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Tei Boyd
My first words were “How do.” I like to think that was short for, “How do you make it as a performer?” I’m still figuring that part out but there’s one incredibly important thing that stand-up has taught me. I’ll get to it, but first, a bit of backstory.
I grew up mixed race and undiagnosed neurodivergent in Castlemilk, Glasgow. To blend in, I was always performing. Masking ADHD and hiding queerness made acting feel natural to me — it felt like survival.
At 13, I went through the rite of passage for Scottish actors: I landed a wee part on our nationally beloved and ever-mocked soap, River City. I got to skip school and go on set. For an ADHD kid who clashed with teachers, it was salvation. It filled the internal gaps left by growing up disconnected from my family and from myself. I was “the wee guy from River City” and that helped hide my lack of confidence, for a while.
But at 17, I got let go. Suddenly, I was just another young person in Glasgow, trying to figure out who I was without the one thing I thought defined me.
I drifted for a few years — normal jobs, normal routines — and felt myself slowly going mad. I needed something. An outlet. I had ideas, questions, jokes. And no one applauds when you pour them a pint in Wetherspoons. Only when you drop one.
Then came comedy.
My pal Aaron, who’d started stand-up (from his wheelchair), invited me to a charity gig at DRAM! in the West End. I wrote five minutes, put on a leather jacket to look like a tiny, light-skinned Eddie Murphy, and gave it a go. I brought pals for support — and I got laughs. Actual laughs. Not huge, but enough.
I’ll never forget lovely Ronnie Black standing up and clapping at the end. That moment gave me just enough belief in myself to try it again. I only meant to do it once. But that’s the thing about comedy — it gets you. And complete strangers can end up changing your life in quiet, ridiculous ways.
Then came gig number two. Wild Cabaret. I was on a bill with the late, truly great Janey Godley. And it was a disaster. I bombed. Froze. Got stage fright. Opened a notebook and started flipping for a joke. Four minutes in, I said, “Let me just leaf through for something,” and Janey cut in: “Orrrrr, you’re done.” I dropped a page as I walked offstage and Janey picked it up “There’s your P45, son.” The crowd laughed for the first time in almost five minutes.
Oh, it hurt. It hurt lots.
Bombing on stage is as bad as you think. And if you know, you know. I swore I’d never do comedy again — and I didn’t… for a few weeks.
Being an neurodivergent performer (same, same) means that on a good night, we can channel chaos into lightning. We can shock, entertain, put wee sparks in the audience’s eyes. But it also means we feel everything deeper. Dying on stage doesn’t just bruise the ego — it burns through the soul. My rejection sensitivity would flare up. Bad gigs haunted me for months. It was hard to take.
After a rough stretch, I stopped entirely. Just before lockdown, I tried one Zoom gig. Performing to a selfie stick in my bedroom, waiting for delayed laughter coming in waves like Ave Maria, was abysmal. Comedy dies when it’s not live. So I quit (again).
But I couldn’t stay away.
I once told a comedian, “Rob, I just can’t stop doing this. I’ve tried and tried and I keep coming back — why?” He lifted his pint and said, “Ach, hard game to quit.” That was it. But he was right.
For all the pain, the shit gigs, the flops — comedy is beautiful. It’s kept me going.
Some nights, it feels like magic. In Liverpool once, I entered a flow state. No nerves. No rehearsed bits. Just freedom to be truly alive on stage, and audience that felt it. I felt like a true comic. It was magic. It doesn’t happen all the time but when it does, it’s some dunt. You can’t force it. It only happens when the stars align.
Other nights? I’ve bombed in front of 500 people in a theatre. I’ve spent years hosting party bingo in pubs, wrangling seven hen dos and two stag parties. That taught me what comedy isn’t ...and how sacred stand-up really is. It has a heart. Always. Even when the gig’s shite. It has a soul.
The hardest things in my life — my ADHD, my ethnicity, family disconnection, gender dysphoria — are all things I’ve processed and worked through on stage. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have figured any of it out otherwise. Stand-up is strange, painful, and brilliant. It’s given me a mirror — and an audience to hold it. And it's cheaper than therapy.
So what’s the one thing I’ve learned?
Do it once — then keep fucking going.
I’ve seen generational talents quit and disappear. Equally, I’ve seen acts I used to dread sharing a bill with ( because I’d have to sit through an awkward five minutes ) find their voice and become truly hilarious. Just because they kept going.
Mentors like Stu Who? helped me through the lows, the wins, the dread, the crises of confidence, the leather jackets, the ripped-up notebooks, the tears. Stand-up has shaped me. It’s helped me unmask, explore my identity, and learn how to be honest in front of people.
Comedy didn’t just give me a career. It gave me a self. I cannot imagine a world where I didn’t stand up that first time.
To anyone thinking about trying it: do it. Have you ever held a five-minute conversation? Then you can do stand-up. Even if you’re terrible at first. Anyone can do it. The only thing stopping you is the belief that you can’t. If you want to get good, be crap — then just don’t stop.
I love stand-up. I love comedians. I love the stories, the craft, the nerves, the weird green rooms, the improvised bits, the silent car rides home, the tiny clicks when something lands. From the best to the worst, I’m thankful for every gig, every audience member that let me stand in front of them and especially for the comedians there by the side of the stage, ready for me to ask:
**How (did I) do?**
Catch Tei Boyd at these nights:
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"Too Queer?" a brand new Queer Comedy Night @ The Corset Club - Sunday July 27th
Open Sauce Comedy - a new act/new material @ The Rum Shack - Sunday July 13th.
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