Do you consider yourself a well-adjusted, functioning adult who enjoys a night of live entertainment? Or are you the type of person who turns up to a comedy gig four Malbecs deep, and decides to sit in the front row to have an in-depth chat with your mate about how bad your boss’s BO is? Maybe you don’t like waiting for a break. Instead, you’d rather stand up and loudly announce you need a wee, making the entire row stand up as you squeeze by, vigorously scratching your backside? At the end of a show, do you use your hands to throw popcorn across the room rather than smacking them together to create a pleasant clapping sound? I’ll be honest, if you’re reading this, then you’re probably not one of those people. I bet you’ve seen a few of them, though, especially if you’ve been to a standup comedy gig recently. Because since we’ve come back after lockdown, it’s become increasingly apparent that a small but noticeable percentage of audience members have forgotten how to behave in public. Last week, I was hosting a gig when a man leapt on to the raised stage and grabbed my top. I jumped back, having no idea what his intentions were. In a split second, I had to choose between laughing it off, telling him off or knocking his block off. It turned out he was trying to check the label on my clothes and thought it was fair game to have a rummage. It was a weird interaction, but I didn’t get “Chris Rock’d” or “Me Too’d”; it wasn’t aggressive or sexually motivated. It falls into the category of “poor audience etiquette”, something which is demonstrably worse now than before the pandemic. The gig before the label-grabbing one had a similar vibe. I had to tell people to stop talking through the comedian’s routine and to stop repeating his punchlines back to him like an annoying parrot, drunk on cider. Even “well-meaning” interruptions are unwelcome (“OMG that’s so funny, my partner snores too!”). I call this “disruptive engagement”, which is annoying and unnecessary even if the sentiment behind it is positive. I reached out to my comedy network to see if anyone else had noticed this change in behaviour. My inbox was soon flooded with messages, with many comics agreeing that things have escalated since the pandemic – from aggressive heckling, to talking over the act, to jumping on stage, and various other examples of being a right pain in the arse. It’s not just comedy; musicians and actors tell similar stories. Sophie Ellis-Bextor has repeatedly had to ask rowdy audience members to pipe down so everyone else can hear the gig they’ve paid to see. Beverley Knight tweeted after a particularly galling incident: “If your intention is to come to the theatre, get rat-arsed, make a scene, disrupt the show … My advice is stay your ass at home.” The worst story I heard was from a visually impaired act, whose cane was snatched by an audience member who shouted: “Are you really blind? How many fingers am I holding up?” The majority of comedy audiences are brilliant, but some idiots ruin the show for the rest, as well as for the performers. It’s like reading a book and ripping out half the pages, except it’s a library book and now no one else can fully enjoy it. So how have we ended up here? Have two years of lockdowns and limited live shows made people forget how to be civilised audience members? Are we so deprived of performance art that we can’t contain our excitement? Do venues need to display reminders that we’re supposed to drink our drinks, not slosh them over the people sat next to us? Partly, yes. I think people are struggling with boundaries. We lived in our own bubbles for so long that we’ve forgotten how to interact and engage with others in an appropriate way. On top of that, there’s something about the nature of comedy that makes people think it’s more interactive than it is. Nor does social media help, with “comedian destroys heckler” clips going viral. Those kind of interactions are rare and they can be funny, but it shouldn’t set the standard for what to expect at a comedy night. You should expect a friendly welcome from the MC, some cracking material from the acts and a good night out. A well-written routine will always be funnier than any off-the-cuff put-down in response to a drunken nuisance. We’ve arrived in a weird place, where some people need to be reminded that it’s only the comedians who require the spotlight. Not them and their mates so they can have a testosterone-off. There’s literally a stage and microphone for that very reason. Whether it’s caused by a lack of social boundaries, pent-up frustration after multiple lockdowns or a cheap deal on blue lagoon cocktail pitchers, wally-like behaviour isn’t acceptable. As an MC, I always start the show with a friendly welcome and a few house rules. Phones on silent, don’t heckle the acts, don’t talk among yourselves while the acts are on stage. Do I now need to add, don’t interrupt the show, don’t manhandle the entertainers, don’t act like a plonker, and never, ever try to examine the act’s labels? Dani Johns is a comedian and compere who runs multiple gigs in Bristol