Brussels Comedians Don’t Do It For Fame (But Please Come See Us Anyway)
© Camila Esteves
Alyce Sevink delves into the vibrant but often overlooked world of English comedy in Brussels. She explores the journey of local comedians who, driven by passion rather than fame, navigate the challenging landscape of stand-up comedy. Through personal anecdotes and reflections, Sevink highlights the unique charm and resilience of this artistic community, shedding light on why English comedy in Brussels remains a special and essential part of the city’s cultural scene.
A joke… followed by laughter, applause, a Netflix special. Sold-out shows, a world tour, your own TV show. That’s the definition of success.
It goes a little more like this: write the joke, ponder the joke, and then decide to go ahead and tell it.
Heart racing in your chest, bloodthirsty moths eating away at your stomach…
Greetings, a familiar joke… a bit of laughter. Alright, now it’s time for your new joke.
It either hits… or it bombs.
If it worked, your ego soars – you feel like a rockstar. If it bombed, you might think your bloodline should end with you.
And as for the joke? Whether good or bad, it always needs a bit more work. Back to the drawing board it goes. Then you repeat it a thousand times.
An outsider doesn’t see the process of becoming a comedian. They don’t see the shady bar where you’re uncertain if you’ll actually receive the two promised drink tokens. Or the joke that worked last week that suddenly bombs so hard that you feel the need to mention Pearl Harbour just to lighten the mood.
There isn’t really a reward at the end of the journey. English comedy lacks professional venues in Belgium, there is no Netflix special in sight and there isn’t a joke that can secure you a job. So why do it?
Why is English comedy in Brussels special?
I’m not a born performer. Some people are, some aren’t. I used to want to be an actress. I took theatre lessons, enjoyed it, even landed some roles, but then I realised: I actually suck. My face doesn’t do the things that faces are supposed to do: act or even lie. I also battled horrible stage-fright every time I went on. So I decided to become a writer and that was it; done. I left it behind me, never looking back.
“You can’t recite Othello to an empty room, just as you can’t tell a joke without an audience to laugh.”
The only form of art that I can compare stand-up comedy to, is theatre. You can’t recite Othello to an empty room, just as you can’t tell a joke without an audience to laugh. Well you can, but you’ll look like a crazy person talking to yourself. And in Brussels we have enough of those.
English comedy has a special place in the city of Brussels. It lives in the shadow of its more popular sister: French comedy. They entertain the locals, we entertain everyone else. Needed in the city of the European Union, but there is no place in a country with a language problem. There’s a future in French comedy and even in Flemish comedy, but in English? The public prefers the big names from the US or UK, but a local comedian with an non-native accent? No way.
So, what were aspiring comedians supposed to do? Before the COVID-19 pandemic, there was the English Comedy in RITCS café, but that was reserved for the big, international names. Insecure and Dangereux was less prestigious, but by invitation only. It all started with Countdown Comedy, organised by an Irishman named Barry Cullen. Every Thursday in a loud pub, you could try to be funny.
After high school, I decided that I was going to study film. Why? My dad likes movies and I had nothing else planned. I can’t do maths like him, so I did movies. I moved from my little country to another little country. But you know what you need to do as a filmmaker? Give a coherent explanation of what you want to make. Pitch, in other words. But pitching involves standing in front of a group of people, trying to remember your lines while hoping you are believable. Seems an awful lot like… theatre. And that’s when stage-fright reared its head again. Shivering, nausea, stuttering… Some people are just not born to perform.
At Countdown Comedy, which was later taken over by the Canadian Tristan Barber and the Irish Niamh Moroney, anyone was able to try out. Old, young, new, experienced. Then Sean Fitzgerald, another Irishman and Mike Beading, an American, started running Raiders from the Kamea bar on Tuesdays. A common thread? There are a lot of Irish people in Brussels. A better one? These shows are run by performers, not club owners. They organise shows to create roles as MC’s and to give other comedians a place to practise. Donations are shared between the performers, unlike in other cities. Shows for comedians, by comedians.
“You want to be a filmmaker, but you get the shakes. What do you do? Ignore the fact that you stammer out an incoherent story? Yes!”
You want to be a filmmaker, but you get the shakes. What do you do? Ignore the fact that you stammer out an incoherent story? Yes! And now do that for three years. Meanwhile, you watch comedians that come to your school climb the stage and you wonder how they can be fearless up there (spoiler: they are not). And you watch them and you think: “I want to be able to do that.” Then you forget about it until you are in your master’s program, struggling with more pitches you can’t quite manage, and then… you discover Countdown.
Then, Side Splitters Comedy was established in 2023 by the Englishman Charlie Stevens and the Italian Gio, offering shows on Monday and Wednesday nights. All are comedians by night, by day they are specialists, lawyers, bartenders, biologists or architects, of all ages and genders. Half of the showrunners are women. There is Funny Women, organised by Estonian Heli Pärna and The Queertastic Showcase led by the Polish Maxym Dziarmaga, where comedians from marginalised groups get the chance to shine.
“Comedians get to express what they might not be able to share at their corporate jobs, a release from the pressures at home or a moment to forget who they are.”
What started as an open mic has grown into a scene consisting of open mics and showcases, like Punch Drunk Comedy, run by Austin Shale and Yannick Joos. Every day, a new comedian takes the stage. We have a joke for when we collect donations: “Comedy is cheaper than therapy and we really need therapy.” But it’s true. There is something about live comedy that fulfils that role. Comedians get to express what they might not be able to share at their corporate jobs, a release from the pressures at home or a moment to forget who they are. The audience gets to laugh (mostly for free), to be in the moment and leave their worries at the door. It’s a symbiotic relationship, a collective release, much like theatre.
February of 2021, my name was finally on the line-up. Tristan, after finding out that it was my first time, told me that, even if I puked on stage, it would still be entertaining. My name was called. With only my partner in the audience, I climbed the stage. My bad jokes didn’t go very far, my shaky voice was faltering, my nerves made me want to let out that entertainment we discussed. It was going badly. Thankfully, I was finally at my last joke. I made a reference to an earlier joke and the audience roared with laughter. Applause. I left the stage…high. It felt like I had just sniffed a hundred lines of coke, drank a thousand litres of wine and received the news that I had won the lottery. I was hooked.
Two years later, I am still extremely proud of our little scene. I have joined Side Splitters as a co-showrunner, together with Charlie Stevens, Luis Bellis, Ariane and Bianca Siracusa. My advice is to support live comedy wherever you can, because it benefits so many people. And hey, maybe you can give it a try yourself. Even if you end up puking on stage, it will still be entertaining.
And that new joke? It still needs some work, but I’m getting there. Some people aren’t born to perform, but persevere anyway.
Alyce Sevink is a Dutch film director and screenwriter who has just graduated from The Royal Institute of Theatre, Cinema and Sound with a master’s degree. On the side she co-showruns the comedy club SSC in Saint-Gilles. Both her comedy and her writing is informed by her unique relationship with Brussels.