Keywords

Introduction

In this chapter I draw upon research from my project on the Cultural Economy of Comedy in the East Midlands. The project began in May 2020 with the aim to better understand how stand-up comedians in the East Midlands navigate a career in comedy, and to identify the impact that class, race, gender and ability might have on this. In this chapter, I explore how the narrative of paying your dues is reiterated by comedians; in my research I argue that such iterations reflect the normalisation of accepting low or no pay and detrimental working conditions within the industry. However, the aim of this chapter is not just to show this narrative exists, but to reflect on how the ubiquity of this narrative inhibits comedians and the industry from imagining alternatives that do not rely on comedians working for little to no pay.

The Working Lives of Stand-Up Comedians

There has been little discussion of the working lives of stand-up comedians, though there has been wider discussion of the experiences of creative workers more broadly. Butler and Stoyanova Russell (2018) have written one of the few articles on how stand-up comedians navigate precarity. They argue that comedians engage in emotional management, meaning that they are less likely to express their discontent. This is unsurprising given that stand-up comedy is an industry that relies on reputation where comedians need to ‘keep their relationships with promoters on an even keel’ (1668). As with other creative industries, we can also understand stand-up comedy as a ‘“labour of love”’ (Hesmondhalgh, qtd in Butler & Stoyanova Russell, 2018, p. 1668) that means that comedians are ‘more willing to tolerate low wages, periodic unemployment and uncertain career prospects as part and parcel of their working lives’ (Butler & Stoyanova Russell, 2018, p. 1668).

The concept of cultural work as a labour of love, or as described by Angela McRobbie (2018, p. 36) as ‘passionate work’, is linked to the romanticisation of the ‘starving artist’, which correlates a creative career with material deprivation. Bain (2005) notes that artists cannot rely on the traditional cultural markers of the workplace such as the office, so instead they rely on myths and narratives to understand their working identity. Bain (2005) refers to the ‘general acceptance of the artist as an alienated and tempestuous figure’ (p. 28). However, I contend that it is the reliance on such narratives that make it difficult to challenge existing labour relations within the industry. Although Butler and Stoyanova Russell (2018) point to the need for comedians to emotionally regulate to present a positive demeanour to promoters (and the need to do this was also borne out in my interviews), alongside this external pressure to remain positive, comedians’ own narratives about ‘paying your dues’ often leads to the assumption that there is no alternative to precarity.

Furthermore, this assumption is linked to narratives of resilience that have become increasingly visible in the United Kingdom’s cultural and creative industries. Newsinger and Serafini (2021) argue that resilience has increasingly been instrumentalised by both government and policymakers. They describe how creative workers ‘mobilise traditions of resilience thinking associated with romantic conceptions of the artist’ (p. 591) and that such resilience is ‘naturalised’ by creative workers. This chapter will explore how this concept of resilience is naturalised by comedians, and how such naturalisation contributes to the idea that there is no alternative to precarity and exploitative working practices for comedians.

Getting Started: Comedy and Paying Your Dues

There was a tacit assumption from many of my interviewees that getting started in comedy costs money and you should expect to ‘pay your dues’ before making money in the industry. For example, Paul describes the ten years he has been in the industry as ‘probably an apprenticeship’, stating that he is ‘now starting to do it properly’. Other interviewees were clear about the commitment that is needed to succeed. For example, Rik notes that it is ‘very difficult to balance all of these responsibilities’ and that:

[y]ou want to be a stand-up comic and you make very little money from it, but there’s an awful lot of outlay both emotionally and financially, and you just kind of have to, you have to trust yourself, you have to go with it. You’re either in or you’re not.

Linguistically, there are a couple of interesting points here. Firstly, there is the use of the second person, which suggests a level of universality, that this is something that everyone must do. Secondly, the final statement, ‘[Y]ou’re either in or you’re not’, suggests an absolutism that provides little option for alternative ways of thinking. This can also be seen in the use of the imperative ‘have to’, which suggests there is no choice and no alternatives. Paul’s analogy of stand-up as an ‘apprenticeship’ similarly suggests that the system is rigid and there is an expectation that you will work your way up. Sharp and Threadgold (2020: 616), in their research on punk scenes, note that there was a ‘dismissive exhaustion’ in their interviews with men in the scene, where the idea that ‘it is what it is’ (613) was reinforced. The same can be seen within my interviews, where the status quo was assumed to be rigid and resistant to change.

Rik’s statement also highlights the way that success is viewed through the lens of personal responsibility. For example, ‘you have to trust yourself, you have to go with it’, suggests that success or failure is reliant on the regulation of individual emotions. This ties into neoliberal imperatives that it is up to the individual to be successful, and that success or failure is dependent on the individual’s ability to strive enough (Littler, 2017; O’Brien et al., 2018; Pinnock, 2019). The focus is on what the individual can do to succeed, rather than considering any collective approaches to making the industry more equal. There was little to no scope in this interview for considering how the system might be changed to make it less difficult. It is taken as a given that the experience will involve ‘an awful lot of outlay both emotionally and financially’ (Rik). This is reiterated in an interview with Brian who describes how he ‘flogged [himself] to death’ at the beginning of his career so that he could be choosier about his gigs as his career as a stand-up developed. In these interviews comedy is viewed as difficult, but ultimately worthwhile. These participants can be understood as enacting the romanticised resilience that Newsinger and Serafini (2021) describe. Furthermore, there is also an element of survivor bias in Brian’s account, since he did eventually get to the point where he was able to be more selective with where he performed. However, for this research I only spoke to comedians who were still active in the industry. Interviewing comedians who had left the industry may show different perspectives.

It is also important at this point to consider how gender, race and class impact on the capacity to not only begin a career in stand-up but maintain one too. In the Live Comedy Association report from 2020, women and non-binary people, LGBTQ people, disabled people, working-class people and people of colour were most likely to be considering leaving comedy, or have already left. Brian recognises his own position as a white middle-class man in our interview, stating:

So, I think, as you know, I’ll be honest, I’m a white, middle-aged man who is not uncomfortably off. I’m not rich, but equally I’ve got no kids, I’ve got very low outgoings, what have I got to worry about?

Similarly, other white, male participants felt that they did not encounter any specific barriers due to their identity:

There’s never been an issue I’ve faced where someone’s did not book me for this reason, or for that reason. It’s usually because they’ve already got their set sorted out, and that’s the only—yes, that’s the only time. (George)

However, whilst accepting his own privilege, Brian also refers to the industry as exploitative and suggests that this exploitation is made permissible by comedians themselves: ‘Let’s be clear about this, the artists let themselves be exploited, you know’. This suggests that exploitation is perceived as something you accept as part of wanting to be a comedian. Brian frames comedy as a labour of love, and frames comedians as uniquely masochistic in wanting to pursue comedy as a job. For example, Brian admits that at times he ‘just really, really hated’ comedy, but that the ‘need to be loved’ was enough for him to carry on. There is clearly an ambivalence here between, on the one hand, not enjoying the experience and, on the other, clearly finding enjoyment from it. Love is also used in other interviews; for example, Rik notes that ‘I said to myself, I’d love to be a comic one day’. The sense that the act of doing comedy is its own reward is also reiterated in Rik’s statement:

Just that I know that I’m gonna have to spend 50 quid I know that I’m gonna have to do that. But getting on a stage and hearing people laugh, because of what I’ve said, that’s worth that.

Here, the act of standing on stage is payment enough; indeed, it is such a validating experience that it is worth spending money on. As with other respondents, Rik frames spending money as something he ‘has’ to do, which reinforces the idea that there is no alternative to the existing ways of working. Similarly, George referred to how he felt that the aftermath of the pandemic had reignited a sense of enjoyment within comedy:

I suppose we were in that sort of honeymoon period where it had sort of come back and it was all a bit of a novelty again.

In recent years, comedy, or learning how to do comedy, has increasingly been treated as a hobby, or as an experience to take part in. For example, Ultra, is based on the White-Collar Boxing model (Ultra Comedy, 2023). Participants usually take part in an eight-week course, at the end of which they have a showcase. These are usually charity events, with money raised through ticket sales to friends and family. However, whilst comedy can certainly be understood as a hobby, the line between hobby and job is often blurred. This is especially the case when the promoter of the gig is taking money at the door, or some performers are being paid and some are not. It is striking that both Brian and Rik both have other forms of income that they can rely upon alongside comedy. Rik has a steady job in an office, whilst Brian also has additional income as an event organiser. Indeed, although all the people interviewed in this project have been paid for their performances, most had at least one other income source. This is not in and of itself surprising, and this predicament is shared by most other cultural and creative industries. As with other creative industries, comedy is something that people engage in because of a passion for it, whilst at the same time it is also a business. Promoters and venues generate revenue from shows that comedians may not even be paid to perform at. Conversely, many promoters who run small comedy nights are themselves working with small profit margins after they’ve paid the acts who are performing, as Carl noted:

Now the average money I get in a bucket I’ve just calculated it over the last six months was £142 on average so that gives me £12 I pay myself for MCing and promoting the night. Obviously, I print the posters out of that budget, so I probably get enough for a pint each night. So definitely not enough to retire on.

Similarly, George when talking about the financial sustainability of the industry noted that even if promoters wanted to pay performers they were often working within tight budgets:

I find it quite funny with that because like people will complain oh this gig is not paying enough money but then you kind of look into the gig and it’s like a little room above a pub with four tables in and you go well, they’re not going to be paying the same rates as the Comedy Store with 400 people in them for that.

The lack of security for performers also exacerbates inequality, since working-class comedians, unable to rely on other sources of income such as family support or savings, are disadvantaged. The financial impact of attempting to make it as a comedian is seen in several interviews. For example, whilst Stephen acknowledges that comedy is his primary source of income he also states ‘there’s not a living. I still live with my parents, which is really not the dream scenario’. Similarly, Peter states that ‘I guess I lived with my parents probably for a bit too long just so it could be financially easy for me to do comedy’. The typical adult milestone of living independently is delayed pursuing a career in comedy. However, whilst living with parents is presented by both interviewees as less than ideal, there is still a certain level of privilege in being able to make the choice to remain with your parents, which not every person has access to. Most of the interviewees noted that it is difficult to maintain a financially sustainable career in comedy. Interestingly, George, who had been in the industry for several years, argued that in previous years it had been easier to sustain a career but that this was no longer the case:

I think it’s not as easy as it used to be. Back in the sort of 90s and early 2000s from what I’m aware talking to comedians you could, you could easily make quite a decent living and really, you’d only be gigging perhaps Fridays and Saturday. Maybe Thursday you’d do like a weekend at a club and you would do like there was Jongleurs and there was some of the bigger clubs where you would like perhaps a small show on the Thursday, a show on the Friday and then two shows, at least two shows on a Saturday and they would all be in the same club so you’d go and stay in Liverpool or Manchester or Newcastle or wherever it was for the whole weekend and earn a reasonable amount of money in a weekend and you did perhaps one of those every other weekend with a few other clubs here and there and you’d make a pretty decent living.

The underlying assumption that you will work for free, or for little pay was expressed by all the interviewees, one interviewee Sadia notes that the advice she received at the start of her career was ‘you’ve just got to go and do gigs’ but says that is ‘quite an expensive thing to do’. She also volunteered to gain further experience, whilst doing comedy unpaid meant that she ‘racked up a little bit of a credit card bill’. The experience of working for little or no pay mirrors the situation in other creative industries around unpaid internships and low pay (Oakley, 2011). However, whilst this conversation is not unique, there are specificities that need to be considered when discussing the cultural economy of comedy. For example, stand-up comedy is a highly informal industry. As Butler and Stoyanova Russell (2018) point out in their research, opportunity often relies on word of mouth and networking, meaning that comedians have little institutional protection and are at the whim of a promoter’s preference.

Furthermore, stand-up comedy is an extremely competitive industry where supply is higher than demand. Discussion of competition recurred in the interviews, whether that was individual feelings of competition, or the way competition becomes embedded within industry practices. For example, Sadia notes that she was encouraged to take part in ‘gong shows’ when she first started but disliked their competitive nature. Similarly, Carl described how competitions can have a detrimental impact when they do not go well:

I find them stressful. I do. I think I’m probably not going to bother with most of them now unless it’s for a reasonable cause.

Gong shows are a competition format where a comedian is given a short amount of time (usually a couple of minutes) to make an audience laugh, after which time they are either allowed to continue or are ‘gonged’ off the stage. Sadia expressed discomfort with the policy, suggesting that there is ‘something that doesn’t sit right’ with her about the format, and that it is a ‘gladiator’ environment, but that she was continually told that she needed to because ‘that’s the only way to get known.’ Sadia also points to the fact that comedians feel ‘vulnerable’ when they first start, and that she was told:

Oh, well, you’ve got to grow thick skin and you’ve got to not take it personally and it’s the only way you do it.

Furthermore, Sadia noted the specific masculine nature of the comedy environment and suggested that gong shows, with their competitive nature reinforce this. However, whilst other comedians I interviewed were much more likely to take for granted that carving out a career in comedy is difficult, Sadia rejected this assumption and focused instead on the potential for comedy to be a supportive space. She described the comedy nights that she organised as ‘non-competitive, supportive and nurturing’ and contrasted them to the hyper-competitiveness of the gong shows she was encouraged to do. It is important to point out that Sadia is a woman of colour who was not brought up in the UK. It is perhaps this ‘outsider’ status that led Sadia to conceive of the scene in this way. Similarly, in Sharp and Threadgold’s (2020) research, women were more likely to bring up issues such as safety and perform emotional labour to create a supportive space. However, as this chapter will go on to discuss, women are often marginalised within the industry that they are trying to make a supportive space. Although there have been many initiatives to address gender disparities within comedy, women are still very much in the minority. In my research with Jennie Jordan (2020), we found that women were less likely to be included on a stand-up bill in the East Midlands, and that they were often the only woman on a bill. Furthermore, having more women on stage was discouraged by event organisers. Sally notes that she has been ‘bumped off gigs because there was already a woman’, whilst Sadia notes that ‘she is very rarely’ on the same line-up as another woman.

Although we need to be wary not to reinforce gender stereotypes, I would argue that it is precisely Sadia’s position as a woman in the industry that leads her to reject the narrative of competition and the concept of ‘paying your dues’. Whilst men in the industry acknowledge that it is difficult and they have had to work hard, the industry is still oriented towards them, and it is much easier for them to frame their career within a meritocratic model. In this meritocratic model, the aspiring comedian must work hard at the beginning and accept that things will be difficult, but eventually because of this hard work and dedication they will succeed. However, this clearly does not play out in the same way for women in the industry, where hard work and talent will not necessarily result in success. Jo Littler (2017: 50) notes that although the creative industries are branded as ‘cool, informal, fun, and open access’ at the same time it is difficult to access these sectors if you are ‘not rich, white, male, or well-connected enough’. If there is little chance that you can follow this model to success, then arguably you are much less likely to invest in it as a narrative or myth to describe your own journey.

It is telling that Sadia rejected the model that had been suggested to her early on in her career and decided to start her own comedy night. This can also be seen in my interview with Marie who began her own women’s comedy night in the East Midlands, in part because of the way women were being treated in the industry. She notes that women were often tokenised, and that ‘all [she] could see was male comedians really with one woman’. The stark disparities within the industry can also be used as impetus for change.

Similarly, to Sadia, Marie also referred to needing a ‘supportive environment’ in contrast to the ‘male dominated network’ that she found around her. In both their accounts, Sadia and Marie reject the idea that comedy is necessarily individualistic, something that can be contrasted to some of the responses from male interviewees, who at times recognise the need for more diversity within the industry but reject the idea that they themselves have any agency to do anything about it. For example, Brian mentions the work of Nina Gillian who, alongside Kiri Pritchard McClean, is setting up an independent HR for the industry (Get Off! Live Comedy, 2022), suggesting that ‘promoters like me will say that they are not going to stand for [sexual harassment] in the industry’. However, this is presented passively; it is women who are going to do the work of stamping out sexual harassment within the industry, but male promoters will sign up to say they agree. Sharp and Threadgold (2020: 613) note that the men they interviewed:

took up a dual position of acknowledging their privileged position within Australian punk scenes and being reflexive about their own complicit involvement in (re)establishing gender hierarchies.

However, this reflexivity did not necessarily lead to action. Similarly, in our interview Brian presented the need for more women on bills as something that needs to happen, whilst also being something that he can do little about. He notes there has been a ‘real push to get more female comics on bills’ and acknowledges the difficulties faced by women. Whilst acknowledging the difficulties faced by women, there is also a sense of resignation that things are unlikely to change. For example, Brian notes:

So, I think that’s hard, I think women are treated as a very, almost like a separate species in comedy, and part of that is because they are separate species, because in the professional ranks, there are maybe ten or twelve percent of comics who are female, so inevitably if you have a bill of three comics and the compere, like standard nights are, that’s pretty much one in every. … I wish I’d done the maths when I made this comment now, I’d be much better off … so it’s one every day, so you might get one female act on for every 2 to 3 shows. Now, that’s not promoters being sexist bastards, that’s just a fact of life, that proportionately that’s how many female comics there should be on bills.

There are some notable points in this statement, firstly there is the presumption that there the percentage of women in the ‘professional ranks’ is static, and that proportionality is a ‘fact of life’. This suggests that comedy is an industry with strict hierarchies where women could not move into the ‘professional rank’ through being given more opportunities. Indeed, if we understand professionalisation as being indicated by being given paid opportunities, it is very much within the purview of promoters to give these opportunities. Similarly, Brian notes:

But women are still treated as a curiosity in comedy, and you’ll oftentimes just get people saying: ‘I want a female because I’ve got three other men on the bill’ which in a way is clearly a good thing, but it shouldn’t be a situation whereby you have to think about the gender of a comic anyway, you should be getting the best comics for the job. Now, the question then becomes wouldn’t it be nice to be able to treat female comics as not, ‘oh, look, there’s a female comic, we should get her on the bill’ but as ‘here’s a comic, let’s have four comics in the world, doesn’t matter what sex, what colour they are, where, or what sexuality, it shouldn’t make a difference? We have a long way to go in that respect.

In this statement Brian combines an appeal to a better future with an assumption that the status quo cannot be changed. For example, by claiming that he does not look at the gender of those he recruits, Brian presumes an imaginary world where gender is irrelevant, even though all evidence suggests that gender inequality exists within the industry. Another comedian Liam, who is both a promoter and a comedian, suggested that he was reluctant to proactively look for a diverse line-up:

I mean it should be a case of—if I’m promoting, I’ll book a female because I want to book a female and not because I’m ticking a list. I had one night when I couldn’t find any female comedians I liked, and I booked three males on, and I had someone have a go at me over it.

There is, on the one hand, a recognition of the problem, but this problem is then not addressed but is instead naturalised as inevitable. Sharp and Threadgold (2020: 612) note that the tendency to ignore gender, or to assume that gender should not matter leads to an ‘erasure of lived experience’. As I have argued elsewhere (Jordan & Sedgwick, 2020), my interviewees are not claiming sexism does not exist, or that they are intentionally ignoring women. However, despite this, there is little suggestion that the industry can proactively change. This is reminiscent of interviews that Gill (1993, 2011) undertook with men working in the radio industry. There she found that traditional claims that women were simply not suited to radio were replaced by claims that it was the lack of women who were interested in getting involved in the industry that was the reason for their underrepresentation. Similarly, Brook et al. (2020) have written about the fact that senior managers within the cultural industries will acknowledge the need for diversity whilst at the same time distancing themselves from the need to do it themselves. Added to this is the assumption that not proactively attempting to make comedy bills more diverse reflects a desire to choose the best act in a meritocratic way. However, this claim to meritocracy ignores the reality of an industry where women are minoritised.

The underrepresentation of women comedians as naturalised can also be seen in an interview with Sally who responded to my question about whether she had faced any barriers in comedy by stating:

I’m trying to think whether this is a barrier or not um one thing that frustrates me that a couple of times I got bumped off gigs because there was already a woman on now, I also see that promoters are trying to spread a small number of women across their gigs.

It is interesting that Sally did not perceive this as a barrier to and instead framed it as a frustration. Furthermore, she then goes on to suggest that being a woman in comedy can also be advantageous:

I wouldn’t say it’s necessary being a barrier though because I also think in some cases it’s been an advantage; I know I’m very aware of gigs I’ve got because I’m a woman and they need a woman for the bill you know so it works both ways.

Being marginalised to the extent that you are asked to make up the numbers is framed not as evidence of disadvantage, but instead is framed as something that also has individual advantage. Similarly, Liam notes that women can sometimes be offered opportunities that their male colleagues do not have:

I mean comedy is an odd thing you get a lot of positive discrimination and there seems to be this thing at the moment where promoters tick boxes you have to have someone with ethnicity on your list, you have to have someone who’s LGBT, you have to have someone who’s female. And being a middle-aged white male comedian, you’re almost fighting against that it gives you a little bit less access. So, there are barriers there in that if I identified as female, I would be able to get shows left right and centre, but I don’t choose to do that it’s not me.

However, Sally also refers to more specific examples where she feels that her gender had an impact on how she was perceived, noting that:

somebody who I think is less good than me opening and I’ll be in the middle spot, and I’ll be getting 60 quid and they’ll be getting 100.

As with the discussion of precarity more broadly within the industry that I mentioned above, there is both an acknowledgement of the problem alongside the assumption that things are the way they are and there is no room for change. Sharp and Threadgold (2020: 606) describe ‘reflexive complicity’ when ‘Women struggle against sexism but also acquiesce and compromise in ways that maintain the gendered hierarchy’ (607). This can be seen here, Sally acknowledges how she has been disadvantaged, whilst at the same time reframing this as an individual problem or one that also has benefits. The individualistic nature of the industry is partly the issue since it is difficult to organise effectively. Interviewee George notes that whilst the majority of those working in the industry tend to be ‘left wing’, the nature of the industry lends itself to a ‘Thatcherite’ individualism that is counter to this. Furthermore, George notes that this leads to difficulties in bringing change to the industry, describing it as the ‘wild west’ and noting that this brings advantages but makes collective organisation more difficult. However, as a later chapter in this book will show, there are initiatives that aim to challenge pervasive equality issues in the industry.

In contrast, other comedians who are also promoters, agreed that the industry needed to be proactive when addressing the lack of diversity in the industry, suggesting that even though quotas are broadly perceived as negative within the industry, they are necessary since:

People of that of a diverse group of people aren’t going to want to do comedy because they’re not seeing somebody that is them on stage, they’re not going to see someone that’s you. (Paul)

Paul speaks of being more proactive about ensuring that there is more diversity on the line-ups he organises, including contacting diverse acts before the ‘100 emails from straight white comedians’. Similarly, John and Carl both describe the need to be proactive and intentional when looking to compile a bill. This suggests that they are aware that an approach of just accepting who contacts you does not increase the diversity of line-ups. As with Sadia and Marie there is some evidence of individuals enacting change over the existing status quo. However, the narrative of comedy as only a recently legitimised cultural form and a particularly informal one at that (Friedman, 2014; O’Brien & Oakley, 2015), alongside the individual nature of the job, meant that there was little discussion of structural change. Indeed, in contrast to other creative industries that have their own rate cards (e.g., Equity, Musicians’ Union and BECTU have rate cards for actors, musicians and television workers), comedians find themselves without a standard contract. Alongside this, the job itself is often presented as a monetised hobby, rather than something which requires labour. This leads to a tacit assumption at the lower levels of the industry that comedy performance is not a form of labour that requires recompense. This is despite estimates suggesting that the industry is worth hundreds of millions of pounds (O’Neill, 2015). Furthermore, as this chapter has demonstrated, the precarious and low-paid nature of the industry disproportionately impacts comedians from marginalised groups.

Strategies for Challenging Inequality

The next chapter in this book will explore initiatives that have been set up to address issues within the industry. However, in this chapter I will discuss some of the ways that comedians themselves have provided spaces for diverse performers and the role that this plays in challenging inequality. Furthermore, I will discuss the role of comedians themselves in providing funding for others working within the industry and the potential advantages and disadvantages of this. I will explore whether bursaries such as Keep it Fringe (funded by Phoebe Waller-Bridge) which supports performers taking work to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, and the Luke Rollason Memorial Prize, which supports performers at the Brighton Fringe represent a progressive move towards collective support within the industry.

Diversifying Comedy Line-ups

One way that performers and promoters have attempted to challenge the norm of the white and male comedian has been through comedy nights for women and people of colour. One of the participants in my research ran a comedy night for women in response to experiences of sexism within the industry:

But I think the main thing is that I have found difficult is the fact that there are, you’re going into a largely male dominated setup. And I had one experience where I was there with a couple of friends at as a gig. And I was quite uncomfortable with what the male comedians were joking about was about femicide, it’s about periods. And it just didn’t feel right.

Similarly, the organisation Funny Women runs several events aimed at promoting women in the industry, including the Funny Women awards with the aim to ‘contribute to gender parity in our industry and beyond’ (Funny Women, 2023b). Female comedians who have entered the Funny Women awards include Sarah Millican, Katherine Ryan and London Hughes (Funny Women, 2023b). Tomsett (2022) notes that in recent years there has been an increased understanding that women’s comedy, and feminist comedy in particular, has a ‘substantial earning potential’ (p. 240). Tomsett argues that:

whereas once a connection to feminism would potentially alienate the majority of the prospective audience for a comedy night, this connection can now be leveraged to align women comics with much wider popular (yet often depoliticized) ideas about equality and empowerment. (p. 241–242)

Tomsett notes that the rise of what Sarah Banet Weiser describes as popular feminism (2018) has led to an increased understanding of potential of female audiences as an ‘untapped demographic’ (Aston & Harris, 2015, cited in Tomsett, 2022, p. 245).

However, the move towards female-only comedy events has also been critiqued. There was great ambivalence towards this idea from some of my respondents who felt that they did not want to reinforce gender differences by proactively aiming to recruit women for their comedy nights:

As a promoter, I probably run about 60 shows a year, give or take in normal times. And I try not to look at act’s sexuality before I book or—sorry, gender, before I book. And sometimes, I end up with bills where I’ve got three female acts on. Some acts, some nights, it goes out with no female acts on.

Similarly, Tomsett (2022, p. 246) notes that:

for those who see women only comedy nights as unfairly topping the scale in favour of women, the ‘problem’ is not the lack of opportunities for women in the industry or underserved male privilege, but women’s attempts to address this issue in a way that excludes men.

Linked to this, is the way that women’s lack of participation is often framed as because of a lack of interest or for other reasons that did mean that the role of sexism or male privilege more broadly could be ignored. In this respect, there are similarities to Rosalind Gill’s (2011, p. 62) findings in her research on women in the radio industry:

However, through subtle discursive moves they also simultaneously put forward persuasive justifications for why they actually employed so few female DJs (in many cases not a single one): women didn’t apply, the audience preferred men, women who went into broadcasting wanted to be in news not entertainment, etc.

Women’s lack of participation is therefore viewed as something that is both unavoidable and the fault of women in the first place.

In contrast to negative reactions towards women-only nights or prioritising women on line-ups, some of my female respondents they understood female comedy nights as providing a useful space for women to perform without their gender being minoritised. For example, Marie noted that the female night she organised provided a safe space where women perform and where their gender would not be seen as an impediment on their ability to be funny. Similarly, Tomsett (2022) noted that female audience members in her research viewed women-only comedy nights as safer spaces, though she does note with caution that they cannot be understood this way ‘by default’, perhaps suggesting the importance of understanding these issues intersectionally, especially when considering how women of colour, queer women, working-class women and disabled women encounter additional barriers to entering the industry.

Sophie Quirk (2022) describes Sophie Duker’s ‘Wacky Racists’ as a ‘platforming club’ and an ‘important political activity’ (p. 373). Furthermore, she argues that the night ‘poses an important challenge to dominant attitudes and practices in the comedy industry’ (p. 375). Furthermore, Quirk argues that comedy is:

interpreted as a pinnacle of meritocracy because the comedian’s craft relies on getting the laughter and cooperation of the audience. (p. 379)

However, as Quirk notes, the industry also regularly uses tokenistic booking practices, often meaning that comedians with marginalised comedians are viewed as ‘others’ in comparison with the white and male norm. Quirk suggests that Wacky Racists acts as an ‘alternative to some dominant practices in the UK comedy industry’ (p. 377). Crucially, Quirk argues that the night ‘does not exercise censorship or restriction: it encourages experimentation and stages material that may be challenging, controversial or experimental’ (p. 385). The foregrounding of the voices of people of colour means that comedians of colour are not homogenised in a way that they may be when understood in tokenistic ways where their identity often becomes synonymous with their genre.

Grants and Funding for Comedy and Comedians

The final strategy that I will look at in this chapter is funding offered for comedians. In this section I will look at some of the grants and bursaries that have been funded and awarded within the industry. I will discuss whether such initiatives represent a progressive and collective response to inequality within the industry, or whether they represent a response to lack of funding in the industry that does not adequately account for the challenges faced by those working within the industry.

In 2023, the Keep it Fringe fund was announced. It is funded by the Fleabag for Charity fund, donations to the Fringe Society and through a partnership with Edinburgh Gin (Edinburgh Fringe, 2023). The fund offered fifty £2000 bursaries. It is important to note that applications were open to Fringe performers in general and not just comedians. The scheme attracted 677 applications, so had a success rate of around 7.4%. Thirty percent of applicants were comedians. The Festival Fringe Society note that ‘nearly half the successful applicants are disabled or have a health condition, and one in three come from a working-class background’. Most of the applicants were from England (76%) and most of the awards were awarded to English-based applicants (84%). In terms of gender, more women than men both applied and were awarded funding (women were 49% of applicants, 46% of awardees, whereas 37% of applications were by men and 28% were successful), 13% of applicants described their gender as ‘other’ and they represented 24% of awardees. In terms of age, most applicants and awardees were between 26 and 40 (51% of applications and 68% of awardees, compared to 23% of applications and 12% of awards from under-25s and 14% of awards and 12% of awards from those 41–55 and 8% of applications and 2% of awards to the over-55s). Thirty percent of applicants and 48% of awardees described themselves as having a disability, whilst 42% of applicants and 62% of awardees were LGBTQ+. In terms of ethnicity, 40% of awardees were not white.Footnote 1

For determining class, the Keep it Fringe fund used three questions. The first asked ‘what was the occupation of the main household earner when you were about aged 14?’ Fifty-six percent of applicants and 50% of awardees described the main earner as being in a professional or intermediate occupation, whilst 22% of applicants and 32% of awardees described the main earner as being in a working-class occupation. The second question asked about the kind of school the applicant went to. Sixty-six percent off applicants and 68% of awardees attended a state funded or run school. The final question asked about eligibility of free school meals. Twenty-seven percent of applicants and 46% of awardees stated that they were eligible for free school meals at some point whilst they were at school.

As these statistics show, the fund awarded applicants that have historically been marginalised, both within the comedy industry and within society more broadly. This suggests that arts funding can provide a useful way to challenge inequality by providing material support for those who may not have it otherwise. Initiatives such as Sian Davies’ Best in Class (which was awarded funding by Keep it Fringe but also provides funding to working-class performers) (Best in Class, 2023) also demonstrate how working-class performers can be supported financially. This is also important to consider within the context of a comedy industry that has been historically excluded from arts funding. In addition to the bursary, the social media platform TikTok has also offered £50,000 worth of advertising and train operator Lumo has offered 50 return tickets to Edinburgh for recipients.

Other forms of funding for comedians include the streaming service NextUp’s #hecklethevirus campaign which provided a hardship fund for comedians during the pandemic (NextUp, 2023c). Comedian Luke Rollason has also set up a bursary scheme, ironically called the ‘Luke Rollason Memorial Bursary’ (Rollason is still alive). The scheme is described as supporting ‘new comedy creatives from alternative backgrounds bringing unusual work to the Brighton Fringe’ (Dessau, 2023). The bursary includes ‘the cost of their registration, £100 towards marketing, mentorship’ (Dessau, 2023).

Whilst Rollason himself describes the bursary as his ‘unbearable vanity project’ (Dessau, 2023), it is important to note that three of these schemes (The Keep it Fringe Fund, Best in Class, and the Luke Rollason Memorial Bursary) have been funded by performers themselves. Whilst this is very generous and suggests a desire towards collective prosperity within the industry, it is also useful to consider what the need for this private funding says about the state of the industry. As Jo Littler notes (2017), philanthropy can obscure inequality rather than solving it.

Furthermore, the high numbers of applications for Keep it Fringe, and therefore the low success rate demonstrates that there is still not enough funding available for everyone who needs it. In addition, the need for such funding also suggests that there is a gap between the resources needed to successfully perform at festivals such as the Edinburgh Festival Fringe and the resources available to a lot of people.

Conclusion

Comedians often construct a narrative of ‘paying your dues’ alongside the myth of the ‘starving artist’. However, this concept of ‘paying your dues’ ignores how structural inequality impacts on the ability to do this. As this chapter has demonstrated, working-class comedians and female comedians in my research face additional barriers compared to their white, male and middle-class peers. Furthermore, there is a lack of structural support for those working within the industry, meaning that working conditions are continuously precarious.

The interviews in this chapter suggest that comedians themselves have ambivalent attitudes towards the industry, and often did not acknowledge the extent to which structural issues had an impact on the ability to navigate the industry. Furthermore, narratives of meritocracy often meant that inequality was made invisible, meaning that when women were being overlooked, this was not being seen as an issue to do with gender, but instead was framed as being to do with the number of women who wanted to be involved and the preferences of promoters and audiences. Similarly, low-paid work was taken as a given, and there was an assumption that acts would be paid little or nothing, but this was acknowledged as part of doing what you love.

In the second part of the chapter, I looked at some of the attempts to increase diversity in the industry, both through specific comedy nights for women and people of colour and through funding to comedians through bursaries and grants. In the next part of this book, I will explore the impact of COVID-19 on the industry and the role of initiatives that aim to challenge inequality within the industry further.