Have you ever had a friend say “you’re so funny, you should do stand-up” and, against your better judgment, actually listened? Comedian and PEDESTRIAN.TV alum Jenna Suffern is what happens when that off‑hand compliment turns into a full-blown life choice.
Ahead of their brand new tour Lobster In A Glass, Jenna sat down with us for Insider Trading to lift the curtain on what comes after that fateful “you should do comedy” moment — from the tug‑of‑war between producer brain and comedian brain, to doing club sets for drink tickets, to navigating queer crowds versus straight ones, and trying to stay sane (and solvent) in an industry that runs on comparison, capitalism and the occasional perfect laugh.
So, tell us a little bit about yourself and what you do.
I am a comedian and producer, and I live in Melbourne. Oh God, I hate these because I never know what to say. It’s like such… small poppy syndrome? Is it small poppy syndrome? Tall poppy syndrome. Tall poppy syndrome! We’re off to a roaring start.
It took me years to even be like, “I’m a comedian”, and say it seriously because it feels like such a silly thing to say. But yes, I am a comedian and a producer.
How long have you been doing this for?
I started doing stand-up comedy in 2019, so I’ve been in the comedy world for like six, seven years, but I don’t count COVID, so let’s say five.
When you were starting out, what was the dream job? What did you think the plan was?
I had been wanting to do stand-up for ages. I was dating someone and they were like, “Just do it”, and I was like, “Okay”.
So I did my first stand-up set and it was awesome, which is not a normal experience to have, but I was in a very lucky environment. It was a newcomer’s night for new female comedians in Sydney, so very loving and caring.
Then that same week I got made redundant from my full-time job and then dumped by the girlfriend. So I guess the main goal when I started comedy was just validation. I really threw myself into it and I was like, “I’m going to flirt with the audience and get a new girlfriend”, which is so unhealthy — don’t do that.
The real thing was I just wanted to look like I was doing really well, and then I went, “Oh, maybe I could make this a career”. I guess the goal was just to be a stand-up comedian.
The sad thing about the entertainment industry is that we’ll never be happy. Stay with me, it sounds depressing, but I feel like the goalpost always changes. My [current] girlfriend reminded me recently that when I started, my goal was just to do my first hour solo show. Then I did that and I was like, “Well no, I just want to get a good review”. Then it was, “Well no, I want to win an award”. Then, “I want management”. Then, “I want to be on TV”. It just never feels like enough.
Why do you think it’s like that? Why does it never feel like enough?
I think because it is such a strange industry where you’re constantly comparing yourself to people around you. You have to learn really early that you need to take the wins.
I was speaking to a friend who’s doing very well in the entertainment industry, and they were having those same thoughts of, “Well I need to be doing this because my peers are already doing this”. And I was like, “You’re one of the most successful comedians in Australia, what are you talking about?”.
I’m sure there’s some psychological reason we all do it, but in comedy it is such a validating industry and comedy is so subjective.
Before comedy, what were you made redundant from? What were you working in?
The thing about me is I’ve had a million different jobs. I studied film and entertainment and I didn’t know what I wanted to do but I knew I wanted it to be in that world. So I moved to Sydney from Queensland when I was 24.
I started working in film distribution and then just kind of moved through different film companies.
What was great about having all those different jobs in the film industry was that I got to learn so many different aspects of production and distribution, and then I started working on the government side of it. Who would have thought I was learning to then become a producer? At the time I was like, “I just need a job”.
What does a typical day look like for you now? If there is such a thing.
Real answer? A lot of watching reality TV.
Being freelance, you go through such waves of being the busiest you’ve ever been in your life to months of absolutely no work, which I am currently in right now.
Today, the comedy festival is three weeks away [at the time of interview], so I’ll be working on my show. That will involve sitting down, doing some writing, trying to make some haha’s and some hehe’s, and then preparing to do some open mics next week to see if those jokes work.
Other days, it could be a week in a different city doing a film shoot for an unnamed brand on a 12-hour shoot day. So yeah, I literally can’t answer that question. The thing is, if you like stability, do not do this job.
What’s your favourite part of what you do?
The reality TV part.
No, absolutely making people laugh. I know there should be some heartfelt response about making lives better for communities, but hearing people laugh… They say comedy is like addiction and doing drugs because when you’re on a roll and you have the audience laughing with you, I think it’s one of the greatest feelings. You literally feel like you’re flying.
But then it crashes, because it’s not always going to be like that.
When work is rough or freelance stuff dries up, how does that validation thing hit you IRL?
Thankfully, my therapist and I talk about this a lot because I mean most comedians, I feel like we’re like dogs and we’re treat‑driven.
It’s hard because I get my validation through work. I’ve been unlearning that through the past few years with therapy because it’s not healthy. Validation needs to come from within. But it’s hard. Two years ago I would have been like, “Oh it’s fine, I’m actually doing really well”.
So I think anyone listening, go to therapy. It’s not healthy otherwise.
What’s been the biggest learning curve for you through all of this?
Going back to what I was saying earlier about understanding that nothing’s ever going to feel good enough. Getting an understanding of that early is good.
I have a list in my phone of things that baby Jenna, who just started doing stand-up, would be so excited and proud of. Every time I do something I make sure I add it to that list. They’re small things, like doing my first show, that was the ultimate goal.
I always go back to it when I’m feeling down about my career and go, “Okay, yeah, that’s pretty cool”.
I think no matter what industry, everyone should do this.
You’ve got comedian brain and producer brain. How do those two fight when you’re making a show?
Oh, it’s horrific. There aren’t many producers who are also comedians because they should not work together. They’re an oxymoron.
It’s really funny to witness when I’m trying to write a show because both of these brains are fighting to the death.
In the comedy world, especially in Australia, it’s pushed on you that you’ll write a new show every year to stay relevant, which is really bad for mental health.
You finish your festival run and then, within two months, you have to have a new show concept, the bio, the marketing, the title all ready for the next year. You’ve just finished your last run, so you’re like, “I don’t know”.
Most bios you’ll read for comedians end up having nothing to do with what the show is actually about because we don’t know what the show’s about. You don’t discover that until you start writing, and that hasn’t happened yet.
So the way I break it up is: producer Jenna starts. There’s a few months of dealing with the marketing — what could sell, what looks good, what sounds relatable — and throwing lots of ideas down about what future marketing will look like.
Then a month before the show, comedian Jenna pops in and she’s chaotic and horrible to work with. That’s lots of sitting down and going, “Okay, what jokes have I used in the past year that have legs, and how do I make them funnier and punch them out?”.
As a producer, what do you wish more comedians understood about putting a show together?
I wish comedians knew more about how to market a show. It’s not exactly producing, but producer and marketing kind of flow together.
I wish comedians knew how to ask for help. A lot of comedians think you can’t successfully produce a show until you have management, which isn’t true.
I have such a good group of friends where we all lean on each other. That’s so important.
And as a comedian, what do you wish producers would chill out about?
I wish they would chill out. I wish producers would chill out, it’s going to be fine, we’ll get it done, don’t worry about it.
Trust my process, okay? Get off my back.
I’m literally fighting with myself all the time, like “Trust yourself, you’re funny, it’s going to work, you’ve just got to go out there and try material”, whereas producer brain is like, “We gotta market this show, baby, we’ve got tickets to sell!”.
Have you ever had to produce yourself out of a bad idea, or do you let yourself bomb through it?
Yeah, absolutely. I had an idea for a show this year that I won’t go into, but it was quite dark.
It was all I could think about, so it was all I wanted to write about. But producer Jenna had to come in and be like, “I don’t think you’re ready to talk about this yet, and I don’t think you’re going to have fun on stage doing this show because you’re not ready”.
I’m glad I did that, because all I wanted for this year was for my show to be silly and for me to have fun. I think it’s important to find the fun in comedy again, which is a silly sentence but it’s so important.
That was producer Jenna and comedian Jenna’s biggest fight this year.
I recently saw some baby comics at RAW (Australia’s largest stand-up comedy competition). What do you think a bad gig teaches you that a good gig never can?
I always learn so much more from bad gigs than good gigs. A good gig is great for validation and having a laugh, but the bad gigs are what stick with you.
Bad gigs remind you that you need to work. If I have a bad gig, it’s usually because I didn’t prepare. While stand-up is mostly set in a bar with your mates, it’s still a job.
For me, bad gigs remind me I need to look over my notes a few hours before any gig. It doesn’t matter if it’s just a silly little open mic. I don’t want to sound like Kim Kardashian — “no one wants to work anymore!” — but… you do have to work.
A bad gig teaches you so much because you can look back and go, “Okay, was it the cadence? Was I rushing?”. That’s why it’s so important to record yourself on stage. There’s a reason you bombed.
I have a rule where if I write a new joke I have to try it a minimum of three times. Just because one audience doesn’t love it doesn’t mean it’s a bad joke.
And if any comedian is reading this and they’ve done this, you’ve got to stop: sometimes the audience is just quiet or not into your jokes. Do not attack them, do not yell at them, because they’re not going to go, “Oh okay, I’ll start laughing now”.
Okay, money chat. How do you feel about compensation in comedy right now?
It’s horrible, it’s always been horrible. I’m scared for the future because I don’t think it’s going to get any better.
I remember when I did my first paid gig and I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. I got paid $30 in cash. I was like, “I made it”.
I get that you need to pay yourselves for producing a show, which I get as a producer, but what’s selling the tickets is the comedians being there.
If you’ve got a show with like 100 people in there and maybe your headliner and your MC are getting paid but none of the other comedians are, it’s gross. What other industry does this? I mean, the arts in general, but still.
Then it’s labelled as “exposure” — getting your face out there. I don’t think I’ve had a gig in years where someone’s followed me afterwards on social media.
What upsets me most is when these gigs are unpaid and they expect you to do old material they know works. It’s like, “Well no, if I’m not getting paid, I’m not doing my old gold. I’m using this as a time to try new material”.
I hope it gets better, but because it’s such pub culture, most of the payment is, “Okay, well we’ve got free drinks”. Stay around, have a drink with your mates, which when I started doing comedy I thought was the coolest thing in the world. I was like, “A free beer!”. It’s a horrible trap to fall down.
I once did a gig where I got a drink and a burger and fully thought it was my big break.
It upsets me a lot, as I sit here with $300 in my bank account.
What’s the worst financial decision you’ve made in the name of art or being a comedian?
Becoming a comedian. Just the whole thing.
I’m sure there have been so many bad decisions, but that’s the big one. You need to spend money to make money, essentially.
A lot of people don’t understand that with comedy festivals. They think, “Oh you’ve been invited to do it, this is so exciting, you’re going to make money”. That’s not the case at all. You have to apply and, yes, you get selected, but if you’re self-producing – which I would say is 80 per cent of shows in festival runs — you’re paying for everything yourself.
You’re paying for venue hire, tech, marketing, flights if you want to go to a different city, accommodation, and you have to make all of that back in ticket sales.
Last year I only did Melbourne Comedy Festival and I lost $300, which is actually really impressive because most people go way further under. It’s a huge financial risk.
You have to keep doing it to stay relevant and it’s this kind of toxic environment we’re all in. But we all love it. I’m lucky enough that I do have my producer side, so I have that other work, but I have savings so I don’t expect to make money from this tour. As long as I break even I’m happy, which is most comedian’s goal.
When you’re broke or burnt out, what keeps you going back on stage?
I am very lucky to have such a supportive girlfriend who is so removed from the comedy industry that she keeps me really humble. I love her so much for it because she’ll remind me, “It’s going to be okay, you’re not dying”.
I’m so lucky to have her and such a supportive group of friends in the comedy world. We all keep each other sane. Honestly, that list in my phone has been really helpful too.
You speak about your queerness in your comedy. Do you feel like you explain yourself differently to straight crowds versus queer crowds?
Absolutely. I don’t as much anymore, but when I first started doing comedy I got some of the worst advice I’ve ever received.
I was told I had to start by being self-deprecating so the audience would be on my side straight away, which is crazy. I was also told I had to address up top that I was a lesbian because if I later said something about dating a woman or having a girlfriend, the audience might pause and get confused. Which is wild, because if you look at me it’s like, “Okay, dyke”.
For the first three years of comedy I stuck to that because it was the advice I was given.
It wasn’t until I moved to Melbourne, and everyone’s gay here, that I realised I needed to stop apologising for myself. I don’t need to say I’m a lesbian just to make it easier for audiences to understand.
Some jokes go over straight people’s heads, which is fine, it’s not for them.
What feels exciting in the comedy scene right now?
I feel like a change is coming where the little freaks are starting to get their limelight.
I don’t know if it’s because I moved to Melbourne two years ago, so maybe it hasn’t changed and I just think it has because Sydney and Melbourne comedy are so different.
I’m excited to see my friends starting to get their flowers. The people around me have been doing it longer than me and they’re starting to really get recognised, which is so exciting.
I also feel terrified because of the climate of the world we live in. Maybe two, three years ago there was a big change — more people of colour, more queer people, more women getting stage time and TV appearances. I feel like that’s going away again, which makes me sad. People feel like, “We don’t need that anymore”, which is crazy because we just need to see an Australia that represents what Australia actually looks like.
What do you think success in the Australian comedy scene should look like?
Firstly, comedians need to get paid. If comedians are getting paid then people from lower socio‑economic backgrounds, people without rich parents, can do comedy and still afford to think, “How am I going to pay my rent this week?” less.
Quick fire to finish. Who do you admire in your industry?
Absolutely my friends, which I know is probably a cop-out but I think they’re the funniest people in the world.
Frankie McNair is my best friend and the funniest person I know. Scout Boxall, Maddy Weeks, Carmelo Costa, Chris Demos, Gemma Bird Matheson. I could list a million people. They make me laugh every day and they inspire me to be better.
If you weren’t doing your current job, what would you be doing?
I have two options. I’d either be a housewife on Real Housewives of Melbourne, which would be great, or I’d foster dogs and have a dog‑walking business. But I’d probably need to start a TikTok because I’d still need some kind of validation.
What’s the most unhinged thing you’ve seen at work that we can legally publish?
I was once doing interviews with bands at a music festival for a job I had, and a punter broke into the green room where a band had all their stuff. It was a pretty big band (I’m not going to say who) and this drunk guy came into the green room, put on all their clothes, sh*t in them, and then left.
Do you have a work uniform when you go do stand-up?
Yeah, I’m recently getting into ties. I love putting on a tie.
Otherwise, my go‑to outfit is a big black baggy tee and jeans or jorts.
Describe your inbox in three words.
Surprisingly organised and funny.
How do you sign off your emails?
“Thanks! Jenna.”
If I’m angry, it’s “Thanks,” comma Jenna.
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The post Insider Trading: Comedian Jenna Suffern On Bad Gigs, Being Broke & Still Betting On Stand-Up appeared first on PEDESTRIAN.TV .
