A L Kennedy: Comedy Rewritten

With typical self-deprecation, A. L. Kennedy describes herself as “an overnight success 20 years in the making.” Winning the 2007 Costa Award (formerly the Whitbread) with her last novel Day gave her a first taste of popular success, yet she has long been among the most highly regarded writers of her generation. Twice featured by Granta in their list of Best Young Novelists and with numerous plaudits heaped on her work, her career so far has not been without accomplishment.

Nor has it been without the odd surprise. Perhaps most unexpectedly, she has – in recent years – launched a parallel career, pairing readings and public appearances with a new found love of stand-up comedy.

“After my first open mic gig I wandered backstage towards the smell of the sideshow and there they were, all the dysfunctional people sat around on dysfunctional furniture. Well, I always wanted to join the circus so I thought ‘this is it, I’m home!’ I’ve always loved telling stories in any situation, and comedy puts you right inside the experience in a way that writing simply cannot.”

Critical reactions to her move into stand-up were varied. Kennedy described some as behaving with “a sense that I’ve transgressed a natural law.” Such quibbling does seem strange, given the relative ease with which successful comics often make the opposite move. Were the comedy community more accepting of her new direction?

“Absolutely, very accepting. The nicest thing was that when I won the Costa they were extremely proud, as though I’d won it on their behalf.”

How then does she find her fellow comics compare to her literary contemporaries?

“Well, comedians have less complicated reactions to things. They’re less up themselves or, at least, up themselves in different ways.”

While navigating the twin worlds of comedy and literature, Kennedy also divides her stand-up appearances into two styles: those tailored either to suit sweaty Fringe venues or the gentler crowds gathered at literary festivals.

“I certainly don’t swear as much in front of festival audiences - I can perhaps get away with one very frustrated ‘fuck’, but I have to be careful to judge the crowd and I can only really produce it at the very end, after a long, protracted build up. The strange thing is that they’re fine with a little swearing so long as it’s written down. You can swear blindly in a reading…shit, piss, fuck… even cunt is fine, so long as it’s quite an academic cunt.

“Perceptions are the main difference. I appear to one audience primarily as a comedian and to the other as a writer. With the comedy I can be graphically sexual and open and it’s a cartoonish version of myself I’m presenting, whereas with the ‘writer’ appearances it is definitely, definitely me.”

“Perhaps sex is not writerly – writers are alone a lot of the time, so the perception follows that the only sex they experience should be alone. Which isn’t as bad as it sounds. Or maybe it is?’

Kennedy’s move from literature to stand-up was not necessarily an unnatural one. Her writing has always been laced with sour humour and emotional honesty, both of which feature heavily in her confessional stand-up. More unexpected, perhaps, was the strong political focus of much of her material, peaking with her Fringe show last year, ‘Terrorism: a pocket guide’.

“Really, it came out of my going to political meetings and people standing up to talk about dead babies. That’s…something you can’t really process, imaginary dead babies. They’re such a conceit, they’re not real. You either end up crying, hating yourself or… you know…. you giggle.”

Kennedy’s website - renowned for the hilarious sections in which she reviews her reviewers - bristles with links to various political websites and campaigns. These issues clearly remain a going concern, but this year’s fringe performance will find her humour moving in different directions:

“Well, it’s more personal. The politics are at a point where I can’t stand talking about them really, they’ve all gone to shit. This new show is about how life continually has you on the back foot, how your thinking is flawed, and how people are constantly messing with you – advertisers, businessmen, and so on. Politicians do get mentioned, but only a sliding reference because I didn’t want to dignify them with any more attention.”

So, is she conceding defeat?

“Well, humour is a positive way to deal with situations in which there is little you can do. It’s language as self-defence. You’re never powerless, there’s no situation in which you can do nothing. I mean, the human condition is tragic but it’s not terrible.”

Is this new focus perhaps a case of worrying that audiences might get bored by perceived sermonising?

“Well, I never do more than five minutes of actual, hard fact. There’s only one in the new show, which is that there are 6 pubs in the Houses of Commons as, clearly, that’s the only way they can deal with what they do.”