-ups, crashing a working-class sing-song. What could go wrong?

As I stepped up to introduce the acts, I clocked the entire front row — yep, them again. The same paramilitary lads from the last show. Who knew the UVF were big Tina Turner fans?

The Glaswegian lads went up first. Got a few laughs, even from the front. We were nearly out the other side…

Then the Kiwi comic took the stage.

Now — I had warned him, begged him — not to do that bit. His closer: ripping off his shirt to reveal a GAA top. Gaelic football. Very Irish. Very not Unionist. Very not welcome in that room.

But of course, he ignored me.

As soon as he pulled off the shirt, I felt a hand wrap around my neck. I was yanked outside by five lads, shouting in my face:“YOU’RE GETTING SHOT.”

A regular punter from the comedy nights stepped in, somehow cooled things down enough to whisper, “You’ve got five minutes to get him off stage and all of you out of here.”

I bolted. Never looked back.

The Kiwi comic legged it. The Glaswegian lads, though? I heard they ended up having their first proper Northern Irish lock-in — drinking on the house ‘til 5AM.

I bumped into one of them at a gig rcently He looked me dead in the eyes and said,“I still get panic attacks thinking about that night. Thought I’d never see my family again.”

As for the other three? I never saw them again.

Fast Forward to Today…

Now here we are.

The Comedy Cellar in Edinburgh. A city where the biggest problem I face on gig night is whether or not someone’s pint has too much head on it. No paramilitaries. No dodgy warnings. Just pure laughter, every single night of the week.

Crowds from all over the world pack out our underground venue on the Royal Mile. Irish, Scottish, English, tourists from the States, Australia, Europe — it’s a melting pot of people who just want one thing: a bloody good laugh.

The Comedy Cellar is built on the scars and chaos of gigs like that night in Derry. But now, it’s a place of freedom, rebellion, and raw, grassroots comedy. No censorship. No “woke” filters. Just the good, the bad, and the absolutely mental.

And best of all — the only thing getting shot these days is tequila at the bar.

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written by Michael Porter owner & funder