Stand-up comedy is an incredibly addictive pursuit. Nothing fills me with such buzz, such electrifying highs of euphoria than smashing a gig, winning over a quiet room or acing some brand-new material.

But… with highs come lows. And just as the highs can skyrocket, the lows can be bad. Why-the-fuck-am-I-doing-this, I-want-to-pack-it-all-in-and-become-an-accountant-or-something-else-boring-and-reliable, maybe-I-can-just-lie-in-bed-and-eat-crisps-and-turn-my-back-on-comedy-forever bad.

I’d say I experience the Dark Night of the Comedic Soul pretty frequently.

So, as someone who’s been in the stand up trenches many a time, here’s a step-by-step guide to getting your comedy mojo back.

1. Tell people you are sad

As much as your mum told you to stop being attention seeking, I’m afraid performing is all about that. We are, by default, seeking attention. Guess what? The nice thing about comedians is they’re usually people who have experienced many a menty-b and are open to giving advice.

I’ve met some truly wonderful comedy friends who always have my back when I’m in a slump. Remember it’s a good idea to share when and why you’re feeling down. People might give you – wait for it – compliments! Praise! Advice! Comforting words! Those are never bad things. WhatsApp groups, Instagram and Facebook are great for this, especially as you can read stuff back. Or go crazy and meet someone face to face.

2. Try to see yourself through the eyes of someone who likes you

Comedians are usually perfectionists to an anally retentive degree. We beat ourselves up. The perk of this is that we challenge ourselves to progress, but it can get a bit much. Try and view yourself from an outside perspective. Celebrate how hard you’ve worked, how much you’ve done, and go gently. Imagine you are one of your comedy friends, and think about what you’d say to them.

3. Have a break (have a KitKat)

Taking a break is a great idea. It doesn’t need to be a long one, but it should be a proper one. That means sleep, eat, wash, socialise if you can, wear comfy clothes, do things that refill your cup. You will probably get stand up ideas while you’re out there living your life. Many of my best writing ideas come to me in the shower or on the tube. Rest. Comedy will be waiting for you. It is NOT a race. Nor is it actually a competition, however much you might convince yourself otherwise.

Do something completely different. Laundry, make a wonky pot, do a collage, junk journal, walk, pay some bills, eat a sandwich, go to a charity shop, tidy a drawer, have a coffee, watch that incredibly long Greek myth film made by a straight white man. Take your foot off the gas and you will STILL keep moving forward, I promise.

4. If you don’t want to rest, explore your comfort zone.

Do gigs you like. Do lineups with friends if possible. Do short spots and perform material you know works. Gig close to home so you don’t have to drag yourself halfway across the country to a terrible pub basement. Try and make your life a bit easier for a while.

Gamify it. Challenge yourself to do one, two, three gigs and tick them off when done. Then see if you fancy any more.

A comedian I know said “think of all the shit male comedians who never doubt themselves…that’s why they stay shit.

You ARE great!

5. Try a workshop

Writers’ rooms and workshops can be a really handy way to break out of a slump. If you’re a stand up, you could try character comedy or clowning for a change. There are lots of free things available. You could pair up with a pal and make a day of it. Be silly and play.

6. Watch live comedy

Just stop gigging for a bit, and watch some shows instead. They could be your favourite comedians, but equally I sometimes find watching ‘bad’ comedy inspiring. Anything that gets your arse in gear is great. Whether you leave thinking ‘I wish I could do that’ or ‘blimey, I could do way better than that and they still have an audience’ – use it.

I work as an usher at a comedy venue and get to see lots of shows I’d never choose to watch – this is also great. Take a chance on a random show. If you don’t enjoy a show, why? How could you do it differently? Is there a tiny ‘something’ you’ve just witnessed that you’d like to try? It’ll get the cogs whirring.

7. ‘Study’ a show online

If money is tight/you don’t want to leave the house, here’s a handy hack, and something I’ve just tried for the first time. Watch a show online (YouTube, iPlayer etc) and ‘study’ it with a notebook. Don’t put yourself under any pressure to laugh. Note down timestamps of different bits, structure, things you liked, things you didn’t. How they move between stories. Crowd work. Physicality. It will inform your performances.

8. Keep a comedy notebook

I have always done this. I keep flyers in mine, stickers, do mind maps, brainstorms, write down my gigs and venues, feedback. It doesn’t have to be full, but it’s nice to have a record that you’re out there doing stuff.

9. Team up

I did my first split bill recently with Lorra Videv and it was GREAT. It really took the pressure off. We went for a ridiculously overpriced pizza and got our notebooks out and chatted till the open-mic comics came home. We made it FUN. It was so nice to share in what can be an ordeal. I had a great time.

10. ‘Remember to have fun’

One of my favourite pieces of art is a tombstone by Mr Bingo which reads ‘Don’t Forget to Have Fun’.

‘Remember to have fun’ has become my personal mantra, to the point I will maniacally repeat it to myself before gigs. Despite the irony of this image of a woman “having fun”, it does help.

A comedy mentor of mine once said to me “it’s supposed to be fun, Anna. Don’t do it if it isn’t”. You’re choosing to spend your night doing this thing, in these odd basements and back rooms. The audiences want to have fun, but it should also be fun for you.

Enjoying your work will make you a better comedian. If you’re not having fun, shake things up, take a break, step back and recalibrate. It’s not that serious. Literally. The whole thing is a joke.

About the author

MEET ANNA GRAY 💥

Her comedy in three words: Energetic. Self-deprecating. Unpredictable. You won’t know what’s happening — but you will be laughing.

Group chat identity: spam replier, GIF gremlin, pun criminal.

Follow her on Instagram.

How to Get a Laugh Every 15 Seconds

A seasoned comedian will watch a set with missing punchlines and intuitively see things like:

• “Here, you could do an act-out.”

• “Here’s an opportunity for a pull-back-and-reveal.”

• Etc.

The standard advice is to aim for a laugh every 15-20 seconds. What do you do when you’re not that good at “seeing the jokes” yet? You practice seeing and applying the most crucial joke structures, explicitly, one by one, until they become second nature.

There are a lot of joke structures, from simple “rule of 3” jokes to complexly choreographed dances across transgressive lines. But some of them stand out for how central they are to virtually all stand-up. Focusing on these has made me much more intuitive at finding the funny in any premise or story.

My prognosis is that if you master around 5-7 key joke structures, you will be spoiled for jokes.

There are three joke structures in particular that every beginner stand-up has to master early on, either consciously or unconsciously, because they are central to virtually all stand-up. Let’s crack them today!

Three Joke Structures Every Beginner Stand-Up Has to Master

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I assume you know that tags are important and how they work! If you’re like “What’s a tag??”, I explained them in Unreasonably Easy Ways to Make People Laugh That Comedians Use!)

Luise Wolky

Unreasonably Easy Ways to Make People Laugh That Comedians Use

To most people, the idea of going on a stage in front of people and making them laugh seems petrifyingly difficult. You look at the greats like James Acaster, Sarah Silverman, or Mitch Hedberg (if you prefer a more dated reference), and you just think, I have no idea how they do it. You’d have to be a genius. Take a joke like this…

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3 months ago · 203 likes · 10 comments · Luise Wolky

1. Juxtaposition

This one is so fundamental that it’s almost hard to describe in general terms.

Watch this clip until the first big laugh. (Tiny transcript below.)

_{“Has there ever been a dumber generation of idiots more susceptible to fake news than these fucking baby boomers? Literally believing everything they see on the internet. You literally have people in Honolulu right now auto-driving their Tesla Cybetrucks as they vape out the window and their phone AI is trading cryptocurrency. Meanwhile, you have baby boomers—they can’t even right-click.”}

The idea/observation of boomers not being able to right-click is funny. But what really sets this punchline up to kill is the juxtaposition: First describing the Zoomer crypto traders in their cybertrucks, then, bam, stupid boomers.

Why does this work?

Comedy often comes from surprising, emotive, or crazy stuff. The bigger the better. Juxtaposition helps exaggerate the surprise/emotion/crazy, making it seem bigger and therefore funnier than it perhaps is. So, juxtaposition is an extremely general tool.

This seems especially true for storyteller comedians. Audiences expect a story on stage to meet quite a high bar for drama, by virtue of it being told on stage. The dramatic notes that your friends laughed at when you told them the story might not get the same reaction under such heightened expectations. That’s why, unless your story is actually tectonically batshit, on-stage storytelling takes quite some skill.

Juxtaposition is one tool to draw out the dramatic notes of your story more sharply.

Watch this clip and notice the juxtaposition(s):

_{“And um [laughter] the second lesson they taught us was uh don’t let anyone steal your gun. Your gun is your wife. Oh, I remember our wedding day. I was the most nervous young groom, and she was the most automatic assault rifle.”}

When telling this to a friend, just the idea of the military saying “the gun is your wife” might get a laugh. But it got nothing from the audience! You can see the juxtaposition of “nervous young groom” with “Automatic Assault Rifle” was necessary here!

Generally:

If you’re expecting a surprised or emotional reaction from the audience, but you’re not quite getting it, see if you can juxtapose harder.

2. Faces and Act-Outs

I hope you are already fully on board with how important these are. In case not, I will simply quote here from a previous post of mine.

On facial expressions:

[R]idiculously simple. A big facial expression often takes a mild chuckle to a full laugh. Is the punchline about something shocking? Make a big old face of shock. Disgust? Pride? Embarrassment? Make a face. Once you start noticing comedians do this, you see it all the time … (Maria Bamford does great facial expressions. A Helen Bauer short.)

A lot of comedy is about attitude.

Humor comes from emotion, and a big facial expression helps with that.

On act-outs:

Same idea, just bigger. Almost any action that’s part of a punchline gets funnier if you physically act it out on stage. Why? No clue. In this set, Fern Brady literally just walks sort of gingerly after mentioning a cat. Also, comedians usually act out dialogue with different voices, facial expressions, etc. Watch this Jen Brister clip—it just wouldn’t be as funny if she told it straight.

The good news is that faces and act-outs are probably the easiest joke structure to train yourself to “see” intuitively.

Try doing them basically every time a person, attitude, or action is mentioned! Try doing a voice even if it’s just one person saying one line. Try doing a voice even if it’s just some abstract imagined person speaking, e.g., Taylor Tomlinson saying “This is Lisa.”

3. Callbacks

A callback is anything that references something that happened earlier in your set. I didn’t think of it at the time, but they would have deserved a place in Unreasonably Easy Ways to Make People Laugh That Comedians Use. People are willing to laugh almost simply from recognition that you’ve made a callback.

I don’t have that much insightful stuff to say about making callbacks except: do it all the time. If you have a good bit, exploit that and make a callback later! You can make a callback to almost any punchline, and you can put it wherever in the set you need a bit more laughing momentum.

Let’s now get into the most important part of the post—the exercise!

Good Job!

My prognosis is that if you master around 5-7 key joke structures, you will be spoiled for jokes. If you’d be interested in a part 2 on the three next-most important joke structures, please let me know in the comments!

This is a guest post, by the way; hi, I’m Luise! If you’d like to read more from me, here’s my most popular post to date:

Luise Wolky

Unreasonably Easy Ways to Make People Laugh That Comedians Use

To most people, the idea of going on a stage in front of people and making them laugh seems petrifyingly difficult. You look at the greats like James Acaster, Sarah Silverman, or Mitch Hedberg (if you prefer a more dated reference), and you just think, I have no idea how they do it. You’d have to be a genius. Take a joke like this…

Read more

3 months ago · 203 likes · 10 comments · Luise Wolky

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By Celine Slater

When I finally decided to do my first gig I didn’t tell anyone. I had scoped out a comedy club that organises an open mic where anyone can put their name down and you get randomly picked. This means you can end up last, 3 hours in with only the MC and tech as audience, but at least anyone can try it.

I went alone and sat down next to a woman with a notepad. To this day, when I gig at a new place or don’t know any of the other comedians, I find the female comics (sometimes in the singular) and introduce myself to them.

I got called pretty early on in the night and my set went… alright? I was so focussed on the bits I had prepared that I didn’t listen to the audience. I was nervous, but not as much as I thought I’d be. I was mainly giddy and proud I had done it.

Cause what was the worst that could happen? I had intentionally imagined worst-case scenarios: I’d lose full control of my bodily fluids? I’d start to sing uncontrollably? Highly unlikely. Maybe people wouldn’t laugh and that’s not as awful as everyone makes it sound. It just happens, you learn from it, improve and move on. I still remind myself of this when I’m terrified before going on.

I had also actually prepped, not just writing down ideas but I had written out full sentences and practiced delivery. My notebook had been filled with pages of stories and jokes and turns out a can of G&T is the ideal make-do mic.

Some comedians go on stage announcing that it’s their first gig and it’s understandable because the audience is encouraging on those nights — to a degree, depends on your material. I’ve also seen comics bringing their friend to support them for their first gig. I chose not to, which meant I walked quietly into this space and could as easily leave if it wasn’t for me, the stakes were low.

Whilst writing this, I forced myself to re-watch the video of my third gig, the first I ever filmed and the first at which friends came along (I tentatively told some after a while). It’s not as bad as I thought, of course the set-ups are way too long, there is a clear lack of punchlines, the ending is anti-climactic and I am standing outside of the spotlight. All of it screams newbie. I was way more nervous at this gig with my friends, than at my first gig because I am susceptible to praise — surprise! I saw some of my friends looking with fear in their eyes as I went on stage, prepping themselves to suggest knitting as an alternative hobby. But there was no need for that, after the gig they all told me I was confident. There’s a hefty level of delusion that comes with the idea that you can make strangers laugh, and you create a persona of sorts when going on stage. That is where my confidence came from, no one knew me, so I could be anyone and even have done this before.

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When starting out, I had to overcome two personal hurdles; first the dread that I would take up people’s time. My upbringing, like many girls’, was to not take up too much space and not be too loud. Then I told myself, if I didn’t take up the space, plenty of mediocre men would. This mantra has also made me apply for jobs I initially thought myself unqualified for, it’s highly effective.

The second doubt I had to overcome was that I felt out of place. At my first gig I had seen the fifth comedian mentioning they were a student born in a different century, I felt self-conscious about being in my thirties. Spoiler, it doesn’t matter, it’s never too late to start. There’s another comic, , who wrote a fabulous post about this on this Substack.

I had nothing to say in my twenties and didn’t think of doing comedy back then. I am in awe of comics who are funny at 22 but it’s also fine if you’re ten years older or plenty more. I also chose not to address it, you don’t have to. Same with anything that makes you “other” — nationality, sexuality.… Make it your thing and write jokes about it if you want, or ignore it altogether. You are in charge, you can make all these choices, that is one of the strengths of stand-up and why I so longed to do it. My sets are quite often highly personal but what I do talk about is my choice.

The first gig, like many first that will follow are slightly nerve-wrecking but mainly so much joy! The first gig, the first time you get booked after someone saw you on stage, the first paid gig, the first, the first brainstorm session with your new comedy buddies… So if you’re thinking of starting out. Just do it, what’s the worst that can happen? Nothing as bad as regretting not doing it.

If you need the external pressure and feel like you could easily cop out, bring you’re cheerleading friends. Not the one who will give blunt “feedback”. They can be the best of friends when you need a telling-to about your dating choices, but not for a thing as vulnerable as doing comedy. If like me, you prefer to keep it on the down-low initially, go alone and trust your gut.

About the author

Celine Slater is a stand-up comedian mainly preforming in Scotland, she tells jokes to escape her day-time job filled with spreadsheets.

Follow her on Instagram.

Which, TBH, is an introduction I’ll never forget.

Willow is transfem, non-binary, disabled, and — according to her — essentially the Reform Party’s worst nightmare.

She’s also one of the fastest-rising newer comics I’ve seen (and loved) in a long time.

At the time of our Instagram Live Q&A, she’d already racked up 50 gigs since returning to comedy nine months ago.

Technically… Willow had done stand-up comedy before. But listening to her talk, it became obvious that this version of her story starts in October.

Because that’s when she started doing comedy as Willow.

I think a lot of us wish we could reset our timeline when we start a new chapter in life. But I don’t mean as someone else; not like putting on a costume for 173-page phase in our life that we’ll fondly refer to as an “era” one day.

I mean when we finally stop pretending to be someone we’re not.

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One gig is nowhere near enough data

One of my favourite things Willow said during our conversation was:

It’s good comedy advice… actually, it’s also brilliant life advice.

Like most comics, Willow’s had good gigs, bad gigs, weird gigs, quiet gigs, and gigs where the audience looked like they’d rather be filing their taxes. But each performance isn’t a final verdict on her talent, she said. They’re data points.

Because comedy isn’t really a pass-or-fail test.

It’s a muscle we need to work. Or (if you’re not shaped like an ice sculpture a gym rat) like points you rack up with your credit card.

Stage time is about collecting enough information to understand what’s actually happening. A joke that’s received like, “go on girl, give us nothing” on Tuesday might kill on Thursday.

And the version of yourself you’re trying to become probably isn’t going to reveal herself after one attempt either.

I think a lot of us quit things too early.

One rejection, one awkward interaction, one failure — and suddenly we’ve decided the entire thing isn’t for us. Ever. Fuck it. Put it in a box and let’s move on, fast.

Comedy teaches the opposite: Keep showing up. Get your reps in. Learn from each performance. That’s how we get better.

The other thing Willow spoke about was learning that comedy isn’t a documentary.

Which I suspect will come as welcome news to every comedy-curious person currently panicking over whether every story they tell happened exactly as remembered.

The emotional truth matters more than the fact-checking.

A stage persona isn’t a lie. It’s a version of yourself with certain parts turned up louder. Like… you x 1.3.

The best comedians aren’t necessarily inventing a character. They’re amplifying who they already are.

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Representation isn’t the same as safety

Something Willow spoke about that I haven’t stopped thinking about is the difference between representation and safety.

Because on paper, comedy has gotten better at representation.

More women/femme/non-binary/disabled/queer/trans comics. Because… diversity, innit?

But representation and inclusion aren’t the same thing.

A promoter can book a trans comedian. That doesn’t automatically mean they’ve thought about what kind of room they’re bringing that comic into.

Willow talked about messaging promoters before gigs to ask what audiences are like — whether trans material tends to be received well, whether the room feels safe. Whether anyone has actually thought about these things at all.

I think that’s being sensible.

Often, safety is communicated through small details.

Like a promoter asking for our pronouns. Or thoughtful message. Someone explaining why a room feels welcoming instead of simply saying, “They’re lovely.” Because lovely to you isn’t necessarily lovely to everyone else. And that’s a distinction more producers should probably sit with.

Safe spaces don’t appear by accident. They’re built.

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“Oh my god, that’s me.”

My favourite part of the conversation wasn’t actually about comedy. It was about a photoshoot.

Willow recently had headshots taken.

Partly for comedy. Partly for work. Partly because Alex Franklin is all our goals. Partly because, in her words, she wanted photos where she could “just slay.”

What struck me wasn’t the photos themselves (although lesssssbehonest they are fucking siiick), but how she described seeing them:

Recognition.

Not branding. Not marketing.

Recognition. Like seeing a version of herself she’d been trying to meet for years.

Throughout our conversation we talked about style, presentation, blue hair, clothes, transition, confidence and self-expression.

At one point Willow referenced The Princess Diaries, not because she was becoming somebody else. She was figuring out what had been there all along.

What colours felt right. What clothes felt right.

What version of herself felt most honest.

And then she said something that completely broke my heart in the best possible way.

Looking at the photos, her reaction was:

Not, “Oh my god, I look pretty,” or, “OMG, that’s a good photo.”

Just:

“Oh my god. That’s me.”

How many of us get to have that moment? Where we can honestly, really look at ourselves and feel recognised.

To stop filtering ourselves through everyone else’s expectations, asking permission. Negotiating.

Towards the end of our conversation, I asked Willow what she’d call this current chapter of her life.

Without hesitation, she answered:

She’s not wrong.

Because underneath all the jokes, all the gigs, all the headshots and all that beautiful, mermaid-blue hair, that’s what this conversation was really about.

Not reinvention.

Recognition.

Not becoming somebody else.

Showing up more fully as the person you already are. On stage. In your clothes. In your friendships. In your photos. The rooms you choose to walk into.

The goal isn’t to fit into the room.

It’s to find rooms where you fit.

And then absolutely fucking slay.

Don’t miss Willow’s run at Edinburgh Fringe with fellow Bitch . Their show, ChatLGBT is definitely one you won’t want to miss!

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Which is technically true.

At the time of our Instagram Live Q&A, she’d been gigging for about three weeks.

Three weeks.

Five gigs.

One Bitches in Stitches lineup.

And somehow the stage presence of someone who looks like they’ve accidentally wandered into the wrong decade after spending ten years holding a microphone.

Because while Twinks is new to stand-up, she’s not new to performance.

Before comedy, Twinks was a burlesque performer. Before burlesque, she was a muthafuckin’ legend on the festival circuit. Before comedy (and today, still), there was nightlife MCing, styling, community-building and co-founding my favourite London hang, Heartbreakers Club — one of London’s most joyful FLINTA-forward nightlife spaces.

In other words: she’s not new to being seen.

She’s just found a new way of doing it.

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“I thought it was going to be me and a bunch of incels called Steve”

Like many people who end up in comedy, Twinks didn’t suddenly wake up one morning and decide to try stand-up.

The idea had been rattling around in her brain for years.

“I’ve always wanted to do it. Always.”

The problem wasn’t desire. It was getting started.

As a self-described “ADHD diva”, she knew she wasn’t going to magically wake up one day and wander into an open mic by herself.

She needed deadlines. Homework. Accountability. Structure.

So when a friend sent her a comedy course, she signed up. What followed was a familiar experience for many comedy-curious people.

Panic.

Catastrophising.

Imagining the absolute worst.

“I thought it was going to be me and a bunch of incels called Steve.”

Instead? She found a room full of kind, supportive weirdos trying to do the same thing she was.

Funny how often that happens.

The thing stopping us from trying something new is usually not the thing itself.

It’s the imaginary version we’ve created in our heads.

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Getting on the mic for an audience can be a sprint, or a marathon

One of my favourite insights from our conversation was Twinks’ description of the difference between MCing and stand-up.

As an MC, you’re responding. Filling space. Reacting in real time. You’re steering the room. Stand-up asks something different.

You have to write.

Refine.

Edit.

Memorise.

Workshop.

Trust the material.

And then somehow… make all of that look effortless.

“As an MC, I kind of just open my mouth and stuff comes out. Comedy is the writing, the finessing, the workshopping.”

It’s the difference between being conversationally funny and intentionally funny.

The best comics are both.

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That first laugh’s one hell of gateway drug (and you don’t need to sneak it into a festival)

For someone who has spent years on stages, Twinks was surprisingly honest about how terrifying she finds stand-up.

In fact, she told me she’d rather perform an unrehearsed burlesque act than stand in silence waiting for a joke to land.

And honestly, BBs?

Same.

I’ve been doing stand-up for eight years and still get stage fright before almost every show.

The difference isn’t that experienced comics stop being nervous. It’s that eventually, you stop interpreting nerves as evidence that you’re bad. Instead, you learn to see them as evidence that you care.

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Smash judgement. Serve a lewk. Rage against the beige.

At some point our conversation shifted from comedy to style.

Which sounds like a detour, but it wasn’t. Because the more Twinks talked, the more obvious it became that comedy, style and confidence are all connected.

As a stylist, she draws a distinction between fashion and style.

Fashion, she argues, is often about trends, consumption, capitalism. Being told you’re broken and sold a product that promises to fix you.

Style is different. It’s self-expression. Identity. Storytelling.

She spoke about jewellery as adornment. As magic. As memory.

About looking at someone’s rings and seeing a timeline of who they are.

I haven’t stopped thinking about that sentence since.

Because she’s right. We’re living through an era of beige minimalism.

Neutral palettes. Safe choices. Algorithms that reward sameness.

But people are exhausted.

And when people are exhausted, they start craving colour. Play. Whimsy. Personality.

Twinks believes we’re heading back toward fun.

I hope she’s right.

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In a world where taking up space feels heartbreaking, choosing joy is an act of resistance

The other thing that struck me throughout our conversation was how similar Heartbreakers Club and Bitches in Stitches actually are.

On paper, they look completely different:

Night clubs and comedy stages. Needle drops versus punchlines. Two turntables and a microphone.

But both our spaces exist because someone got tired of waiting for permission.

Heartbreakers Club was forged in the wake of heartbreak.

A divorce.

A friendship.

A playlist.

The shared desire to create something joyful.

And what emerged was something much bigger — a room where people could show up exactly as they are.

Dress up, dance, make friends (and maybe some bad decisions), and take up space.

And maybe, just maybe, stop performing for the male gaze for a few hours.

I don’t think that sentence needs much explanation.

If you’ve experienced it, you know.

Towards the end of our conversation, Twinks said something that perfectly captures everything she’s building:

Not because it ignores reality. Not because it pretends everything is fine.

But because it refuses to surrender joy.

Laughter matters.

Friendship matters.

Community matters.

Especially now, when we’re constantly being told to shrink. Compete. Be quieter. Take up less room.

Fuck that noise.

The answer though, isn’t always another debate.

Sometimes it’s a dance floor. Or a comedy gig.

Sometimes it’s a room full of women laughing so hard they forget to be self-conscious.

And honestly?

That feels pretty revolutionary.

I ended our conversation by asking Twinks how she’d want people to remember her if she could never perform again.

Without missing a beat, she answered:

“Campy. Kitschy. C*nty.”

Which, frankly, sounds like a five-star review waiting to happen.

She’s only a handful of gigs into her comedy journey, but she already understands something a lot of performers spend years trying to learn:

The stage doesn’t need a smaller version of you.

It doesn’t need a safer version of you.

It definitely doesn’t need a beige version of you.

It needs you to show up in full Technicolor; every brilliant shade that shows the world exactly who you are — even the parts that make them stare, judge, or clutch their pearls.

And dancing anyway.

But during a recent Instagram Live Q&A for Bitches in Stitches, I discovered something more interesting:

She doesn’t actually want to be famous for that.

It’s a deceptively simple statement.

But underneath it sits a question that many women — particularly those who create online — wrestle with:

What’s the difference between being visible and being seen?

One gets people looking at you. The other makes them understand you.

And for Kimmi, the journey from content creator to comedian has been about learning the difference.

One of the most interesting parts of our conversation was hearing Kimmi talk about her previous life as a content creator.

From the outside, everything looked successful. The views, the audience was there, the attention were all there.

But something felt off.

At one point she described parts of her online persona as “fake me.” Not because she was deliberately misleading anyone. But because algorithms tend to reward a simplified version of who you are; that’s easier to consume. Easier to categorise. Easier to sell.

Especially if you’re a woman.

And while the internet was rewarding one version of Kimmi, comedy was calling another one.

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When trading algorithms for open mics is the only choice that feels right

Kimmi didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a stand-up comedian.

Like many comics, she sort of stumbled into it. People had been telling her for years that she should try stand-up. Eventually, she signed up for Ultra Comedy and wrote her first five minutes.

Then something clicked.

If you’ve ever fallen in love with stand-up, you’ll know exactly what she means. There’s something uniquely addictive about making a room laugh.

No algorithm. No editing. No bloody ring light. And absolutely no filters.

Just you, a microphone, and a room full of strangers deciding in real time whether what came out of your brain was worth laughing at.

Which brings us to what Kimmi describes as comedy’s greatest drug.

We spent a while talking about the feeling comedians chase:

That weird post-gig high.

The butterflies.

The adrenaline.

The warmth.

The sense that for five minutes, you’re somehow more alive than usual.

Kimmi describes it as a free drug — something that makes her feel like a superhuman.

Which is funny, because from the outside stand-up often looks completely irrational.

Travelling hours for unpaid gigs. Performing in pubs where nobody asked for comedy. Being judged by strangers. Bombing in public.

And yet people keep coming back.

Because every so often, a room erupts.

And for a few minutes, nothing else matters.

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She’s giving dark humour in pink jumpers — like a Disney princess telling dick jokes

One of my favourite observations from Kimmi was how much audience expectations work in her favour. If you’ve seen her online, you’ll know she presents as soft, feminine and approachable — the sort of person audiences expect to tell sweet stories.

Instead, they often get dark jokes.

Very dark jokes.

She described herself as being a bit like “swear words in a Disney film.” The audience thinks they know what’s coming. Then she hits them with something completely different. And that’s part of what makes the material work.

Comedy thrives on surprise. The gap between expectation and reality is often where the laugh lives.

And Kimmi has become very good at exploiting that gap.

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Hecklers are just wankers full of audacity and zero follow-through… but it still sucks

Unfortunately, no conversation about women in comedy is complete without at least one man making things weird.

During a recent gig, a heckler interrupted Kimmi to inform her:

“I wouldn’t fuck you.”

The fucking cheek.

Thankfully, our gal was ready.

“I don’t know how to break it to you,” she replied, “but you don’t have the face to be fussy.”

She then clapped back at him and said he’d probably be going home to wank about her later.

The room loved it. Willy Wanker did not.

What struck me wasn’t the comeback itself, but what the interaction revealed.

Sure, male comedians get heckled too. But as, women we’re heckled differently.

The interruption isn’t always about the joke. Sometimes it’s about reminding women that they’re being looked at before they’re being listened to.

And that’s fucking exhausting.

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Comedy happens when you write from a scab, not a wound

As our conversation got deeper, we started talking about dark comedy. Specifically, when something painful becomes something funny.

Both of us agreed on an important distinction:

The best comedy tends to come from the scab, not the wound.

You don’t joke about something because it didn’t hurt. You joke about it because you’ve survived it.

Kimmi shared a story about helping a friend through an ectopic pregnancy. At the time, humour became a coping mechanism. Not because the situation was funny. Because it wasn’t. But because laughter made it survivable.

That’s the strange power of dark comedy.

It doesn’t erase pain.

It changes your relationship with it.

The memory remains. But it loses some of its power over you.

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On feeling guilty for betting on yourself — and being brave enough to do it anyway

One comment from Kimmi stayed with me long after our Q&A ended.

That shook me.

Because here’s someone building momentum, getting gigs, improving rapidly, doing something she genuinely loves…

And still feeling guilty about taking up space.

I suspect a lot of women will recognise that feeling — The pressure to justify our ambitions. The need to prove that what we want is productive enough, useful enough, worthy enough.

But tbh, comedy doesn’t really work like that.

You do it because you love it. Because you’re curious. Because it makes you feel alive.

And maybe that’s reason enough.

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She ditched millions of views, took a mic and was finally seen

When I asked Kimmi what she’d say to someone considering stand-up, her advice was refreshingly simple:

One year ago, Kimmi Kaiy thought stand-up might be something she’d try once and cross off a bucket list.

Today she’s roasting internet celebrities, handling hecklers, obsessing over punchlines, and discovering parts of herself she couldn’t access through a screen.

Maybe that’s the difference between visibility and being seen.

Last month, we published a roundup of all-femme and gender-diverse comedy nights around the world. Then our inbox started filling up…Apparently, we’ve got more stand-up sisters than we realised!

From Belgium to Taiwan, we’d already discovered kindred spirits creating the comedy rooms they wished existed. But when producers from North America got in touch, we noticed something else:

The stories sounded very familiar:

Different cities.
Different accents.
Same problem.

The opportunities to perform didn’t line up with the talent that was readily available. So, naturally, these women did what women have been doing since the dawn of time:

They got organised.

🇨🇦 Good Girls Revolt — Ontario, Canada

Good Girls Revolt wasn’t brought back because founder Jen Richardson wanted another thing on her to-do list. It started because she was tired of looking at lineups that didn’t reflect reality.

In late 2025, Jen noticed that the main comedy club in town had booked just one woman as a feature act out of 27 opportunities, with only three female headliners and no women regularly represented on its stage. After months of trying to raise concerns privately, she decided to call out the lack of representation publicly. The response wasn’t exactly supportive.

“They attacked my character,” she says.

So she built her own show.

“Since the stage was not given to us, we built our own.”

Today, Good Girls Revolt showcases local femme comedians, gives them opportunities to perform longer sets, and creates a collaborative environment focused on growth rather than competition.

The format changes from show to show, but the mission stays the same: community, fun, and big laughs. Jen also brings in more seasoned comics from Michigan, creating opportunities for local performers to meet, learn from, and connect with comics beyond their immediate scene.

“Our voices matter. Our perspective matters,” Jen says. “If there aren’t women, non-binary and queer people on stage, women won’t get on stage.”

She’s right. You can’t become what you can’t see.

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🇺🇸 Lady Laughs Philly — Philadelphia, USA

When comedian Shawna moved to Philadelphia, she went looking for a regular comedy night centred around women and queer performers.

There wasn’t one. So she started one.

“I thought there needed to be one,” Shawna says. “Actually, I thought there needed to be more than one, but I was willing to get it going.”

Lady Laughs Philly launched in March 2024 as part of the wider Lady Laughs Comedy network, which began in Madison, Wisconsin.

Today, Lady Laughs Philly is Philadelphia’s only monthly comedy show dedicated to women and queer comics.

The show books women and queer performers, while its monthly open mics are open to anyone who respects the stage expectations: speak from your own lived experience and don’t use bigoted language that does not align with your identity.

Which honestly feels like a very reasonable bar, and yet.

Over the last two years, Lady Laughs Philly has held shows at several venues across the city. Its current home for shows is Silk City Diner, while its open mic lives at Tattooed Mom.

And people are showing up.

All of its 2026 shows have sold out, and the open mics are well-attended by comics and community members who come not only to perform, but to support.

The lineups rotate between hosts and performers, usually featuring five to eight comics per show. For Shawna, the goal isn’t just stage time. It’s creating opportunities for women and queer performers to hone their craft, build confidence, and take comedy wherever their heart desires.

Asked why spaces like this matter, her first answer is refreshingly straightforward:

“Because it’s fun!”

Also:

“We should have a platform to share our experiences and silliness. People want to hear it.”

Imagine that.

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Different cities. Same instinct.

One thing we’ve noticed while speaking to women-led and queer-led comedy groups around the world is that nobody starts these shows because they’re trying to start a movement.

Most start because they’re frustrated.

They’re tired of being the only woman on the lineup.
Tired of hearing the same excuses.
Tired of waiting for someone else to fix it.

So they build the room they wish existed. And then other people show up looking for exactly the same thing.

The more we look, the more Bitches we find. And making inclusive stand-up comedy feels like something a little less out of reach.

Know an all-femme, queer-led, or gender-diverse comedy night we should feature next? Drop us a message.

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Oh hello. Me again, Lulu. Actor, comic and serial online stalker of your dad’s holiday pictures from Skiathos 2019.

I’ve been asked for my insight into how you sexy readers can write stronger jokes or understand stand up a little better. Full disclosure — I’m still on a learning journey (bit of a wanky thing to say, soz) meself, but I’ll help where I can...

First off — I would say, if you’re thinking of trying comedy, or actively trying at whatever varying degree of success you’re finding — congrats, you’re already a f*cking winner.

Most people are too scared to tell someone they jumped the queue in Primark, so the fact you’re standing in front of an audience, even an audience of one man and a dog — or ten male comics in their twenties ready to test out a new three mins on the nuances of wanking — makes you a brave little soldier.

Take that bravery and apply it, babe.

I don’t want to hear the same perspective on the Aldi middle isle being a lawless place, or not being able to get past the GP receptionist to get an appointment — been there done that, heard it with a side of mother-in-law jokes.

Your local comedy night needs YOU. In reality you can joke about all of the aforementioned — but the magic between a good comic and a great one is their relationship to the world they’re assessing. At first glance, jokes feel like they’re about content or the premise — but in reality, most comedy premises are interchangeable.

And yet, one will feel fresh, specific and alive — whilst the other feels like something you’ve read on the back of a Penguin wrapper.

The difference isn’t the topic, but the point of view. What is your emotional lens that the world passes through?

You can ‘borrow’ a joke’s subject; you can even lend its structure — but you can’t steal the way someone choses to be wrong about the world. That’s all yours baybeeeee!

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Take a topic. Any topic.

As such — try to make it all about you (even when it isn’t) and then write a list about “why you actually care,” or even why you don’t.

This forces opinion, and opinions that are unique to you is what drives surprise from the audience: aka laughing themselves blind. You’ll have your own assumptions about the world, current affairs, domestic life ‚— even the Aldi middle aisle if you must, so try to write a list about those assumptions as though true.

• Life is secretly...

• No one ever admits that... (etc etc)

Often, POV lives and breathes life into a performance space through the unspoken ones, not the topic itself.

Hope that’s a helpful view — like I say, I’m still learning too, but this is something that’s helped me ‘boil’ through my notes to find some proper bits in there that come from me, and me only!

Good luck and TTFN!

About the author

Lulu Simons brings the important topics to the stage and page — like the Spice Girls, and your dad’s holiday pics.

A proud Welsh, working class stand-up, writer, and performer; her latest show, “Council Estate Gap Year”, debuted to sell out audiences two years in succession for:

Women in Comedy Festival and the inaugural Rik Mayall Festival; earning outstanding reviews.

Passionate about platforming underrepresented people in comedy; Lulu has also taken proactive steps to foster greater diversity by founding TOKEN. Comedy Collective, aimed at supporting and amplifying underrepresented voices on the circuit.

Winner of Best Newcomer, 2025 Women In Comedy Festival.

“A must-see comic — an absolute joy” Culture Warrington (⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️)

Canal Street Online: “Lulu reminded us of Victoria Wood in her observational comedy and great comic timing”

She’s a daft, exciting and ambitious talent.

If you’ve spent more than five minutes around Bitches in Stitches, you’ll know we have a recurring obsession:

Women who get tired of waiting for permission and build the thing themselves:

Comedy nights. Communities. Workshops.
Slightly chaotic personal brands with vision boards and excellent merch.

So this week, we’re fangirling over So Hilarious Comedy Workshops, created by comedian, writer, producer and LGBTQ+ comedy fairy godmother Jane Postlethwaite.

Jane first tried stand-up in 2014, wandered into the world of dark comedy characters, took shows to Brighton Fringe, Edinburgh Fringe and Women in Comedy Festival, then found her way back to stand-up after the pandemic — with more stories, more life experience, and (crucially) more things to complain about.

Since then, she’s performed across the North West, created So Hilarious as a women and LGBTQ+ comedy night, built an online comedy education platform, launched apparel, hosted podcasts and continued writing new solo work.

Some people train for marathons. Jane writes a new hour of comedy.

We asked her about coming back to the mic, building spaces for women and LGBTQ+ comics, and why comedy workshops can be the difference between “I’ve always wanted to try stand-up” and “I just did my first gig.”

How long have you been performing stand-up comedy?

I first dipped my toe into stand-up comedy in 2014. After a brief flirtation with stand-up, I wandered off into the world of comedy characters in 2015, mainly because I didn’t want to talk about my personal life at the time and could hide behind my characters.

These characters were also roles I would never be cast in as an actor, so it was fun to do whatever I wanted with personalities and storylines. I went very dark, which felt true to my soul and something female characters are not always given the opportunity to be.

At the time I was living in Brighton, so that led to my first character show, Made in Cumbria, at Brighton Fringe. Over the next few years, I created a collection of characters, sketch shows and slightly chaotic festival ideas which I performed at Brighton Fringe, Edinburgh Fringe and Women in Comedy Festival.

By late 2019, I was back living in Cumbria and felt the pull back towards stand-up. I’d reached an age where I had more life experience, more stories and, crucially, more things to complain about.

I started making the transition back to stand-up, only for a global pandemic to arrive and completely ruin my plans. It was rude, really.

When live comedy finally returned, I threw myself back into it. In 2023, I moved to Manchester for the best part of a year so I could join the Manchester comedy circuit and took every gig I could get my hands on in the North West of England.

If there was a microphone, some form of stage, and the faint possibility of an audience, I was there.

To say, “I have seen some things” would be an understatement in terms of some of the gigs I have performed at. However, it was the perfect way to rebuild my confidence, sharpen my writing and fall back in love with stand-up.

Since then, I’ve focused primarily on stand-up, performing at female-led and LGBTQ+ comedy nights while continuing to develop my own solo work.

One of the things I enjoy most is creating new material, so every year I write pretty much a brand-new hour-long show to take to festivals such as Brighton Fringe and Edinburgh Fringe.

Some people train for marathons; apparently I prefer repeatedly putting myself through the emotional and financial challenge of writing a new comedy show.

What first sparked your interest in stand-up?

I came to comedy through acting. After completing a two-year acting diploma at 30, I realised I loved comedy performance but felt uncertain about the traditional acting route, which relies on you being cast for things because of the way you look or sound on paper.

On a whim, I attended a Funny Women workshop where afterwards , founder of Funny Women, invited me to perform that night at Leicester Square Theatre.

I knew it was a sliding-doors moment and said yes even though I was absolutely bricking it.

Doing that first gig changed the direction of my career and, not to be dramatic… my life.

My first set was far from perfect. I had no ending and literally walked off stage backwards while bowing. But that experience made me determined to learn the craft properly.

I began studying joke writing and structure, and from there I started getting more opportunities and building my career in stand-up.

At the time I was based in Brighton, so I quickly became part of that comedy scene and made loads of new comedy friends.

What kept you coming back to the mic all these years?

I came back to stand-up because I reached a point in my life where I genuinely had something I wanted to say.

I’ve always loved the art form, but during the pandemic I found myself back living with my parents and, just before turning 40, I came out as a lesbian.

Like many people, I suddenly had a lot of time to reflect. It was a huge turning point for me personally, creatively and, most importantly, comedically.

Coming out gave me a much clearer sense of who I was and what stories I wanted to tell.

When I returned to stand-up, I felt more authentic on stage because I wasn’t performing a version of myself anymore. I was finally speaking from a place of honesty, and I think that made me a better comedian.

I also had control over all the things that happened in my life, even the painful bits, and could rewrite my experiences into comedy material.

When live comedy returned, I also wanted to create the kind of spaces I wished I’d had when I started.

I launched my own women and LGBTQ+ comedy night, So Hilarious, in Manchester. We ran the night from a gay café and it became a welcoming space for new and established performers.

Creating that environment was important to me because comedy is still a very male-dominated industry, and not every room feels accessible, supportive or safe.

The So Hilarious brand has since grown beyond live comedy. It now includes LGBTQ+ apparel, my comedy masterclasses and an online community.

I’ve always been interested in building things independently rather than waiting for permission. That’s one of the reasons I embraced social media, creating silly short videos from my living room and building an audience directly rather than relying on anyone else to control what I can or can’t do.

Alongside stand-up, I also host two LGBTQ+ podcasts. All the Terrible Things explores ghost stories and paranormal experiences within the LGBTQ+ community, while That’s So Sapphic, which I co-host with my girlfriend, comedian Alexi Melvin, celebrates sapphic culture and the women who inadvertently helped us realise just how gay we really were — think Gillian Anderson, Cate Blanchett and Rachel Weisz.

Ultimately, I keep coming back to the microphone because I don’t believe there’s one route into comedy or one definition of success.

We’re living in a time when performers can create opportunities for themselves, connect directly with audiences and build careers on their own terms. That’s something I’ve always found incredibly exciting, and it’s the approach I’ve tried to take throughout my own career.

Oh, and I also update my comedy vision board every six months so I am aligned with the things I want to achieve.

Why is it important to attract and nurture new talent in stand-up?

I think it’s incredibly important to attract and nurture new talent because comedy thrives on fresh voices, different perspectives and people who have lived different lives, no matter their age.

If the industry only welcomes the same types of performers from the same backgrounds, audiences miss out on a huge range of stories and experiences.

One of the reasons I started teaching was because I wanted to create the workshops and masterclasses I wish had existed when I was starting out.

There are some fantastic comedy courses available, but I wanted to offer something a little different. I encourage students to learn from lots of different teachers and approaches because there isn’t one “correct” way to do stand-up. Every comedian ultimately has to find their own voice.

What I bring to my teaching is that I’m still actively building my own career. I’m not teaching from a place of looking back 20 years ago and trying to remember what it was like.

I’m currently writing shows, performing at festivals, creating content, producing gigs and navigating the realities of doing comedy.

That means I can give students an honest and realistic picture of what building a career in comedy looks like today.

A lot of the people who come to my courses are women and LGBTQ+ performers who haven’t always had positive experiences elsewhere. Some have been made to feel unwelcome, judged or simply overlooked in rooms with white cis men.

Creating a supportive and encouraging environment is really important to me because confidence is often the biggest barrier people face when they start.

Most people are far funnier than they realise. They just need the space and encouragement to discover that.

What’s the most rewarding part of teaching comedy?

The most rewarding part of teaching is seeing that transformation happen.

Watching someone arrive on day one convinced they have nothing interesting to say, and then seeing them perform with confidence a few weeks later, is incredibly special.

I love seeing students find their voice, support each other and go on to achieve things they never thought possible.

Some have started performing regularly, taken shows to festivals, won competitions or simply gained the confidence to get on stage for the first time. Every one of those successes feels like a win.

For me, teaching isn’t just about helping people write jokes.

It’s about helping people realise that their voice matters and that there is a place for them in comedy.

What workshops and courses do you offer?

All of my workshops and masterclasses are designed specifically for women and LGBTQ+ people.

They now mostly take place online so participants can join from anywhere in the world, though I occasionally do in-person classes.

Creating a supportive and inclusive learning environment is incredibly important to me, especially for people who may not always feel represented in traditional comedy spaces.

I’m also keen to support people who have anxiety, ADHD, autism or dyslexia, so I’ve adapted learning techniques to support them.

Write Your Own One-Person Show Masterclass

My most popular programme is the six-week Write Your Own One-Person Show Masterclass.

It’s designed to take participants from an idea to a fully developed show concept.

Been dreaming of performing your own one-person show for the last few years? Got too many ideas and don’t know where to start? Want to just step out of your comfort zone?

I can help you.

I cover everything from finding the central theme and structuring the show to practical topics such as marketing, poster design, press releases, festival applications and budgets.

My aim is not just to help people create one show, but to give them a repeatable framework they can use every time they develop a new hour of comedy.

I often describe it as the course I wish I’d had when I started taking shows to festivals, as it can save people a huge amount of time, money and trial and error.

I made some very big financial mistakes when I started doing festivals and I don’t want others to experience that.

Write a New Five Minutes of Stand-Up Comedy

I also run a Write a New Five Minutes of Stand-Up Comedy masterclass.

The goal is for every participant to leave with a polished five-minute stand-up set, although many people end up writing 10 or even 15 minutes of material along the way.

The course focuses on generating ideas, joke-writing techniques, structure and editing, helping people develop material much more quickly than they might on their own.

Rather than spending months testing ideas at open mics, participants leave with a solid foundation of material and a much clearer understanding of how to write comedy.

Both courses are suitable for complete beginners as well as more experienced performers.

The mix of experience levels often creates a brilliant learning environment, as participants learn as much from each other as they do from me.

Regardless of where they start, I want everyone to leave feeling more confident, creatively energised and with a clear plan for their next steps in comedy.

Yes, I will get you making your own vision boards.

What else do you offer?

Alongside my comedy-writing programmes, I also occasionally run social media workshops, sharing tips for building an audience online.

As the industry continues to evolve on digital platforms, I think it’s important for comedians to understand not only how to write great material, but also how to connect directly with the audiences who will support their work.

There is also a character writing workshop I may reprise too.

I also offer one-to-one coaching on your comedy career, stand-up set or show.

Ultimately, I want participants to leave my courses with more than just jokes or a show outline.

I want them to leave with confidence, practical tools they can use throughout their career, the belief that their voice deserves to be heard and some cool new comedy friends.

Where can people find you?

For masterclasses, t-shirts and other cool stuff:

www.sohilarious.com

My personal website:

www.janepostlethwaitecomedy.com

Instagram / TikTok:

Okay, fine — we know that’s a tagline for Mastercard.

But BBs… your Bitches are tired.

Planning our Edinburgh Fringe run has been exciting, emotional and genuinely thrilling. But it’s also been 70-page-planning-deck, five-Google-Forms, “why is paper so expensive?”-level cream crackered.

We’ll get right to it…

Unfortunately for us, printers, landlords, photographers and train companies do not currently accept ambition or audacity as legal tender.

So we’re doing one final Crowdfunder push to help get Bitches in Stitches: The New Grrrl Order to Edinburgh Fringe — and, just as importantly, get it actually seen once we’re there.

The campaign

Wait, what exactly are we doing?

This August, Bitches in Stitches: The New Grrrl Order is heading to Edinburgh Fringe for our first-ever run.

That sentence still feels slightly ridiculous to type.

Because five years ago, Bitches in Stitches wasn’t a global comedy collective. It wasn’t even really a community. Deffo not a 90+ performer network across Hong Kong, Manila, Manchester and London. And absolutely not a Fringe show with a trailer / press pack / landing page / Crowdfunder / visibility campaign + several emotionally compromised women quietly Googling “how many A5 flyers can we print if we still want to eat?”

It was supposed to be one night.

In 2021, six women walked into a Hong Kong bar and put on an all-female comedy show because we were tired of being treated like the token slot on lineups — if we were booked at all.

That first show sold out in six hours.

The venue asked us back the next month. Then again the month after that. Then suddenly, we weren’t just producing a gig.

We were building a room. And then it kept growing.

From Hong Kong, BiS expanded to Manila. Then we found kindred spirits doing the exact same thing in Manchester, and merged. Then we came to London. Along the way, we became something bigger than a comedy night. We became a ridiculously enormous group chat where support went way beyond getting stage time. We made Bitches in Stitches shows the place where femme/them comics could experiment, bomb, grow, get notes, get booked, make friends, and stop feeling like they had to fight each other for the one “token woman/NB/queer comic” spot on somebody else’s lineup.

Now, we’re woo-hooing in the streets like your girl gang after a bottomless brunch because for the first time, The New Grrrl Order is bringing comics from across our international network together on one stage.

The show is a full hour of femme/them-forward, no-filter stand-up comedy: fast, filthy, community-powered and dangerously unfiltered.

And it has one very simple rule: Nobody’s identity is the punchline.

That doesn’t mean the comedy is soft or the jokes are polite. And it does not mean we all sit in a circle gently applauding each other for having feelings.

It means the room’s built differently. And in it, we’re creating laughter that brings people in instead of pushing them out.

That’s what we’re taking to Edinburgh: not just one show, but the room we built ourselves.

Which brings us to the deeply unsexy part of building a FEMpire: the invoices.

Fund our FEMpire

The cost of being seen

Getting to Fringe isn’t just about being funny enough, organised enough, delulu enough, or willing enough to wave flyers like an Olympic flag-bearer while pedestrians scurry past, avoiding eye contact like you’re peddling the good news of our lord and saviour Jesus Christ.

But what’s the alternative? At the Fringe, being in the programme is not enough.

You have to be seen:

• by audiences choosing between thousands of shows

• by reviewers whose inboxes are already screaming

• by journalists / producers / bookers / industry people… and that one person wandering around Edinburgh at 7:30pm thinking, “I want comedy, but not the shit kind and I’m not above writing a scathing review if £5 doesn’t get me the funniest show at the Fringe.”
  

That kind of visibility costs money.

It costs money to print flyers and make posters. Even more if you hire a designer (and a director to shoot and cut a trailer).

We’ve already taken on a lot of the seriously unsexy admin that makes people realise your show exists before they’ve already spent their evening budget on an experimental clown show and a £14 jacket potato. But there are still a shitload of line items that can’t be bought with mania + ADHD meds hopes, dreams, determination and resourcefulness.

They can only be bought with actual money.

Like housing for six people for three weeks in Edinburgh, a city that briefly transforms from “historic cultural capital” into “Airbnb Hunger Games.”

It also costs money to make the show discoverable. And for independent, underrepresented comics, that part matters.

Because the issue isn’t whether femme/them comics are talented enough. We are.

It isn’t whether women, queer, trans, non-binary and othered comics are at Fringe. We are.

It’s whether audiences can find us, whether reviewers know we’re there, whether producers make it into the room. It’s whether this show could live beyond August… if people ever get the chance to discover it.

We’re not just fundraising to be at Fringe.

We’re fundraising to be found.

And because asking for money on the internet already feels like standing under fluorescent lighting in your baggy period panties, we wanted to make the whole thing feel a little less bleak.

So, friends — we’re offering Bonus Thank-Yous for anyone who donates £10–£75 to our Crowdfunder campaign!

Not because we think anyone needs a reward to support femme/them comedy. But because we are grateful, dramatic, and believe even grassroots arts funding should come with a little bit of sparkle and a certificate we made with Canva. 😝

Get us seen

Bonus Thank-Yous

Here’s the deal:

1. Donate via Crowdfunder.

2. Then fill in our quick claim form.

3. We’ll send (via DMs or email) you your bonus thank-you, straight from Edinburgh!

The bonus thank-yous:

1. ☕ £10 – Coffee Angel
   You’ll receive: your name on our digital Wall of FEMpire Fame

2. 🧾 £25 – Adopt a Fringe Problem
   Spare mics. Panic printing. Tampons. 2am taxis. Emergency Red Bull. Choose a tiny nightmare to spare us from.
   You’ll receive: your name on the Wall of FEMpire Fame + a digital adoption certificate for your chosen Fringe problem

3. 💅 £40 – FEMpire Feature
   You’ll receive: your name on the Wall of FEMpire Fame + a thank-you shoutout on BiS’ Instagram Stories for you, your show, your small business or your creative project

4. 💌 £75 – Fringe Dispatch
   You’ll receive: your name on the Wall of FEMpire Fame + a backer-only digital postcard from Fringe, featuring one BTS update, one photo and one chaotic confession (it may even be a voice note under 1 minute!)

   Donate here

   ---

So what does your donation actually fund?

Fair question.

We love a payoff. We also love transparency. So here’s what your donation helps cover in the real world, where unfortunately vibes are not yet accepted by landlords, printers or Trainline:

- flyers and posters so audiences can actually find us
- press photos and promo assets so journalists / reviewers / industry people have something strong to use
- travel and accommodation for comics coming together across our chapters
- QR foam boards, signage and other promotional materials
- caffeine, emergency Red Bulls, tampons, spare mics, panic printing and other supplies to avoid tiny Fringe nightmares
- the unsexy admin goblins that help a show survive the month of August

Every donation has a job:

• £10 helps us get a little more visible.

• £25 solves a tiny nightmare.

• £40 helps fund the wider campaign.

• £75 helps us bring you behind the scenes.

And all of it helps us give The New Grrrl Order a fighting chance to be found.

Help fund our FEMpire

And it’s not all Bitches-Bitches-Bitches

Alongside our Fringe run, we’re launching Count Us In — a visibility campaign, photocall and community meetup for women, non-binary, queer, trans and othered comics at Fringe.

Because the problem isn’t that we aren’t there. We are.

The problem is that audiences might never find us.

So if there isn’t a clear public count of how many femme/them comics are performing at Fringe, we’ll count ourselves in.

We’ll gather comics with their own flyers, zine-style placards and a hired photographer to create one loud, joyful image of the performers audiences might otherwise miss.

Your donation helps fund the materials, photography and press push behind that campaign too — helping not just BiS, but other underrepresented comics at Fringe get seen.

Okay, so how can you help?

We’re asking for three things, in order of “how much can your bank account emotionally tolerate today?”

1. Donate, if you can.
Even £10 helps us get a little more visible. It helps us print the flyer, buy the tape, make the foam board sign, pay for the photo, get the comic to the room, or keep someone caffeinated enough to hand out another stack of flyers without dissociating into the cobblestones.

2. Claim your Bonus Thank-You.
After you donate, fill in the claim form so we can add you to the Wall of FEMpire Fame, send your adoption certificate, shout you out, or dispatch something chaotic from Edinburgh.

3. Share the Crowdfunder.
If you can’t donate, sharing genuinely helps. Send it to a friend. Post it in your group chat. Forward it to someone with money, taste, and a suspiciously large tote bag collection. Whisper it into the wind outside a co-working space. We’re not precious.

Because the harsh reality is that grassroots comedy does not grow on vibes alone. It grows when people decide that the rooms they love are worth backing.

It grows when someone buys a ticket, shares a flyer, sends a link, tells a friend, funds a poster, pays for a photo, or helps a comic get seen by someone who would have otherwise walked past.

Bitches in Stitches started because we were tired of waiting to be given the room.

So we built one. Now we’re taking that room to Edinburgh.

And we need your help making sure people can actually find the bloody thing.

So if BiS has ever made you laugh, made you feel seen, made you feel braver, or made you believe comedy can be sharper, safer, stranger and less dominated by lads-lads-lads energy, please support the Crowdfunder.

Donate if you can. Share if you can’t.
Definitely send it to someone rich. 🤪

Help us get seen, get to the Fringe, and build our FEMpire.

Fund our FEMpire here: https://www.crowdfunder.co.uk/p/bis-fringe-2026
Claim your Bonus Thank-You here: https://forms.gle/CmsrpJziJUvZyTWt5
Join Count Us In here: https://countusinfringe.carrd.co/
Book tickets to The New Grrrl Order here: https://www.edfringe.com/tickets/whats-on/bitches-in-stitches-the-new-grrrl-order

Over the past five weeks, you've watched several members of Bitches in Stitches make a series of increasingly questionable hair decisions.

We cut our own bangs. On camera. Then posted about it for everyone to see.

There were messages from concerned friends. There may have been alcohol.

Naturally, people had questions.

TBH, it was never about the bangs

Or at least, not entirely. We know the trope. Women rarely cut their own hair because everything’s going brilliantly.

It’s about the feeling — the sudden conviction that changing something small might somehow change everything.

The irrational certainty that this is a brilliant idea.

The complete inability to leave well enough alone.

Which, now that I think about it, is more or less how we ended up where we are today.

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Because honestly? Things had been a bit shit.

The last year hasn't exactly been a masterclass in optimism:

I moved to London.

Spent 10 months applying for jobs. Collected rejection emails like they were Pokémon cards (seriously, tho — I was rejected over 100 times in less than a year).

Read the headlines about the world being on fire and the manosphere spreading like syphilis on a stag do. Tried to relax by doomscrolling, but my feed was mostly filled with memes and headlines about the world being on fire.

Opened LinkedIn.

Spiralled down a (sometimes) 12-hour Easy Apply/Workday/Greenhouse/Indeed rabbit hole.

Had a panic attack.

Closed LinkedIn.

Opened LinkedIn again.

The world felt exhausting. And after a while, I realised I hadn't felt genuinely excited about anything in a long time.

Then I went to Edinburgh.

Not as a performer (thought I did get to do a couple of guest spots). As an audience member.

In three days, I saw dozens of shows — including two of my favourite comedians, Jenny Tian and KC Shornima.

The vibe of that entire festival was electric. There were thousands of weird, brilliant people running around a city because they believed in an idea.

And somewhere between the comedy shows, the chaos and the complete lack of sleep, I remembered why I fell in love with stand-up in the first place.

More importantly, I remembered why I love Bitches in Stitches.

Because some of the best things in my life have happened because of this community. Some of my closest friendships, favourite memories, and proudest moments.

The women in this group are the reason I get to do good things in the world.

And I started wondering:

What if we got the band back together?

Not in a group chat or Google Meet. Like, in the real world. On the same stage.

As close as our comedy coven were, some of us had never crossed paths in person. Those of us who’ve been lucky enough to travel somewhere and perform with the BiS chapter in that city will say, unanimously — there’s nothing like walking into a room of people you’ve not yet met in person, but knowing already that you belong there.

What would it take to get that feeling back, and make that joy contagious?

I couldn’t shake the thought.

Share Jokes Before Blokes

This is where a normal person would have let it be.

But if you’ve read even half of one of my Substack posts, you know that I am i n s a n e.

I messaged the BiS group chat after taking a week some time to recover from Edinburgh. It was just meant to be a gushy brain dump about how much fun I’d had up there, but then I ended up “casually'“ dropping a big idea into a tiny tangent from our conversation:

What started as a joke slowly started sounding suspiciously like… a plan.

Then the replies started rolling in. And unfortunately, everybody seemed very enthusiastic.

A few of us hopped on a Google Meet to yap, and there were so many good ideas firing back and forth. It was hard to keep up! So at some point, I dropped them all into a Google Doc.

Then a planning deck.

And that’s generally when you know you’re in trouble.

Suddenly I had:

• A 4-month calendar for key dates, timelines, and deliverables.

• A marketing strategy.

• A 70-page planning deck.

• No venues. Then some less-than-ideal ones. Then an awesome one.

• No budget. A crowdfunding campaign (which FYI, is still live if you’re feeling generous).

• More than 60 guest performer applications to review.

• Twenty-six guest performer slots to schedule across three weeks.

• A growing backlog of WhatsApp messages beginning with “Quick question...”

Hired a videographer. Shot a trailer. Put it on hold for over a month because I thought we wouldn’t get a venue. Kicked it off again. Crashed my laptop trying to download the video files.

Got a sick trailer.

Hired a poster designer.

Fired a poster designer.

Found a better poster designer (and siiiick animator). Paid out of pocket.

Coordinated performers across countries and time zones. Herded them into filming teaser content. Edited it. Posted it.

All while producing BiS’ monthly shows in London, looking for work, interviewing for roles, getting rejected, getting hired and starting a new (and challenging) role.

I considered having a menty b at some point, and then I remembered: I chose this.

Somewhere along the way, “Wouldn’t it be funny if...” became an operational reality.

Taking a comedy show to Edinburgh follows almost exactly the same decision-making process as cutting your own fringe.

The costs are just different.

So why the fuck did I do it?

Mate. Why wouldn’t I?

BiS exists because somebody took a chance on an idea that sounded ridiculous. And if you’ve ever had to manifest something that doesn’t even exist yet (and no one quite believes in) out of thin air, then you know it’s a hard, lonely road.

Then another person joined me. Followed by four more. And the six-woman show that many wrote off as a one-time fluke became something that I will cherish and fight for — for the rest of my life.

That’s how communities form. It’s how movements happen too.

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So finally, here’s what we’ve been hinting at…

Bitches in Stitches is coming to Edinburgh Fringe!

(Thank you to Isa and Back On Films for cutting this trailer!)

What exactly are we taking to the Fringe?

Glad you asked.

Are you ready for the single blurb that I backed with 70 muthafuckin slides of mania strategy?

Drumroll, please…

Bitches in Stitches: The New Grrrl Order is part stand-up show, part international reunion, and part proof that women probably shouldn’t be left unsupervised with a group chat and an ambitious idea.

Over three weeks at Edinburgh Fringe, we’ll bring together comedians from across the BiS universe — including performers from London, Hong Kong, Manila and beyond — for a rotating lineup of sharp, chaotic and gloriously unfiltered stand-up.

It’s about identity, ambition, anger, joy, friendship, bad decisions, good decisions, and the increasingly blurry line between the two.

It’s also about creating opportunities.

Every night, we’ll be joined by guest performers from around the world — giving 26 femmes and thems a chance to perform at the world’s biggest arts festival, many for the very first time.

Because if there’s one thing BiS has always believed, it’s that comedy gets better when more voices are in the room.

And honestly?

The world does too.

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The bangs were just the beginning

The older I get, the more I think community is just a group of people deciding to care about the same thing at the same time.

The world spent the last year giving me reasons to feel smaller. This project made me feel like I could do something great.

Now, for the first time in a loooong fucking time, I honestly believe something good might happen.

For real, though — and I know it sounds wankery but whatevs…

I am running on three hours of sleep a night, litres of Cherry Coke and mania that’s on the same level of bravado as the mediocre white man who gets promoted instead of you.

I am BROKE as a JOKE.

I am still finding rogue hair trimmings from those 2-for-1 wigs and I bought on Amazon around my flat.

But just like an ugly haircut can grow out with those bangs… I’m back, baby.

If you’re feeling stuck and in desperate of a change… want to know my advice?

Start with a Fringe.

See you in Edinburgh, Bitches! 🤘🏼🤘🏼🤘🏼

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I am a single parent. I force my son to eat vegetables that he hates, I call him my baby even though he towers over me and I tell awful jokes.

You know, Dad jokes.

But I’m a mum, surely they are Mum Jokes?

Apparently, they aren’t.

I was after a bit of clarification regarding this issue so decided to ask the cyber gods for their help.

Here are a few screenshots of how the ‘research’ went:

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Hmmm, not quite what I was expecting.

So I decided to try again.

ChatGPT is my new Google. It’s where my answers come from.

I asked the chatbot to tell me a Mum joke.

My first response was:

‘Why did the mum go to school with a ladder?’

The answer is, ‘Because she wanted to go to high school’.

There are a couple of problems I have with that joke – the main one being that it’s not very good. I just want you all to remember – that’s not my joke. It’s AI. My jokes are way better than that.

Next time someone asks you ‘Is AI the future?’ You can let them know (and use this joke as an example) that if it is, it will be a future without many laughs.

I asked the app if it knew any more.

This time I got:

‘Why did the mum always carry a pencil?

Answer: ‘Because she wanted to draw attention’.

It’s pretty similar in standard to the first one. So, I guess we can say that ChatGPT is consistent in it’s quality.

I then tried the same approach for Dad jokes….

I got a couple back.

The first one was:

Why don’t eggs tell jokes?

Because they might crack up!

It’s not great but it’s an example of Word Play so does qualify as a joke.

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The second one was probably the best of the bunch;

Why did the scarecrow win an award?

Because he was outstanding in his field!

When I say best of the bunch, I’m assuming you’ve realised J’ai pété has set itself quite low standards.

Isn’t that mad? Not the jokes themselves but the interpretation of the question. The type of joke I got back.

I missed the apostrophe on purpose; not asking for jokes belonging to a mum or dad but just let the chat bot interpret the info in its own way.

One lot of results were jokes about the parent in question (mums) the other was the sort of jokes that the parent (dads) would tell.

Do mums not tell jokes?

I’ve seen loads of funny females that have children tell jokes!

Maybe the results could be interpreted in a different way. Maybe the chatbot ‘thinks’ that mums don’t tell bad jokes and couldn’t come up with one of high enough quality to send back to me?

I have nothing against Dad jokes. I know lots. The thing is, as a single parent. The bad jokes in my house belong to me.

My current favourite is:

Where do Pirates that like Japanese food eat?

Yo Ho Sushi.

I’m pretty sure I made that joke up myself. My son didn’t laugh at that joke. Not outwardly anyway, I think that secretly he found it really funny but just didn’t want to show it.

ChatGPT may not want to acknowledge that female parents can tell jokes but I’d like to think that I can have the last laugh, for now. En Francais, ChatGPT is pronounced Chat J’ai pété which means:

‘Cat, I have farted’.

About the author

Madeline is a solo parent and some times comedian based in the South West. She started performing her Stand Up in January 2024 after seeing several disappointing comedians all doing the same Tinder jokes.

Her jokes are based on real life experiences that she has gone through as a single parent, as a menopausal woman and as a person who only has herself to blame!

If you’re interested, try following her on Instagram.

This week, Bitches in Stitches was nominated for a National Diversity Award. (Okay, fine, we nominated ourselves — but if our whole thing is giving the mic to marginalised voices, then who better to advocate for our work than us? 😜)

It should have been a moment to celebrate a community built by women, queer comics and gender-diverse performers across cities.

Instead, a man arrived in the comments to explain that our version of inclusion was, in fact, exclusion:

When “not centred” gets mistaken for “excluded”

This brochacho was muy furioso:

“I’ve been to 2 BiS shows.

I requested to perform at a BiS open mic and was refused. I’m stating a fact - BiS discriminate against comedians based on sex/gender or sexual orientation.”

His argument, boiled down, was that because BiS intentionally spotlights women, queer comics and gender-diverse performers, we are somehow the least inclusive comedy group he has encountered. A space built because comedy has historically centred men was being accused of discrimination for not centring men…

…Which is a very tidy argument, provided you ignore power, context, history, data and the entire point.

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When being wound up opens old wounds

It would be easy to say, “Ignore the troll.” And usually, yes. But for some people in our community, this rage-baiting did not land lightly. Bro was clearly B-A-N-A-N-A-S — but still, his tirade hit a nerve.

Not because he was especially original. SPOILER ALERT: he wasn’t.

But because the script was all too familiar.

When you build a space for belonging and someone who already has access to most of the room publicly targets it, the ground can start to feel shaky. The place that was supposed to feel safe suddenly feels exposed.

And when nowhere feels safe, you move through the world in survival mode. You brace. You scan. You shrink. You spend so much energy protecting yourself that there’s very little left for growth.

Why do some people make telling jokes so fucking exhausting for everyone else?

The inconvenient truth: it’s a power move. When big egos feel threatened, they will do the most unhinged things to make sure you stay small.

My first instinct lacked… gravitas

I was ready to respond with all the grace and restraint of a woman who has been called “divisive” for creating one room where men are not the default furniture.

Because, for real, the world is on fire. Misogyny is spreading like syphilis on a stag do and I. Am. Tired.

But what I did instead, my Bitches… is proof that all the money I’ve spent on crystals, sage, and spell candles therapy and medication was totally worth it.

I took a moment to sit with my fury.

Then I went on Canva to make random collages because using that BG Remover tool really does soothe me (DM if you want to see them haha).

💡 And then… I remembered something a counsellor told me about how to deal with conflict without escalating it:

A clapback shouldn’t be written by the part of you that wants to win the argument. It should be written by the part of you that wants to understand the logic.

So instead of giving him the comment-section cage match he seemed to be auditioning for, I replied with questions:

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A personal grievance is not a dataset

Emotions are valid, but they aren’t facts (And for any of you struggling with emotional regulation skills, I highly recommend this DBT worksheet).

One person’s disappointment may be real to them. But it is not, on its own, a diagnosis of the whole room. If you’re going to call an organisation discriminatory, you need more than vibes, resentment and the fact that you personally were not centred.

But TBH, some people don’t want a bigger room. They want to carry on taking up space at someone else’s expense.

And that’s where a lot of this gets sticky.

Because if you’re used to being the default, not being centred can feel like being erased. If every comedy night, open mic, panel, writers’ room, WhatsApp group, lineup and “who’s free tonight?” booking has automatically assumed you belong, then the one space that says, “Actually, this mic is for someone else today,” can feel like a personal attack.

But it isn’t.

Not being centred is not the same as being oppressed. Not being prioritised in one room is not the same as being excluded from the scene. And not being handed every mic does not mean someone has stolen your voice.

It means, for once, the room is being arranged around people who are usually asked to squeeze in at the back.

That is what equity does. It does not just say, “Everyone is welcome.” It asks: who has actually been welcomed? Who has been interrupted? Who has been treated like a novelty? Who has been booked as the token woman? Who has been told they are too much, too angry, too political, too niche, too loud, too soft, too sexual, too difficult, too ambitious, too not-quite-what-we’re-looking-for?

And then it changes the shape of the room.

That change can feel uncomfortable to people who benefited from the old shape. Of course it can. Power rarely experiences redistribution as a spa day.

A bro feeling annoyed that one comedy collective does not centre him isn’t the same as women, queer comics and gender-diverse performers being historically underbooked, underestimated, unsafe, unsupported or invisible in comedy spaces.

Those are deeply, materially, structurally different things.

We’re not saying men shouldn’t do comedy. Men do comedy. Constantly. Heroically. Inescapably. Often with podcasts.

But our particular stage spotlights the people comedy has too often treated as extra furniture. And if that feels threatening to some, then it kind of proves why BiS exists in the first place.

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You can address backlash without handing it the mic

Not because every bad-faith comment deserves a TED Talk. Fuck no. I would personally like to live in a world where women do not have to produce a peer-reviewed dissertation every time a man has a feeling and access to a keyboard.

But when you are building a community, your response isn’t just to roast the man currently auditioning for the role of Public Feelings Festival.

It’s for everyone watching:

• The person who joins every Zoom writing workshop but is still too terrified to do an open mic

• The femme/them/queer performer wondering if this space will actually protect them

• The group chat members whose stomachs dropped when they saw that comment, because it gave them flashbacks of every man who ever made them feel like they were the problem for drawing a boundary

And it’s also for you, my Bitch: the person holding the room together, trying not to let one loud comment drag your entire nervous system into a dumpster fire.

I’ve got you.

So when (and they will, sadly) the haters gonna hate hate hate hate hate, here’s what you can do:

1. Don’t react. Respond.

Our body reacts when it senses a threat. And honestly? Fair. She’s trying her best, but bb has bills, trauma, caffeine and a social media feed that constantly reminders her that everything sucks.

But reacting lets the person provoking you decide the terms of the conversation. Then, it’s no longer about the work, the community or the mission. You’re defending your right to exist to someone who was never asking in good faith.

Responding is different. It gives you a second to ask: what needs to be protected here?
The mission? The community? The facts? My peace? All four, ideally, because I am a woman in over 40 and am simply no longer available for optional cortisol.

2. Ask for the evidence.

This is where “Where are you getting that from?” becomes a tiny little magic spell.

Because if someone is making a serious claim — that your organisation is discriminatory, harmful, exclusionary, hypocritical, whatever synonym ChatGPT spat at them — they should be able to explain what fuckery that claim is based on.

Is it data? Is it a pattern? Is it a policy? Is it harm that has been named clearly by multiple people?

Or is it one person’s personal disappointment dressed up as social justice language because “I wanted to be booked and wasn’t” paints too authentic a picture of their motive?

If someone wants to make a structural claim, they need structural evidence. Not vibes.

3. Ask for accountability.

This is the question I think more of us should ask when someone comes in swinging:

What specific outcome are you looking for?

Good-faith feedback usually wants to build something better.

It might say:

• “This process was unclear.”

• “Here is where the wording felt confusing.”

• “This part of the policy could be more transparent.”

• “Here is a way to make the mission land more clearly.”

Bad-cunt (like, not the way it’s used in pop songs) criticism often can’t name an outcome beyond: stop existing in a way that makes me uncomfortable.

Asking for the outcome turns vague outrage into something that has to stand on its own two feet.

4. Call people in, but don’t hand them the mic forever.

I try really hard not to call people out because I believe “calling people in” has better results. When you call someone out, you’re immediately inviting them to a fight.

So I believe in asking questions before assuming intent. I may do it with my toes curled and butthole clenched, but I try to leave the door cracked open enough for good-faith conversation, because I know what it’s like to ‘roid out on my feelings.

That said, calling someone in is not the same as letting them move into your comment section with all their baggage, unpack their shit and start throwing it around like mad monkeys at the zoo.

Accountability is not an all-access pass to your nervous system.

You can ask someone to explain themselves, invite specificity, respond with facts, clarify your intent…

And then you can stop. That last part’s important.

You’re not obliged to build bridges, especially to small men who’ll never be on your level.

Okay, so maybe I am feeling a little smug

Don’t judge me, dude. I run a comedy collective called Bitches in Stitches — I’m doing exactly what it says on the label.

But seriously, I’ve put everything into building this community. I know these won’t be the last hateful comments we’ll get from someone on the ’gram with delusions of grandeur. But I’ll be ready to respond whenever it happens again.

Because if there’s one absolute truth I’ve learned, it’s that men are extremely emotional creatures. 😉

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By Lulu Simons

Iya – I heard you fancied trying comedy, but thought you’d left it too late? I’m here to slap the teeth out of your head for thinking that, and I will NOT be taking questions.

Firstly, let’s tell you that whilst I’m no longer in my 20s, I’m also not dead yet and neither are you – unless you’re reading this, Nana…?

As such, you have the right to a very good and sexy life that makes you feel fizzy in your belly in a rollercoaster way – not just in the way that makes you dread your day job on a Sunday night, or after one of those hot dogs in a baguette from Shell Garage.

There are PLENTY of comics on the circuit in their 20s who are amazing – I love watching them, I recommend them and I want to be their friends (guys… guys…?). BUT there is also a nice juicy gap for a wider variation of people – people 35+, people of global majority, people with a disability, people who aren’t cis-gendered, anyone under/in/on the queer umbrella and the womens!

For this, I’m focusing on just the age thing – You don’t expire until a doctor has pronounced your time of death – so in the meantime, let’s disco.

Long-story-medium, I came back to comedy after a ten year hiatus. During which time I’d written off ever doing stand up or acting again as “I’d left it too late”.

What stopped me gigging the decade prior, was dad having a debilitating stroke, mum needed a major open heart surgery around the same time – both with a long recovery. As such, I did what all the oldest daughters seem to do – I put my life aside to be a tempo-matriarch and carer for these two mad people who’d raised me.

A month off gigs rolled into three, into six, into a decade.

Every time I saw a peer from uni or the circuit living their dream, I would feel this insane sense of shame – like I’d embarrassed myself by not pursuing comedy, acting – all the things that I felt I had a place in. “I’ve left it too late”, “the time has passed”.

I felt so left behind the thought of bumping into another comic or actor made me cringe. The “what have you been up to?” question.

The reply being in my head “nothing”, but actually – it had been really important work for my family, that I’d just accidentally lost myself in.

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I’m skipping a few chapters, because Michael Aspels waiting for his dinner (another modern reference from me); but alongside caring for my folks, I had a lovely little near-death experience! Casual.

Classically followed by a mini-existential crisis, therapy and believing in crystals.

A hop, skip and a piece of quartz later and *POOF*, I decided to try an online comedy course in answer to the constant “who am I” bollocks I was rattling with.

Online, female and non-bino ran by Jane Postlethwaite. I jumped on, nervous to tell people “I’VE LET MYSELF DOWN, I’VE NOT BEEN DOING THE THING ALL THIS TIME”, “BRING OUT THE BELL: SHAME, SHAME, SHAME”; but kept it casual as “I might like to try comedy again”…

The other women online were writers, burlesque artists, actors, women’s health experts and award-winning podcasters. I felt like I might be out of my depth. I’m a woman who did, and now I don’t and I’m not sure I still can.

Another few chapters skipped, and that group of kind but intimidating women became a cohort, then a group of cheerleaders, and then people to just f*cking do it with!

We took our online zooming out into the real world – an open mic night. One open mic turned into two, then five, then trial nights, then middle sections on pro bills, MCing 100 seater theatres, our own comedy collective () – and a strong sense of self returned!

Skipping forward to the point – I hadn’t left it too late. No one stood up and asked me about the gap in my imaginary CV.

If you think you’ve left it too late to try this (or anything, unless it’s modelling Pampers), please tattoo these to the inside of your eyelids:

I love comedy and performance and being silly on stage is something so intrinsically linked in me, that despite more bumps in the road family wise the last couple of years – I kept going. I was there for people, but I kept this just for me.

As such, I think I’ve returned with better and somehow simultaneously worse outfits, a greater expanse of perspective about what really matters, more resilience to bombing and asking for help.

Now you’ve listened to my mini-bio (apologies) – the purpose of telling you this was to say – life is short, we’re on a floating rock in the middle of infinite time or space – just do the bloomin’ thing.

I’m no life coach (unless it’s Jez ala Peep Show style), but literally, there is zero reason not to try the thing. No one cares – no one cared or cares about how long I’d not been, or had been gigging for. Creativity is for everyone – some use crayons, some use words (me, both ofc) – it’s also magic for your brain, your soul and your sense of connection to other people.

If you don’t use it, you won’t lose it – but you will miss it.

And in the meantime, I’m hanging out at the clerb without my fellow 35+ers.

Pull your finger out lads.

@fashion_granniesAre we the coolest grandma?🤗🤗😁 #tiktokfashion #streetfashion #fashion #ootd #grandma #womenpower #asian #foryoupage #fyp

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About the author

Lulu Simons brings the important topics to the stage and page — like the Spice Girls, and your dad’s holiday pics.

A proud Welsh, working class stand-up, writer, and performer; her latest show, “Council Estate Gap Year”, debuted to sell out audiences two years in succession for:

Women in Comedy Festival and the inaugural Rik Mayall Festival; earning outstanding reviews.

Passionate about platforming underrepresented people in comedy; Lulu has also taken proactive steps to foster greater diversity by founding TOKEN. Comedy Collective, aimed at supporting and amplifying underrepresented voices on the circuit.

Winner of Best Newcomer, 2025 Women In Comedy Festival.

“A must-see comic — an absolute joy” Culture Warrington (⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️)

Canal Street Online: “Lulu reminded us of Victoria Wood in her observational comedy and great comic timing”

She’s a daft, exciting and ambitious talent.

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The truth is stranger than fiction, and real-life experiences are a great starting point for comedy. That being said, it’s one thing to laugh over an anecdote with your friends down the pub, and another entirely to step up to the mic and share it with an audience. Get it right and the room will hang on your every word.

Here are some of my thoughts on turning your story into a stage-worthy yarn.

To thine own self be true

The first thing you have to consider is that even the most hilarious true-life experience may not necessarily match your on-stage ‘self’.

Sure, you have a story you love to tell, but can you get away with telling it? This is why it’s important to do the groundwork of knowing how you come across on stage. Take my own comedic persona: If I tried to recount my crazy night involving mushrooms and a moonlit threesome on a miniature golf course, no-one would buy it (even though that’s a real thing that happened. Totally. Obvs.)

I know full well that my on-stage vibe screams ‘my idea of a crazy night is drinking caffeinated tea after 9pm’, so I need to remember that. As long as the story lines up with your persona, you can go ahead and start punching it up as material.

Embrace your weird

When you’re introducing people and places, reach for the most vivid images that you can. This makes your story more textured, and keeps the audience on their toes. Would you rather hear ‘my Hinge date was boring and gross’ or ‘he had all the charm of a pub carpet’?

One exercise to get the ideas flowing is to write down a basic ‘nuts-and bolts’ description first. Then, set a timer for a couple of minutes and write as many variations on the original as you can, with no filter. You’ll find that the images get more and more outlandish as you go. This is a great way to find the most off-kilter metaphors lurking in the back of your brain.

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Authenticity > accuracy

Your story doesn’t have to BE true in order to ring true. I once sold a joke to the BBC where the punchline, based on a news article, ended with the price tag ‘69p’. It was OK, but something wasn’t quite working. The editors changed it to ‘54p’, and guess what? It got a much bigger laugh. The ‘F’ sound was more pleasing to the ear, and it knocked that joke into the perfect rhythm I’d been struggling to find.

Was that joke statistically accurate? Nope.

Was it funnier? Most definitely.

If changing a minor detail is going to add that extra layer of funny, then go for it.

Keep in mind, though, that if you’re going to embellish things, the internal logic of the story still has to make sense. What I mean by this is that each event should feel like a plausible progression from the last. Unless you’re expressly leaning into surreal storytelling, which is a whole other kettle of fish. Actually, if you’re going down the surreal route, a kettle of fish would be perfect… *reaches for notepad*

In essence, even if something in your story hasn’t actually happened, it needs to feel like it could. There are a few ways that you can keep a sense of realism without sticking to the gospel truth. I sometimes amalgamate several similar people I’ve met into one character, concentrating their ‘best bits’ into a single, stone-cold example of their worldview and giving them a brand-new name. That way, even though it’s not technically ‘true’, it’s based in some kind of real-life experience.

Some final thoughts

To adapt a true story for the stage, you need to establish a logical, relatable sequence of events, then season it with your unique voice. Get all of those parts to align, and you can create something that really connects with your audience. Factual accuracy should be a consideration, but there’s always a bit of wiggle room. Ground your story in truth (but there’s nothing wrong with rolling that truth in glitter).

About the author

Amber Phillips is a comedian and writer from Essex. She was a finalist in the British Comedy Guide Performance Awards and has written for BBC Radio 4 Extra. When she takes to the stage, you can expect warm observational musings and madcap tales about life in her beloved Essex, all delivered with a generous dose of sparkle, a slick of pink lipstick and an air of general bewilderment.

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By Ri Baroche

Comedy’s been an important thing to me from an early age. Coming from a big family, where everyone was competing for attention, the first time I made my parents and older siblings laugh at the dinner table was a big moment. Before that, I’d somehow at the age of 7 or 8 ended up stood with the teacher at the front of the class, doing an improv exercise about why I was late for school, and had the rest of the class in hysterics.

As my life progressed into teenage years and young adulthood, I came to lose a sense of the reasons why I’d been able to make people laugh so freely - because I wasn’t afraid to be weird or vulnerable. This is why children are so naturally funny and entertaining, and why adults are so painfully awkward and risk-averse.

For comedy to work, there needs to be tension: the sense that everything could fall apart at any second. There also needs to be the presence of the unexpected, the bizarre, the out-of-the ordinary occurrence or observation that elevates the situation from normal happening into comedic potential.

These are my 4 tips (plus a bonus stowaway) for finding your groove and confidence in comedy.

If something goes wrong, make it right

One of my early gigs being on stage trying to make people laugh, I was doing a set at a small festival in Somerset. I knew the organisers, and they in their second year running the event were looking for acts to fill out the programme, so I volunteered to do something towards the end of the Saturday night.

About 100 people packed in to see my weird little set. I was terrified.

I’d always wanted to bring a more comedic styling to my live performing, and had plenty of experience on stage as a musician and poet, just not as someone purposefully trying to be funny. I cobbled together a few ideas that I thought were amusing, such as a re-working of the Three Lions On A Shirt song so that it became a coming out song: “It’s coming out, it’s coming out, it’s coming… Football’s coming out!”

To warm up the crowd, I decided to go with some safe ground from my personal life, ‘The Pronouns Conversation’. I was identifying as non-binary at the time, and knew that there would be at least one person in this mixed-age crowd who would be unfamiliar with the phrase. What came next, I wasn’t prepared for.

“Does everyone know what I mean by the term non-binary?’ I asked. Some nods and approving sounds from the younger crowd. A few shrugs and confused looks from the older members.

Then a small hand shot up, and a high voice shouted, “No!”

It was an 8 year-old child, the son of a woman I’d been chatting to earlier in the day. My heart deflated like a punctured balloon at a birthday party. I was being heckled by a child - this would only end badly. I could picture the headline in the local paper:

“Failed gender-diverse comedian DESTROYED by small child.”

Maybe comedy wasn’t such a good idea.

I don’t remember how I continued towards the joke I had planned — adrenaline does a really good deep clean on the memory — but I know that I managed to somehow manoeuvre through this weird unexpected stand-off, and make it to the next joke.

Then, throughout the rest of the set, the small child was now periodically heckling me.

And this is where this section becomes a two-for one:

What would in everyday life be appalling and inexcusable is somehow elevated to a different state when you’re performing, as if you’re floating in a comedy tax haven. And if I didn’t know that already, I certainly discovered it that evening, when I turned to the prepubescent heckler, and shouted:

“Oh shut the fuck up!”

I could picture the follow-up headline in the Somerset Gazette:

“Disgraced trans comedian hanged for verbally abusing a minor.”

But what I didn’t expect was the raucous laughter that followed inside the tent. Not only that, but I could also see the mother I’d been chatting to earlier that day, not grimacing or pointing, but laughing hysterically herself.

What had seemed to be a career-ending move before my career had even started was turning into a bizarre gift. And so I doubled down, and added:

“And if you don’t like it, you can just leave!”

It was almost as if my mischievous younger self had disguised herself in the audience, egging me on to do the weird and unthinkable.

Swearing at a minor was certainly not on my bingo card for stand-up success, but sometimes your worst nightmare is the greatest gift, if you’re ready to take it.

Comedy is therapy — but you know, you could also go to therapy, where the therapist won’t laugh at you and might actually help you

Talking about what you know, what irritates you, bothers you, annoys the fuck out of you is a great, if not essential place to start when writing comedy.

Not only does an audience not want to hear someone talk about something they know nothing about, but it will also make your life harder drawing from an empty vessel. You might be able to get around this by pretending to be a straight white cis man — apparently they can talk about anything with zero qualifications and nothing bad ever happens to them — but you might as well embrace what makes you unique, and make yourself instantly more memorable too.

For me, I know that for most comedy and performance lineups I join, I will be the only trans woman, likely the only queer person on the bill as well. This in itself offers a couple of easy wins: “Yes, I know what you’re thinking, so I might as well come out and say it — I’m a pisces” or “Quick pronoun check, my pronouns are ‘Me, me, me.’”

But this demographic fact could pressure me to mine my own trauma and marginalised place in society for a few laughs.

And for what?

Five minutes performing to 20 people in a sweaty basement, for no money, not even a drink token, and half the audience are bemused American tourists.

With this in mind, I’ve made myself a rule — I am allowed to joke about myself and my particular place in the world, but only if I’ve either talked about it in the safety of therapy, or explored it at length with supportive friends, or I have fully discovered and processed the emotional crux of the issue. I’ve been stung and burned out too many times at this point by using the stage as my own personal therapy suite.

And yes, comedy is therapy — how could it not be affirming and comforting to go on-stage and laugh at your own problems, your frustrations at the state of the world, and have people join in and laugh along with you?

We all need that release, comedian and audience member alike. But it should not be your default to finding peace.

Build a community that can build you up

Stand-up is a pretty hellish thing to do to yourself, going on-stage and trying to prove to everybody that you’re the funniest person in the room — a room likely also full of comics also trying to do the same thing, and a room likely also full of people who are on the verge of having had too much to drink (and that’s not just the comics).

The only thing truly more daunting than that is doing it on your own.

Find a comedy buddy, whether they’re taking it seriously or just testing the waters, who you can share ideas with.

Or, find a comedy bubble. Are there comedy writing labs near you, or meet-ups, where you can go along for a few hours and meet some new people?

Is there someone you went to school with who you’ve seen sharing comedy reels on Instagram who you can reconnect with? Only if they’re not a prick, obviously.

There’s no such thing as “too late” — only “when I’m ready”

I tend to come to things quite late.

I would often miss important elements growing up, whether the start of a lesson, the infrequent rural buses, or a social cue, flying past my head like a fighter jet.

I only found the awareness and confidence to come out in my late 20s, and didn’t clock how supremely neurodivergent I am until last year. And I 100% blame my Mum (not really, love you Mum). But she did help build up a bit of a construct in my mind, repeatedly telling me during my childhood how I was born 3 weeks late. This suggested that my lateness to arrive in every sense was something of an inevitability.

The success stories of comedians and creatives alike are littered with late arrivals. The only thing that matters is whether it’s the right time for you.

For me, that time was my late 20s/early 30s, only a few years ago: a time where I was finally coming into myself as a person, at last able to face and embrace all of the weird and difficult things that had shaped me growing up.

I’d loved comedy from an early age — even as an avid student in my English classes, I guarantee that my vocabulary and thinking was shaped more by Suzy Eddie Izzard, Monty Python and Black Books than anything I’d learned in school. And in school, I was always the class clown, to the bemusement and frustration of my teachers, and dreamed of being on-stage, going to the Fringe, mimicking my heroes. Then, I had the extreme misfortune as a trans femme person to end up in an all-boys boarding school, and my confidence, sense of humour and lust for life were viciously bullied out of me.

Because of everything I’ve personally been through, and I’m sure you have stories and setbacks of your own that might deter you from landing confidently on-stage, it was necessary for me to arrive late.

To extend and risk mixing the metaphor, being birthed is a messy, traumatic experience, and can only come when you are ready for it. If you’re not yet out there doing comedy, or are doing it but feel that something’s not quite clicking, it’s likely a note passed to you from yourself that you need a bit more time.

And ultimately, that “right time” need only concern you, and only you.

You’ll be all the better for it if you’re going out on-stage, and you’ll know you’ve got your back — whatever happens.

Ri Baroche is a comedian, writer, performer, musician, poet, theatremaker and drag artist based in Hampshire.

She’s performed everywhere from Boomtown Festival to the London Science Museum to the top deck of the Isle of Wight Ferry, and her work focuses on subjects like AI, politics, identity, cats and impressions, as well as unexpected combinations, from quantum physics and gender, to Britney and Beethoven.

It’s no wonder Baroche loosely translates from the French as “bizarre, weird, unexpected.”

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There are certain things people only say to female comedians.
Not because they’re true.
Just because we’re women holding a microphone.

And they always say it with the confidence of someone who has never been funny.

So we asked our members across three countries to share some of the things that have been said to them — comments they’re fairly certain no one would say to a male comic.

1. “So are you a lesbian or bi?”

“Ah yes. The two options.”

2. “The guys decided you aren’t ugly.”

“Perfect. I was waiting for the panel to deliberate.”

3. “Wow, you’re SO confident!!”

“Thank you. I rehearsed having a personality.”

4. “You should smile more on stage.”

“You should try writing a joke.”

5. “You should stick to wearing a dress.”

“You should stick to imagining that.”

6. “You were too open.”

“That’s interesting. No one said that about the twelve minutes on dick before me.”

7. “You sounded so angry.”

“You sound uncomfortable.”

8. “That was a very male crowd — women can’t do that.”

“We just did.”

9. “You’ll automatically get more opportunities because you’re a woman.”

“Amazing. When do they start?”

10. “We need to cut your set — this is taking too long. I want to go home.”

— seen later at the pub with other male comedians

“Of course. Time only exists when women are speaking.”

11. “Wow, I didn’t realise you were actually that funny.”

— from her male “friend,” after a sold-out show she invited him to

“I didn’t realise you were the kind of guy who buys tickets just to neg women.”

12. “Do you have jokes that aren’t about sex?”

“Do you have thoughts that aren’t about women?”

13. “Women just aren’t as funny as men.”

“And yet here you are. Not funny. Still a man.”

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And if you think this is just a few weird interactions…
don’t worry.

The internet has been documenting this phenomenon extensively.

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We love how the loudest critics of women’s comedy
are men who openly admit they don’t listen to women.

Unless, of course, we’re talking about sex.
Then suddenly they’re scholars.

But to be fair, this isn’t new.

Men have been confidently misunderstanding women’s humour for…
checks notes
several centuries.

The issue isn’t that women talk about sex, relationships, or their bodies.

It’s that when women do it, it stops being seen as universal
and starts being seen as niche.

Same topic.
Different storyteller.
Suddenly, it’s “too much.”

And the longer you stay in comedy, the more you realise something else:

None of these comments are actually about the jokes.

They’re about discomfort.
About unfamiliarity.
About people hearing something they weren’t expecting —
or weren’t expecting to come from you.

It doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.
It means they want you to feel that way.

Maybe they disagree with you.
Maybe they feel threatened.
Or maybe they’re just cunts.

No further analysis required.

Either way — they’re not your people.

And you don’t need to twist yourself into something more “palatable”
just to earn approval from people who were never going to give it to you anyway.

The reality of performing is that there are haters everywhere.

Open mics. Lineups. Comment sections. Group chats.

You can’t avoid them.

But you can decide whose voice actually matters.

So don’t waste your energy on people who don’t respect what you’re doing.

Find the ones who do.
Build with them.
Get better with them.
Laugh with them.

And if you’re looking for rooms where people are actually listening —
where you’re allowed to try, bomb, and come back sharper — we’ve got you.

You’ll be in very good company here.

Five years ago, we were crammed into a tiny bar in Hong Kong, about to put on our first-ever show.

The venue — Bobby’s Rabble — could squeeze in just over 30 people.
And every single seat had sold out in under six hours.

Which meant one thing: We had nowhere to hide.

The show was called Bitches in Stitches — a name that felt slightly unhinged, mildly confrontational, and exactly right.

We had a lineup of six women, one microphone, and a room full of people who had already decided we were worth showing up for.

Now we just had to prove them right.

Because we’d all heard it before.

Women aren’t funny.
Women don’t sell tickets.
Women can’t carry a full lineup.

And yet, here we were — standing backstage, about to test that theory.

When the show started, the laughter came fast.

Not polite. Not cautious.

The kind that builds — from surprise, from recognition, from the slightly electric feeling of watching something shift in the room.

We thought we were putting on a one-off show.

We didn’t know we were starting something.

We decided not to compete for stage time. We built our own instead.

I can’t take credit for the idea — not entirely.

The seed was planted in a Messenger group chat for local comics. Several of the women asked why we weren’t being booked.

“There’s nothing stopping you from producing your own show,” one of the male comedians replied.

I didn’t participate in the discussion. We already had our answer.

It’s not always what people want to hear in an interview.
But it’s the only honest answer.

I went back to a conversation I recorded with Rose Rage, a founding member who now leads Bitches in Stitches Hong Kong. We were sitting on the wine-stained IKEA couch in my Kennedy Town flat, while Bianca quietly hung around, when she talked about being asked to headline our very first show.

“It brought tears to my eyes,” she said. “There’s this deeply underestimated frustration — the guys don’t understand how frustrated we are at being denied opportunities, and it’s not that hard to slot two or three women on a lineup.”

I spoke with Bianca next. She said she felt more comfortable performing on shows with more women, rather than carrying the pressure and scrutiny of being the token “female.”

“If you’re the only woman, you’re representing all of us.”

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The numbers didn’t lie. Even gender politics can’t deny that.

“You’re like an arrow,” a friend once told me. It was a poetic way to comment on my tendency to fixate on things.

She wasn’t wrong.

I locked in to Bitches in Stitches with more ferocity than any of my previous obsessions.

Maybe I’d reached a breaking point — after a lifetime of other people deciding what I was worth.
Or maybe it was mania.
Most likely, it was both.

My determination to manifest a reality that didn’t exist yet was dizzying. Borderline (or slightly) delulu, even. The intensity scared some people.

But it also made shit happen.

In our first two years, we sold out every single one of our 30 shows and doubled the number of paid female comics in the city. Some were audience members who later became our headliners.

Many loved us for it. So did the press.

Others were less enthusiastic.

But our mission to change things was bigger than the egos it threatened. And it was too important to happen in just one place.

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Ride-or-die, but not forever

Five years, three countries, 78 shows and 90 members later, I’m so proud of the community we’ve built.

But growth doesn’t happen without losses.
And some of them still sting.

Honestly, I’d be lying if I said I handled it all with grace.

Some people came to benefit from the group, not to help build it.

And some moments forced me to learn, quickly and painfully, that not everyone who enters a community is meant to grow with it.

That part doesn’t make it into the highlight reels.

— Why I’ll Always Choose Community Over Competition (Even When It’s Hard)

The delulu-coded determination I brought into Bitches in Stitches is still as intense as when we started.

But it didn’t always move me forward.

Sometimes, it made things harder.

I felt resentful.
But mostly, I felt lonely.

Here’s the most insane part, though:

I’d still choose this. Every. Fucking. Time.

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The world needs more Bitches, now more than ever

The last five years of hard-earned lessons haven’t made me bitter.

But I am still angry.

Because the numbers haven’t caught up to the progress we’ve felt in our rooms:

UK comedy clubs still book six times as many men as women.
Nearly half of Hong Kong comedy lineups in 2026 feature no women at all.
And in Manila, women are outnumbered 10 to 1.

So we’re not done.

Communities that last are shaped by the choices you keep making, even when the work gets hard.

I didn’t stop trying to build a bigger table, but I did break parts of it down. And then I started rebuilding. This time, with discernment. With boundaries. And the quiet, repeated choice to keep offering seats generously but not gullibly.

— Why I’ll Always Choose Community Over Competition (Even When It’s Hard)

Bigger stages open doors

These days, a Bitches in Stitches show can look like a lot of different things.

Sometimes it’s a sold-out room in London, with a lineup that spans three countries.

Sometimes it’s a first-timer at an open mic, gripping the microphone a little too tightly and laughing nervously before her first punchline.

And sometimes, it’s the moment after the set — when someone who thought they “weren’t funny” realises they just made a room full of strangers laugh.

What we’ve built isn’t just a show. It’s a room where people are allowed to try.

To bomb without being written off.
To take up space without being the exception.
To come back again, a little sharper each time.

We’ve seen this happen across cities — in Hong Kong, Manila, London, Manchester.

Different rooms. Different audiences.

Same moment, over and over again:

Someone stepping up to the mic or sitting in the front, unsure if they belong — and leaving knowing they do.

Creating those connections — by packing a room with strangers and filling it with laughter — there’s nothing in the world like it. That’s why we keep going.

Because building something that allows more people to show up fully — louder, messier, more themselves — it changes more than just the stage.

It changes who feels allowed to take it.

If you’ve ever felt like there wasn’t space for you in rooms like this — our door is open.

And you’ll be in very good company here.

Oh hello! I’m Lulu—someone who is currently (due to a recent re-binge) and historically OBSESSED with Channel 4’s Green Wing.

Green Wing was a mid-2000s surrealist-sitcom, set in a hospital where the medicine is irrelevant and everyone is spiralling. It’s a fast-cut ensemble comedy, dialled way past normal human limits.

Whilst despite my better judgement, I long for the type of love that informs a man to burst into my life in a pair of Y-fronts exclaiming love through the medium of recorder (IYKYK); it’s the women who’ve influenced my viewing, acting and comedy.

Plainly, the female characters in Green Wing are grotesque, hedonistic and feral.

In a world of roles and expectations of women being either the seductress, the mother or the eyerolling-wife—seeing women being deviant, disorderly and disgusting lit my little comedy chimp brain on fire.

They’re not messy in a curated-TV sense, or relatable (I hope…) in any way, nor sympathetic. Their hubris isn’t about not seeing their beauty, their worth, their value to a male lead or love interest.

They’re the kind of grotesque usually reserved for men in comedy—the Mark Corrigan’s or the Edward Tattsyrup’s. The canon of damp, needy British masculinity is handed to Green Wing’s female characters, saying: go on then, ruin yourselves…

Spoiler, they do.

The character of Sue White, without question, is a portrayal so brilliant it feels less like an on-screen character and more of a visual threat.

Sue in HR is feral, obsessive, and operating on a frequency that no one else can quite access. Her fixation, her volatility, her complete lack of boundaries—it tips over from comedy into something almost horror-adjacent. And crucially, the show never explains her. There’s no softening backstory, no “ah, that’s why she’s like this.” She just is. A force. A problem. A woman allowed to be not just unlikable, but actively frightening.

The influence of Sue, played by Michelle Gomez, has been woven into so many on stage portrayals and I think in many ways made me a braver actor with comedy. There isn’t a line—too far isn’t far enough sometimes—and the audience will believe what you tell them.

Whether her arms grow inexplicably in a meeting whilst holding a straight-conversation; taking up ventriloquism alongside detective work, or birthing a live lion in her office—it all makes sense, for Sue.

The physicality of Sue, Joanna (another fave), and even the slightly more “normal” Caroline (slightly…) is incredibly bold. You can see the attitudes, the energy and the insanity driven through the stiletto as it hits the vinyl floor of the hospital grounds. It’s a display of anti-trad feminine wiles with each step.

There’s no protective layer of femininity, no sense that they must remain appealing or even coherent. They sweat. They obsess. They misread situations. They become physically awkward, emotionally excessive, occasionally repellent. The body is always in play in Green Wing—and women are not exempt from that. They’re just as likely to be the punchline of a visual gag, just as subject to the show’s fascination with physical discomfort and bodily chaos.

Which, even now, feels oddly radical.

Because even now, have expectations of women in comedy being sharp, or dry, or self-aware. We’re used to “messy,” but a very particular kind of messy—one that’s narrativised, aestheticised, ultimately contained. Even when female characters are chaotic, the chaos tends to come with explanation. Trauma, backstory, a knowing wink to the audience: don’t worry, we understand why she’s like this.

Green Wing doesn’t care about any of that and you can see it’s influence in so many comedic portrayals today.

It doesn’t explain its women. It doesn’t redeem them. It doesn’t even particularly centre them in a traditional sense. It just lets them exist in the same heightened, surreal, slightly nauseating world as everyone else—and then pushes them as far as they’ll go.

Spoiler, they go far.

Watching it now, it feels like a strange precursor to the wave of “unlikeable women” we’ve since been encouraged to celebrate (Flea Bag). But where those later characters often come with confession, interiority, a sense of narrative control—Green Wing is more anarchic. Less interested in insight than in escalation. These women aren’t telling you who they are. They’re doing things, often inexplicable, often inadvisable, and the show simply keeps up.

Maybe that’s why it still feels so alive and modern!

There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a show that doesn’t tidy its women. That allows them to be petty, horny, inappropriate, delusional—not as a statement but just because it’s funny.

I love it because it recognises a rarely acknowledged truth: women, given the space, can be just as strange, just as excessive, just as completely deranged as men.

About the author

Lulu Simons brings the important topics to the stage and page — like the Spice Girls, and your dad’s holiday pics. 

A proud Welsh, working class stand-up, writer, and performer; her latest show, “Council Estate Gap Year”, debuted to sell out audiences two years in succession for:

Women in Comedy Festival and the inaugural Rik Mayall Festival; earning outstanding reviews.

Passionate about platforming underrepresented people in comedy; Lulu has also taken proactive steps to foster greater diversity by founding TOKEN. Comedy Collective, aimed at supporting and amplifying underrepresented voices on the circuit.

Winner of Best Newcomer, 2025 Women In Comedy Festival.

“A must-see comic — an absolute joy” Culture Warrington (⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️)

Canal Street Online: “Lulu reminded us of Victoria Wood in her observational comedy and great comic timing” 

She’s a daft, exciting and ambitious talent.

My friends had warned me. They told me I’d be seething. They promised I’d be enraged. Based on their reviews, I actually sat down to watch it with a strategy: I physically cleared the coffee table.

No hard, throwable objects. No evidence.

I was genuinely ready to launch a ceramic mug at the TV by the twenty-minute mark.

But then, something happened that scared me more than the documentary:

I didn’t throw anything.

I didn’t yell.

I didn’t even tell the TV to fuck off. Not once.

And I’m not going to lie — the content is savage.

I’m talking about grown men ranking women’s bodies on camera like they’re scoring produce. Step-by-step tutorials on how to “train” your girlfriend into submission. Entire philosophies built around the idea that women are fundamentally manipulative creatures who exist to be acquired, managed, kept in line — and loudly complained about when they don’t cooperate.

Women aren’t people in this world. They’re problems to be solved, prizes to be won, or proof of someone else’s failure.

Strip away the ring lights and the posturing and what you’re left with is essentially grown men behaving like children — wrestling with deep-seated wounds they’ve dressed up as ideology.

And when I thought about it more, I came to realise...

I am completely desensitised to this bullshit.

Not resilient. Not above it. Just... used to it.

I sat there, watching another “Alpha” influencer adjusting his ring light, calmly explaining why my existence was a logistical error. But my outrage tank, which I expected to overflow, was sitting at zero,

I wasn’t angry. I was just... done.

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This isn’t just trending — it’s real life. Everywhere.

I’m a woman in my mid-40s. I’ve recently navigated a divorce that felt like a masterclass in gaslighting.

I thought that getting out of a relationship where my reality was constantly being rewritten - where I was the problem to be solved, the variable to be controlled - would fix it.

But it didn’t stop. It just changed addresses.

I’ve lived in Southeast Asia for sixteen years. I know what it looks like when a culture decides you need to be managed. The same energy that lived inside my marriage lives in the algorithm. In the comments section. In the guy at the open mic who calls his bit “just a joke” while making eye contact with you.

You can leave a marriage. You can’t leave a culture.

It's all over my feed:

I’ve had to develop a psychological coat of armour to survive.

And I’m not the only one.

Same script, different stage

Watching Inside the Manosphere didn’t feel like an investigation into a new, dangerous subculture — it felt like a replay of the last five years of my life.

There was a version of me who would have grabbed the microphone and said something. Who would have called the “banter” for what it was, out loud, in front of everyone, without first calculating the social cost.

I don’t know exactly when I stopped being her. It happened gradually, the way all the slow, bad things do. One swallowed comeback. One “let it go.” One decision to be the chill girl in the room because the alternative felt like too much work, too much risk, too much of everything I didn’t have left.

These men with bad facial hair building empires off the insecurities of young men aren’t revolutionary thinkers. Their weaponised brand of misogyny isn’t any different from what I’ve seen as a woman in stand-up comedy — the power plays, bullying, harassment, and “banter” meant to keep us in our place.

My lack of shock is a sign of how I’ve become so good at ignoring it all, that it’s become background noise.

And that’s why I’m so uneasy.

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Desensitisation is a survival mechanism, but it’s also a trap.

If we stop being shocked, we stop sounding the alarm.

And I’m done with the armour, it’s heavy and I can never find the right shoes to match. I want my capacity for outrage back.

I want to be the kind of person who wants to throw the mug again.

I know what it feels like to be around people who haven’t gone numb, because I coach some of them.

They come to me freshly furious. A woman who just got talked over in a meeting for the third time in a week and has only just noticed it’s a pattern. Someone who realised mid-session that she’d been apologising for being herself for years without knowing why.

And I watch them feel it — that clean, uncomplicated outrage — and I think: I remember that. I remember when it still had edges.

Being around their anger is like standing next to someone at a window they’ve just cracked open. You forgot there was air outside until someone else let it in.

Once I’m done dissociating, it’s over for all those fuckers

Have I wanted to walk away? Yes. Often.

There have been open mics where I’ve sat in the back, watched the lineup, and done the math: how many women, how many minutes, how many “jokes” tonight that I’ll have to pretend I didn’t hear.

And I’ve thought: I could just go home. Order noodles. Watch something comforting. None of this has to be my problem.

But then something happens. A woman laughs — not the polite kind, the dangerous kind, the laugh that says I have been waiting for someone to say that out loud — and I remember exactly why I’m here.

I stay because leaving is what they’re counting on. Not any single “they” — just the ambient, low-frequency assumption that women who take up space and make noise will eventually get tired enough to stop.

Not yet.

Here’s what I’ve learned from coaching: the emotion is almost always data. The overwhelm is telling you something about load. The shutdown is telling you something about safety. The feelings aren’t random noise — they’re a feedback system, and the mistake is treating them like a malfunction.

Same with anger.

When I feel it properly — not the numb, tired version — it’s because something real just happened. Something actually worth noting. My anger has better pattern recognition than my rational brain does. It was right about my marriage long before I was ready to admit it. It was right about the comedy room. It’s right about this.

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Stay angry. Break things.

If you’re reading this and recognising the feelings—the empty outrage tank, the calculating-before-speaking, the tiredness that lives in your chest like a tenant you can’t evict—I want you to know something.

In coaching, we call this “Adaptive Shut-down.” When the emotional “hit” is too frequent or too heavy, our brains develop a callus.

We stop flinching, not because we’ve stopped caring, but because our system has prioritised survival over sensation. That numbness you’re feeling isn’t a malfunction; it’s your brain’s way of keeping you safe when the world is turned up too loud. It’s a signal pointing toward your need for rest, not a sign that you’ve lost your soul.

But it’s not the whole story.

Stay angry. Not because anger is comfortable, or because it fixes anything on its own. But because your anger is accurate. And there is nothing happening right now that needs us to be quieter.

Break things. Even small ones. Even just the rule that says you have to keep the outrage to yourself.

The mug is right there.

About the author

Jen D wears many hats - daughter, mother, educator, presenter, ex-wife, door bitch, and most recently, Neurodiversity Coach. She kind of ‘fell’ into stand-up after a dare from a friend during COVID, and honestly, no one’s surprised.

A member of the ‘neuro-spicy’ club herself, she identifies as late — (pronouns: almost/there). Jen is unapologetically Australian, perimenopausal, and officially out of fucks to give.

She writes about all of it.