After three years on the London comedy circuit, I left my day job to pursue stand-up full-time.
That was in January 2020, two months before Covid shut every club in Britain and Ireland. I was back living with my parents by the end of March.
Comedy is all about timing, right?
It’s difficult to talk about the stress of that period, much less tell jokes about it. But in August I’ll be doing exactly that – every night, for an hour, all month.
The top five most read Abroad stories of the year
A critic of this column thinks there’s too much negativity about Ireland, not enough about Australia’s beaches
‘In Ireland we have lost some the human connection in business dealings. In Uganda it is deeply valued’
An Irishman in Basque Country: ‘My first encounter with a tortilla came out of necessity. Now I order one out of desire’
The Edinburgh Fringe, if you don’t know, is an annual transfer of wealth from performers to Scottish landlords as reparations for Braveheart, or something. It is also like a world trade fair for comedians – think the Web Summit for funny people. This will be my first year.
The idea of doing the Edinburgh Fringe used to terrify me. You rent a room above a pub, print thousands of flyers, then beg punters on the street to watch your little talent show.
It is gruelling, expensive, and competitive. What if no one came to see me except charmingly befuddled Korean tourists or wasp-chewing Scottish pensioners?
There’s no drug like it. The rush of getting a room full of strangers to laugh and applaud at something you’ve written feels amazing
But after the pandemic, there is much that doesn’t scare me any more. There’s nothing like a good plague to put things in perspective.
Sometimes, I think of my old anxious self and I want to shake him. “You’re frightened of going to Scotland for a month to do comedy, drink pints with your friends and eat fried food? Come on!”
I was shocked by how much I missed stand-up during the lockdowns.
Anyone looking to catch a break in the arts will tell you how tough it is to stay motivated. You finish work at 5.30pm, then your real life begins. Just as other people are winding down for the evening, your day starts again. You eat something quickly, jump in the shower if there’s time, then it’s off to the club. Such is the life of the deeply closeted stand-up comedian.
There’s no drug like it. The rush of getting a room full of strangers to laugh and applaud at something you’ve written feels amazing. But over time, the lifestyle can grind you down. Free time is limited, and other areas of your life suffer. Even if you have natural ability, stand-up is a skill that needs to be honed. It takes a huge amount of work just to be competent.
At low moments I wondered if I’d have been happier had I not pursued my childhood dream. In this alternative reality, I had a career in a vaguely reputable profession, a detached home in a suitably leafy suburb, and a relationship with some attractive, sympathetic woman.
I made no sacrifices and denied myself nothing, my days rolling carelessly into the next. Covid showed me what utter nonsense this was. I wasn’t happier without my creative outlets, in fact I climbed the walls. Whether I worked as a comic or not, I was still me. The solution to my existential angst wasn’t to deny my yearning to write and perform, but to accept this side of myself more fully.
The fear was gone. As the vaccines rolled out, I tentatively started gigging again at small open-mic nights around London. The industry was still on its knees, so I performed for its own sake. I found myself enjoying it more than I had in years. I talked about subjects I wouldn’t have dreamed of touching before, from antidepressant pills to my sex life. There was plenty to joke about – after a year of forced celibacy in Kildare, my online dating Bumble bio just read “Alone, scared, desperate”.
Had I made my Edinburgh debut as planned in August 2020, I would not have been ready to be this honest. Now my act has a bit of trauma for an engine
To my surprise, audiences didn’t wince at the honesty. During the pandemic, most people I’ve encountered either suffered from poor mental health or knew someone who did. Everyone was affected differently, but the sense of lost opportunities, lapsed friendships and missed milestones was universal.
The taboo of admitting to not feeling okay has melted away.
For a generation of young people, joking about depression is observational comedy now. In the same way Michael McIntyre used to joke about the ubiquity of the “man drawer”, right now it is material about medication and meditation that is getting belly laughs of recognition.
Had I made my Edinburgh debut as planned in August 2020, I would not have been ready to be this honest. Now my act has a bit of trauma for an engine. You can hear it humming urgently under the gags about sex, booze and Buddhism.
I would still prefer the pandemic hadn’t happened, obviously. But it has made me a calmer, funnier person.
- Peter Flanagan left Ireland in 2016 to perform stand-up comedy in London. He lives in Hackney. Tickets for his Edinburgh Festival show are here. (Instagram: @peterflanagancomedy, X: @peterflanagan)
- If you live overseas and would like to share your experience with Irish Times Abroad, email abroad@irishtimes.com with a little information about you and what you do
