I did IT! I did my first open mic night this week!!!

About four months ago I did a crash comedy course, and after I "graduated" told myself I’d do a London gig. On Wednesday night, I pulled it off. Somehow. You have to laugh.

Thanks to Ewa for the pic.

Earlier this year when another writer Cath told me during a session of Jenny Valentish’s short writing memoir course that I was funny and “I don’t know where you are in your career but maybe you should lean into it”, I didn’t think that she was joking. That may be because despite being a journalist I take everyone in life for their word a lot of the time. There’s only one thing I don’t take seriously - myself. 

But being told that you’re funny and thinking that you’re funny doesn’t mean that you are funny, even if you have the same surname as Jimmy Fallon. I realised this when I was spending a sunny weekend doing a crash comedy course with a bunch of strangers in Hammersmith, west London, a few months later. I’d decided to do this after the writing workshop.

Comedy is as much about “the attitude” as the material, I learnt at the Laughing Horse Comedy workshop in April. I bring that when I want to, believe me. But I didn’t during my two days there. I felt a bit upset, although I still managed to do an eight minute set as our “graduate” performance because, you’ll be surprised, I can rant and rave, a technique used by comedians, about anything.

After it, I thought that I should make the best use of my time in London, one of the world’s comedy capitals with hundreds of gigs on offer every month, and of having done this course. So I told myself that I was going to do at least one open mic somewhere. Anywhere. For any one who would have me.

There’s no shortage of comedy material these days. Are you living in Dickensian Britain - in 2025? Have you tried to get a job or find more work and had to jump through countless hoops in a hopelessly broken market? At the time that I did the Laughing Horse Comedy workshop, I’d already received plenty of rejections for roles which I knew I could have done a brilliant job of. People say if you don’t laugh at things, you’ll cry. I had already cried - and was sick of it. 

I asked around for dates for open mic nights. Bella, who I met via a short City Lit screenwriting course), was already doing professional gigs. She gave me the names of some Facebook comedy groups where I could ask. Finally, I found a guy called Valerio Sara, who puts on a regular open mic night at The Hamlet, a cocktail bar and restaurant in Streatham.

As I was getting ready for the gig, I started to realise again that yes being a comedian wasn’t easy. They may not have such a glamorous life as some may think, either. Being or trying to be funny still meant committing to something. Showing up, even on your own, and being punctual. Valerio, who didn’t know me, was giving me a chance. I knew I couldn’t let him down. 

It’s a lot of work, too. I had some jokes from my course gig. But I rewrote them and then added in some new ones about Streatham. Rehearsing these, around the paid work that I did have, took time of course.

Looking for more work is a job of its own these days. I needed more unpaid gigs like I needed a bullet in the head, really. Like this very platform, comedy is a real labour of love, it was becoming clear to me. But hey, being creative is what makes so many of us happy. 

When the day arrived, I used the occasion as an excuse for a Laura Mercier makeover at Westfield Stratford. “I wish I could come and support you,” said the makeup artist, originally from Estonia and who I’d just met, as he put false eyelashes on me. 

Sometimes in life it’s the strangers or people you don't know very well who are rooting for you the most. Ewa, who I also met during the screenwriting course, and who had looked over my script to see what I should cut, was coming all the way from Bath to support me. Dave, who we’d also met via City Lit, had given me some advice, too.   

At Liverpool Street, on the way to the venue, I got on the wrong train and went a few stops in the opposite direction. I ripped off the eyelashes. I didn’t feel like myself with this makeup on. It was too much, even for me. Of course there were things about myself that I now needed to change. Actually, I needed to be a bit more OTT in a way - I was still too monotone and stiff. If I couldn’t alter some of them though, was I going to have to just lean in?

At The Hamlet I met Sanj, also a performer, with Valerio, downstairs. “Sounds like an Aussie,” he said, trying to imitate my accent. I wrote on here only recently that the Brits don’t do this like fellow Australians, and I am very appreciative. But this time I was pleased, since I’d written a couple of lines into my gig about my voice and being Australian. Turns out there is a difference between being made fun of by someone, and doing it yourself.

I went up to the bar to get a drink (or three). I bumped into a woman, an IT professional who was having problems at work, who also told me during our conversation that she’d watched Home and Away and Neighbours. Was I onto a good thing?

Ewa showed up with a friend who had just come out of hospital after being bitten by a neighborhood cat. (I believe a skit has been written about this).

There were about ten acts. I volunteered to go first. I felt like I was skydiving, in a way. But I wanted to get it done and dusted, and then enjoy the night. As I approached the stage, I resigned myself to becoming flustered, forgetting my lines, even being heckled although Valerio had promised that it was a supportive room for new acts.

After I’d taken up long distance running in Uganda several years ago, I’d done so much prep in the leadup to a 12km event. Then on the day itself, I’d fallen down flat on my face. At the start. In front of every one. Would this happen now?

Something that I’d felt during rehearsing is that I’m more expressive when I’m physically moving. I may not be able to sit still. Anywhere, anytime, in any sense. As a result, I’d spent some time memorising my gig while out power walking on the weekend which had helped. A lot of people had been looking at me however. God knows what they’d thought, if they’d heard me. Still, I didn’t know if this had done the trick. 

Hang on though, did I care? Did it really matter if I fell, panicked, or got jeered? Even if I took things seriously and even if I died on one’s feet, it would be on my own, down to earth, self-deprecating, resilient feet. I knew the sky wouldn’t fall in. My life wouldn’t end. I’m not from here. I could leave in the morning, I said to myself.

Guess what though? People laughed. I saw them. And afterwards, several came up to me and asked “was it really your first time?”. I’d said in my act that I was an “open mic virgin”. A guy who had done some semi-professional performances said he thought I’d done about 150 gigs. Another told me that he thought my material was “smart”. I was even asked to go to a show in September, which is now in the diary! The only criticism I got was that I could have taken the microphone out of the stand and held it, as it had been a bit too high for me.

Maybe I should call these people kind (well, they were). Call them having me on. Call them desperate. Call the venue Low Stakes (it was actually called that). Call it the drinks that I had beforehand. Call it just a fluke, and a laugh that it went so well. Or just give myself some credit. Whatever, I had pulled it off. It had gone so much better than I’d expected!

The other performers were from all over, including an Australian who made a joke about coming to the UK to get away from Aussies and then…gave me her number at the end. There was an ex-Jehovah’s Witness who had a regular show based around that experience and who it turns out knew an Australian ex-JW and whistleblower who I’ve written about. Another performer, a Punjabi, was an ex-journalist. And there was also one from Estonia!

Some had everyday life material. Others had jokes that were specific to them. And some had routines from the news. There was AI vibrators, being a disability carer, potential incest, race, hot babies, and more.

I'm not expecting to now become the next Celeste Barber - although you never know. I’m trying to keep rehearsing while the material from my gig is fresh in my head, so I have signed up for another one next week, this time in Essex. And, I am going to Edinburgh on Sunday. For real. Again, you never know.

I've started to think about other things I can write material on. As I learnt during the course earlier this year, you can find comedy in anything. That was reinforced on Wednesday night. 

2025 has been tough at times. I feel like I’ve turned it around in a way with this. Even though it’s a small achievement, it feels like it’s been like the equivalent of myself physically picking up a lorry. I’ve literally re-channeled some of the crap into something else. I’ve been productive. I’ve also met some kind people in the process, who have been willing to give me a go. It’s made me feel better about myself, and also a bit happier about the state of the world.

As Carrie Bradshaw, who fell flat on her face once before getting up in Sex and the City, later said in And Just Like That, life’s too short to not try something new. She was only talking about poaching an egg. Don’t fall down shocked, but this isn’t one of my talents. But I’m so excited that I’ve learnt something else - how to be funny - or funnier, some may say.

The morning after my comedy debut, I got another generic job rejection email. This time, it stung a bit less. I did something great last night, I said to myself and to the employer who had turned me down, wherever they were. I’ve shown what I’m capable of. And now it’s certainly your loss.