It’s hard to be funny when you can’t breathe. That may be difficult to believe but it’s true. Sometimes you walk onto the stage feeling Godlike. You’ve been here before, you know this room, these people, even if you’re a stranger in a strange land. Other times, you choke. You shake, you forget shit, you get angry with hecklers instead of dealing with them as you know you should. The lights scorch your skin and the glares of the paying audience sear into you. The other comics watch from the wings – some with concern, most with barely-contained glee. You’re dying. You’re fucked. They’ve found you out and you have nothing left. All you want to do is get off the stage, to the dressing room, to the car, back home, to safety. That’s if you turn up at all.

I’m a comic. I live with depression. I’ll tell you all about it…


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