As a comedian, every man I date says one thing that gives me the ick

‘Go on then, tell me a joke!’

to most: a lighthearted icebreaker. 

To comedians: an infantilising taunt. 

To single, straight female comedians: a taunting opening message from an insecure man on Hinge. 

When you start comedy, you have to endure something called ‘bringer gigs’, which are open mic shows where you have to bring another person forthe audience in order to get a spot on the lineup to perform. 

Some of the braver comedians (usually men) brought matches from dating apps as their bringers. The one time my friend, a female comic, brought a Hinge date as her bringer, the first thing he said to her after the show was: ‘…I could do that.’

I’ve found that inside almost all modern straight men there are two wolves: the feminist, idealist ally, and the guy who ultimately doesn’t want his partner to be more ambitious, successful or funny than he is. 

Why does seeing a girl do something make you think that you can do it too?

I must say, as a trigger warning: Wanting to try stand-up comedy as a male is not a crime, nor is it inherently a misogynistic trait. But seeing a woman stand-up and assuming you can do something better than her, just because you are a man, and therefore better, is. 

It’s why I understand women who date other comics, just to avoid average Joes with no understanding of the job, opining about their careers. 

Personally, in regards to the men I date, it’s just nice to have some things for myself so I’ve always avoided dating other comedians – but I can see the appeal. 

The risk involved with hooking up with a comedian, as a comedian, however… awful. 

Imagine: You get with each other then you have to continuously compete for validation in an ever-unsatisfying industry and relive your sexual history, constantly, because your ex-partner might be mining it for content, and sometimes even performing it in front of you while you’re at the same gig. 

Comedy is incredibly incestuous and: Surprise! People who relish in storytelling on stage also do like to partake in gossip.

They say ‘don’t s**t where you eat’.

If you’re a comedian who’s shagged another comedian, on any given evening there are at least four different pub basements per square mile you could stumble across your s**t in the middle of eating.

Dating as a straight woman outside of comedy is an even bigger minefield. We have very few free evenings, people always feel either threatened or overly tantalised by the thought of you writing material about them (which often is a massive exercise of self-flattery. Why would I write material about one of the most boring dates of my life?).

But the hardest part is knowing that at any given point, your potential partner could suddenly admit they want to do stand-up comedy. 

Since I started stand-up, I’d fluctuate between hiding or advertising it on dating profiles, knowing that comedy was a major part of my life, but wanting to avoid any ‘I could do that’ energy from my potential partner. 

As much as I tried to steer clear, at some point I realised I had the power to conjure and expose a kind of sleeper comic, nestled deep within the men I date. Often around the second to fourth date, I would suddenly hear: ‘I always thought about doing stand-up.’ Or better yet… ‘Yeah… I think I’d be good at it.’ 

It’s almost like they don’t understand object permanence, but for the pursuit of stand-up. It doesn’t exist as something attainable until it’s right there in front of their face – attained by a woman nonetheless. 

I get it, to an extent. I started doing stand-up after being inspired by a bunch of samey, straight, white, male comedians I saw once – at a comedy club in London that’s now nonexistent.

Most of them don’t even do comedy anymore. It didn’t look glamorous, but I knew I loved comedy and wanted to try it. Thankfully, their mediocrity was my final push to signing up for my first open mic. 

Plus, stand-up comedy seems almost unreal. To go up on a stage and make a room full of people have a visceral reaction of joy to things you say? Dreamy. I see why men, or anyone really, would want that kind of instantaneous dopamine hit on the regular.

The truth is, a lot of times it’s not as dreamy. A lot of times, especially when you start, those rooms aren’t even full. There’s high highs and low lows. I think as with any art form, to pursue it in spite of all that, you have to really love it.

I once read a stat that said women value being funny as a top quality for their partner. Men? They value a woman who thinks they are funny. I love to date someone who makes me laugh, but there’s a way to find a more symbiotic dynamic that doesn’t involve competition, or projected insecurity. 

I love when a guy has a good sense of humour, because if they do, they’ll find me funny – and we’ll laugh together. 

In the Edinburgh Fringe show I did this year, I worked being told by men that ‘I could do that’ into a joke – it feels really good to be an inspiration.

Somewhere within the joke lies the truth. It is nice to be an inspiration, but, at least just for the men I date, I’m happy just being appreciated.

This article was first published on Aug 22, 2024.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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