How did you get into comedy?
I’d always secretly wanted to be a comedian. When my university held a talent show and needed someone to host it, I volunteered and booked myself into an open mic night called Comedy Virgins to get some practice, but bombed. I essentially didn’t tell any jokes, just a long-winded, vaguely amusing story. I got so fascinated about why it hadn’t gone well that I spent a week with a pen and paper, watching standup specials and dissecting what the comedians were doing, line by line. Then I went back to the open mic night and won a little plastic trophy.
Who did you admire when you were starting out?
I was super into Alan Carr when I was a teenager. I would watch his DVDs over and over again. When I moved to London, there was a kind of indie alternative comedy club/company called The Invisible Dot, that had people like Mae Martin, Tim Key, the sketch group Daphne (Phil Wang, Jason Forbes and George Fouracres) and I just got obsessed with it. I couldn’t imagine anything more cool or glamorous.
Where do you find your material?
Most often it’s something that comes out naturally in conversation with friends that makes them laugh, and I’ll think, “ah, maybe that then” and surreptitiously take out my phone to make a note. Every comedian has a notes app with a long list of joke ideas on it. If mine got wiped somehow, my career would be over. I’d retire immediately and become a dogwalker. Oh – jokes also come to me while walking my dog.
Best heckle?
I was once doing a gig that was not going well and a woman in the third row said in the kindest, gentlest voice: “Keep going honey!” It was so earnest and compassionate. I hated her.
Can you recall a gig so bad, it’s now funny?
I once did a gig where a now A-list celebrity was being so disruptive, running around the room, shouting, trying to take the microphone off the comedians, that he was dragged out of the venue by security. And then later that same evening, one of the comedians, a TV name, threw a strop on stage and started swearing at the audience and other acts. As someone who dines on drama, it was absolutely delicious.
Any pre-show rituals?
Brushing my teeth. I just like knowing that I’m fresh and minty and ready to go. If I could, I’d have a haircut and a full colonic before every gig.
What’s been one of your all-time favourite gigs?
I did a Halloween show with some friends last year that was just the most fun I’ve ever had. I dressed up as Jennifer Coolidge from The White Lotus, one of the other acts dressed up as me, the audience were in costume, and we covered the whole venue in spider webs and pumpkins and bowls of sweets. I love when comedy becomes more than a gig.
You’ve just released a book called Bedtime Stories for Privileged Children …
It began as a series of sketches online. I live in north-east London near some very, very expensive schools, and the local yummy mummies and delicious daddies are out of control. I would just sit in cafes listening to their conversations and making notes. “The nanny forgot to pick up Quenelle from her sound bath!” They honestly wrote themselves.
It feels crazy to think that those initial sketches are now a book. I’m thrilled with how it’s turned out. The series got such a lovely following, and the stars aligned with a publisher and a wonderful illustrator, Axana Zasorina.
Have you had any resistance from other comedians because of the opportunities that come from your large online audience?
Not really! I think there’s a bit of a movement at the moment of comedians figuring out different ways to create online, and make what they want to make without needing the signoff of a whole production company to do it. It’s exciting, seeing what everyone’s making.
I do occasionally get referred to as a “TikTok comedian”, which makes me wince slightly. I was doing standup long before I started pretending to be a middle-class mother online … But I don’t mind. Being on social media and connecting with people who share my sense of humour is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
• Bedtime Stories for Privileged Children by Daniel Foxx is published by Monoray (£14.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy from guardianbookshop.com.
