I came out as trans and was immediately mansplained to

Stepping off the stage, tiny plastic trophy in tow, I felt utterly delighted.

It was summer 2021 and I’d just finished my first comedy set since coming out as transgender and, I don’t mean to brag, but I’d smashed it.

But as I was drinking in the moment with my friends who’d come to watch, the host (who also doubled as the owner of the venue) approached me and to my surprise, had a lot of thoughts about my set.

Pulling me to one side he, completely unsolicited, started taking apart my stand-up material.

‘You shouldn’t open with that line.’ ‘I don’t like this gag.’ ‘Do you have any other material about this?’ And, honestly, I didn’t know how to respond.

On the one hand, I suppose I should thank him for being one of the first strangers to treat me like a woman by mansplaining my own show to me. 

It’s just a shame that his reaction this time was so different to when we first met.

A mere month earlier, I did the same gig at the same pub. It’d gone OK, not great; I was trying out a lot of new material that frankly was below par.

Crushingly, but unsurprisingly, I failed to win the tiny plastic trophy given out to the best set of the night that time. But the owner was kind, said I did well, and that I could come back again. With no unsolicited advice to be dished out.

As it turned out, that was to be my final performance as a man.

Fast forward a few weeks and I was back to perform, just not in quite the same way. 

It may not surprise you to learn that a month is not enough time to completely change your biological sex, but boy did I try.

I’d grown my hair out, put on make-up, tried in vain to change my voice in what little time was available and I’d written a brand new set all about realising I was transgender, which, as it turns out, is a pretty rich vein of material.

Standing up in front of a crowd of strangers as my new, uncertain self, and winning them over with comedy was momentous. 

It felt like the first time I could be a real person, in public, with no facade to cover myself with. It was the most freeing experience of my life.

Winning the tiny plastic trophy – which still has pride of place in my living room – was just the icing on the cake. It made me feel like all the years of hard work had been worth it.

I like to think that, since I was a kid, I have always been at least passably funny. 

At 21, I’d reached the final of the Chortle student comedy competition, and had taken a two-person sketch show to the Edinburgh Fringe – off the back of which I met my first TV producers.

In some ways it felt as though my comedy career was in motion. But, in truth, I don’t think I was ever destined for comedy greatness – at least not then, and partly because I was fundamentally incapable of being honest on stage.

Even the most absurd comedy has an element of humanity, and I always struggled to deliver that because I couldn’t be honest about who I was with myself, let alone an audience.

While I can only judge from my own experience, I can quite confidently say that, before I came out, I was offered a lot more opportunities without merit.

It certainly felt at the time like I was being fast-tracked, and earmarked as a person of note, or one to watch. I was delighted, but nagged by the feeling that I hadn’t really earned any of it.

Now, though, I’m a much better comedian. I feel more worthy of my accolades than I ever have.

Since accepting who I am, living every day more truthfully, and coming out to friends, family, and my partner, I’ve been able to take my comedy to new places – and I think audiences have responded to that.

There’s a certain meritocracy to comedy that is difficult to ignore, though. If you are funny enough, you will go places – but there are caveats.

That meritocracy applies to audiences quite strictly, unless they decide that they don’t like you. And while I don’t want to be so bold as to suggest that whenever an audience doesn’t like me, it must be because of some deep-seated bigotry they have, it does seem to happen more often now than when I was a man and doing what was, in my opinion, worse comedy. 

And like any woman, person of colour, or queer person in the arts will tell you, while there are no ‘only straight white male’ zones, there is this sense – this nagging feeling – that maybe they just don’t want ‘you’.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve made lots of progress since coming out, too, which I’m grateful for – but there is never anyone else like me on the bill.

Outside of Pride-related gigs, I have genuinely not once appeared alongside another trans comedian.

I am often there to tick a box, to make a line-up appear more inclusive. I am judged more on the kind of person I am than my merits as a comedian.

Is this strong enough evidence to indict the whole comedy industry? Probably not. But you’ll have a hard time convincing me and thousands of other comics that these prejudices don’t exist.

There is no doubt that the landscape has vastly improved over time. The levels of representation across all groups cannot be compared to what it once was. But there is still progress to be made.

Three of the biggest shows for comics here in the UK are Taskmaster, Would I Lie to You?, and Have I Got News for You?, all of which have relatively strong track records for diversity across gender, race and sexuality. But all three also have straight white men as their only permanent members.

I don’t think this means these shows should be cancelled, or the comedians involved removed from their status as national treasures – far from it. 

But when it comes to commissioning the next big show, perhaps it would do good for producers to bear this small fact in mind.

Perhaps producers, commissioners, pub owners and comedy hosts alike should be looking to feature people like me more regularly. 

Maybe they should also be more willing to give unsolicited advice to straight white male comics. I know some of them could really use it.

I am uniquely qualified to say this because I have been on both sides of the coin: working in comedy both as a cisgender man and as a trans woman.

And while the comedy scene can be uninviting, I’d rather fight for my place as a trans woman than coast to success as one of the boys who aren’t funny.

In the end, it all comes down to the comedy itself. As long as I can bring an audience with me, I know that I’ll eventually get there. Even if the road is longer than it should be.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected]. 

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