Imagine spending two decades chasing a dream, grinding away, only to feel like you're still miles from the finish line. That's the story of comedian Ian Smith, a Yorkshireman who's finally hitting his stride after seventeen years in the stand-up trenches. But how did he go from feeling lost in the comedy wilderness to becoming an Edinburgh Comedy Award nominee with a hit Radio 4 series? It's a story of persistence, a willingness to embrace the absurd, and a surprising amount of tank-driving. Yes, you read that right – tank-driving! He literally drove a tank over a car in Bratislava with his hairdresser in tow – a detail integral to his comedic breakthrough, as bizarre as it sounds.
For years, Smith felt like he was running in place. He started performing at just seventeen, which, as he jokes, makes him feel ancient. He's now 37, and only recently has he started to see the kind of recognition many comedians dream of early in their careers. So, what was the secret ingredient that finally unlocked his potential?
One might assume that Smith's brand of comedy – a classic, relatable anxiety-ridden everyman routine – was simply out of sync with current tastes that favor the novel and unique. But Smith himself disagrees. "Because I had so many gimmicks! That was a big part of my standup." He experimented with theatrical set pieces, drawing inspiration from comedians like Tim Key, who famously performed comedy in a bathtub. Smith recalls one review that perfectly captured his early approach: "Ian substitutes writing jokes with standing on tables and shouting at people." He admits, "And it was fair enough. I went through a real standing-on-tables phase."
But here's where it gets controversial... While these gimmicks might have been entertaining, they weren't connecting with audiences on a deeper level. Smith found himself without an agent for a while, feeling lost and unsure of his path. Yet, one thing remained constant: his shows kept improving. Then, a pivotal moment arrived. Driven by a desire to prove his comedic mettle, Smith decided to ditch the bells and whistles. "I wanted to prove I could do a funny show without PowerPoint, set-pieces or gimmicks," he says. "And that became my most successful show."
That show, "Crushing," delved into the emotional turmoil Smith experienced after a relationship breakup. Its follow-up, "Foot Spa Half Empty," tackled an even more personal and sensitive topic: his low sperm count, discovered while he and his partner were trying to conceive. And this is the part most people miss... These shows weren't just funny; they were honest. They resonated with audiences because they addressed real, meaningful experiences in Smith's life.
Smith realized that his comedy needed to be grounded in something real. "I didn’t used to have loads going on in my life," he explains. "I would sometimes feel it was quite boring. So I made a conscious effort to put myself out in the world, to live a more interesting or stressful life. Maybe I just started doing more stuff." That "more stuff" included that now-infamous trip to Bratislava with his hairdresser, culminating in the cathartic act of crushing a car with a tank.
By channeling his anxieties and frustrations into his comedy, Smith carved out a niche for himself alongside other masters of relatable misery, like Rhod Gilbert and Victor Meldrew. He believes that "the best comedy comes from negative feelings: stress or anxiety or fear." He elaborates, "Then you tell people about those feelings, and they realise they also get stressed about things they shouldn’t really worry about, and it’s all a big release. That’s where the best stuff comes from."
But it still took courage to address his fertility struggles on stage. "It was a hard decision," Smith admits, "but I was strong-armed into it by the situation. Because if I’m writing a show, it’s going to be about things I’m stressed about in that moment." Unlike his breakup show, which was written in retrospect, "Foot Spa Half Empty" was written in real-time, as the anxiety and medical appointments unfolded.
"It was like a live coping mechanism," he says. "Which some people would say is not healthy." He even considered including a line in the show that acknowledged his lack of emotional processing, a bold move that ultimately proved too risky. "Comedians often tell audiences, ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ve processed this and everything’s OK.’ Whereas I had a line in the show – which I eventually dropped – that went, ‘I want to let you know I haven’t processed any of this! I’m stressed about it right now!’ I thought that was a bold way to tell people this is an ongoing thing. But it can take audiences away from being able to laugh at you."
Ultimately, Smith's goal is to make people laugh, whether on stage, on screen (he's developing sitcoms), or on his popular Northern News podcast with Amy Gledhill. And this is a crucial distinction: he doesn't classify his anxieties as trauma or mental health issues. "It would be easy in this new show to say something sad or profound about how I feel about the [infertility] situation," he says. "But I always feel the obligation to be as funny as possible. Whether I’m stressed about a serious subject or a trivial one, I only ever want to make it as stupid and silly as I can."
It’s an approach that has finally propelled him to where he wants to be in comedy: a slow burn that's finally ignited. "I can be full of self-doubt," Smith confesses, "and you could chart my career doubt by how many times I would Google ‘law conversion courses’ in a year. But I haven’t done that in a while now."
What do you think? Is Smith right that the best comedy comes from negative feelings? Or is there a risk of going too far, of sharing too much before you've had a chance to process it? And is it braver to be vulnerable onstage, or funnier to deflect with silliness? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!
