A bunch of comedians are pouring into a meeting room that’s way too small. There’s nervous chatter and a sense of excitement as extra chairs are squeezed in for latecomers. They’ve come from all over – Liverpool, Newcastle, Kent, Bristol, Glasgow – for something that is scandalously rare: the chance to get a foot in TV’s notoriously unyielding door.
The 30 comics who are assembling in the offices of a TV production company in London are all at different stages of their careers, but have one thing in common: they’re working class. And that, still, is a hurdle in the arts. “Class shouldn’t be a barrier,” comedian Sian Davies tells the room. “But it is.”
To break down that barrier, Davies has invited industry experts – comedy commissioners, producers and executives from the UK’s big broadcasters – to demystify the industry. There’s an introduction to terminology, a mock writers’ room where the group creates an episode of Only Fools and Horses, sessions on character development and topical comedy, plus a bit of time for some crucial networking.
It all sounds very positive. But it’s now grimly predictable that any talk of diversity in comedy attracts kneejerk “culture war” debates. Davies was able to make today happen thanks to a BBC comedy grant – £5,000 to do something that benefits people who are underrepresented in the genre. And sure enough, last month the Telegraph responded by accusing the BBC of “pursuing a heavily woke agenda”.
Comedian and GB News presenter Andrew Doyle told the paper: “This mania for group identity is a disaster for the arts.” Former comedy writer Graham Linehan said: “There has been a dearth of good comedy over the past few years – and these measures will do nothing except make that situation worse.”
“When I read the article,” says Davies, “it just seemed like it could’ve been written by AI: what a rightwing journalist might say about BBC comedy grants.” Her grant was one of 10. Others are supporting disabled writers in the north-west of England, women and queer voices in Northern Ireland, a comedy school for North Wales locals and a programme for young parents in Edinburgh. Felt Nowt, a collective in north-east England, received one to do comedy workshops for LGBTQ+ people in their region.
“When you start doing local open mic nights, they can feel very daunting and blokey,” says Lee Kyle, co-founder of Felt Nowt. “Some people might need that extra encouragement or opportunity to get involved,” says fellow co-founder John Gibson. “It’s giving them a route in.”
Felt Nowt ran workshops that gave participants the confidence to perform for the first time. Much like Davies’s TV workshop, they wanted to demystify comedy for a group whose members had been made to feel like outsiders. “We wanted to put them in a position where they’d have the knowledge,” says Kyle, “and then the experience of being in front of a supportive audience.”
Felt Nowt weren’t exactly surprised by the Telegraph’s take. “There’s an assumption that whoever is helped by this money will make ‘woke’ comedy,” Gibson says. “But they could make anything.” And the funding is a “drop in the ocean” says Gibson. In the case of Felt Nowt, it paid self-employed people in the region to run the workshops. “If the Telegraph aren’t supporting self-employed people – well, how Thatcherite are they really?” says Kyle. “If anything,” adds Gibson, “the Telegraph is not rightwing enough!”
Back in London, you can feel eyes rolling when anyone mentions the term “woke” – now so loaded and removed from its original meaning of being awake to injustice. “Why would you not want to be woke?” asks Davies. “Diversity in comedy lifts everyone up.”
Davies created the crowdfunded, profit-sharing show Best in Class in 2018 to give working-class comedians a paid opportunity to perform at the notoriously expensive Edinburgh festival fringe. “Everything we do,” says Davies, “is to empower and uplift working-class voices.” In 2022, her efforts were recognised with the Edinburgh comedy award panel prize.
As she and other Best in Class comedians tried to crack TV, though, they hit walls. So much of that world is informal, relying on knowing the right people to share information and opportunities. “No one that went to my comprehensive school works in TV,” says Davies. “I wouldn’t organically come across these people and be able to ask advice.”
Only 7.9% of creative workers born between 1983–92 have working-class origins, despite the wider workforce being 21% working class. A 2020 survey conducted by the Live Comedy Association revealed the precariousness of comedy in particular – around 60% of people working in live comedy earned below the UK median wage. And TV feels like a closed shop, say many of these comedians. Ofcom stats from 2021–22 showed that 13% of people working in TV went to private school, compared with 7% of the UK population.
Kelly Rickard is one of the 30 assembled comedians. Originally from Wales, now based in Newcastle, she was up at 5am to get here. She’s been doing standup for 18 months and will be part of this year’s Best in Class fringe showcase, but she’s long had dreams of TV. “About 10 years ago, before I had children, I wrote an entire sitcom, 10 episodes, then didn’t know where to send it. When this workshop came up, it felt like it was tailor-made for me.”
In the room, she clocks “a comical mix of everyone wanting to put everyone else at ease and simultaneously feeling quite nervous. There’s a fair amount of working-class impostor syndrome.”
That’s something most people mention. Jason Dawson is a comedy commissioner at UKTV. He volunteered to lead a session today because he’s has working-class origins and credits a Scottish TV scheme with giving him the confidence to take his first steps in the industry. “I still have impostor syndrome,” he says. “But back then, I had no idea how the industry worked. It felt like this hidden club you don’t have access to.”
Having worked on The Russell Howard Hour and Newswipe, he breaks down how writers on topical comedy shows function. But he also shares his personal story. “You realise your existence in a job can be an important marker for other people,” Dawson says. “People rule themselves out before they get started – because either financially they can’t do it or, confidence-wise, there’s nothing telling them it should be them.”
Most of the comedians at the event have second jobs. There are questions about when, during the long process of pitching a TV show, you might actually get paid: there will be unpaid work, warns one industry insider. Northern Irish comedian John Meagher works full-time as well as doing standup and radio comedy. “It’s a difficult moment in TV, not much is getting made,” he says. “When you’re working class, you don’t have a financial safety net.” It means you don’t have the luxury of time to develop your craft and network with industry gatekeepers.
“Class and race can hold you back,” says Sapphire McIntosh, who is from Leeds but moved to London to pursue an arts career. “You’ve got to be super-determined to keep going, because you’re aware that it might not work out.”
McIntosh is one of a few here – alongside Hatty Ashdown, who’s co-written a sitcom, and Anna Thomas, who has a short film on iPlayer – with TV experience, having worked as a researcher. Yet there was still insider knowledge to absorb, she says. Small, practical details stood out. “Stuff like, you can just email people and say, ‘Can we have a meeting?’,” says Davies. “We didn’t know to do that.”
As the day concludes, the comedians leave “with a fire underneath us”, says Davies. “Looking around that room, we could potentially have new sitcoms, panel shows, radio shows.” Words like those in the Telegraph only add fuel to that fire: counter to the paper’s assertion, a group identity can be a huge positive to those who’ve been made to feel ashamed of their origins.
“Comedy is subjective,” adds Davies, “but the work our acts turn out is really high quality. That in itself is the counter-argument to this nonsense. This is money to get grassroots organisations to do valuable work in their communities, to empower people, to make comedy better.”
Rickard returned to Newcastle with ideas to revisit her sitcom, but also a feeling of solidarity. “I’m not alone,” she says. “I’m not the only one. I have something worthwhile to say.”
